Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I worry about the luggage,” Judith said. “Couldn't I just wait somewhere and keep it.”

  “No. We'll manage. You've done enough.”

  So I marched up the steps with the two valises, and Llysette carried the hanging bag.

  Someone had been alerted, because a thin red-haired young man stepped out of the main entry into the gray morning with a most professional smile “Mademoiselle duBoise, Minister Eschbach.” He bowed, leaving the smile in place. “I'm Corliss Corson, special assistant to Minister Vandiver.”

  “I apologize for the luggage,” I offered, “but there was no way to make the meeting and our return train without bringing it.”

  “Minister Vandiver had thought that might be the case.” Corson raised a hand, and two zombies in gray singlesuits appeared. “Please take the valises and bag and follow us.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two replied in unison.

  I was happy enough to surrender both, and Llysette tendered the hanging bag with a warm and broad smile. The zombie smiled back. Llysette had that effect. I could even remember Gertrude, one of the university zombies, crying after hearing my soprano sing. Was it because Llysette now put so much life into her songs? Into all she did?

  The foyer inside the double doors was two stories high, extending almost the entire length of the building. The solid stone facing of the second-level open balcony at the backof the foyer was decorated with the flags of every sovereign nation on earth—or so it seemed. For all its length, the foyer itself was almost deserted, and Corson led us to an elevator guarded by two Republic Marines in dress blues. “The minister's private lift.”

  The lift went up to the fourth level, and to another foyer, also guarded by a pair of armed Republic Marines. The luggage and the zombies trailed—I hoped. We followed Corson through the double doors and down a corridor carpeted in deep blue to yet a third guarded door, which he opened with a punch combination of some sort. We found ourselves in an anteroom.

  There a single clerksmiled professionally at the three of us. “Minister Vandiver is waiting.” She opened yet another door.

  Mitchell Vandiver did not stand behind his deskbut stepped forward toward Llysette. “Miss duBoise . . . or Mademoiselle or Dok tor . . .” His shrug was rueful, natural, doubtless well practiced, and, combined with the white hair and open smile, disarming. “Even after last night, I scarcely know how to address you, but I am happy that you were able to see me this morning.”

  “I am pleased to be here.” Llysette returned the minister's greeting with a smile more reserved, if charming.

  “Please be seated.” Vandiver gestured to the man beside him. “This is Deputy Minister Drummond Kent.”

  Llysette and I were ushered into the two seats closest to the desk, while Corson and Kent took the seats flanking us, and Vandiver settled backbehind the empty polished wood surface of his wide minister's desk.

  “You have made quite an impression on the world, and we are pleased that you have agreed to help us.” Vandiver smiled, but I could sense the slight unease behind the practiced expression. “We find ourselves in a difficult situation, because the tzar sent the Ballets Russes here last spring, and expects us to provide our best in return. You are our best.” Another pause followed. “As I mentioned last night, the exchange concert in St. Petersburg is most important. You are one of the most noted singers in the world today, and your presence would make a great difference.”

  Llysette nodded.

  “Pardon me for being direct, but we understand that you received fifteen thousand dollars for performing in Deseret. We could do no less, especially after the worldwide reception of your disk.” Vandiver smiled again. “We have a packet for you. There is a contract there . . . merely a formality . . . you understand, but the solicitors insist, and a retainer cheque as well. There are also schedules, background information on what you may encounter in St. Petersburg, and detailed information on the rest of the performers on the program. You would be the last performer, of course. We had hoped that you could do fifteen to twenty-five minutes of songs.”

  “That I can do . . . if all is as you have said.” Llysette inclined her head to me. “Johan must agree to the details.”

  “I'm sure there will be no problem,” Vandiver replied smoothly. “We would like to request two additional . . . considerations from you. If you could, your program by a week from now, and we would like at least one Russian song, or two if you could manage it.”

  “One I can do, and more, peut-être. We will see.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “There is one,” Llysette ventured. “A good accompanist is necessary.”

  “If you have no objections, we had thought that Terese Stewart . . .” Vandiver glanced to Drummond Kent.

  The deputy minister nodded. “You have worked with her before. If she is not satisfactory, we could see who else might be available.”

  “Fräulein Stewart, she will do well, but we must practice before the performance. You have said that the performance, it must be the best.”

  Drummond Kent cleared his throat, looked at Vandiver, then spoke. “Fräulein Stewart will have her expenses paid to come to Vanderbraak State for the weekprior to your departure to workon your program. We'll also pay her fees, as well.”

  “We want this to be an outstanding concert,” Vandiver added.

  “The tzar should hear our very best,” added Minister Kent.

  “Who else will be performing?” I interjected quickly.

  “The noted pianist Robert Thies and a chamber group—the Black Mesa Quartet.”

  I'd never heard of either, but Llysette nodded.

  “The information packet for you,” Vandiver continued smoothly, “has the details on the concert and the itinerary. You can lookit over at your leisure. We had planned to have Republic Air Corps Two put down at Asten on Saturday night, December second, to pick you and your husband up. I understand that also allows us a greater flight range as well.” Vandiver turned to the deputy minister. “You have the information packets, Drummond?”

  “Yes, sir.” The wispy-haired deputy minister smiled and lifted two folders.

  I took them and leafed through them. They were thick and heavy, the kind that had always bothered me. The retainer cheque was for five thousand dollars, and the contract was a simple one-page affair, seemingly without catches, but Eric would have to lookat it before I had Llysette sign it. There were also briefing documents, including street maps of St. Petersburg, a map to the federal aerodrome at Asten, and a diagram and some printed material on the Imperial Mariinsky Theatre. “We'll send the contract backas soon as Llysette has had the time to lookit over and sign it.”

  “Splendid!” Mitchell Vandiver even looked pleased. He waited almost thirty seconds before looking at the clock on the wall, the signal that the meeting was over. “You have return passages to Vanderbraak Centre . . . or Lebanon, I gather.”

  “We do,” I answered. “On the one o'clock New Amsterdam Express.”

  “I'll have my steamer take you to the B&O station.” Vandiver stood and bowed, and the bow was directed clearly to Llysette. He paused, looking almost embarrassed. “Would you mind if . . . there are several reporters in the outer office. I told them you were on a tight schedule . . .”

  Llysette looked at me.

  “A few minutes,” I said, “and whatever photos they'd like.” The next minutes were a blur, as I followed Llysette into the anteroom, where she was showered with a flare of camera flashes. Once my eyes cleared, I realized that there were only four or five photographers and maybe a few more reporters.

  “Mademoiselle duBoise will answer your questions for a few minutes,” Drummond Kent said. “She has to make a connection to return home.”

  Even before Kent's last words ended, the first questioner fired his words at Llysette. “Miss duBoise . . . why did you agree to go to St. Petersburg?”

  Llysette smiled, an expression warmer than professional but still slightly guarde
d. “Columbia has been good to me, and I would repay that.”

  “Some say it's because people here like musicals better. How do you feel about that?”

  Llysette offered the hint of a frown. “There are beautiful songs in many places. Some musicals, they also are beautiful. I sing where those who enjoy what I sing would like me to sing.”

  “That sounds like not everyone likes what you sing. Is that so?”

  “Everyone . . . all people have different likes. I am told that the tzar likes the music I sing. So I will sing there.” She smiled more broadly. “Many in Columbia like what I sing. They have bought my disk, and I will be singing in many places in Columbia in the next year.”

  There was a laugh from one side of the anteroom.

  “Did you get the medal for political reasons?”

  Llysette laughed, humorously and ironically. “I knew no one in politics until I sang for the president last year. I saw him at the dinner this year. My Johan, he has not been in politics for ten years, and the other party he was representing. Is that politics?”

  Another laugh followed.

  “One more question,” announced Drummond Kent.

  “You were badly treated by Emperor Ferdinand. The tzar is an autocrat just like Ferdinand, but you'll perform for him. Why?”

  “I will sing before the tzar. I sing for the people of Columbia.” She paused, and her voice chilled with the next words. “The tzar, he is not Ferdinand.”

  I wondered if the two were that different, despite the muted hatred in Llysette's voice.

  “That's all,” Drummond Kent announced.

  “What about the shots last night?” called a voice.

  “That's all,” repeated Kent.

  “I know nothing about that,” Llysette replied with a smile.

  Corson led us out into a back corridor.

  Deputy Minister Kent followed, then bowed to Llysette. “I look forward to seeing you on the turbo to St. Petersburg.”

  Our valises and the hanging bag, and the two zombies, were waiting farther down the corridor. That the two zombies were there was especially important, because zombies were trust-worthy to a fault, and literal minded.

  “Did you have any trouble with the bags?” I asked. “How did you bring them up?”

  “No, sir. We had to take the freight elevator.”

  “Thank you.”

  Of course, they had to carry them back down again, trailing us.

  Llysette was being treated like ancient royalty, and while she deserved it, I was quite certain I didn't like the implications. Someone knew I was protective of her, and they wanted her—and me—to be pleased, very pleased, and no one did that in government out of kindness or generosity.

  Desperation, yes . . . calculation . . . but not kindness.

  13

  AT EIGHT O'CLOCK Friday night the Quebec Special finally eased to a halt in Lebanon. A chill and damp wind gusted around us as we stepped onto the platform. I beckoned to a porter and watched as the zombie put both valises and the hanging bag on his cart, then fell in behind us.

  “Déja, c'est l'hiver.” Llysette pulled her coat tightly around her.

  I left my topcoat folded over my arm. The chill felt momentarily welcome after the heat of the train. “Not yet.”

  “It will be colder in Russia, n'est-ce-pas?” After a moment, she added, “What one must do to sing . . . it never ceases.”

  A six-wheeled steel gray Stanley was parked in a space directly behind mine, and a squarish man in a gray topcoat nodded to me as I turned to the porter. “Everything's fine, Minister.”

  “Thank you.”

  Llysette smiled politely and nodded her head in thanks.

  I opened the Stanley's boot and watched while the porter loaded the valises. I gave him three dollars.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Llysette didn't say anything more until we were inside the Stanley with the doors closed and headed eastward on the Ragged Mountain Highway.

  “Johan . . . there is much more than a concert in St. Petersburg, is there not?”

  “I told you that,” I said reasonably.

  “Johan . . . do not humor me. A child I am not.”

  Concealing a wince at the chill in her voice, I answered. “I've told you most everything I've been told. Columbia needs petroleum and kerosene desperately. It will be another year before the plants we got the plans for come on line. The Japanese won't export more to us, and neither will the Austrians. We're getting additional supplies from Deseret, but not enough. We need Russian oil very badly, and there are more than a few people who don't want us to get it.”

  “But . . . how would they know . . . my concert?”

  “Spies . . . of one sort or another. Certainly, enough people know that we worked out the arrangements with Deseret. Now . . . you get an arts medal, and a concert in St. Petersburg . . . and there is already a neogtiating team from Columbia in Russia—”

  “That, you did not mention.”

  “I'm sorry. Part of what I'm supposed to do is make it easier for them to get to see the right people.” I had to slow the Stanley as we came up behind a Columbian Dutch Petro hauler.

  “Oh? And you will meet them at my concert?” At least, there was a hint of amusement in the question. “They will like Rachmaninov? Or will they sit and murmur of petroleum?”

  “You've told me that the Vocalise is beautiful and difficult, and that you've always wanted to do it in a performance. You already know it. They'll love it. Remember, they're not just petroleum types. Several members of the Romanov family are connected with the Russian petroleum industry. The tzar's cousin is the head of PetroRus.”

  “Worse than the Bourbons, they are . . .” Llysette shook her head.

  “The Russian aristocracy has always been a small society.” I finally was able to pass the lumbering kerosene hauler on a straight-away. “They do support the performing arts, though.”

  “Performers are their play dolls, no? Is not the prima ballerina of the Ballets Russes paid to be the mistress of the tzar?”

  “That was his father, or his great-great uncle.” It might have been farther back than that. Having a prima ballerina as a mistress had been one of the more notable accomplishments of the ill-fated Nicholas, who had probably done his country a favor by dying of intestinal typhus. Then, rumors were that one of the grand dukes had ensured that the ailment had been fatal before the ardently disliked Alexandria could provide an heir. As it was, his far more gifted younger brother Mikhail had barely survived the restructuring of Russia in the early years of the century. Unhappily, the current tzar was bent on emulating the autocratic ways of the early Romanovs, although Alexander had continued the rocket development initiative begun by his grandfather. And he did support the arts—more than did my native Columbia.

  “The same he will be.”

  “It could be.” I laughed. “How would we know?”

  “I will know. Carolynne knew.”

  “I'm sure you will.” I hadn't searched the memories of the family ghost whose spirit had melded with mine, not in depth. It was hard to take some of them, especially those intensely female recollections, probably because they showed my own inadequacies all too clearly. Then, as I got older, there was more and more that revealed inadequacies, such as my inability to protect Llysette in Deseret. “Just don't encourage the rascal.” I smiled as I said the last words.

  “Even the tzar . . . he would not . . . not when I am sent by your Speaker.”

  “I would, if I were tzar,” I joked, even as I wondered. The Romanovs had not exactly been a dynasty known for moderation. Then I had to concentrate on driving as we'd caught up with an intermittent line of haulers, probably headed to Asten, and the road got more winding.

  The clock was striking nine-thirty by the time we reached Vanderbraak Centre and I was carrying in the second valise to take it upstairs to the master bedroom. While Llysette began to unpack, I stoked up the woodstove in the parlor. Next, while the stove wa
s heating up, I moved the steamer into the car barn, topped off the water tanks, then returned to the house.

  Driving always left me keyed up, and I certainly wasn't ready for bed. So I began to fix chocolate and get out some biscuits. While the milk for the chocolate was heating up, I carried the two briefing packets into the study and set them on the desk. I looked around the study. Everything seemed to be in its place, but it didn't feel that way. So I turned on all the lights. That didn't help.

  I flicked on the new difference engine and waited. My telltales didn't show anything either.

  “Llysette?”

  After a minute or two she slipped into the study, still wearing her suit jacket. “It is cold.”

  “I've stoked up the woodstove. It should be warming the parlor before long.” I paused. “Something feels different, but I can't figure out what.”

  She sniffed. “It looks the same, but the same it does not smell.”

  Smell hadn't occurred to me, but she was right. I checked the lock on the French door and looked out to the patio but could detect nothing different and out the place, although it would have been difficult with the limited range of the lights and the swirls of fallen leaves across the lawn.

  The questions were simple enough. Who had been in the house, and why? It had been a professional, or a team of professionals, because nothing was out of place, and that made it seem unlikely that it was the same person or group who had shot at us outside the Presidential Palace.

  “Harlaan's boys,” I murmured.

  “You think so?”

  I nodded. They'd done it once before, and I had no doubts that they now had every file on my difference engine. This time, I couldn't figure out why. The Spazi knew everything I did about ghosting and de-ghosting and zombification. Surely, they didn't think that I had come up with some new breakthrough.