CONSPIRATOR #2: “I’ll see to it, sir.”
CONSPIRATOR #3: “A pessary of rowan. There are other subtleties to consider.”
CONSPIRATOR #4: “It will be suspicious. And remember, two may keep a secret—if one of them is dead.”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “Enough skulking!”
CONSPIRATOR #2: “Sir?”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “It is clearly treasonable intent that we confront in this instance. They’ve addled whatever is left of my father’s wits, turned him against me, and once they are sure of a succession I’ll doubtless meet with a convenient hunting accident. I cannot—will not—permit this. But once it becomes clear that the tinkers are not the force they once were, I’ll be seen as the savior of the realm. And feared without scruple of libel: honestly, as a prince should be.”
CONSPIRATOR #4: “There is a reinforced company of the Life Guards stationed across the river. We shall have to move fast.”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “On the contrary, they will do as I tell them—whose life did you think they were supposed to guard? Hah! But I am concerned about your alchemists and their expensive mud pie. Have they succeeded in killing themselves yet?”
CONSPIRATOR #4: “On the contrary. And they have enough fine powder stockpiled to blow down the wolf’s lair. Not much use for the artillery, but . . .”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “We have a use for it on the stage. Arrange to have a roundup of plotters, marked for dispatch afterward—I’m sure you can arrange some witnesses, Sudtmann, guards who will swear to our instructions at the question? More in sorrow than in anger, I shall dispatch the traitors in the name of the Crown. And the kingdom will be secure against the blasted tinkers for another generation, at least.”
CONSPIRATOR #3: “But your father—”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “He’ll fall in with me of necessity.” (Metallic noise.) “He may be weak, but he’s not stupid. Once the tinkers realize the dice are cast, they will declare blood feud against the Crown. He’ll have to do it. I stress, this is not a coup against the Crown, it is a coup for the Crown, to defend it from the enemies within.”
CONSPIRATOR #3: “And none shall call it by any other name.”
CONSPIRATOR #2: “And if the blast should fail to live up to expectations?”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “Then I shall lead the guards in an heroic attempt to rescue the palace from the rebels who appear to have seized it. Long live the king!”
CONSPIRATOR #4: “I should give the alchemists their final reward then, sir.”
CONSPIRATOR #1: “Make it so, and may Sky Father have mercy on them in the afterlife, for their services to the Crown.”
TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT ENDS
GOING IN
R
ecovery from fentanyl poisoning was relatively rapid: the pain came later. They kept asking questions, even when he was on a drip and hallucinating. “What happened? What did he say?” All Mike could do was shake his head and mutter incoherently. Later, he made a full statement. And another. A whole goddamn committee camped by his hospital bed for an afternoon, trying to come up with an agreed timeline for the fuckup. Mike was expecting to be suspended pending investigation, but from the noises they were making it sounded like they wanted to sweep everything under the rug, pretend Matt had never existed. Maybe that was how the DOD dealt with unwelcome problems: or maybe they just didn’t want to admit that they’d destabilized a willing defector. Later another committee came by to grill him about Matt’s nuclear threat, but when he asked what action they were taking on it they told him he had no need to know—from which he deduced that they were taking it very seriously indeed.
It didn’t matter to Mike. He was out of the loop, officially injured in the line of duty. He lay in bed for two days, numb with apathy and guilt, mind constantly circling back to worry at the same unwelcome realization. I fucked up. On the second day a card arrived from Nikki, an invitation to Pete’s funeral. And then, just as he was graduating from depression to self-loathing, Smith dropped in.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Which was a lie. “Not sleeping too good.”
“Yeah, well.” Smith mustered a sympathetic expression that looked horribly artificial to Mike. “We need you back on duty.”
“Huh?”
The colonel dragged the nearest chair over and sat down next to Mike’s bed. Mike peered at him, noticing the bags under his eyes for the first time, the two-day stubble. “I’d like to be able to give you a month off, refer you for counseling, and let you recover at your own pace. Unfortunately, I can’t. You were due into in-processing today and you’re on the critical path for CLEANSWEEP. And your immediate backup was Pete.”
“Oh.” Mike was silent for a moment. “I was expecting an enquiry, you know?”
“There’s been a board of enquiry.” Smith leaned forward. “We don’t have time to piss around, Mike. We had a video take on you when Source Greensleeves offed Pete and took you hostage, it turned up yesterday. Left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing, excessive compartmentalization in our security architecture, et cetera. Nobody’s blaming you for what happened; if anyone gets blamed it’s going to be me for sending you guys in in the first place. But. We’re moving too fast to play the blame game right now—”
Mike gestured at the table on the other side of the bed: “Pete’s funeral is tomorrow. I was planning on being there.”
Smith looked worried. “Shit, our schedule puts you on a ranch in Maryland—wait, hang on, it’s not like that. I’ll get you to the funeral, even if I have to bend a few rules. But I really do need you back on duty.”
Mike stared at him. “Spill it.”
Smith stared right back. “Spill what?”
“It.” Mike crossed his arms. “This setup stinks. Whatever happened to your professional assets? I thought you guys majored in infiltrating hostile territory. You’re the military, you go to exotic places and meet interesting people and kill them. I’m just a cop. Why do you need me so badly?”
“Hold onto that thought.” Smith paused for a moment. “Look, I think you habitually overestimate what we can do. We’re very good at blowing shit up, that’s true. And NSA can tap every phone call on the planet, break almost any code,” he added, with a trace of pride. “But . . . we’re not good at human intelligence anymore. Not since the end of the Cold War, when most of the old HUMINT programs were shut down. You don’t get promoted in Langley by learning Pashtun and going to freeze your butt off in a cave in central Asia for six years, among people who’ll torture you to death in an eyeblink if they figure out who you are. The best and the brightest go into administration or electronic intelligence; the people who volunteer for spying missions and get through the training are often, bluntly speaking, nutjobs. A couple of years ago we had to fire the CIA station chief in Bonn, did you know that? One of our top guys in Germany. He’d been invoicing for a ring of informers but it turned out he was a member of an evangelical church, and what he was really doing was bankrolling a church mission. Anyway, you’ve got a three-month lead on anyone we could train up to do the job, and whatever your own opinion of your abilities, you are not bad. You’ve done police undercover work and stakeouts and run informers—that’s about ninety percent of the skill set of a field agent. So rather than pulling one of our few competent field agents out of whatever very important job they’re already doing, and trying to teach them hochsprache, we figured we’d take you and give you the additional ten percent of the skill set that you’ll need.”
A long pause. “Bullshit. What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well I’m unreliable. I’m not acculturated, I still think like a cop, even if you’re right and the job overlap is significant. I’m unreliable from a departmental point of view: I’ve got the wrong instincts. And this isn’t a Hollywood movie where delicate operations get handed to maverick outsiders. So. What aren’t you telling me?”
Smith shrugged. “I told them you’d see through it,” he said,
glancing at the door. Then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a photograph. “When did you last see this woman?”
“Who—oh. Her. What’s she got to do with this?” Mike’s mouth went dry.
Smith glared at him, clearly irritated. “Now you’re the one who’s playing games. You’ve been through the clearance process, we know what color underpants you wear, we interviewed your ex-wife, we grabbed your home phone records.” He waved the photograph. “Confession is good for the soul, Mike. Level with me and I’ll level with you. How well do you know this woman?”
Shit. Should have guessed they’d figure it out. “There’s not much to tell.” Mike struggled to drag his scattered thoughts back together. “I met her a few years ago. She’s a journalist, she was doing a story about drug testing for the glossy she worked for. It worked out really well at first. Did a couple of dates, began to get serious.” How much do they want to know? It was still a sore point for him. “Yes, we did sleep together.”
“Mike. Mike.” Smith shook his head. “That’s not what this is about, not really, we’re not the East German Stasi.”
“Well, what did you want to know?” Mike glared at him. “She’s a journalist, Colonel. She wasn’t faking it. I picked her up at the office a couple of times. I didn’t have a fucking clue she was anything else! Let me remind you that I didn’t know the Clan existed, back then. None of us did. I don’t think she did, either.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t—” For a moment Smith looked embarrassed. “Carry on. Tell me in your own words.”
“It didn’t work out,” Mike said slowly. “We were talking about taking a vacation together. Maybe even moving in. But then something spooked her. We had a couple of rows—she’s a liberal, we got bickering over some stupid shit. And then—” He shook his head. “It didn’t work out.”
“How long have you known she was involved with the Clan?” asked Smith.
Mike shook his head. “Not known. Wasn’t sure.” But Pete was, he realized. And what Matthias said—“Listen, it’s over between us. Two, three years ago. I didn’t put two and two together about the woman who Source Greensleeves kept ranting about until he waved it in my face, and even then—how many journalists called Miriam are there?”
Smith put the photograph away. Then he nodded at Mike. “How would you characterize your relationship with her?” he asked.
“Turbulent. And over.” Mike reached over to the bedside stand and picked up a glass of water. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it won’t work.”
“And maybe I’m not thinking what you think I’m thinking.” Smith suddenly grinned. “Honey traps were an old Stasi trick, and they didn’t work consistently—in this situation, the collateral damage from blowback if it goes wrong is too high. But can you confirm that you do—did—know Miriam Beckstein, journalist, last employed by The Industry Weatherman?”
Mike nodded.
“Well, there’s your explanation! Now do you see why you’re needed?”
Mike nodded warily. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, like Dr. James told you two weeks ago, we want you to set up a spy ring in Niejwein. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is that we now have a list of starting points for you. It’s a very short list, and she’s right at the top of it. If we’re right—if she’s a recent recruit, dragged in by her long-lost family—she may be a potential asset. As long as she’s inside the Clan, that is: she’s not a lot of use to us over here, except as another mule.”
Mike shivered momentarily, visualizing a collar bomb around a throat he’d buried his face in. “When?” he asked.
“We know roughly where the royal palace is, in Niejwein: it overlaps with Queens. Niejwein isn’t a big city, it won’t be hard for you to get there with the right disguise and cover story. Which, by the way, is that you’re a Clan member from the west coast. It won’t stand up to scrutiny, but from what we know about Niejwein it won’t come in for much unless you try and play it for real. They’re pretty primitive over there. And we’ve got an extra edge I haven’t mentioned. We captured a courier last week.”
“You did?” Mike sat up.
“And his dispatches.” Smith frowned at Mike. “You don’t need to know the details. Anyway, it seems your girlfriend is going up in the world. She’s due to be the guest of honor at a royal reception in two weeks time, and the document taken from the courier includes what appears to be an invitation to a country cousin.” Smith looked smug for a moment. “One of the things the Clan are good at is postal security—which works against them at times like this. As long as they don’t know we’ve got couriers working for us, you’re in the clear.”
“Hey, are you telling me . . .”
“Yes. You’re going to crash a royal garden party and make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
A week of twelve-hour days in a training camp on the edge of a sprawling army base couldn’t prepare Mike Fleming for the experience of his first world-walk. On the contrary: he’d been led to expect a glossy high-tech send-off, and instead what he was getting looked very much like a ringside seat at an execution.
It was nearly noon. His personal trainer, who he knew only as John, had woken him at six o’clock and rushed him through breakfast. John had a halting grasp of hochsprache, but insisted Mike speak nothing else to him, playing dumb whenever Mike lapsed into English out of frustration or in search of some un-mapped concept. Then he’d been taken on a tour of Facilities. A quiet woman who looked like she worked weekends in Macy’s kitted him out in what they figured would pass for local costume—no cod-medieval “men in tights” nonsense, but rough woolen fabric, leggings, and an overtunic and leather boots.
Next on his itinerary was the armory. A hatchet-faced warrant officer checked him out and told him what was what in English. “This is your sword. Nearest we’ve got to it is a cutlass, note the curve in the blade—forget point work. If you ever did any fencing at school, forget that too. This is strictly for edge work, German-style. Oh, and if you have to use it you’re probably dead. We don’t have a couple of months to work you up to competent. Luckily for you, you’re also allowed one of these.” He held up a nylon holster, already laden with a black automatic pistol. “Glock 20C, fifteen-round magazine, ten mill.” Just like the handguns “James Morgan” had been buying and, presumptively, a standard Clan issue. “You have two spare magazines. I take it you’ve checked out on one.” In answer to Mike’s mute head shake, he swore and glared at John: “What is it with you folks? Are you trying to get him killed?”
Half an hour on the range upstairs from the armory reassured Mike marginally and seemed to mollify the armorer. He could hit things with it, strip it down, and could reload and clean it. “Next trip,” said John. “We have a, a thing that flies—”
Thing that flies turned out to be John’s best attempt at saying helicopter in hochsprache. It gave Mike a splitting headache as it thudded along in the direction of Long Island. When it landed at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, John handed him a trenchcoat and a broad-brimmed hat. “Very funny,” he snarled, still half-deafened by the rotor noise.
“Wear it.” A minivan with blacked-out windows was waiting the parking lot: funnily enough, there were no other cars present.
“Huh.” Mike clambered down from the chopper and trudged across the barge to the minivan. The side door opened. Inside it, Colonel Smith was waiting for him.
“Sorry ’bout the cloak-and-dagger nonsense,” Smith said unapologetically as their driver pulled out into the approach road behind another minivan. Mike glanced over his shoulder as a third van discreetly joined the convoy. “Can’t take any chances.”
“What? Where are we going?”
“Nearest geographical cognate we could figure.” Smith pulled back his sleeve. He was wearing something that looked like a digital watch that had swallowed a mobile phone—after a moment Mike recognized it as a GPS receiver. Smith frowned. “Doesn’t work too well—too many skyscrapers.�
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The minivan slid through the New York traffic in fits and starts, bumper to bumper with a yellow cab that had somehow intercalated itself in the convoy. Mike lost track of where they were going after a couple of minutes and a baroque detour around some roadwork. “What’s the setup?”
Smith opened a folder with red and yellow stripes along its cover. “Pay attention, you don’t get to take this with you. A courier is ready to take you across to Zone Blue. You go over piggyback. In Zone Blue, we currently have a forward support team of three—Sergeant Hastert, PFC O’Neil, and PFC Icke. They’ll look after you, also give the courier a bunch of crap to bring back over to us. You do exactly what the sergeant tells you. After you leave Zone Blue, they’ll exfiltrate. Let me emphasize, there won’t be anybody there. What there will be is a buried radio transmitter, like this.” Smith pulled an egg-shaped device with a stubby aerial out of his pocket. “You dig it up, push the button, and the backup team will be alerted to come check you out for shadows. If you’ve got unwelcome company, they will kill it or take it prisoner—at their discretion—or leave you the fuck alone. They will not be more than an hour away from you at any time, so if they don’t show up within an hour, someone’s in trouble. Procedure is to revisit the zone at daily intervals for one week, then back off to once a week for a month. You also need to memorize this. Directions to Zone Green, which is your fallback site. There’s no equipment or personnel there, so if you’re captured and tortured you can’t give anyone away, but if you go there you’ll be observed and contacted.”
Mike studied the sheet of typed directions, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. It’s real, he realized. It’s not some kind of elaborate joke. It’s really going to happen. Nervous dread made a hollow nest in his stomach. “The palace—” He’d seen maps of that already, a big stone pile near a small town, at one end of a road lined with slightly smaller stone piles.
The Clan Corporate Page 29