“Nothing in the federal district happens by accident or without a price,” I said dryly.
“The post?” Llysette's voice took on a note of concern. “Have they sent you clippings? You have not heard from Minister Oakes?”
“I don't imagine I'm one of Harlaan's favorites.” I laughed, once, reflecting on how I'd inadvertently set matters up so that he'd gone from being the president's advisor to the deputy minister in charge of the Spazi—under an opposition Speaker. “No clippings, either. No briefing material, but I still worry.”
“We do not have to attend.” I wasn't about to agree to that. So I smiled. “After all these years . . . I think we're going.”
“Could we stay with Judith and Eric?”
“They've said we can stay anytime, even if they're not there. I'll wire Eric tomorrow, but I'm sure it will be all right.”
Victor appeared with our meals, and the wienerschnitzel and Alfredo combination was indeed tasty. I didn't bring up the invitation again, but I still worried. Nearly thirty years in and around government, from the Republic Naval Air Corps to the Spazi to being a subminister, had taught me the value of worry.
3
Tuesday came and went, and so did Wednesday. On Thursday morning I was sitting in my second-floor office at the university, reading the Asten Post-Courier before I got back to work on yet another quiz—this one for Natural Resources 1A—the introductory course. I glanced toward the small window, but the way the rain was running down the panes, I really couldn't see anything. So I looked back at the national news section.
Federal District (WNS). “Austria has absolutely no interest in interfering in the affairs of other nations,” declared Ambassador Schikelgruber upon his return to Columbia from Vienna, where he had met with Emperor Ferdinand for consultations. “We wish a world at peace, as do all thoughtful peoples.”
I snorted. The Austrian definition of peace was not quite the same as that of other thoughtful peoples. I wondered if anyone thought of asking the zombies in the work camps across what had been France and the Netherlands. Or the Bavarians who'd thrown their lot in with Austria more than a century earlier when the Swedes had repulsed the attack on Denmark, and who now found themselves under a far worse tyrant than the unfortunate Otto van Bismarck ever could have been. Then, Ferdinand's predecessors had been intelligent enough to coopt the Prussians, so much so that it was probably more accurate to call it the Austro-Prussian Empire. Especially since most of the elite military units were either Prussian or trained by the Prussians.
I forced myself to finish the article.
. . . the emir of the Arab Protectorate has requested Austrian aid to ensure the sanctity of the lands of the Protectorate . . . Schikelgruber assured reporters that Austria was only rotating individual units and not increasing total Austrian forces . . .
Just like the movements of Austrian forces ten years earlier had only been a redeployment. I shook my head. Strange . . . I'd been in France, and so had Llysette, and neither of us had known the other even existed. But that had been in a different world.
The other stories weren't much better.
St. Petersburg (WNS). Early reports about the casualties from the student protests held at St. Petersburg University were highly exaggerated, according to Kyril Lamanov, minister of communications for the tzar. “Only one student was killed, and that was because he fell from a balcony in the excitement.” Lamanovinv ited foreign correspondents to tour the university grounds. He pointed out that if the White Guard had actually fired on students in the way that had been reported, there would certainly be student ghosts visible. . . .
That was true enough. I couldn't imagine there not being ghosts on the grounds of the university if the tzar's White Guard had actually shot down scores of students. Almost always, when a self-aware individual died violently and knowledgeably, there was a ghost formed. Of course, it had taken the Spazi and Ferdinand's scientists to start meddling and trying to create artificial zombies by using technology to remove a live spirit from a live body. Now, although the Hartpence administration had declared a ban on ghosting and de-ghosting research, I had no doubts that it continued on the dark side of the intelligence operations. I still had the files I'd lifted from the covert research operation concealed at Vanderbraak State . . . before Branston-Hay's death had forced its closure. And I certainly hadn't told anyone about certain devices based on that research, not when they'd saved Llysette's life and mine in Deseret.
In any case, I had the depressing feeling that Russia was more than filled with ghosts, and that there were so many that they had a far less mitigating effect than in Columbia. Like many, I wondered if and when Russia would ever change, even as the Romanov tzars approached their four hundredth year of ruling.
The next story was closer to home and worried me a bit more.
Citie de Tenochtitlan (NFWS). Amid rumors that a New French task group sank an Austrian submersible off the coast of Venezuela, Marshall de Gaulle refused to comment directly. “Austrian submersibles do not belong in the Caribbean,” announced de Gaulle. “I cannot imagine that there have been any here in years.”
Unnamed Republic intelligence courses claim that the carriers Buonaparte and St. Louis used antisubmarine aircraft and air-launched Perseus torpedoes to sink a submersible less than one hundred kilometers from the rebuilt Languanillas oil depot. Austrian Minister of Defense Stepan denied that Austria had lost any submersibles. . . .
The next story confirmed my concerns.
Federal District (RPI). Accusing Speaker Hartpence of covering up the critical petroleum shortage facing Columbia and the inadequacy of the Republic's naval defense capabilities, Representative Patrice Alexander (L-MI) today released a controversial analysis by the Touchstone Institute. The analysis claims that three missing Columbian naval vessels were not lost to the causes previously identified by the Ministry of Defense, but to hostile covert action by the elements of the Austrian second and fourth Atlantic fleets. . . .
Speaker Hartpence had no comment. Columbian Minister of Defense Holmbek dismissed the analysis as “flawed sensationalism” and totally unworthy of comment. . . .
Congresslady Alexander was my favorite Liberal, perhaps because she was always saying things about matters that no one wanted revealed, and perhaps because her efforts had saved my unworthy neck once upon a time.
Putting it all together, the way I read the news stories, the Austrians had lost a submersible and didn't want to acknowledge that they were once again targeting the Venezuelan oil supplies to New France and Columbia. Columbia and New France were tacitly colluding to try to keep Ferdinand's forces at bay, and no one wanted any details revealed, probably because the petroleum shortage was so severe that Columbia didn't have adequate supplies for any sustained hostilities.
I put down the paper. The news hadn't improved in three days, but it hadn't gotten as bad as it could have gotten. Yet. But there wasn't too much I could do personally.
The wireset buzzed. I touched the red intercom button and picked up the handset. “Yes?”
“Professor Eschbach, there is a Harlaan Oakes on the wire for you. Line one.”
My stomach tightened. “Thank you, Gilda.” I touched the only amber lighted button on the wireset. “Hello.”
“Johan . . . Harlaan Oakes here.”
“What can I do for you, Harlaan?”
“I understand that Llysette and you have been asked to the annual arts dinner. The president asked that I call you. He really hoped . . . strongly suggested . . . that Llysette be there.”
“Oh? . . .”
“Johan . . . I really can't say more, except that I think that Llysette deserves to be there.”
Deserves to be there—those were provocative words. “I've almost always trusted your judgment on matters like that.”
“I trusted yours after you came back from the first concert tour in Deseret.”
Harlaan would have to have reminded me about that. “And you're handling the job
far better than your predecessor,” I replied.
“I don't know that I'm handling the ulcers any better.” His tone was rueful.
“We'll be there.” I blocked the sigh I felt. “What else did you have in mind?”
“Since you're coming to Columbia City in a few weeks, I was hoping you could drop by.”
“I might be able to do that. . . .” When Harlaan had wanted me to drop by, even when he'd been an assistant to the president, and not the deputy minister of justice in charge of the Spazi, it had always meant trouble. I couldn't imagine that changing. “You have something in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, but we can talk about it then.”
“Who took your place with the president?”
“Alyster Potts. You knew him years ago, I think.” There was the briefest of pauses. “I see that Llysette will be doing a concert in February at the Theodore Roosevelt Centre.
Caron and I already have our tickets. She was one of the first to buy the Salt Palace disk.”
“I'm glad she likes it.”
“So do I, I have to admit, Johan. Llysette's quite something, and it would be a shame for more people not to hear her. Both the president and the Speaker think so.”
I managed not to wince. “She has a number of concerts lined up—in between teaching.”
“That's good. There will be more, I'm sure.” He paused, but only fractionally. “Well . . . the dinner's on a Thursday. If you could stop by around three that afternoon?”
“I'll be there.”
I knew I'd been right to worry about the damned invitation. Yet not all of what Harlaan had intimated was bad. He'd really seemed insistent that Llysette attend the dinner. Not me, Llysette. I just wished I knew what he had in mind. With the state of the world, it could be anything, but war seemed to loom ever closer, and, in those sorts of matters, what mattered the life and future of a retired spy—or even a rediscovered diva? And why us?
I stared at the quiz, lying on the desk before me, looking insignificant. Insignificant or not, I still needed to revise it. Also, I needed to talk to Llysette, but that would have to wait until dinner, because our normal luncheon date had been disrupted. I had to attend an informal luncheon in the president's conference room and hear a presentation on the proposed integrated difference engine network that was to be installed over the next several months.
Networks I distrusted, either of people or difference engines, but I still had to go, just as, it appeared, Llysette and I had to go to the federal district.
4
The rain had subsided to a drizzle by the time I eased the Stanley to a stop outside the music and theatre building at six o'clock. Llysette didn't even take out her umbrella. She just marched from the entryway through the rain to the steamer. Then, she opened the rear door of the Stanley and flung her briefcase and a large cloth bag containing papers of some sort into the rear. Without a word, she slammed the rear door, yanked open the front door, and threw herself into the passenger seat. She also slammed the front door.
“It was a hard day?”
“Difficile, ce n'est point . . .” She didn't even look in my direction.
“Ah . . . did I do something?” I asked as I began to guide the Stanley out of the car park and down toward the square.
“Non . . . you it is not. Doktor Geoffries . . . il est un cochon.”
“What did he do? Tell you that you were a good little girl, but you didn't understand . . .”
“Oui!” She paused, and then two very cold green eyes turned in my direction. I wasn't looking, but I could feel them. “How did you know, Johan?” Her voice turned softly cold.
“I didn't. But that's what administrators do when they're caught out, especially by women, and Dierk's very traditional.” I decided not to mention Harlaan's call until later. “What happened?”
“George Dwyer . . . he asked if he could study with me next semester.”
“He's an older student, isn't he? One of Beau Jonn's? I take it that George isn't happy with Professor Jonn?” Beaufort Penn Jonn had been a last-minute replacement, hired in haste by Dierk over Llysette's objections. One reason Dierk hired him might have been that Beau had studied with a cousin of Dean Er Recchus.
“Not a one of the good male voices they are pleased,” snorted my diva.
A line of steamers appeared before me, and I had to brake hard as we neared the west side of the Wijk River bridge. Then we inched forward through the rain. The irregular screaming of a siren ululated just ahead of the ambulance that rushed past us in the oncoming lane.
“It must have been a bad accident,” I said.
Llysette stopped talking, and we both peered forward through the rain. As we drew near the far side of the bridge, I could see the figure of Constable Gerhardt directing steamers past a Reo that had swerved into the stone wall of the bridge. The constable must have been at it for a time, because his rather ample mustaches were definitely drooping from the rain, despite the bill on his watch cap.
I swallowed. I could see the crushed frame of a bicycle half-pinned between the Reo and stones—and a shimmering white figure that seemed to shiver in and out of existence just behind Constable Gerhardt. Beyond the Reo was another bicycle, its frame also bent.
“Two of them?” asked Llysette.
“It looks like the Reo plowed into both of them.” The ghostly figure meant that one of the cyclists had been killed on the spot, while the other was being rushed to the hospital.
“On such wet roads . . .” Llysette shook her head as we passed the constable and headed toward Deacon's Lane.
“There's always some idiot.” Seeing ghosts wasn't that infrequent, but it always sent a chill down my back, because it meant someone had died violently, knowing they were dying. I didn't want to think about it, not when I didn't have to, and I returned to the subject we had been discussing. “So Dierk told you that this male student couldn't study with you?”
“ Non! I must teach all women, because the women at the . . .” Llysette paused.
“At the University of New Bruges?”
“The man who taught voice took a student as a mistress. Because trouble is there, I cannot teach a man here?”
“Dierk is very cautious,” I temporized.
“His own shadow would frighten him.”
“So . . . if you teach more men, Beau would have to teach women to balance the loads, and since he is young and goodlooking, Dierk worries about some student throwing herself at him?”
“That is what he said.”
“You think he doesn't want you teaching any more men?”
“They would learn more, but learning, it does not matter. His fears are what matter.”
The steam, figuratively speaking, was no longer shooting out from Llysette's eyes and ears, but I could sense the smoldering from the passenger side of the Stanley as we turned on to Deacon's Lane and started up the long hill to the house.
“Un gros cochon . . .” muttered Llysette.
I decided not to say more.
Neither did Llysette.
I eased the Stanley into the long drive, and then stopped as close to the back door of the house as I could. I'd put the steamer in the car barn later. I carried Llysette's bag and my own briefcase into the warmth of the house. Marie had to have stoked up the woodstove before she had left. There was also a pie—apple, from the smell—still cooling on the rack on the counter, and something simmered in the Crock-Pot.
The house, of course, was spotless, as it was on the days that Marie had been there. Having a housekeeper was one of the few luxuries I had indulged even before we had married.
While Llysette went upstairs to wash up and change, I rummaged around, finding lettuce, a winter tomato from Florida not quite as hard as a rubber ball, hard yellow cheddar, an apple, and a few other items to combine into a salad. Then I added two more short logs to the woodstove in the parlor.
When I got back to the kitchen, Llysette was already there, dressing my impromptu sal
ad. So I hurried down to the cellar and pulled out a bottle of a Washington cabernet that Eric had recommended. After I uncorked it in the kitchen, I motioned for Llysette to sit down. I served the stew right from the Crock-Pot.
“You don't have a recital rehearsal tonight?” I asked.
“ Non. Tomorrow night, and Friday.”
“Good.”
“It is not good. I will suffer, and the students, they will complain.”
“I meant it was good that you don't have one tonight.” I poured Llysette a healthy glass of the cabernet. I took a much smaller amount, then sat down and passed the salad bowl to her.
We both were hungry and ate for a time without talking, unusual for us, but I suspected Llysette hadn't eaten lunch, and I'd had very little of the rubbery chicken served at Donnel Waa.'s informal faculty get-together, probably because my feelings had alternated between boredom and anger. I'd said almost nothing, because it wouldn't have done any good. Waa. never met a good idea he'd liked and seemed intent on proving it.
I glanced across the table. Llysette's plate was empty. So I got up.
“Just a little, Johan.”
After a bit, I ventured, “You know the arts dinner in the federal district?”
Llysette's oui was very wary.
“I got a call today. Someone wanted to make sure you would be there. Not me . . . you.”
“Because if I am there, so will be you.” Llysette held her wine glass without taking a sip.
“That might be, but I don't think so. Rather, they may want me to be there, but the president wants you there, especially.”
“He is married, and so am I.” There was a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.
“Not for that reason.”
“And who was it that called you?”
“Harlaan Oakes,” I admitted.
“The minister of the Spazi. And what has he to do with the arts dinner?”
“He's the only cabinet minister placed by the president, and that means if the president wants anything, he'll go to Harlaan when he can. Harlaan also wants to see me.”
Ghost of the White Nights Page 3