Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I assumed the backgrounders were on officials and others I might meet, or was even scheduled to meet. The second folder had a tentative schedule of appointments that looked awfully slim, but a note at the bottom said that more were likely to have been confirmed. I hoped so.

  Another folder updated the political situation with regard to the Dnepyr River. The bottom line was that Ferdinand was continuing to complain about the effluent from Russian factories and facilities and demanding that the river be cleaned up. Either way, he won. If the Russians did spend the money on environmental remediation, it meant they could spend less on military goods. If they didn't, the situation gave Ferdinand a lever to agitate against the tzar, and as Harlaan's briefing background on the tzar indicated, Tzar Alexander IV was not the most temperate or patient of autocrats.

  When it got hard to keep my eyes open, I finally tucked away the folders.

  We slept, after a fashion, to be awakened at an hour we were told was noon in St. Petersburg, which meant, as I figured it, that we'd gotten perhaps five hours fitful sleep. It still felt like the middle of the night, which it would have been in Vanderbraak Centre. But it was definitely light outside porthole windows of the Curtiss, and there was a steward, brighteyed and hovering over us beside our table.

  “Would you like cafe´, tea, or chocolate?” the steward asked Llysette.

  “The tea, if you please.”

  “Chocolate.” I managed not to growl.

  “Cafe´,” chirped Terese.

  I was generally a morning person, but I did wonder how anyone could sound so cheerful after so long a trip and so little sleep—and without a hot shower.

  “We're headed east,” I pointed out to Madley, when the steward slipped away after taking the beverage order, “but there's just ice and ocean below. Turbos aren't that slow.”

  “It takes longer than it used to. It's gotten too risky to overfly the Baltic. Both the Austrians and the Swedes have gotten touchy about their airspace.”

  “So we're coming in from the north.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After we ate the generous breakfast, with slightly tough grapefruit sections, bacon, two kinds of sausage, individual omelets, and buttery croissants, in turns we did use the facilities aft of the cabin to attempt to return our persons to some semblance of humanity, but my own bleary-eyed visage in the mirror reminded me that while turbos had the advantage of speed, dirigible travel was definitely easier on the system.

  I had barely settled back into my seat when the big Curtiss 404 banked into a starboard turn and then settled on a more southerly course. An aircrewman appeared in the forward doorway. “Ladies, gentlemen, we'll be beginning our descent into St. Petersburg in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Have you ever been to St. Petersburg?” I asked Madley.

  “Only briefly. I did an exchange visit after my first tour. I was here just three months.”

  The patterns clicked. The Yorktown had done patrols in both the North Atlantic and off Alaska. So I asked casually, “You speak Russian, then?”

  Madley nodded.

  “And you're headed for intelligence after this escort job?”

  Madley looked at me without speaking for a moment, then laughed. “Sir . . . I believe you should be escorting me.”

  “I don't speak Russian,” I pointed out.

  “Just German and French,” he countered.

  Llysette's eyebrows rose, but she didn't say anything for the moment.

  “What can we expect once we land?” I asked.

  “They'll scan every bit of luggage. If we were just tourists or visitors, they'd also look at every book. The Okhrana proscribed a number of novels. The one they really look for is almost one hundred and fifty years old.” Madley laughed. “Something called What Is to Be Done by Chernyshevsky. It wasn't even published. The Okhrana tortured the author to death, but they say there are bootleg copies even today.” He paused. “Also, they don't like Russian history books that glorify the Decembrists or the failed Bolsheviks.”

  “And one, one must have a permit to own a difference engine,” Llysette added.

  “Is that right?” asked Terese.

  “Not any longer,” I said. “You can have one without a permit if you're not on the dissidents list. If you are on the list, and they find you with one . . . it's off to the Siberian frontier.”

  “And who is on the dissidents list?”

  “Anyone who might criticize the tzar or the government,” suggested Llysette, the edge of her voice carrying over the droning whine of the turbines.

  Another voice rose over the conversation—that of Drummond Kent. “We are here for a cultural exchange. I would strongly suggest that none of us discuss Russian internal politics while we are guests of the tzar. Strongly suggest,” he added for emphasis.

  He didn't add any blither about the success of the cultural exchange, I noted, studying Commander Madley's face, which bore a certain expression of relief. I didn't feel relieved at all, only apprehensive, as the whine of the turbines dropped off and the Curtiss nosed down slightly.

  The aircrewman reappeared. “We're beginning the descent a little early. Please turn your seats forward and fasten your restraints.”

  Of our group, only Commander Madley had to swivel his seat into the forward position.

  Again, we were enveloped in gray clouds, even thicker than those coming out of Asten, or so it seemed to me. When we broke out, probably around two thousand feet, it was over a landscape of whiteness and water—presumably Lake Ladoga, which hadn't frozen over, at least not yet.

  I could only catch glimpses of what I thought was St. Petersburg through the port windows across the cabin from me, but the little I saw seemed to confirm what I'd read—that St. Petersburg was two cities—a center city of canals and rivers built of granite and an outer industrial city of low monolithic buildings. Both parts of St. Petersburg were partly shrouded in a combination of smoke, haze, and light snow.

  Then, the turbo banked back to the west, presumably to line up on its final approach to Tzar Mikhail Aerodrome. The approach was smooth, and the pilot brought the Curtiss down without even a faint jar, not that I would have expected otherwise from an officer detailed to Air Corps 2.

  The thrust-reversers shuddered into play, and we slowed quickly before the Curtiss turned off the runway. The open ground out beyond the runway and the taxiways held snow, not a great deal, perhaps two feet or so. The taxiway lights were lit, perhaps because of the light and fine snow that continued to drift out of the clouds.

  The Curtiss rolled to a stop. After unfastening the restraint belt, I had to crane my neck to look out at the aerodrome building that resembled a train station, with heavy gray stone blocks and a gray flat roof. I didn't bother to stand. I had the feeling we'd be standing for some time to come, diplomatic mission or not.

  For several minutes nothing happened, even though I'd seen a portable staircase rolled forward toward the aircraft. Then a wave of cold air swept into the cabin. Several minutes more passed, and then one of the pilots stepped back into our cabin and walked over to Drummond Kent. He spoke quietly, and I couldn't quite catch the words. As quickly as he had come, he left.

  The deputy minister stepped toward our group. “We arrived slightly ahead of schedule, and they are not quite ready.”

  Kent was being polite. What he meant was that, although we were supposed to be considered diplomats, the Russians had a slightly different view of matters. A diplomat entering Columbia didn't have to undergo customs. He might be later requested to leave, but he wasn't inspected. In Russia, everyone coming in had their luggage scanned. If you weren't a diplomat and you had something in your luggage that was forbidden, you either had it confiscated, and you got fined on the spot, unless they carted you off to prison immediately. If you were a diplomat, you also lost whatever it was, and you ended up on the next departing turbo or dirigible.

  “I understand, Mademoiselle duBoise,” Kent continued, “that several photograph
ers are waiting for you, once we clear the necessary formalities . . . It should not be long.”

  “Thank you,” Llysette said.

  “It is a good sign,” Kent replied with a smile before returning to his own seat.

  It was very good. If photographers had been told, that meant that the tzar and those close to him wanted the concert to go on, but it also meant that someone didn't, but the only ones I could see that would be opposed would be the Austrians—and they wouldn't have attacked us in the way that we had been. In turn, that meant someone else both knew what was involved and didn't want it to take place. Even more troubling was my own experience telling me that if two parties already knew, so did most of the intelligence community, since two or more people can never keep that sort of secret.

  “Not one photographer in Columbia for years,” Llysette said quietly, “but in Russia . . .”

  “They like culture here, and they've liked French culture since Catherine the Great.”

  “They're ready for you, ladies, gentlemen,” announced the aircrewman.

  We walked down the steps—icy—and across the tarmac toward an open rectangle of light in the pale gray stone of the terminal building. Even though there was little wind, the air felt damp and biting.

  Just inside the doorway to the terminal stood two guards, wearing dark brown and crimson uniforms, with the double-headed eagles of the Imperial Empire on their visor caps. Beyond them, in a gray walled room without windows, perhaps twenty feet by thirty, were two inspectors in black uniforms with silver insignia on the lapels of their dress blouses. The insignia were also the double-headed Romanov eagles, but of a smaller size.

  Our luggage had already been carried off the Curtiss and set on the counter to the right of the inspectors. There was a single X-ray scanner, into which one of the Republic aircrewmen placed each piece, one after the other, including those that had to belong to the deputy minister and his assistants. The first inspector would study the screen, then the second, and both would nod before repeating the process with the next piece of luggage.

  One inspector took my heavy case with all the papers in it and looked around, as if to ask to whom it belonged.

  I stepped forward.

  “What is inside?”

  “Papers. Scholarly papers on environmental techniques.” That was totally true.

  “You are?”

  “Johan Eschbach.”

  He looked at a list. “Minister Johan Eschbach?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. All is explained.”

  I wasn't sure what was explained, but I saw no point in saying so, and stepped back and waited until the two finished scanning all the luggage.

  The taller inspector cleared his throat. “Your passports?”

  In turn, the two inspectors looked over every passport, and they both looked at each one in turn before stamping them and the attached visas. Then, the two inspectors turned, without a word, and departed, leaving the door through which they left open.

  We let Deputy Minister Kent, or rather, his older assistant, lead the way past another set of guards, stationed in the wide corridor just beyond the customs facility for important functionaries. I didn't really want to consider what happened to regular travelers.

  Immediately beyond the Russian guards were four Republic marines in winter overcoats, forty-fives belted in place outside the greatcoats. Standing with the marines was a short squarefaced man in a black greatcoat as well as a taller full colonel. Behind them was a crowd—a small crowd. Several of the men held cameras, cameras of all sizes, ages, and shapes.

  The shorter man stepped forward to greet us. “Deputy Minister Kent, Minister Eschbach, Miss duBoise . . . we're glad to see you arrived safely. I'm Ambassador Hagel, Charles Hagel.” He turned to the Air Corps officer beside him. “This is Colonel Sudwerth, military attaché to the embassy.”

  “We're happy to be here, Ambassador.” That was as far as Drummond Kent got before voices erupted from the crowd as they caught sight of Llysette.

  “A picture!”

  “La diva!”

  There were other words, Russian sounding. I had no idea what they meant, except in the general sense that they wanted pictures of Llysette, and I stepped back and slightly aside for the photographers.

  The flashes were blinding, even momentarily, but Llysette smiled through them all.

  After several minutes, there was a growling command from somewhere, and, like magic, the photographers backed away, some smiling, one or two bowing, and within moments the space that led to the outer doors was clear.

  As we crossed the polished stone floor of the wide space that was too small for a foyer and too large for a corridor, I could feel currents of steam-heated air swirled with damp chill air, presumably from outside. Then we were outside, on a granite sidewalk that flanked a drive, where four black vehicles waited. The first was a limousine, followed by three large black sedans of a type unfamiliar to me, and I'd seen many vehicles over the years.

  Although it was mid-afternoon, now getting close to three o'clock, the light was more like twilight, but then, I realized at St. Petersburg's latitude it probably was twilight, or at least very late afternoon. The wind was light but bore a chill dampness. Llysette shivered as she stepped toward the embassy limousine, flying the miniature flag of Columbia, with its stars on the blue field, bordered in red and white. Terese followed her into the limousine, and then I climbed in. The limousine was an internal combustion car, not a steamer, but I supposed steamers were less practical in Russia with the winter cold. The Russians also had more petroleum, and a smaller middle class to burn it.

  Ambassador Hagel and Minister Kent joined us, sitting on the plush seats facing to the rear, while the three of us sat in those facing forward. Then the driver shut the passenger door. I glanced toward the gray stone of the terminal.

  “Colonel Sudwerth and Commander Madley are in the military vehicle. The colonel wanted to brief the commander,” the ambassador said. “Very touchy times here, but you know how that can be, I'm sure, Minister Eschbach, especially with your background.”

  “I'm sure they're quite touchy,” I said easily. “Is there any subject we should avoid discussing, besides internal Russian politics?”

  “I wouldn't ask about military capabilities, not that such is your field, directly, but the Okhrana can be touchy about that. With your status, they'd just deport you on a slow steamer routed through Stockholm, some Brit port, and Halifax. That happened to our third secretary last year. Ambitious young

  fellow, he was. I understand he's now teaching at some small college in the west Northlands.”

  I nodded. “I understand that I might be meeting with a few experts in environmental matters.”

  “Some Russian environmental and energy types have expressed an interest. Piet Darwaard—he's the first secretary—has been handling the arrangements. You're likely to be rather busy, he says.”

  The limousine accelerated, with the slight jerkiness endemic to the gears of an internal combustion engine, and we pulled away from the terminal out onto a concrete road dusted with snow. The snow didn't seem that heavy, the way it swirled across the concrete, not compared to a northeaster in New Bruges, but even inside the limousine, the air had a dampness despite the cold.

  “When will we be able to practice in the Mariinsky Theatre?” asked Llysette.

  “You have several rehearsals arranged, mademoiselle.” The ambassador inclined his head. “The second secretary has the exact times. Although he handles cultural matters, I insisted on the need for rehearsals in the theatre for you. Both Frau Hagel and I were most impressed with the disk of your Salt Palace performance, and Ambassador Klein wired me to insist I hear you. Walter is not easily impressed, I must tell you, and when he said you were magnificent, it had to be an understatement.”

  “Thank you.” Llysette smiled, not quite shyly. Once we left the aerodrome, we began to pass long stone structures, narrow buildings with steep roofs, almost box-
like.

  “Those are for worker housing. Most were built in the 1930s. The newer ones are south of here, and they're shoddier,” the ambassador said. “You can see the train line. It runs right into one of the stations, Tzarskoe-Selo, I think. I'm pretty sure it's not the Baltic or the Warsaw station. Makes it easy for workers in the cities to get out to the industrial plants. The Sikorski aircraft works is only five miles from here.” Hagel laughed. “You couldn't bribe your way in there with ten pounds of gold.”

  “And if you did, I suspect you wouldn't leave,” I replied. “But I'm not interested in such. My background is environment, and also where it relates to energy.”

  “You have a rather broad background, Minister Eschbach,” the ambassador said dryly, “but I'm glad to hear that you're here on environmental matters.”

  “And to support my wife,” I added with a laugh and a smile. “I wouldn't be here at all if she weren't singing.”

  “For her singing, we are all grateful,” Hagel acknowledged.

  I kept looking outside, just to try to get a feel of St. Petersburg. No matter what so-called experts say, you can get a feel for a country from a closed vehicle—if you know what to look for. What I saw was a great deal of stone, but not much of it comparatively new. There were also very few vehicles out. While some of that might have been attributable to it being Sunday, not all was.

  We passed an omnibus stop, where more than a dozen men and women in brown and gray cloaks or coats huddled under a narrow roof, turning slowly. Not one looked up as we passed.

  “They've still got sections of the road that are stone paved, part of the old Lvov Prospekt, they tell me,” the ambassador added conversationally.

  I had no idea what the Lvov Prospekt was, except it had to be an avenue named after the Russian prince whose reforms and work with Count Witte had effectively saved Tzar Mikhail and the Romanovs in the early part of the century, when Mikhail had taken over after the death of Nicholas II. The avenue or highway was relatively broad, and generally uncrowded, from what I could see from the window.

  Even through the snow that fell—not quite lazily, but also not in sheets—I could see that St. Petersburg was definitely a city of stone, gray stone facades contrasted with stone panels painted in bright pastels—blues and yellows, particularly—that stood out against both the gray of the building blocks and the somehow slightly off-white of the snow.