‘Really? My money was on a false-flag operation by the Office of Special Programs.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t us: we’re not criminals! Well, the bombs were ours. But they were stolen from the inactive inventory.’
‘Stolen? Tell me it’s not true, Jack! Nobody “just steals” special weapons like they’re shoplifting a candy store – ’
‘Take a deep breath, man. There are other universes, parallel worlds, like ours but where things happened differently. Different people, different history. There’s a secret project under Livermore building machines for transiting between parallel worlds: They’ve got the photographs to prove it. The way they briefed us – a bunch of, of drug lords from another dimension, can you believe it? Illegal aliens, emphasis on the alien, whatever. They stole half a dozen backpack nukes, they just appeared inside the secure storage cells and walked off with them! The White House has been studying the situation for a year now. Negotiations broke down, and this was their idea of a Dear John.’
‘Oy. From anyone else I would not believe it, Jack, but from you, I take it as gospel. Tell me, have you been working too hard lately?’
‘Fuck off, I’m not jerking your chain. Listen, I expect you’ll hear about it officially through diplomatic channels within a day or two. It’s a huge mess – a whole fucking sewage farm has hit the windmill. D.C. was blowback, just like al-Qaeda, let’s not kid ourselves – and the president means to put an end to it, and do it hard and fast.’
‘What do you mean by hard and fast, in this context?’
‘They’ve indented for a hundred and sixty B83s from Pantex, with an option on another two hundred in two weeks, that’s what I mean. And the Fifth Bomb Wing have gone onto lockdown. I mean, everyone’s on alert everywhere, but the Fifth have canceled all leave and there’s a complete communications blackout. Half of them moved to Fairford in England for Iraq, and the grapevine says the rest are staging out there with B83s aboard, just to keep them out of enemy hands. I just saw orders reactivating the Seventy-second Bomb Squadron and pulling in ground staff.’
‘Out of enemy – what the fuck is going on?’
‘Like I said, it’s a whole new ballgame. These fuckers can just appear out of thin air, anywhere! Inside your security perimeter! My guess is that the Fifth Bomb Wing is being readied for a counterstrike mission into a, a parallel universe, just as soon as they can load up with B83s, fit the transit machines, and as soon as the U2s deliver accurate target maps. Keeping them overseas in England is a security measure: They can move sideways between worlds, show up inside the perimeter of our bases – but if the bombers aren’t home they can’t touch them. Watch for the KC-10s moving too. I tell you, they’re getting ready for an attack on North America – just not our North America.’
‘Okay, Jack, I’ve got to hand it to you. You are either taking far more LSD than is good for you, or you have completely spoiled my afternoon, because you just aren’t imaginative enough to make up a story like that without chemical assistance. I say that as a compliment, by the way – an excessively active imagination is a liability in our line of work. I’m going to have to escalate this, and that’s going to make my head hurt because, my boss, it’s going to make his head hurt. So I hope you won’t take this the wrong way when I ask, what have you got for me? What concrete evidence have you got to back these claims up?’
(Rustling.) ‘It’s classified, but not top-secret. I mean, this stuff is general dissemination for about a hundred thousand soldiers, as of this morning – it was top-secret, but they’re realists, there’s no way to keep a lid on something like this indefinitely. So I, uh, there’s a classified briefing pack that I need to lock back in my office drawer tonight. I assume you’ve got a camera or something?’
‘Of course. Jack, you’re a mensch. Listen, I am just about to go to the toilet, I’ll be back in a few minutes and your briefing pack can go right back to the office after lunch while I go find some headache pills before I call Tel Aviv. Are you sure this isn’t just a prank to make Benny Netanyahu shit himself . . . ? No? Too bad. Because I’d love to be there to see his face when this lands on his desk.’
END RECORDING
Oliver, Baron Hjorth had spent a sleepless night in a co-opted tax farmer’s mansion in a country estate, near the site of Baltimore in the United States. The rooms two stories up, under the eaves, were uncomfortably hot in the summer miasma; but they lent a good view of the approaches to the house, and more importantly, good radio reception for a location so far south of the Gruinmarkt.
In his opinion, it was only sensible to take precautions: He had played his part in the operation in good faith, but there was a significant risk that some ne’er-do-well or rakehell anarchist of the progressive creed might seek him out with murder in mind. So the baron sat in a sweltering servants’ room, his head bowed beneath the roof beams, while next door his man Schuller poked at the scanner, waiting.
On the other side of the wall of worlds from this mansion there was a modest, suburban family home. In its car port waited a black Lincoln, fully fueled for the dash up the interstate to Boston. But once he took to the wide American highways he’d be trapped, in a manner of speaking; committed to Niejwein, by hook or by crook. He could be at the palace in a matter of hours, there to take charge of a troop of cavalry as befitted a gentleman: but while he was on the road he’d be unable to listen in on the upstart Riordan’s increasingly desperate messages.
Impatient and irritable with tiredness, Oliver stood – for perhaps the fifth time that morning – and walked to the window casement. Below him, a cleared slope ran downhill to the wood line: Nobody stirred on the dirt track leading to the house. Good. He glanced at the doorway. Schuller was a reliable man, one of the untitled world-walkers of outer family breeding that Riordan had sacked from Angbard’s organization in the wake of the fiasco at the Hjalmar Palace. Let’s see what news . . . Oliver walked to the doorway and shoved the curtain aside. ‘How goes it?’ he demanded.
Schuller glanced up, then nodded – overfamiliarly, in Oliver’s opinion, but fatigue made churls of all men – and shoved one headphone away from an ear. ‘Nothing for the past fifteen minutes, my lord. Before that, something garbled from Lady Thorold’s adjutant. A call for reinforcements from their Millgartfurt station, where they reported word of an attack – cut short. Orders from Major Riordan’s command post, demanding that all units hold their station and report by numbers. There were three responses.’
‘Good.’ The baron laced his fingers together tightly. ‘What word from the Anglischprache?’
‘Riordan told the post to keep reporting hourly on the attack; it is by all accounts total chaos over there. All air flights are grounded, but the roads are open – outside of the capital, of course. They’re clucking like headless chickens.’ Schuller’s expression was stony. ‘As well they might. Fools.’
‘Did I pledge you for your opinions?’ The baron raised an eyelid: Schuller recoiled slightly.
‘No, sir!’
‘Then kindly keep them to yourself, there’s a good chap. I’m trying to think.’ Oliver dabbed at his forehead, trying to mop away the perspiration. The limousine is air-conditioned, he reminded himself. ‘You have a log, yes? Let me see it.’ Schuller held up a clipboard. The pages were neatly hand-scribed, a list of times and stations and cryptic notes of their message content. ‘Careless of them. They’re not encrypting.’
‘They are probably shorthanded, sir.’ Schuller looked up at the baron as he paged through the sheet. ‘Their traffic has been tailing off all morning.’
‘Well then.’ The baron smiled as he saw the time stamps grow thinner, the broadcasts more desperate. ‘I think it’s time to move headquarters. Tell Stanislaw and Poul we’re moving, then hail Andrei and tell him to ready the troops to move this afternoon. Shut up shop and meet me downstairs in ten minutes: I must change first.’ It wouldn’t do to be stopped and searched by the Anglische police while dressed as a Sudtmarkt cousin’s guest, but he
had a business suit laid out next door.
The plan was simple, as such things went: Baron Hjorth would transfer to the United States, drive north – covering a distance of hundreds of miles in a mere afternoon – and reemerge in the Gruinmarkt, on his own estate, with a bodyguard of cavalrymen in time to ride to the flag of the postal lords and her grace the dowager duchess. Who, if things were going to plan – as appeared to be the case – would have coaxed the Idiot’s hoyden widow into a suitably well-guarded retreat and arranged for her confinement, in every sense of the word. Having managed the successful delivery of the atomic bombs to their targets (an expensive process, as Jurgen could attest), he was, if nothing else, in line for the reward for a job well done. Probably more of the same, he thought, as he dressed in American fashion, mildly irritated by the lack of body servants. The sacrifices we make . . .
Oliver made his way through the empty servants’ quarters, passing the room recently vacated by Schuller, before descending by way of a back staircase and a dressing room to reach the main staircase. His men had dismissed most of the regular staff, banishing them to the village over the hill in the name of security. The great house was almost deserted, sweltering in the noon heat. Air-conditioning and the milder Northern climate beckoned, putting a spring in the baron’s step. As he reached the bottom step, one shoe touching the mosaic floor of the central hall, he paused. It was, if anything, too quiet. ‘Poul?’ he called quietly. ‘Stanislaw – ’
‘They won’t be answering.’ Schuller stepped out of the shadows.
Oliver’s left hand tightened on the handrail. ‘What is this?’ His right hand was already shoving aside his jacket, reaching for the small of his back –
Schuller shot him. In the confines of the high-ceilinged room the blast of the shotgun was deafening: it launched a screeching flight of frightened birds from the grounds outside. Oliver Hjorth collapsed, eyes staring, his chest flayed open as any victim of the blood eagle. Schuller racked the pump on his weapon, ejecting the smoking cartridge, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his face still expressionless. ‘Fucking aristocratic traitor,’ he muttered, inspecting the baron’s body for any sign of residual life; but there was not so much as a toe-twitch, and the pool of blood was spreading evenly now, no longer spurting but beginning to soak into the rug at the center of the hall. Turning on his heel, Schuller walked slowly towards the front door of the hall; raising his left hand to stare at something cupped within his palm, he vanished. An instant later he reappeared in a linoleum-floored utility room, windowless. Walking over to the telephone, he dialed a number from memory: ‘Message to the major,’ he said, swallowing back bile. ‘Cuckoo Four has hatched three eggs. Cuckoo Four is going home.’
There was a moment’s delay, and then a woman’s voice spoke: ‘Got that, and good luck. The major says you did well.’
‘Bye.’ He hung up, carefully unloaded his shotgun, and deposited it on the workbench. Then, taking a pair of car keys from his pocket, he headed for the carport. It would be a long drive for one man sticking religiously to the speed limit; but if he hurried, he could be back with his unit by sundown. Unlike the baron, Earl-Major Riordan didn’t think of his agents as expendable embarrassments.
*
It took more than a war, a liquidity crisis, and a revolution to stop the dogs. The morning after his father explained the new arrangement to him – the identity of their new political patron, the reason for backing ven Hjalmar, and the ruling council of elders’ plans for the future – James Lee, his hat pulled down as low as his spirits, walked to the track to put some money on the greyhounds.
It was not, of course, entirely safe for a man with Asian features to walk these streets alone; but Lin, his favorite younger brother, was eager to get out of the house for a few hours. With smoked glasses and the beard he’d been cultivating of late, James didn’t feel too out of place; and in addition to his cane, he had a pistol and a locket on a ribbon around his left wrist.
‘Look – I’ll put two shillings on Red Leinster in the next race,’ said Lin, pointing at one of the muzzled and hooded hounds, being led back to the kennels in the wake of a near-miss. ‘How about you?’
‘Huh. Three and six on Bottle Rocket, I think.’ James glanced around, looking for a tout’s man. ‘And a pint of mild.’
‘Make that two pints.’ Lin flashed him a brief grin. ‘What’s gotten into you, brother? I haven’t seen you this low since . . .’ He trailed off.
James shook his head. Another glance: ‘Not in English,’ he said quietly. ‘Later, maybe.’
‘Oh.’ Slightly crestfallen, Lin subsided. But not for long: ‘Look! There’s your bookmaker.’ He pointed excitedly, at a sharply dressed figure surrounded by a court of supplicants, and not a few stone-faced gentlemen with stout walking sticks – some of them doubtless concealing blades. ‘Are you going to – ’
James shook his head. ‘Life’s a gamble,’ he said quietly. A moment later his mood lifted. ‘Yes, I think I shall take a flutter.’ He worked his way over towards the bookmaker, Lin following along in his wake. A few minutes later, by way of a tap-man who dispensed mild straight into battered pewter pots from the back of a cask-laden dray, he made his way towards the back of the trackside crowd. The audience was abuzz with anticipation as the fresh dogs were led out to the stalls. ‘Which do you think is more important: filial obedience, or honor?’ he asked.
Lin’s eyes crossed briefly. ‘Uh. Beer?’ he hazarded.
James shook his head minutely. ‘Imagine I’m being serious.’
‘Well, then.’ Lin took a gulp of the black beer. ‘This is a trick question, isn’t it? Filial obedience, obviously, because that’s where your honor comes from, right?’
‘Wrong.’ James took a sip from his own mug. ‘And yes it is a trick question, but not the kind you’re expecting. Let me see. Try this one: Why does honor come from filial obedience?’
‘Because it does?’ Lin rolled his eyes this time, making it clear that he was honoring his elder brother precisely inasmuch as the free beer required. ‘This is boring – ’
‘No it isn’t,’ James said, quietly urgent. ‘Listen. Firstly, we obey because it’s the right and traditional thing to do. Secondly, we obey because it is what we shall want for ourselves, when we are elders. And thirdly, we obey because the old farts are usually right, and they are making decisions with our family’s best interests in mind. They know what they’re doing. Except when they don’t. So let me rephrase: If you found out that the elders were doing something really stupid, dangerously stupid, and you couldn’t talk them out of it – what would you do?’
A rattling clangor of gates and the shrill of a whistle: The dogs were off, bolting up the track in pursuit of the mechanical hare. ‘Oh brother.’ Lin was uncharacteristically quiet. ‘This isn’t theoretical, is it?’
‘No.’ Shouting and hoarse cheering rose on all sides as the crowd urged their hounds on. ‘They’ve bet the family’s future on a wild black dog. Our future, Lin.’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ Lin said automatically. He raised his tankard, drank deeply as the gongs clashed and the crowd roared their approval. ‘Would they?’ He wiped his mouth with the back of a hairless wrist.
‘They would, and they did, with the best of intentions.’ James shook his head. ‘Huh, there goes my three and six. But looks like you lucked out.’
‘What have they done?’ Lin asked as they queued to collect his winnings – not so much, for he’d bet on a favorite – from the men with clubs.
‘Later.’ James waited patiently while his younger brother swapped his ticket for five shillings; the tout’s men looked disapprovingly on, but made no move to pick a fight. They headed back to the dray for a refill, then over to the fence near the bleachers to watch. The racing dogs were kenneled, while dogs of another kind were brought out, along with a bear for them to bait in a wire-fenced enclosure in the middle of the track. ‘You met the enemy heir, Helge, Miriam. What did you think of her?’
> Lin shook his head. ‘She’s a crazy woman,’ he said admiringly. A shadow crossed his face. ‘I owe her, brother. It shames me to say.’
‘The elders sent you to kill her, and she ended up saving your life. That’s a heavy obligation, isn’t it? What if I said the elders have settled on a harebrained scheme to make us safe and rich – but one that will kill her? Where’s your honor there, eh?’
‘They wouldn’t do that!’ Lin glanced from side to side. ‘That would restart the war, wouldn’t it?’
‘They may not realize what they’re doing,’ James said quietly. ‘They’re entering into an arrangement with one of her enemies, though, a man who she told me had wronged her grievously. Another of the cousins, their feuds are hard to keep track of . . . but what makes this different is that they’re also talking to a government man.’ His younger brother’s eyes were bulging with disbelief. ‘I know, I know. I think they’ve taken leave of their senses, you know the rules – but Dad and Uncle Huan are agreed. They figure the revolution’s going to turn into a bloody civil war, and I think they’re probably right about that – and they think we need political patronage to survive it. Well, that goes against the old rules, but they’re the elders: They make the rules, and sometimes you have to throw out the old rules and bring in new rules. The trouble is, they’re hoping to use a mad scheme of Dr. ven Hjalmar’s to breed extra world-walkers – don’t ask me how it works, it’s magic medicine from the other world the cousins go to – and they’re hoping to use their political patron’s offices to make it work. Ven Hjalmar is poison: Miriam hates him. And the patron they’ve picked – ’ James shook his head. ‘I don’t trust him. Uncle doesn’t trust him either, but I think Uncle underestimates how untrustworthy he is. And ven Hjalmar. They’ll cut a deal behind our backs and we’ll be at their mercy.’
The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) Page 45