by David Weber
“I didn’t say she was right, Oscar.” Fontein was careful to keep his voice even. “I only said I think most of her concern is genuine. You asked me if I’m suspicious of her and a part of my answer is that I think a lot of her reluctance to charge ahead with Bagration was unfeigned.”
“All right.” Saint-Just puffed air through his lips, then shook himself. “All right,” he said more naturally. “Point taken. Go on.”
“Beyond her apparently genuine concerns over her orders, I really can’t say she’s given me much to work with,” Fontein said honestly. “She staked out her claim to authority in purely military affairs the day she took over the Octagon, and she works her staff, and herself, so hard that even I can’t manage to sit in on all the meetings she has with planners and analysts and logistics people and com specialists. She works best one-to-one, and no one could fault the energy she brings to the job, but she’s definitely got a firm grip on the military side of her shop. You probably know that even better than I do.” Since, he did not add aloud, you were the one who told me I had to let her get a grip on it. “I don’t like it, and I never did. Nor have I made any secret about how much I don’t like it. At the same time, she has a point about the need for a single source of authority in a military chain of command, and the results she’s produced certainly seem to have justified the decision to bring her in in the first place.
“I don’t think she’s been able to sneak anything past me, but I can’t rule it out. As I say, no one could possibly keep pace with a schedule as frenetic as hers. There’ve probably been opportunities for side discussions I don’t know anything about… and I still haven’t figured out how she made her initial contacts before the Leveler business, when all’s said. I have a few suspicions, but even knowing where to look—assuming I’m right and I am looking in the right places—I haven’t been able to come up with any hard evidence. That being the case, I’m in no position to state unequivocally that she hasn’t managed to do the same thing again at the Octagon.
“And let’s face it, Oscar, she’s charismatic as hell. I’ve watched her in action for years now, and I’m no closer to understanding how she does it than in the beginning. It’s like she uses black magic. Or maybe it’s a special kind of charisma that only works with military people. But it does work. She had Bukato out of his shell within weeks of taking over, and the rest of the Octagon’s senior officers followed right behind him. And she managed to send Giscard and Tourville out ready to take on pseudogrizzlies with their bare hands, even though you and I both know from Eloise’s reports that Giscard was suspicious as hell of her reputation for personal ambition. If anyone could inspire one of her subordinates to risk trying to do an end run around me to set up some clandestine line of communication, she’s the one. I haven’t seen a single trace of that, or I’d already’ve been in here bending your ear about it, but we can’t afford to take anything for granted with a woman like her.”
“I know.” Saint-Just sighed and tipped his chair all the way back. “I was never happy about bringing her in and giving her such a long leash, but, damn it, Rob was right. We needed her, and however dangerous she may be, she produced. She certainly produced. But now—”
He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Fontein could almost feel the intensity of his thoughts. Unlike almost anyone else in State Security, Fontein had read the doctored dossier Saint-Just had constructed when McQueen was brought in as Secretary of War. He knew exactly how that file had been manicured to make McQueen look like the greatest traitor since Amos Parnell—indeed, to brand her as a previously undetected junior partner in the “Parnell Plot”—if it became necessary to remove her. Unfortunately, Parnell was back among the living after Harrington’s escape from Cerberus and spilling his guts to the Solly Assembly’s Committee on Human Rights, and—
The rhythm of Fontein’s thoughts broke as a sudden insight struck him. Parnell. Was his escape from Cerberus an even larger factor in Saint-Just’s intensified suspicions of McQueen than the commissioner had previously guessed? The ex-CNO’s return to life had definitely shaken a lot of the old officer corps. They’d been careful about what they said and who they said it around, but that much was obvious. And after the victories Twelfth Fleet had produced under her orders, McQueen, for all the Navy’s original wariness about her ambition, was almost as popular with, and certainly as respected by, its officers as Parnell had been. She must seem like some sort of ghost of Parnell to Saint-Just, and the neutralization of her edited dossier had hit him hard.
It was ironic, really. When the time bombs had been planted in that dossier, they’d been seen as little more than window dressing. There’d been no real need for anyone to justify her removal when StateSec had been shooting admirals in job lots for years, since no one in the Navy would have dared raise even a minor objection. The entire purpose had been to provide Cordelia Ransom’s Propagandists with ammunition to dress up the decision and be sure the Republic’s public opinion was pointed in the right direction. But now that McQueen had become so popular with both the public and the Navy, that sort of justification for removing her had become genuinely vital. And just when it had, Parnell had escaped from Cerberus and discredited everything in it.
Saint-Just’s weapon had been knocked from his hand when he most feared he needed it, and perhaps that, as much as his frustration over her refusal to agree with his analysts, helped explain the way in which his habitual self control had frayed in this instance.
“She produced,” Saint-Just went on at last, “but I think she’s become too dangerous for us to keep around. Someone else—like Theisman—can go on producing now that she’s gotten the Navy turned around. And we won’t have to worry about someone like Theisman trying to overthrow the Committee.”
“Does that mean you and the Citizen Chairman have decided to remove her?” Fontein asked carefully.
“No,” Saint-Just replied. “Rob is less convinced she’s a danger. Or, rather, he’s less convinced we can afford to get rid of her because of the danger she represents. He may even be right, and whether he is or not, he’s still Chairman of the Committee… and my boss. So if he says we wait until we either know we don’t need her or we find clear proof she’s actively plotting, we wait. Especially since Bukato will have to go right along with her. Probably most of her other senior staffers, too, which makes it particularly imperative that we be certain the Manties are really on the run before we dislocate our command structure so severely. But I expect Bagration to pick right up where Scylla left off, and if it does, then I think we will have proof we don’t need to hang on to a sword so sharp it’s liable to cut our own heads off. Not when we’ve got other swords to choose from. And in that case, I expect Rob to green-light her removal.”
“I see.” Despite himself, Fontein felt an inner qualm. For all his own reservations about McQueen, he’d worked closely with her for so long that the announcement that she was a dead woman, one way or the other, within months hit him hard.
“I don’t want to rock the boat,” Saint-Just went on. “Not now that Bagration is just kicking off, and certainly not before Theisman gets here and gives us someone reliable to hand Capital Fleet to. And above all, I don’t want to do anything that will make her realize her time is running out. But I think it’s time we started building a dossier to replace the one we can’t use anymore. I want a nice, clean, convincing paper trail to ‘prove’ she was a traitor before she gets shot resisting arrest, and we can’t throw that kind of thing together at the last minute. So I want you to sit down with Citizen Colonel Cleary and begin putting one together now.”
“Of course.” Fontein nodded. There was no chance in the world that Saint-Just would take overt action against McQueen until Pierre authorized it. The StateSec CO’s mind simply didn’t work that way. But it was very like him to attempt to anticipate and put the groundwork in place ahead of time. The collapse of the original “proof” of McQueen’s “treason against the People” only made him more determine
d than usual.
“Remember,” Saint-Just said firmly, unwittingly echoing Fontein’s own thoughts, “this is only a preliminary. Rob hasn’t authorized me to do a thing, and that means you’re not authorized to do anything except gather information and begin assembling a file. I don’t want any mistakes or unauthorized enthusiasm that gets out of hand, Erasmus!”
“Of course not, Oscar,” Fontein replied just a bit cooly. Saint-Just gave a small nod in response, one with a hint of apology. One reason (among many) Fontein had been chosen for his position was that he would no more act against McQueen without Saint-Just’s specific order to do so, except in a case of dire emergency, than Saint-Just would have had her arrested or shot without clearance from Pierre.
“I know I can rely on you, Erasmus,” he said, “and that’s more important to me and to Rob right now than ever before. It’s just that waiting for the coin to drop with McQueen has stretched my patience a lot thinner than I ought to have let it. I have to keep reining myself in where she’s concerned, and some of it just spilled over onto you.”
“I understand, Oscar. Don’t worry. Cleary and I will put together exactly the sort of file you need, and that’s all we’ll do until you tell us otherwise.”
“Good,” Saint-Just said more cheerfully, and shoved up out of his chair with a smile. He walked around his desk to escort his visitor out and, in a rare physical show of affection, draped one arm around Fontein’s narrow shoulders.
“Rob and I won’t forget this, Erasmus,” he said as the door from his private office to its waiting room opened and Caminetti looked up from his own desk. The secretary started to rise, but Saint-Just waved him back into his chair and personally escorted Fontein to the door.
“Remember,” he said, pausing for one last word before Fontein left the waiting room for the public corridor beyond. “It has to be solid, Erasmus. When we shoot someone like McQueen, we can’t leave any loose ends. Not this time. Especially not when we’re going to have to make such a clean sweep at the Octagon along with her.”
“I understand, Oscar,” Fontein replied quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.”
Esther McQueen was working late—again—when the door chime sounded.
She glanced at the date-time display on her desk and grinned wryly. This late at night, it had to be Bukato. No one else worked quite the hours she did, and of those who might work this late, anyone else would go through her appointments yeoman. Now what, she wondered, would Ivan have to discuss with her tonight? Something about Bagration, no doubt. Or perhaps about Tom Theisman’s impending arrival to take over the reorganized Capital Fleet.
She pressed the admittance button, and her eyebrows rose as the door opened. It wasn’t Bukato. In fact, it was her junior com officer, a mere citizen lieutenant. Citizen commodores and citizen admirals were a centicredit a dozen around the Octagon. No one paid all that much attention to the gold braid and stars walking past them in the halls, and a mere citizen lieutenant was literally invisible.
“Excuse me, Citizen Secretary,” the young man said. “I just finished those signals Citizen Commodore Justin gave me this afternoon. I was on my way to his office with them when I realized you were still here, and it occurred to me that you might want to take a look at them before I hand them to his yeoman.”
“Why, thank you, Kevin.” McQueen’s voice was completely calm, without even a trace of surprise, but her green eyes sharpened as she held out her hand for the citizen lieutenant’s memo board. Despite his own conversational tone, the young man’s features were drawn for just a moment as their eyes met, and McQueen’s breathing faltered for the briefest instant as she saw the flimsy strip of paper he passed her with the board.
She nodded to him, laid the board on her desk, keyed its display, and bent over it. Had anyone happened to walk into her office at that moment, all they would have seen was the Citizen Secretary of War scanning the message traffic her staffer had brought her. They would never have noticed the strip of paper which slipped from the memo board’s touchpad to her blotter and lay hidden beyond the holo of its display. And because they would not have noticed it, they would never have read the brief, terse words it bore.
“S says EF authorized to move by SJ,” it said. Only that much, but Esther McQueen felt as if a pulser dart had just hit her in the belly.
She’d known it was coming. It had been obvious for months that Saint-Just’s suspicion had overcome his belief that they needed her skills, but she’d believed Pierre was wiser than that… at least where the military situation was concerned.
But maybe I only needed to believe that because I wasn’t ready. The thought was unnaturally calm. I needed more time, because we’re still not ready. Just a couple of more weeks—a month at the outside—would have done it. But it looks like waiting is a luxury I’ve just run out of.
She drew a deep breath as she hit the advance button and her eyes appeared to scan the display. Her free hand gathered up the thin paper, crushing it into a tiny pellet, and she reached up to rub her chin… and popped the pellet into her mouth. She swallowed the evidence and hit the advance button again.
Thirty percent. That was her current estimate of the chance of success. A one-third chance was hardly something she would willingly have risked her life upon, or asked others to risk their lives on with her, if she’d had an option. But if Saint-Just had authorized Fontein to move, she didn’t have an option, and thirty percent was one hell of a lot better than no chance at all. Which was what she’d have if she waited until they pulled the trigger.
She paged through to the final message in the board, then nodded and held it out to the citizen lieutenant. Incomplete though her plans were, she’d been careful to craft each layer independently of the layers to follow it. And she could activate her entire strategy—such as it was and what there was of it at this stage—with a single com call. She wouldn’t even have to say anything, for the combination she would punch into her com differed from Ivan Bukato’s voice mail number only in the transposition of two digits. It was a combination she’d never used before and would never use again, but the person at the other end of it would recognize her face. All she had to do was apologize for mistakenly screening a stranger so late at night, and the activation order would be passed.
“Thank you, Kevin,” she said again. “Those all look fine. I’m sure Citizen Commodore Justin will want to look them over as well, of course, but they seem to cover everything I was concerned about. I appreciate it.” Her voice was still casual, but the glow in her green eyes was anything but as they met the com officer’s squarely.
“You’re welcome, Ma’am,” Citizen Lieutenant Kevin Caminetti said, and the younger brother of Oscar Saint-Just’s personal secretary tucked the memo board under his arm, saluted sharply, and marched out of Esther McQueen’s office.
Behind him, she reached for her com’s touchpad with a rock-steady hand.
* * *
Citizen Lieutenant Mikis Tsakakis sighed mentally as he followed Citizen Secretary Saint-Just down the hallway from the lift shaft. By tradition, the night security assignment for any public figure was supposed to be less demanding than the task of protecting the same individual during normal business hours. And Tsakakis supposed that there had to be some basis for that traditional belief, even though his own experience scarcely supported it.
All of Oscar Saint-Just’s personal security team knew that the Citizen Secretary for State Security liked to work late. Unfortunately, he also liked to work early. In fact, he had an uncomfortable habit of going in to his office at utterly unpredictable hours, especially when some particular crisis or concern hovered in the background.
No one could fault the hours that he put in, and none of his subordinates were about to criticize the work habits of the second most powerful man in the People’s Republic of Haven. But that didn’t mean that Tsakakis and his people liked it. Unlike Saint-Just, some of them actually preferred a semi-regular schedule with comfortable chunks of
time allotted to such mundane concerns as sleep, or perhaps a modicum of a social life. A little time with a wife or husband on some sort of predictable basis wouldn’t have come amiss, either.
Not that any of them would ever consider complaining about their charge’s schedule. That would have been… unwise. Even more to the point, it would have been a quick way to get themselves removed from the citizen secretary’s protective detail, and for all its worries and inconvenience, there was fierce competition for that position. Outsiders might have been surprised to discover that, yet it was true. It wasn’t so much that StateSec’s personnel loved their commander, because in truth he wasn’t a particularly lovable person. But they did respect him, and however the rest of the universe might see him, he was normally unfailingly polite to the people who worked for him. Besides, the only State Security assignment which offered greater responsibility or prestige—or chance of promotion—was the Citizen Chairman’s personal detail.
Still, protecting the most hated man in the entire People’s Republic was scarcely a tension-free vocation. Only a lunatic would think he had even the most remote chance of penetrating Saint-Just’s security screen, but historically speaking, lunatics had an unfortunate track record of success. Or of at least taking out the odd bodyguard in the attempt. All of which tended to keep one on one’s toes.