Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Will they?” I was skeptical, to say the least.

  “We don't know, but the alternatives are worse. The PetroRus approach offers some hope, and without support there . . .” Harlaan shrugged. “You're an intelligent man, Johan.”

  Even with the enticement of fame, money, and prestige for Llysette, the idea of going to St. Petersburg had a definite lack of interest. “Why would I want to do this?”

  “Because no one else can. And because you're still a loyal Columbian.”

  He would have to make an appeal like that.

  “And because, if you manage to pull it off, International Import Services will pay you a handsome success fee, commensurate with the degree of success. A very handsome fee.”

  “Money and patriotism.” I sighed. “So when do I see Minister Vandiver?”

  “You don't. You don't see anyone else but me. Tomorrow morning, Llysette and you will have a very open and public meeting with Vandiver and his cultural affairs deputy, and there will be lots of media types around, and it will all center on her and her invitation to St. Petersburg. Any equipment you might need will go to the embassy in St. Petersburg through us. I'll hand you one stackof briefing materials here, and another will show up on the turbojet with later updates. This afternoon, you'll leave here by my private elevator. My own limousine will take you back to the Elsnehers'. We're old friends, remember? There are only three others at the highest levels who know about this, and no one else will. Minister Vandiver isn't one of them. He's only been told that this is something the Speaker and president want.”

  I definitely had my doubts about the degree of secrecy, but I also didn't want to see my own country energy-starved and at Ferdinand's mercy. Nor would a concert in St. Petersburg exactly hurt Llysette's career.

  So I took Harlaan's offer, his packet of briefing materials, and his private limousine . . . and worried all the way down to the underground garage and all the way out Constitution and up New Bruges Avenue. The driver didn't say anything, and I wasn't in the mood to open a conversation. So the ride was very quiet.

  Judith had obviously been watching, because she opened the door before I reached it. She didn't say anything until I was inside. “That was an armored limousine, wasn't it?”

  “I don't think Harlaan has any other kind,” I pointed out. “The head of the Spazi isn't usually the most popular member of the administration.”

  “Are you two into something again?”

  “I'm not sure we were ever out.”

  “Oh . . . Johan. I'm so sorry. Neither you nor Llysette deserve this.”

  “She doesn't,” I admitted with a rueful smile, “but it's not all like that. It looks like she may get an invitation to perform in St. Petersburg, both for international exposure and a healthy fee. It's not certain yet.”

  “I won't say anything, except to Eric.”

  “I need to tell Llysette.” So I put on a smile and headed up to the guest suite, where Llysette was removing herself from the rather hot and steamy tub.

  “You . . . you are impossible!”

  “Only sometimes.” I enjoyed the view for a moment.

  She flushed . . . momentarily. “Minister Oakes . . . what did he wish?”

  “You're going to be invited to do a cultural exchange concert at the Mariinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg. For lots of money and international exposure.”

  “He wants something from you.”

  “He does. I'm supposed to help the Russians clean up the mess they've made of the Dnepyr, without letting anyone know that's what I'm doing.”

  “Why does he wish this?” Llysette's voice hardened, with a great deal of skepticism evident. “Not from the goodness of his heart, I do not think.”

  “To let the Russians mollify Ferdinand enough so that he won't invade Russia, or part of it, over the environmental mess, and in turn that will allow them to use related technology to boost oil production in the Caspian and in the older Russian oil fields. That will free up other oil that can go to Scandinavia and the Brits, which will hopefully mean more oil here.” I was definitely shading what Harlaan had said, but I needed a consistent cover story.

  “Johan . . . it is not that simple, n-est-ce-pas?”

  “No. It's much more complicated. Getting it done is going to be . . .” I shrugged. “Like everything.”

  “And we do this? . . .”

  “And you get more press and stardom, and fees. They're paying fifteen thousand dollars, our lodging in the embassy's guest quarters, and all our transportation on Republic Air Corps Two to and from St. Petersburg.”

  “War is very near, is it not, Johan?” Her voice was calm but sad.

  “It could be. They're hoping I can head off some of the things that might trigger it.”

  “It will be dangerous.”

  “Not so dangerous for you, I think, as Deseret was.”

  She laughed. “An optimist, you are.” She shookher head.

  While she continued to get herself ready, I tooka quick shower. I'd always felt like I needed one after leaving the Spazi building. Then I donned my black-and-white formal wear. By that time, Llysette was dressed, and stunning, in a dress that was half green, half black, but the colors were set on a diagonal, with a green-trimmed blackjack et. The green set off her eyes, making them look deeper and more alive than ever, and that was saying a great deal.

  As Llysette swept down the steps, she was every inch the diva.

  Eric, who was standing in the front foyer, even stepped backa pace, before grinning and giving a sweeping bow. “Your carriage is waiting.”

  “You are most kind—” Llysette started.

  “You don't—” I began.

  “I insist,” Eric said, still smiling broadly.

  “We won't stand on ceremony,” I replied with a laugh. “That is, if you're sure, and not just making a gallant effort.”

  “Eric is known for such,” Judith admitted from the archway that led to the kitchen, “but this is not one of those times. He makes such offers far more stiffly. With a touch of insulted righteousness.”

  “Alas . . . has a man no dignity?” questioned the solicitor. “No secrets?”

  Judith and Llysette rolled their eyes almost simultaneously.

  So the four of us walked out to the Stanley, and I helped Llysette into the luxurious rear seat of the Broadmoor luxury sedan before getting in myself.

  “When are you going back?” Judith asked as Eric guided the steamer out of the rear drive and toward New Bruges Avenue.

  “Tomorrow sometime. We have passages on the midmorning express, but I may have to change them.”

  “Perils of fame,” suggested Eric from the driver's seat.

  “I can take you, whatever time it may be,” Judith suggested.

  “It will be perfectly safe,” Eric added. “There's an undercover Spazi car trailing us. I imagine that it's one of those watching the house.” He laughed. “We're always safe whenever you two come to town.”

  “I suspect you're even safer when we don't.”

  “No. There have been more than a few smash-ins in the neighborhood in the past year, much worse than any time I can remember,” Judith said.

  “Why might that be?” asked Llysette.

  “Fewer jobs,” Eric said. “The petroleum thing. It's not as bad here, but several of our clients in places like Chicago and Denver, and even Vicksburg, have talked about how lowerend jobs are drying up. People can't get work, and the dole isn't enough . . . crime goes up.”

  There was a slight line of steamers on Pennsylvania, but not a huge number, and within minutes Eric stopped at the curb opposite the east gate of the Presidential Palace.

  “Have a good time, and show them what a real diva is like!” Eric said in parting.

  Judith just smiled.

  We stepped away from Eric's Stanley and began to walk toward the well-lighted east gate, where more than a few media types were gathered, standing behind a cordon. As we neared the gate, there was a flash from a ca
mera.

  “There she is! The diva—duBoise!”

  Several other photographers turned, and there were more flashes. Llysette paused for a moment, then, giving in to my gentle urging, kept walking toward the gate and the pair of security guards with the attendance list.

  Amid one or two more flashes, I caught the faintest wink of blue-green. That was enough, and I yanked Llysette flat against the granite pillar beside the entry station, shielding her as well as I could.

  Crack! Crack! Two shots slammed against the stone, less than a foot from my shoulder, and there was a needle-like stab on my cheek. To our right, behind the informal cordon line, the press types and the photographers scattered or flattened themselves. Two more shots followed and then one more—and then the roar of an internal engine cycle rose and vanished. The follow-on shots didn't seem to have come anywhere close to us.

  I studied Llysette, then, in the momentary silence, jerked her toward the gate, which I thought would offer more protection, and practically jammed the invitation, my ID, and her passport at the two guards. One had already pulled some sort of alarm, and a pair of internal combustion engine pursuit vehicles roared up from somewhere.

  The other gate guard hurried us inside, where less than ten yards inside the grounds we were met.

  “Minister Eschbach! Mademoiselle duBoise . . . this way.” There were four guards in the white and gold of presidential security. Between them, we were escorted to a much nearer side entrance.

  Once inside the palace walls, I fumbled with my handkerchief and dabbed my cheek. A faint red splot showed on the handkerchief. Probably a stone fragment.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Just a tiny stone splinter, I think.”

  Llysette peered at my cheekwith worried eyes, then nodded. “It is but a small scratch.”

  As we were hurried along the backhall, I avoided frowning, but I had to wonder about the shots. There were far better places to shoot at us than from somewhere near the Presidential Palace. Or had the shots even been meant for either of us? Or had they been a warning? But who would riskgetting caught to deliver a warning? And the motorcycle indicated that someone had figured out exactly the best way to get away from our Spazi surveillance.

  Just before we reached the formal area of the palace, the first functionary to greet us was Alyster Potts, the blond and balding special assistant who had taken Harlaan's place. He wore a worried expression that appeared habitual from the lines in his face. “Mademoiselle . . . Minister Eschbach . . . are you all right? I just heard about the shots. I've had the presidential guards doubled. I can't believe it—just outside the Presidential Palace—and with the Speaker already here.” He shookhis head. “There's never been anything like that.” He paused. “Are you certain you are both all right?”

  “We are fine,” Llysette offered. “Johan, he received a slight scratch. I am untouched.”

  “Rockchip,” I explained. “It's already stopped bleeding.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Potts.

  “I'm fine.”

  “I am so sorry. Something like this . . .” He shookhis head. “I can't believe it.”

  I could, unfortunately.

  “Minister Vandiver has been waiting for you, Mademoiselle duBoise. Would you see him before you enter the reception area? Would that be acceptable?”

  “Of course.” Llysette presented a charming smile.

  As Alyster turned, I leaned toward Llysette and murmured, “Minister of state. Probably to askyou to perform.”

  “That I had determined, Johan.”

  I flushed, but I got a warmer smile, and her lips brushed my cheek.

  A tall white-haired and distinguished-looking man in evening wear appeared and stepped toward us, followed by Alyster, and flanked by two men in the dark suits and white shirts of the Spazi. He smiled broadly. “Miss duBoise . . . I must introduce myself. Mitchell Vandiver, minister of state.” After a pause, he added, “I am so glad that you escaped that . . . incident . . . outside.” He frowned. “I'm sure that the Security Service will take care of matters.” Another smile followed. “But you are here, and as charming and beautiful as everyone has said.”

  I didn't nod, but could have. A semipublic invitation, set up so that it would be almost impossible to refuse and also so that it was widely covered by the media.

  “This is perhaps not the best time, but matters being as they are, I would like to request that you consider joining . . . in fact, being the showpiece, the star of our cultural exchange concert in St. Petersburg on Thursday, December seventh.” He beamed.

  “That . . . I would be delighted . . . except . . .” She glanced at me.

  “Oh, I should have made that most clear. We would also want Minister Eschbach as well. I understand his presence has been requested in conjunction with some sort of environmental seminar. And we are not requesting your services on a gratis basis. All Columbia knows how much you have sacri-ficed for your art. I will not go into details at the moment, but you will receive all the benefits you deserve.” He finished with another beaming smile, the kind I'd seen enough and probably delivered too often myself, where the official is pleased with having delivered the message and relieved to have completed the task. It's not obvious, or that obvious, unless you've been there.

  “You are most kind, and Johan and I will be most honored to represent Columbia in St. Petersburg.” She inclined her head. “You will workout the details, no, with Johan and my solicitor?”

  “We had thought perhaps tomorrow morning, at ten-thirty.” Another professional smile followed. “But the president and Speaker had hoped for your answer before the dinner.”

  “I understand. We will do this if all is as you have said.” Llysette matched his professional smile with one equally professional but warmer. “You are most kind.”

  “You are most charming, and we are very grateful.” Vandiver bowed. “I lookfor ward to seeing you tomorrow in my office.” Yet another smile followed.

  As the minister bowed and turned, Alyster Potts reappeared. “If you would follow me . . .”

  We did. The formal state dining room was already threequarters full, and from the moment Llysette stepped through the squared archway, eyes followed her from all across the room, those of men in blackand white and those of women in all colors and shades of formal dresses.

  We were seated near the end of the head table, in the only two vacant places. I was actually at the end, across from a woman I didn't know. Llysette was seated between me and Halston Vandaagen, the minister of justice, and as such, Harlaan's superior, and across from a man whose face was vaguely familiar.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss duBoise,” offered Vandaagen, overly loudly, as if he were making a public introduction. “I so enjoyed your performance last year here, and I bought one of the first disks.”

  “You are too kind,” Llysette demurred.

  As Mrs. Armstrong lifted her forkand people began to nibble on their salads, I could catch several murmurs.

  “ That's Llysette duBoise?”

  “Beautiful . . . in a cold way . . .”

  “Best keep your interest in your eyes, dear . . . say her husband was a spy and an assassin . . .”

  “Heard someone was shooting at people on Pennsylvania Avenue . . . him, you think?”

  I managed not to wince as I tookin the gray-haired but young-faced woman across the table, impeccably coiffured, in a silver-gray dress with a matching jacket. “I probably should know you, but I don't. I'm Johan Eschbach.”

  She smiled, an actual smile. “There's no reason you should. Not personally. I'm Patrice Alexander.”

  I laughed. “I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Congresslady. I appreciate all that you have done over the years. Professionally,” I added.

  “You're not what I would have thought, Minister Eschbach,” she returned. “But then, not much in the federal district is.” She turned to the younger man at her side, the one whose Latin-like face had seemed
familiar. “This is my son, Estefan Alexander. Estefan, this is Minister Johan Eschbach, and his wife, Llysette duBoise.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” replied the younger man. “Mother has been a fan of both of you . . . for different reasons, of course.”

  “I'm sure Llysette is flattered,” I said quickly. “I'm just happy to be her husband at this stage of my life.”

  “Just her husband?” Patrice Alexander lifted one eyebrow. The gesture was most effective.

  I laughed. “What can I say?”

  “Best you don't,” replied the Congresslady.

  The salad was a walnut hearts of palm that I could have done better, and the main course was a filet mignon that I couldn't have bought anywhere, with a bearnaise that was too lemony, accompanied by slightly overcooked beans almandine and potatoes gratinée.

  The conversation was slightly arch and slightly false, as expected, and I didn't hear much more about the shots, although everyone in the dining room doubtless knew.

  “Adjusted for inflation, kerosene prices aren't that much higher. . . .”

  “Schikelgruber is such a charming liar you almost want to forgive him. . . .”

  “Main Line musicals aren't what they used to be. I can remember . . .”

  “You knew Speaker Colmer intimately, didn't you? Of course, that was well before my time. . . .”

  After the pêche melba, a bell rang faintly, and President Armstrong stood and moved to a podium at the end of the table. From there he gestured toward the Speaker, who had been seated across from him. Speaker Hartpence stepped up beside the president.

  “The Speaker and I have our differences,” Armstrong said, pausing for a moment, before adding dryly, “although you can't attribute the shots outside a while ago to those.” He waited a moment for the brief chuckles and light laughter to pass. “We do have our differences, and there isn't any secret about those. We also share a number of beliefs and feelings. These don't make for vivid headlines or videolink stories, and so most people don't realize that. This is one of those times, and, for once, I'm going to let the Speaker have the first and last words on the next subject, which is one about which we both agree.”