Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  He didn’t but waited until two compatriots arrived, and they started in on me while he eased into the Tabernacle through the smoke. I hoped some of the zombied Revealed Twelve had survived the explosion. I had no doubts that the ghost of the Revelator had.

  “Can you prove you’re Minister Eschbach?”

  “The real Minister Eschbach is at the Columbian embassy.”

  I dug out my passport. “You will note, gentlemen, that I possess this passport. You will also note that it contains my picture.”

  Sometime around that point, Bishop Hansen trotted up. “Eschbach! Are you all right?”

  The two police officers drew back and exchanged glances.

  “I’m tired, and it’s been a long week. I’ve got a few bruises, I think, but I’m in far better shape than I expected.”

  “Minister Eschbach was detained by the schismatics,” Hansen said crisply. “Not another word.”

  They nodded.

  I turned to him and lowered my voice. “There’s some exploded equipment in there, and some very stunned schismatics. They’re not going anywhere. I’d strongly suggest you get the pieces of the equipment out of there immediately and swear everyone to secrecy.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s also the ghost of the Revelator—the first prophet. You’d better see for yourself. I’ll explain later. Just take care of it.”

  He took my arm, and we walked back through the dust into the Tabernacle. I still hung onto my datacase. Better that no one saw that, or its contents, now.

  “Holy God … ,” he murmured.

  The ghost image that resembled Joseph Smith turned in midair. “Oh, the vainness, and the frailties, and the foolishness of men! When they are learned they think they are wise, and they harken not unto the counsel of God, for they set it aside, supposing they know of themselves, wherefore, their wisdom is foolishness and it profiteth them not.”

  The first police guard stood transfixed before us. Five of the seven zombies were still standing there as well.

  Hansen swallowed and turned to me. “I knew you were trouble.”

  “No trouble. The Revelator—any ghost—can only say what he once said.” I shrugged. “It may even convince a few people. It certainly won’t help the schismatics.”

  “I don’t know,” murmured the bishop for security.

  The ghost turned toward Hansen. “Unto each generation cometh the Revelations of God; harken unto them, for the Lord will provide, both counsel and providence for those who listen… .”

  I nodded. Those words came out right, and even Counselor Cannon would like them. He’d better, the double-dealing weasel.

  “I’m not sure I want to know.” Hansen tapped the policeman on the arm. “Christensen! Seal the Tabernacle until we can check for damage! We don’t want anyone hurt. We’ll need a detail for the injured.”

  The ghost image winked out, then reappeared on the far side of the open space. “… thou shalt not write by way of commandment, but by wisdom; and thou shalt not command him who is at thy head, and the head of the church.”

  I stood and listened to Hansen organize the local forces, then followed him outside and listened some more while the building was cordoned off. I almost smiled. I’d done a hell of a good job.

  Before long, another entourage arrived—that of First Counselor Cannon. He almost frowned when he saw me, but I smiled tiredly.

  He drew me aside, away from Hansen. “What happened?”

  “I’m afraid that the prophet was too much for them.” I nodded toward the Tabernacle.

  “You did what they wanted?”

  “I’m afraid they got what they wanted. They asked me to recall the ghost of the Revelator. I didn’t have much choice, as you must know. They didn’t realize that they’d get the Revelator as he was, not as they thought he should be.” I had to cough. My throat was raspy, my mouth dry.

  Cannon’s mouth opened. Behind his shoulder, Hansen smiled tightly.

  I smiled more tightly. “Seven are zombies. One’s dead, maybe more. I suggest you check the dead man’s background very closely. That’s the one with the crushed throat. I’d suspect a certain Austrian connection. They all had very new Austrian Lugers.”

  Cannon stepped closer. “The Tabernacle?” His voice was more curious than upset, and that, unfortunately, didn’t surprise me in the slightest.

  “I’m afraid the ghost of the Revelator has returned to set straight the record. Of course, I’m an outsider, but it sounds a great deal like what was recorded in the Doctrine and Covenants.”

  “What will happen?” snapped Hansen.

  I shrugged. “I’d guess what usually happens. Most ghosts fade in time.”

  “You believe this is the ghost of the prophet?” asked Counselor Cannon.

  “I’m not equipped to judge that, Counselor,” I pointed out. “All I can say is that I’d be very surprised if the ghost says anything new or radical. Ghosts don’t, as a rule.”

  Cannon offered a warm smile, the one I really mistrusted. “Then the people will hear and believe, as they should. And I thank you.”

  “As they should,” I reinforced. Of course, I’d chosen what words had been taken from the Doctrine and Covenants, and I’d been pretty careful. Cannon wouldn’t like all of them. No, he wouldn’t, but … none of us likes everything in our chosen faiths. That’s what makes life interesting for a believer. “I have a small favor to ask in return, Counselor. A very small favor.”

  “Even the powers of a counselor are limited, as you know, Minister Eschbach.”

  “This is within your power. You’ve already offered it, and I was unable to take advantage of it. I would like you to confirm it in writing, and by immediate message to Speaker Hartpence and President Armstrong.” I forced a smile. “An invitation to bring a technical team, headed by me, to study your advances in wastewater tertiary treatment and, if you will, a strong hint that the team would not be welcome without me. I think that’s only fair, after all that’s happened.”

  It was more than fair, and it was another form of insurance. Minister Reilly wanted that information, and I wanted the Speaker and the president to get the impression that not only was Llysette’s survival important for Columbia’s future and ability to obtain resources from Deseret, but mine was also. I needed every little angle I could find, especially since it was clear Jerome had betrayed me.

  Cannon touched his beard, then nodded with a slow smile. “Yes, Minister Eschbach, that is something within my powers, and in all of our interests. I might also suggest it be coupled with the next performance of your wife. She might be a tremendous draw to open the summer season at the St. George opera house.”

  I returned the smile. “I think we would both be delighted with that offer.”

  “They will have the message in the morning—or later this morning. Have a good trip, Minister Eschbach, and give my best to your lovely wife.”

  Hansen glanced from Cannon to me, and the shock in Hansen’s eyes was palpable. I couldn’t say I blamed him. He was a true believer who’d just discovered that his leader not only had feet of clay but also had trafficked with the schismatics.

  I touched Hansen’s arm before he could speak. “I’d like to go to the Columbian embassy. I presume that’s where Llysette still is.”

  Hansen nodded. “Unless your people moved her.” His eyes went to the First Counselor.

  “Will you take me, Bishop Hansen?”

  Cannon cleared his throat. “Go ahead, Brother Hansen. And thank you, Minister Eschbach. Minister Jerome had said you were a man of your word, and your actions have confirmed that.”

  Good of them, both. I, unlike Hansen, managed to keep from swallowing as his words confirmed both his and Jerome’s role. Jerome had supplied the information about psychic proliferation technologies, just enough that it couldn’t be used without me, and Cannon had had it funneled to the Revealed Twelve. Very neat, even if I didn’t know exactly how.

  That also confirmed that Jensen had
definitely been Cannon’s agent in ensuring that Llysette and I had gotten into the hands of the Revealed Twelve. Not that I had a shred of real proof, which was why it would have been a mistake to say anything, but I knew … and Cannon knew I knew, and neither of us needed to say a word. Sometimes, that’s for the best.

  Hansen and I finally walked toward the south side of the Temple, where the shining Browning was waiting, amid several police steamers and two red fire steamers.

  “I’ll drive, Heber.” Hansen motioned for the driver to get out of the Browning. “You wait here for me. I won’t be too long.”

  Hansen said nothing until the steamer was clear of the square. “Why did you insist I escort you? My job isn’t done there.”

  “To keep you from cutting your throat, Brother Hansen. Just think about things for a while.” I meant it. Hansen was honest, and I respected that honesty. He’d been chosen as head of security because he was honest. Cannon couldn’t afford a dishonest security chief; no head of government can. But that meant Hansen had been really shocked to discover the extent to which the First Counselor had manipulated the situation and had used me and the schismatics to reinforce the current Saint regime and its efforts to reduce the conflicts with Columbia.

  Hansen’s eyes narrowed, but the Browning kept heading east, uphill, at least in the general direction of the Columbian embassy.

  After he pulled up into the “No Standing” area reserved for official vehicles, he turned in the seat. “Why do you care about me?”

  “Because you’re honest and, while we’ll never agree on many things, I won’t be party to seeing an honest man take the blame for something. So don’t. Just accept it as it appears—the schismatics were overcome by the reappearance of the ghost of the Revelator.”

  He frowned again. I would have, in his position, but there wasn’t much else I could do except give him a chance to cool off.

  We walked up the stone walk and steps to the main entrance to the embassy. The guard post in the front archway was an oasis of light in a dark structure. The marine guard looked sleepily at me, frowning at my disheveled condition.

  “I’m Minister Eschbach.”

  To my surprise, he straightened. “Sir? You’re back!”

  “I’m here. Probably Second Secretary Trumbull-Hull wants to know that, and I’m certain my wife does.”

  “Yes, sir. She’s in the guest wing suite. Ah … and … just a moment.” He fiddled with the wireset at his post. “Madame Eschbach … your husband, he’s here—he appears safe… . Yes, madame… .” He shook his head. “She’ll be right here.” Then he looked at the list and punched out another number.

  Hansen looked from the marine to me. “I think a number of people underestimated you, Eschbach.”

  “If so, for that I’m quite grateful.”

  “Sir, Minister Eschbach has just returned.” The guard looked at Hansen, then at me.

  “With Bishop Hansen of Saint security,” I supplied, adding in a lower voice to Hansen, “You need some credit in this.”

  “Kind of you,” he said dryly.

  “With Bishop Hansen of Saint security,” the marine parroted. “Yes, sir. I’ll get them right in.” He hung up the wireset receiver and used a key to open the front door. “Please step in, sir. Secretary Trumbull-Hull will be right down. He’s been sleeping in the duty quarters.”

  Hansen followed me in gingerly, then eased closer. “You had the connections figured out before you left.”

  “No. I only knew there had to be connections. When I saw the counselor’s face and when I realized you didn’t know, it was obvious.” I didn’t mention Minister Jerome. That was my problem.

  He shook his head. “This … is going to take some getting used to.”

  I felt sorry for him, but all I could say was, “This sort of thing does.” Then I added, “I left my overcoat in their blockhouse. I’d guess it’s a concrete building in the northeast warehouse district. Where exactly, I don’t know.”

  “Did you leave anything else there? Anything explosive, for example?” His voice was bitter, and I didn’t blame him.

  “No. I doubt there’s much trace of anything anywhere, now.”

  “Convenient.”

  Expedient, but I didn’t voice that, and didn’t have to.

  Llysette, with another guard leading the way, charged past him and down the side corridor, launching herself into my arms. She had thrown a robe over a nightgown, and she looked and felt like diva, beauty, and queen, all in one.

  I could feel the dampness on my cheeks, but my own eyes were wet as well, and I realized that I really hadn’t been sure I’d ever see her again. I held her for a long, long time.

  When I let go, Trumbull-Hull stood there, just in his shirt and trousers, barefoot, and I’d never seen a Columbian diplomat unshod.

  “It’s over,” I said, turning but not letting go of Llysette. “Here in Great Salt Lake City, anyway. Saint security has most of the key schismatics, and I’m sure that they’ll find most of the others.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “The schismatics had this idea that the ghost of their prophet would lead them, and that I’d be a useful hostage. The only problem was that when he appeared, he didn’t have quite the same ideas as they did, and in their confusion, I managed to put several out of commision and escape. That allowed Saint security”—I nodded to Hansen—“to collar a bunch of the others, and I imagine they’ll have everything pretty well in hand in the next few days.”

  “We believe so,” Hansen said on cue.

  “It sounds rather traumatic,” observed Trumbull-Hull. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me that some food, a hot shower, and several nights’ sleep won’t go a long way toward remedying,” I lied—because there was still one enormous loose end to tie up before I got hung by it. I was somewhat relieved, because the loose end didn’t threaten Llysette, not directly, anyway. “But we’d still like to leave tomorrow.”

  Both Trumbull-Hull and Hansen nodded. It was clear they’d both like the Eschbachs on the way back to Columbia.

  That was fine with us.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The olive drab bulk of the Republic turbojet squatted on the tarmac like a brooding eagle, being refueled. Llysette and I stood in the VIP lounge, where generals and the like waited, as, it appeared, did government ministers.

  The chocolate was nearly decent, and I was on my third mug when a lieutenant in formal drabs stepped up to our escort, Colonel Borlaam, who’d been somewhere close ever since I reappeared.

  “There’s a blond fellow—says he’s Doktor Perkins and that he’d like to see either Minister Eschbach or Mademoiselle duBoise.”

  “Could you let him in?” I asked Colonel Borlaam. “He was Llysette’s accompanist at the concerts, and he’s one of the greatest living composers. He’s also been on our side.”

  The colonel looked doubtful.

  I glared. I was tired of everyone else calling the shots—literally and figuratively. “If you would …” Llysette’s smile would have dissolved even the ghost of the Revelator.

  The colonel nodded at the lieutenant.

  Dan Perkins hurried in, silver-blond hair drooping over his forehead, but with an enormous grin. “I’m so glad I could get here.” He looked from Llysette to me. “Congratulations on the commendation from Counselor Cannon. Both the Deseret Star and the morning news had stories about you, something about how you had helped resolve, informally, a major obstacle to talks between Columbia and Deseret.”

  The colonel raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Neither did I. The commendation was something I hadn’t asked for, or expected, but sometimes good things happened, especially if they were in other people’s best interests. First Speaker Cannon had once again pushed his media empire into releasing the story he wanted.

  I held back a frown, realizing something else I should have caught earlier. Cannon had warned me about Jerome. He
was too good a politician to have let Jerome’s name slip. He’d wanted me to know that. He also wanted me to do something about Minister Jerome. I would have anyway, but it was reassuring to know I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

  “Anyway,” Perkins rushed on, turning back to Llysette and handing her the case, “I brought you the first disks from the concert. I could only get ten. We’d pressed five thousand.” He shook his head. “They’re gone. The distributor says there are orders with deposits for another ten thousand.”

  The disks showed a picture of Llysette and Perkins—one of the pictures snapped as they’d taken a bow. The title read modestly: The Incredible Salt Palace Concert: DuBoise & Perkins.

  Colonel Borlaam leaned forward slightly, and I stepped sideways so that he could see the disk cover as well.

  “It is incredible,” Perkins said. “After all these years …”

  I understood perfectly. Besides the artistic side, the disks represented freedom—for both him and Llysette.

  I couldn’t help but calculate. Llysette got almost a Columbian dollar for each one. Fifteen thousand dollars at a minimum, and that was without any sales in Columbia. Strangely, in a way, I felt even happier for the poor Saint composer.

  “Le pauvre homme … ,” Llysette murmured after Perkins had waved and departed.

  I nodded. Still, I thought things would improve.

  “He’s famous, isn’t he?” asked the colonel.

  “One of the more famous living composers,” I said. “You can probably boast about it to friends and family in a few years.”

  That got an awkward smile, I suppose because colonels couldn’t ever admit to boasting.

  A figure in a flight suit opened the door to the tarmac, and the odor of distillate and hot metal wafted in.

  “We’re ready, Colonel.”

  We walked across the tarmac, through the wind, chill enough for me because I still hadn’t gotten back my overcoat, and probably wouldn’t, and up the steps into the middle cabin.

  “This is where I leave you, Minister,” said the colonel, “and head back to the embassy.”