She could see it in her mind’s eye, the chain of events that would unfold if she were to walk into an FBI office and prove what she could do-maybe with the aid of a sack of cocaine, maybe not. Maybe with Paulie’s CD full of research, too, she realized, sitting up. “Shit.” A dawning supposition: Drug-smuggling rings needed to sanitize their revenue stream, didn’t they? And the business with Biphase and Proteome was in the right part of the world, and the Clan was certainly sophisticated enough… if her hunch was right, then it was, in fact, her long-lost family’s investments that Paulie was holding the key to.
In the FBI office first there’d be disbelief. Then the growing realization that a journalist was handing them the drugs case of the century. Followed by the hasty escalation, the witness protection program offers-then their reaction to her demonstrated ability to walk through walls. The secondary scenarios as the FBI realize that they can’t protect her, can’t even protect themselves against assassins from another world. Then blind panic and bad decisions.
“If the families decided to attack the United States at home, they could make al Qaida look like amateurs,” she muttered into her dictaphone, stricken. “They have the resources of a government at their disposal, because over here they’re running things. Does that make them a government? Or so close it makes no difference? They’re rich and powerful on the other side, too. Another generation and they’ll probably be getting their fingers into the pie in D.C. I wonder. They make their money from smuggling, and they’re personally immune to attempts to imprison them. The only thing that could hurt them would be if Congress decriminalized all drugs, so the price crashed and they could be shipped legally. Maybe the families are actually pushing the war on drugs? Paying politicians to call for tougher sanctions, border patrols against ordinary smugglers? Breaking the competition and driving the price up because of the law of supply and demand. Damn.”
She flicked the “stop” button on her dictaphone and put it down, shuddering. It made a frightening amount of sense. I am sitting on a news story that makes the attack on the World Trade Centre look like a five-minute wonder, she realized with a sinking feeling. No, I am sitting in the middle of the story. What am I going to do?
At that exact moment the telephone out in her reception room rang.
Old habits died hard, and Miriam was out of the bathroom in seconds with the finely honed reflexes of a journalist with an editor on the line. She picked the phone up before she realized there were no buttons, nothing to indicate it could dial an outside line. “Yes?”
“Miriam?”
She froze, heart sinking. “Roland,” she said distantly.
“You locked your door and sent your maids away. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“ ‘All right.’” She considered her next words carefully. “I’m not all right, Roland. I looked in the suitcase. The other one, the one waiting in the post room.” Her chest felt tight. He’d lied to her: but on the other hand, she’d been holding more than a little back herself-
A pause. “I know. It was a test. The only question was which one you’d open. I don’t know if it makes any difference, but I was ordered to give you the opportunity. To figure it all out for yourself. ‘Give her enough rope’ were his exact words. So now you know.”
“Know what?” she said flatly. “That he’s an extremely devious conspirator or about the family’s dirty little secret?”
“Both.” Roland waited for her to reply.
“I feel used,” she said calmly. “I am also extremely pissed off. In fact, I’m still working out how I feel about everything. It’s not the drugs, exactly: I don’t think I’ve got any illusions about that side of things. I studied enough pharmacology to know the difference between propaganda and reality, and I saw enough shit in med school from ODs and drunk drivers and people coughing up lung cancers to know you get the same results whether the drug’s illegal or not. But the manipulative side of it-there’s a movie on the other side called The Godfather. Have you ever seen it?”
“Yes. That’s it, exactly.” He sounded dryly amused. “By the way, Don Corleone asked me to tell you that he expects to see you in his office tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp.” His voice changed, abruptly serious. “Please don’t shout at him. I think it’s another test, but I’m not sure what kind-whichever, it could be very dangerous. I don’t want to see you get hurt, Miriam. Or Helge, as he’ll call you. But you’re Miriam to me. Listen, for your own good, whatever he says, don’t refuse a direct order. He is much more dangerous than he looks, and if he thinks you’ll bite him, he may put family loyalty aside, because his real loyalty is to the Clan as a whole. You’re a close family member, but the Clan, by the law of families, comes first. Just sit tight and remember that you’ve got more leverage than you realize. He will want you to make a secure alliance, both to keep you safe-for the memory of his stepsister-and to shore up his own position. Failing that, he’ll be able to pretend to ignore you as long as you don’t disobey a direct order. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes.” Her heart pounded. “So it’s going to happen.”
“What?”
“Fucking Cinderella. Never mind. Roland, I am not stupid. I need some time to myself to think, that’s all. I’m angry with you in the abstract, not the particular. I don’t like being made to jump through hoops. I hear what you’re saying. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.” A pause. “I think I do. I’m angry too.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, half-sarcastically.
“Yes.” This time, a longer pause. “I like your sense of humour, but it’s going to get you into deep trouble if you don’t keep it under control. There are people here who will respond to sarcasm with a garrotte. Trying to change the way the Clan works from the inside is hard.”
“Good-bye.” She hung up hastily and stood next to the phone for a long minute, heart thudding at her ribs, head throbbing in time to it. The smell of leather car seats was strong in her nose, the echo of his smile over lunch fixed in her mind’s eye. Duke’s orders, she thought. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?
She managed to pull herself away from the telephone and walked back into her bedroom, to the dresser with the tiny Picture book computer perched next to the stack of disks and the external DVD-ROM drive. She had software to install. She riffled through disks containing relief maps of North America, an electronic pharmacopoeia, and a multimedia history of the Medici families. She put them down next to the encyclopaedia of medieval history and other textbooks that had seemed relevant.
Once she’d made her first notes for the article Steve had commissioned, she’d start installing the software. Then she had a long night of cramming ahead, reading up on the great medieval merchant princes and their dynasties. The sooner she got a handle on this situation, the better…
Another morning dawned-a Sunday, bright and cold. Miriam blinked tiredly and threw back her bed clothes to let the cold air in. I may be getting used to this, she thought blearily. Oh dear. She looked at her watch and saw that the ten o’clock interview with Duke Angbard was worryingly close. “Shit,” she said aloud, but was gratified to note that the word brought no maidservants scurrying out of the woodwork. Even better, the outer suite was empty except for a steaming jug of strong coffee and a tray piled with croissants, just as she’d requested. “I could get used to this level of room service,” she muttered under her breath as she dashed into the bathroom. The computer was still running from last night, a Screensaver showing.
She laid out her clothes for the meeting with the duke. After a moment’s thought, she dressed conservatively, choosing a suit with a collarless jacket that buttoned to her throat. “Think medieval,” she told herself. “Think demure, feminine, unprovocative.” For a touch of colour, she tied a bright silk scarf round her throat. “Think camouflage.” And remember what Roland said about not defying the old bastard openly. At least, not yet. How and where to get the leverage was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, of course,
to be followed by the bonus question of when and how to use it to shaft him, but she doubted she’d find such tools conveniently lying around while she lived as a guest-or valued prisoner-in his house. This whole business of being beholden to a powerful man left a nasty taste in her mouth.
However, there was one thing she could carry to even up the odds-a very potent equalizer. To complete her ensemble, Miriam chose a small black makeup bag, clearly too small to hold a gun or anything threatening. She didn’t load it down with much: just a tube of lipstick, some tissues, and a running dictaphone.
The door to her suite was cooperating today, she noted as she pushed into the corridor outside. She remembered the way to the duke’s suite and made her way quietly past a pair of diligent maidservants who were busy polishing the brass-work on one of the doors and a footman who appeared to be replacing the flowers on one of the ornamental side tables. They bowed out of her way and she nodded, passing them hastily. The whole palace appeared to be coming awake, as if occupants who had been sleeping were coming out of the woodwork to resume their life.
She reached the duke’s outer office door and paused. Big double doors, closed, with a room on the other side. She took a deep breath and pushed the button set beside the door.
“Wer ish?” His voice crackled tinnily: a loose wire somewhere.
“It’s Miriam-Helge. I believe the duke wanted to talk to me,” she replied to the speaker.
“Enter.” The lock clicked discreetly and Miriam pushed the door inward. It was astonishingly heavy, as if lined with steel, and it drifted shut behind her.
Matthias, the frightening secretary, was waiting behind the big desk in shirtsleeves, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. This time she noted the pile of papers in front of him. Some of them looked like FedEx waybills, and some of them looked like letters.
“Helge. Miriam.” Matthias nodded to her, almost friendly.
“Yes.” Why does he make me so nervous? She wondered. Was it just the shoulder holster he wore so conspicuously? Or the way he avoided eye contact but scanned across and around her all the while?
“You have an appointment,” he said. “But you should call first, before setting out. So that we can send an escort for you.”
“ ‘An escort’?” She asked. “Why would I want an escort?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you? You are a lady of status, you deserve an escort. To be seen without one is a slight to your honour. Besides, someone might seek to take advantage of the deficiency in order to approach you.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll think about it.” She nodded at the inner door. “Is he ready?”
“One moment.” Matthias stood, then knocked on the door. A muttered exchange followed. Matthias pulled the door ajar, then held it for her. “You may enter,” he said, his expression unreadable. As she passed his desk, he moved to place his body in front of the papers there.
Miriam pretended not to notice as she entered the lion’s den. As before, Duke Angbard was seated at his writing desk, back to the window, so that she had to squint into the light to see him. But this time there was nobody else present, and he rose to welcome her into his study.
“Ah, Miriam, my dear niece. Please come in.”
He was trying for the kindly uncle role, she decided, so she smiled warmly in return as she approached the desk. “Uncle. Uh, I’m unfamiliar with the proper form of address. I hope you don’t mind if I call you Angbard?”
“Not in private.” He smiled benevolently down at her. “In public, it would be best to call me ‘your Excellency’ or ‘uncle,’ depending on context-official or familial. Please have a seat.”
“Thanks.” She sat down opposite him, and he sat down in turn. He was wearing another exquisitely tailored suit of conservative cut with, she couldn’t help noticing, a sword. It was curved: a sabre, perhaps, but she couldn’t be sure-the blades with which she was most familiar were scalpels. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Oh, many things.” His broad wave took in half the world. “It isn’t customary here to introduce conversations with business, but I gather you are accustomed to a life conducted at a brisker pace.” He leaned back in his chair, face shadowed. “Roland tells me you opened the second case,” he said briskly. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Ah, the moment of truth. Miriam leaned back, consciously mirroring his posture. “Well, I’d have to say that only an idiot lets themselves be sucked into any business arrangement without a full awareness of what it involves,” she said slowly. “And nobody had ordered me not to peek. You should also note that I’m here to discuss it with you, and the only other person who knows about it is Roland. What do you think?”
“I think that shows a necessary level of discretion,” he replied after a moment. “Now. What is your opinion of the business? And of your own relationship to it?”
“It makes a lot of sense for a group of families in the position that ours so clearly occupies,” she said, carefully trying to avoid giving the wrong impression. “I can see why you might want to test a new, ah, family member. As businesses go it is neatly orchestrated and appears to be efficiently ran.” She shrugged, biting back the urge to add: for an eighteenth-century family concern. As business organizations go, it’s still in the dark ages… “And it’s hardly appropriate for me to comment on where that platinum credit card came from, is it?”
“Indeed not,” he said acerbically. “But you seem to be clear on your position.” A sudden tightening of the skin around his eyes. “Are you a drug user?” he asked.
“Me?” She laughed, mentally crossing her fingers. “No! Never.” At least, not heroin or crack. Please don’t let him ask about anything else. Like many students, she’d acquired a passing familiarity with marijuana, but had mostly given it up some time ago. And she didn’t think he was the type to count coffee, cigars, or whiskey as drugs.
“That’s good,” he said seriously. “Most users are indiscreet. Can’t keep secrets. Bad for business.”
“Sobriety is next to godliness,” she agreed, nodding enthusiastically, then wondered if she’d overdone it when he fixed her with a slightly jaundiced stare. Oops, five glasses of wine, she remembered-and shrugged self-deprecatingly. His glare slowly faded.
“You have your mother’s sly tongue,” he commented. “But I didn’t call you here to ask you questions about your opinion of our business. I gather that Roland has been filling in a few of the gaps in your education-some of them, like a working knowledge of high tongue, will take a long time to remedy-but I dare say he has not been forthcoming in full with the details of your position in the Clan. Is that the case?”
Miriam could feel her forehead wrinkle. “He said I was rich and of very high position. But he didn’t explain in detail, no. Why?”
“Well, then,” said the duke, “perhaps I had better hasten to explain. You see, you are in a unique position-two unique positions.”
“Really? What kind?” she asked brightly. Missionary or…
“You know that there are five families in the Clan,” Angbard began. “These are Lofstrom-the senior family- Thorold, Hjorth, Wu, Arnesen, and Hjalmar. Yes, I know that’s six. The familial name does not necessarily correspond to a lineage. Our families are the descendants of the children of the founder, Angmar Lofstrom. He had many children, but the blood ran thin-only when their children married and the great-grandchildren showed the family trait were we able to come together to form the Clan.”
He cleared his throat. “Wu is not the name of one of our original ancestors; it is a name that the second son of line Arnesen took upon emigrating to the Outer Kingdom, two thousand miles to the west, perhaps a hundred and twenty years ago. The idea was that family Wu would become our western arm, trading with us by way of the Union Pacific Railroad, to mutual benefit. That wasn’t the first attempt, by the way. Angmar the elder’s youngest son, Marc, tried to cross the wilderness far earlier, but the attempt came to nothing and Mar
c was lost. So, we have branches on both sides of the Continental Divide. And a history of other families. Once there were seven lineages-but I digress.”
“But how does it all work?” Miriam asked. “How does the Clan come out of all this?”
“The Clan is not what you’d call a limited liability company-it is a partnership. A family firm, if you like. You see, we hold our lands and riches and titles in common trust for the Clan, which operates in concert and receives the profits from all our ventures. The Clan makes use of all who have the world-walking talent-the members of the inner families-and arranges or authorizes marriages that braid the families together across generations, avoiding both out-breeding and too many close kin marriages. It also controls the outer family-those who lack the talent, but whose children might possess it if they marry like with like-and finds jobs for them over here. For example, Matthias cannot ever visit Boston on his own-but he has a talent for security, and makes a most excellent mailed fist. We number almost five hundred world-walkers now, and with two thousand in the outer families the pickings at the lower ranks are slim.”
He coughed. “One iron rule is that family members are required to marry into another family lineage-otherwise the blood runs thin within a generation. The only exceptions are by prior dispensation of the council, to permit an alliance outside the Clan, such as adoption into the nobility. The second iron rule is that inheritance follows Clan shareholdings, not lineage or family. If you die, your children inherit whatever the Clan allocates to them-you hold your estates from the Clan, they don’t belong to you because without the Clan you would be nothing. The system is supposed to encourage cooperation and it usually succeeds, but there are exceptions. Sixty years ago, a war broke out within the Clan, between families-Wu and Hjorth on one side, Thorold, Lofstrom, Arnesen, and Hjalmar on the other. Nobody is certain what started it any more-those who knew died early on-but my personal supposition is that the Wu family, in their ambition to climb into the eternal palace itself, exposed themselves to court intrigue and were turned into a weapon against us by the palace of the Outer Kingdom, which considered the Wu lineage to be a threat. In any event, it was a bloody period in our history. During the war years, our numbers fell from perhaps a thousand of the true blood to fewer than two hundred. The war ended thirty-five years ago with a treaty, solemnized by the marriage of Patricia Lofstrom Thorold to Alfredo Wu. Patricia was my half-sister, and I inherited custody of the Lofstrom estates.”
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