Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With what seemed less than a handful of yards between us and the hauler, although it had to be more, I jammed on the brakes, starting a fishtail, before angling to the left through the one space on the road clear of the spikes—the space swept by the Spazi steamer's broken-axled skid. From what I could see, while the left-hand lane had some of the spikes, the far shoulder had none.

  The hauler turned to my left, trying to cut us off, but I'd timed it right, and his response lagged. He jerked the wheel, and the big rig started to rock.

  As we accelerated out of the skid and cleared the end of the hauler's tank trailer, I half saw the Shell emblem of Columbian Dutch Petroleum angled as if the long tanker section were about to fall on us. We squeaked by and onto the far shoulder. I concentrated on navigating the uneven gravelly pavement of the shoulder, trying to dodge the handful of spikes I hadn't seen before.

  I must have been successful, because none of our tires exploded. Then we were past the spikes, and behind us flared a brilliant orangish light, followed by a dull concussion.

  “My Lord!” murmured Terese. “It exploded.”

  I was still focused on driving. Just over the crest of the next low hill were temporary sawhorse road barriers, which explained the stretch of empty highway. So I stayed on the shoulder past the barriers and the handful of waiting steamers, slowing only slightly. Once we passed the waiting traffic—on the wrong-side shoulder—I crossed behind them and returned to the side of the road where I should have been driving all along.

  About then, I shivered for the first time. After a second shudder, I reached forward, under the dash, and flicked the thermal paint switch, setting it one notch. Within minutes, the red glossy finish had darkened into a standard steel gray that graced thousands of Stanleys. While it didn't change the shape or model of the steamer, it might throw off any other pursuers.

  “I can't believe that,” Terese finally said. “That hauler—he was trying to ram into us.”

  “I'm not sure what he was doing,” I replied. “I'm just glad we avoided the mess.”

  “A racing driver, you also should have been, mon cher,” Llysette murmured. “ Magnifique you were.”

  I didn't know about that. I just knew that the combination of past training, instinct, and luck had helped. Maybe the unseen scales of justice had tilted in Llysette's favor this time, so that she could have the chance to sing in St. Petersburg.

  The rest of the trip to Asten was rather silent, although one of the escort steamers did catch up with us after about forty minutes. The Stanley's paint change didn't seem to have thrown them.

  Because the aerodrome wasn't in Asten proper, but almost due south of the city, I took Route 29, which skirted Asten to the west before turning east on the south side of the river. It was just after six o'clock when we passed the first sign for the aerodrome. Without saying a word, I flicked the hidden switch to let the thermal paint revert to its base red. I doubted that Terese had even noticed in the darkness, and Llysette wouldn't have said a word.

  “That sign said it was the main entrance,” suggested Terese, almost apologetically.

  “It is, but the military terminal is where we're headed, and that's on the south side. I'm told it's much less crowded.”

  Neither of them laughed.

  I'd expected guards at the gate to the Asten Air Corps Aerodrome—but not Republic marines dressed in battle fatigues and carrying Garand fours—the kind that could go to full automatic with the flip of a lever. Nor had I expected another Spazi steamer to be pulled over and to be waiting.

  I rolled down the window as the guard stepped forward.

  “Sir?”

  “Johan Eschbach, Llysette duBoise, and Terese Stewart to catch Republic Air Corps Two.” I extended my government ID—the one they'd let me keep as a retired minister—rather than my diplomatic passport.

  The guard took the ID, scanned it, compared my face to the one on the card, then handed it back. “Ah . . . sir . . . the ladies?”

  The guard was fairly quick, but he still used a flash to illuminate Llysette's face and Terese's as well. Then he returned the passports. “Your escort has a word for you, sir. After that, please follow them, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The squarish man who stepped up to the Stanley was the same one who had greeted us in the car park in Lebanon when we'd last returned from the federal district. “Minister Eschbach . . . congratulations on some very good driving, sir. We also admired your paint job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We've reported the accident, and it was an accident.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  His eyes flicked to Llysette.

  “I think we all understand.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “We'll lead you to the dignitaries' terminal.” He turned.

  I rolled down the window.

  “That wasn't an accident,” Terese said.

  “It was an accident,” I said. “That's the way it will be reported, and nothing will change that now.” As I began to follow the Spazi car, I couldn't help but notice in the Stanley's rearview mirror that the link-fence gate closed behind us. I didn't recall the gates being kept closed on my previous visits to the military side of the aerodrome.

  “This is more than a concert,” Terese said.

  I thought she shook her head, but I couldn't see.

  “The concert, it is most important,” Llysette said firmly, not quite in her ice-and-steel voice, but close.

  Terese didn't say another word.

  As instructed, I followed the Spazi steamer to the compact military terminal—a low brick structure less than two hundred feet from end to end, and with a low cupola tower on the north side. The Spazi steamer turned into the small car park across from the covered entry of the terminal, and then stopped forward of a series of spaces with a sign before them: RESERVED: FLIGHT GUESTS.

  According to the briefing materials, I could leave the Stanley in the reserved car park, and I gathered that one of the spaces was for us. So I pulled into the middle one and shut the Stanley down, remembering to make sure that the thermal paint switch was back to neutral. Then I stepped out into the damp breeze. The split-beam beacon from the military tower cast an intermittent eerie glow as I stepped back toward the boot to get out the luggage.

  Before I'd taken a step, two guards in greens appeared, both wearing side arms, but not carrying the Garands.

  “Minister Eschbach? Miss duBoise? Miss Stewart?”

  “Yes?”

  “The turbo was delayed a few minutes in the federal district.” The shorter marine gestured, and two others in fatigues appeared. “These men will carry your luggage.” He paused. “Ah . . . sir . . . it will have to be scanned. You understand?”

  “I understand.” I laughed. By the time I had the boot open, both Llysette and Terese had gotten out of the steamer and stood beside me as I handed the valises and the cases to the waiting marines. Then I locked the Stanley.

  “We are on the government business . . . and our valises they must scan?” murmured Llysette as we followed the marines.

  “It would be most embarrassing if the Russians scanned our luggage and found something,” I pointed out.

  “The Russians, still they fear all the world,” she replied.

  “With their history, it's understandable. Regrettable, but understandable.”

  They also scanned our hand cases, and some of Llysette's makeup and one metallic purse just came out as blurs. They took one look at the metallic sequins and laughed, not even opening the purse. The hair dryer did show up on the X-ray scanner, but, since they plugged it in and it functioned, and since I had taken the precaution of including a current converter, no one said a word, except suggesting that it be left on top where it could be easily reached. No one said anything at all about the extra batteries in my valise. All in all, between carting luggage and scanning it and waiting for results, it was after seven before we were escorted to a small lounge with wide windows that loo
ked out on the empty tarmac. Despite what the lead marine had said, we waited less than fifteen minutes before the whine of turbos penetrated the terminal, followed by the white-yellow flash of anticollision lights as an aircraft eased up before the terminal. The four-engined modified Curtiss 440 didn't bear the standard silvery aluminum finish of a military aircraft, but was painted white, with gold piping, and bore the Columbian seal on the fuselage below the cockpit.

  Even before the port engines were shut down, the ground crew had a rolling staircase wheeled up to the side of fuselage just in front of the wing, and what looked to be a Naval Air Corps officer was scurrying down and toward the doorway to our right. When the auxiliary power was connected, the starboard engines went silent, and a fuel hauler rolled up to the far side of the turbo, presumably to top off the tanks.

  I rose. “I think they're ready for us.”

  Another officer appeared at the back of the lounge. “ Ladies . . . sir . . . they'd like you to board.” He gestured toward the aircraft and the windows, where the marines in fatigues were rolling a luggage wagon toward the rear of the turbo.

  The door onto the tarmac opened, and the Naval Air Corps officer from the aircraft stepped into the lounge and toward us. He wore the gold wings of a command pilot, a silver rosette of his rank on his collar, and two and a half black stripes on the sleeve cuffs of his green uniform blouse. “I'm Lieutenant Commander Madley, sir, ladies.” The Naval Air Corps pilot saluted me and bowed to Llysette and Terese. “I'm your military attache´.”

  “You're not with the Ministry of State or the embassy in St. Petersburg?” I asked.

  “No, sir. Colonel Sudwerth is the head of the embassy's military contingent. Because he's been rather involved—I'm sure you understand, sir—Defense Minister Holmbek sent me.”

  “You're on Minister Holmbek's staff, then?”

  Madley flushed slightly. “Barely, sir. I just came off the Yorktown.”

  I nodded. “I never was on the Yorktown, just the Lexington, the Calhoun, and the Roosevelt.”

  “Good carriers, sir.”

  “So is the Yorktown.” I was afraid we'd need all those carriers, and more, before too long unless matters somehow changed.

  “We need to be going.” Madley offered his arm to Terese.

  I picked up my briefcase and took Llysette's arm in turn, and we walked through the doorway and out onto the tarmac and back out into the raw and damp air. I could smell the jet fuel, probably from the refueling hauler.

  Before we were up the portable stairs, the ground crew had our luggage in the hold and had it battened down. A steward in white and gold closed the cabin doorway behind us. We followed the commander from the gray-decked space, almost a foyer, through a doorway to the right.

  There, Madley gestured to one side of the turbo's cabin, far narrower than even one side of the promenade deck of the Breckenridge, the dirigible that had carried Llysette and me to Deseret. Turbos—even those as luxurious as Republic Air Corps 2—were clearly not designed for luxury, but for speed. Unlike the Air Corps transport that had carried us back from Deseret, this turbo—or the section where we had been escorted—did not have leather seats in rows, but three groupings of four seats around small tables. Each seat was in fact overlarge, luxurious, and upholstered in pale gray leather. All were securely anchored to the deck, and all looked as though they reclined and swiveled. The seats around one table were empty.

  “Greetings!” called Deputy Minister Kent from the table seat behind the empty one. “Minister Vandiver sends his greetings and his regrets that he was unable to join us.” Kent sat with three aides, two younger men, and the third a gray-haired heavyset man I'd seen somewhere but didn't recall.

  “We're happy to be here,” I replied.

  “Not so happy as we are to see you,” Kent replied with a wide smile. “How was your trip?”

  “Ah . . . we just missed getting involved in a smash-up with a petroleum hauler. Other than that, it was the normal drive from Vanderbraak Centre.”

  “I'm very glad you weren't involved.”

  “So are we.” I laughed. “I'd hate to have had to explain that.”

  “Nor I,” added Llysette with a musical laugh that was a great performance in itself.

  Commander Madley cleared his throat to get our attention. “The front table area is yours. There's a bin for your cases just forward there.” He gestured toward the open bin.

  In the end, Terese took the seat closest to the porthole window, Llysette the one directly aft of the table, and I took the one closest to the center of the turbo, leaving the commander with the forward-most seat.

  Before he sat, the commander leaned toward me and said quietly. “I have a briefing case for you, which I'll hand over for you to look at as soon as we're airborne.”

  “Thank you.” I was glad that Harlaan or whoever hadn't forgotten that little detail.

  We had barely gotten ourselves seated when an air crewman in a shimmering green flight suit stepped into the cabin. “Ladies, gentlemen, if you would turn your seats forward and lock them in place for takeoff, and then secure your restraint belts . . .”

  Since our seats were already locked in the proper position, all I had to do was lock the restraint belt—and then show Llysette how to lock hers. By the time we were trussed in, the aircrewman had vanished.

  “Dinner will be served as soon as we level off at our cruising altitude,” offered Lieutenant Commander Madley. “You'll also notice that these seats are rather large. They swivel and extend into sleeper seats. It is a rather long flight.”

  From what I'd already figured, it had to be between eight and nine hours, assuming a direct great circle flight path and no delays.

  The whine of the turbos increased, and the aircraft lumbered away from the terminal and down between the red lights that indicated the taxiway toward the duty runway. As the aircraft cleared the structures, I could see the commercial side of the aerodrome to the north, where spotlights illuminated a dirigible docking at the mooring mast. Absently, I wondered if it was the Breckenridge.

  Somewhere ahead of us, I could hear the takeoff roar of at least a pair of military turbo fighters. Then, without any announcements, the big Curtiss swung onto the runway, headed eastward, and the turbos revved into a high-pitched whine. We were pressed back into our seats as the aircraft accelerated at a rate unfathomable to anyone who had only flown in dirigibles. I glanced at Llysette, who had a smile on her face. On the other hand, Terese Stewart's face was totally blank. Commander Madley's head was tilted sightly to the side, as if he were listening to the engines—just as I was.

  Once airborne, we were almost immediately enveloped in thick gray clouds. Mist formed droplets that streaked across the cabin portholes. The pilots held the Curtiss in a fairly steady climb for more than ten minutes, although we were above the clouds within a few minutes.

  Shortly after the Curtiss leveled off, Llysette tapped my arm, and I turned. She gestured toward the darkness outside. “Johan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Those are what?” Llysette was pointing into the starspangled darkness above the clouds toward two sets of unblinking lights, each white and green.

  “Probably FF-10s. Fast fighter escorts.”

  “An armed escort we need?”

  “Probably because we have the deputy minister of state on board.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  I shrugged, because I really didn't have a good answer to her unspoken question. If matters were so important, why didn't Minister Vandiver happen to be on board? But then, I've never been a complete optimist, and I certainly wasn't after the incident with the hauler. Who had been behind it I had no idea, except that it wasn't anyone in Columbian Dutch Petroleum, or the Russian Okhrana. Nor had it been the Spazi, unlike the days of my encounters with van Becton and Jerome. My best guess was that the Watch Report on the “accident” would find that the hauler had been stolen by a freelance trupp to sell in some black-market fashion, and tha
t, regrettably, the thief had died in the explosion. But it would all be reported as a simple theft and accident, and the planning and the road barriers just would be conveniently ignored.

  All I could figure was that it was critical that our deaths not be identified as murder. That was extremely important to someone, vital enough that they'd taken a higher risk and lower probability method to try to kill us. The attempt at the Presidential Palace followed a similar logic, because the shots fired at a crowd of politicians and celebrities wouldn't have been interpreted as a targeted assassination. So someone wanted one or both of us dead, but didn't want the world to know that we were targets. That was interesting, but scarcely reassuring.

  22

  As LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Madley had promised, once the Curtiss reached its cruising altitude, dinner was served, on real china with the Speaker's seal and congressional silver. After that, the seats did recline into something resembling a train sleeper. The ubiquitous stewards also supplied pillows and navy-blue cotton coverlets.

  Llysette closed her eyes, but I opened the case that Madley had given me. After the first two pages I wished I hadn't. The first folder just held pictures and background material on people I'd never heard of—except for the tzar, Prime Minister Brusilov, and Pyotr Romanov, the head of PetroRus. The tzar looked impressive enough in his formal uniform as commander in chief, clearly a tall and muscular man with a sharpish nose, if with a receding hairline. Brusilov looked more like a general than a prime minister, with iron-gray hair and a square jaw. Pyotr Romanov was tall like his cousin, but there was an angularity in his face that was almost reptilian. The dossier didn't make me think much more kindly of him. Harlaan's analysts had him pegged as a micromanagerial type, and he'd managed to struggle through because he was bright, but he didn't want to spend enough on modernizing the Caspian fields because it would reduce the cash flow to the military. Apparently, some twenty percent of what I would have called gross revenues was earmarked for the military.