Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I lost track of the canals we drove beside or over, or both, by the time the limousine turned in through an iron gate that opened as we neared, and then came to a stop in a small courtyard. The ambassador almost bounded out, then waited for the rest of us to emerge into a twilight misted with the fine falling snow. The air smelled somehow chill, with a scent of distant burning coal, and yet slightly dank, possibly from the river that had not yet frozen.

  “This was once a grand hotel, but when France fell . . . well . . . it came on the market, and we managed to have it remodeled, but they did keep the wonderful ‘ancien regime’ feel. The Nevsky Prospekt is only a block south.” With a gesture to his right, and a laugh, Ambassador Hagel added, “The British embassy is to the north, and beside it, the Austro-Hungarian embassy. The Austrians haven't had an ambassador in residence for almost ten years, and not much of a staff there. This is the private entry to the embassy. The public entry is on the other side. It's closed today, but not much happens in St. Petersburg on Sunday in any case.”

  With that announcement, he turned toward the covered entryway, where there stood two Republic marines. This pair carried Garands, in addition to their side arms. I glanced back, but another three marines in fatigues were unloading the luggage from the back of the limousine. As I watched, another black internal combustion auto entered the courtyard. Through the passenger window glass I could see Colonel Sudwerth talking emphatically to Commander Madley.

  “Johan . . .” Llysette tugged at my arm, and I realized that we had been left by the others.

  We didn't miss much, because the ambassador was standing and waiting for the two military officers and Deputy Minister Kent's aides to join everyone in the foyer, a two-story expanse with an inside dome finished in gold leaf and bordered in green faux marble. The floor was real green marble, inset with what appeared to be bronze curlicues.

  There were two archways from the foyer, one leading straight ahead to a metalwork grating. Behind the grating I could see the public entry area of the embassy. The second archway was to our right and led down a paneled hallway perhaps fifteen feet wide. Every ten feet or so was a painting, each set in a lighted recess.

  “Ah . . .” The ambassador cleared his throat as the rest of the travelers who had been on the Curtiss arrived, along with Colonel Sudwerth. “We will be having a welcome dinner for all of you at seven-thirty. We will be gathering in the lounge for drinks between six-thirty and seven. Not formal, of course.”

  Not formal meant that a suit was mandatory for me, but that Llysette could wear either her traveling suit or a dress, as she wished.

  “The guest quarters are down the corridor to my left—your right. The Ministry of State personnel will be housed on the third floor. There are placards on your doors identifying your rooms. Oh . . . and your luggage will be brought up in the next few minutes.” Ambassador Hagel turned toward Llysette. “The guest quarters for you three are on the fourth floor.” Hagel then motioned to the young man who stood at one side of the foyer. “Minister Eschbach and Miss duBoise have the main quarters, Miss Stewart the smaller suite.”

  At the end of the corridor was another foyer, with two other corridors branching off, and two elevators on the other side.

  “The lounge is down the first corridor,” Drummond Kent said to us before he boarded one of the elevators.

  The three of us found ourselves on the same elevator with the ambassador and the unnamed young man.

  “Your quarters are up here somewhere?” I asked Hagel pleasantly.

  “The fifth floor. As far as we can get from the day-to-day hubbub.” He smiled. “I'm looking forward to talking to you all once you've had a chance to settle in.”

  We got off on the fourth floor, stepping out into another broad corridor. The young aide waited for the elevator door to close before speaking. “I'm Christian De Witte, and I'm your day-to-day liaison while you're in St. Petersburg.” He began to walk along the corridor, which extended only in one direction from the elevator—north as it turned out. “There are three smaller suites on this level, in addition to the main suite, but it's unlikely that there will be anyone else on this floor while you are here. The others in the concert—the pianist and the quartet—they'll be down on the third floor.” He grinned, an expression that made him look less than twenty. “Having converted a former hotel offers us certain advantages.”

  “What's here?” I asked absently, pointing to a stretch of blank wall that looked as though it had held doors at one point.

  “Ah . . . just empty space, sir. You see, this was a grande hotel, and . . . well . . . a young man who was reputed to have been a lover of one of Tzar Mikhail's daughters was staying here. The story is that her brother shot him, beginning with his knees. . . .”

  In spite of myself, I winced.

  “The space is unused. There's a door off the service stairs, and every so often we check, but the ghost is still there.”

  A good story, and possibly even true, but I wondered.

  De Witte continued on, until he paused at the second door and extended a key to Terese. “Your quarters, Miss Stewart.”

  “A suite, I can take that,” Terese said as she opened the door.

  Even from the hallway, I could see that she had a large main room, with an upright piano.

  “There is a small grand in the salon space of the quarters for Miss duBoise and Minister Eschbach,” De Witte explained. “It's only a Haaren, but I'm told it is a good instrument, and it was tuned on Friday. So was the one in here.”

  Leaving Terese to explore her “smaller” suite, we followed De Witte to the double doors at the end of the corridor.

  “This is where any cabinet ministers stay when they come to St. Petersburg.” The boyish grin followed. “Not that we've seen any in the year I've been here.” He opened the door and then extended keys to each of us. “I imagine you'll need separate keys with your schedules.”

  Obviously, the main suite had been designed at one point for visiting royalty, or the equivalent. We stepped into an entry foyer with octagonal rose marble floor tiles, and paneled in a rich cherry. There was a coat closet on the right side, and a powder room, papered in a pale blue damask-like fabric, on the left. The archway led into what could only be called a salon or a drawing room a good thirty-five feet long. In front of the full-length windows, curtained in dark-green velvet hangings, stood the Haaren. It looked as though it had just come from the factory, without a scratch upon it.

  The couches and empire-style furniture had been arranged as if for a chamber concert. Llysette looked at me and raised her eyebrows, but we followed De Witte through the end door.

  “This is the master suite.”

  The bedchamber of the master suite was more than thirty feet long and dominated by a massive, triple width, four-postered bed that appeared very Russian. The comforters were rose, trimmed in a muted crimson piping. A small desk stood before the windows, and flanking it was a chaise longue. There were two bath chambers, one with an enormous ceramic tub, the other with a huge shower for two. Of course, there was a walk-in closet.

  De Witte showed us the small kitchen, with a breakfast area overlooking the private embassy courtyard, and the other “smaller” bedroom.

  “I hope this will make your stay more enjoyable.” Standing in the entry foyer, he bowed.

  “It will certainly make it more comfortable,” I replied, adding before he could turn and leave. “I presume you're most fluent in Russian?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I'm not. My expertise lies much more in environmental fields. Could I call upon you if I need something short translated—or is there someone else I should contact?”

  “I'm the one you should contact,” he affirmed. “If it's long or you need it quickly, I may call upon some others to help.”

  “Thank you. I just wanted to know. Will we see you at dinner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After we closed the door behind young De Witte, I turned to
Llysette. The guest quarters were certainly the most palatial accommodations in which we had ever stayed. “They are definitely treating you like a diva.”

  “They want much.”

  “We'll see.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?” I called.

  “Your luggage, Minister Eschbach, Miss duBoise.”

  I looked through the peephole, then opened the door gingerly, but as should have been the case, two Republic marines in fatigues stood there.

  “Where would you like these, sir, madame?”

  “Actually, just put them right in here. We'll take care of it from there. We appreciate your doing all the hard work.”

  “Just our job, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  After closing the door, and sliding the bolt into place, we carted the luggage to the cavernous bedchamber, where we began to unpack. I was tired but still keyed up, and I could tell Llysette felt the same way.

  Needless to say, my luggage had been opened. There was nothing missing, and nothing obviously out of place. I didn't say a word to Llysette.

  “Johan . . . my valise—”

  “I know.” I put my finger to my lips.

  She shook her head sadly, and we both knew what she meant.

  “We can take a nap for an hour or so, if you'd like,” I said.

  “I would like. There is a clock?”

  “I brought one.”

  “Bon.” But she shook her head again.

  I didn't, but I felt that way. The next weeks were going to be very long indeed, beginning with the welcoming dinner.

  23

  LLYSETTE DID BATHE and change, into a high-necked green velvet dress with a lace collar. Despite her tiredness, she looked stunning as we stepped out into the corridor to make our way to the elevator. After my own long hot shower, I'd put on a dark gray suit and a maroon cravat that Harlaan would have admired. Terese must have been listening, because she joined us at the elevator. She'd also changed, into a long black dress trimmed in white, with a patterned green and black matching jacket.

  “I haven't been this dressed up when I'm not performing in years.” She looked from Llysette to me. “This must be normal for you two.”

  I could only shrug. What was normal? I wasn't sure I knew.

  No one else was on the elevator we caught, and once on the main floor, we followed the sounds of conversation down the corridor and around the corner into another space, what had probably once been a secondary greeting foyer for the hotel that had preceded the embassy. The ceilings were arched and white, with an off-green trim, very simple, compared to the almost rococo paneling and carving in the wood paneling, and I wondered if the arched ceilings had once held murals or the equivalent.

  We stepped through the open double French doors into the lounge, a space that had once been some sort of function room in the hotel the embassy had once been, I gathered, with the rich cherry-wood walls, the carved crown molding, and the built-in glass-paneled sideboards that now held leather-bound books, but once probably had held an array of either crystal or perhaps sample bottles of wine or cognac. I shook my head as I reconsidered. The room had to have been a tea room—the woodwork and the shape of the room were too subtle, and those had not been changed since the embassy had taken over. There were small tables arrayed around the room, each with two or three pale blue leather covered armchairs surrounding it. I could almost imagine how it might have been in the thirties or forties, with women of the Russian aristocracy taking tea or chocolate and conversing politely, while their escorts or husbands had cigars and brandy or wine and whatever in an adjoining bar.

  “Our guest of honor,” called out Drummond Kent, moving away from his aides toward us, or toward Llysette. He bowed. “You look ravishing. And you as well, Miss Stewart.”

  “Too kind you are.” Llysette offered a warm smile and a half-curtsy.

  Terese smiled but did not speak.

  “You will not even have to sing to dazzle the audience,” Kent added, “although all of us look forward to the concert.”

  Llysette laughed, musically. “My singing is what they wish, not my appearance.”

  “They will have both, I am sure.”

  I was, too.

  “I did have a question.” Kent looked slightly puzzled. “The program lists a Vocalise by Rachmaninov, but I've never seen or heard it performed here.”

  “Most times, it is performed by orchestra with strings,” Llysette replied, “but that it is not how he wrote it.”

  “Tell me more about it, if you would.” Kent broke off as Ambassador Hagel appeared with a dark-haired woman. “ Ambassador, Miss duBoise was about to tell us about her program.”

  “I'd like to hear about it.” Hagel offered the warm political smile that is a requirement for any successful diplomat or politician. “But I wanted Annette to meet our distinguished guests. This is Miss duBoise, and her husband Minister Eschbach . . . and Terese Stewart, who is the noted accompanist who will be playing for Miss duBoise.”

  Everyone murmured polite words of greeting before Llysette began her answer to Drummond Kent's question.

  “The first song, it is one by Rimsky-Korsakov called ‘The Nightingale’ . . .”

  “Are all your songs Russian,” asked Annette Hagel. “I mean the ones you'll be singing?”

  “One I may do, it is by a Russian, but in French . . .”

  In the momentary pause, I bent toward Llysette and asked in a whisper, “Wine?”

  “A white . . .” she murmured.

  “I'll be right back.” I wouldn't be, but I hoped my detour wouldn't take too long, not so long as it would for Llysette to explain her program. I'd already spied Christian De Witte standing beside the small bar and slipped toward him before I got tied up with any other functionaries.

  “Minister Eschbach, sir.” He straightened as I approached.

  “A few details, Christian, if you would? Housekeeping . . . so to speak. Breakfast, for example?”

  “Breakfast is served for senior staff in the same room as tonight's dinner. That's from seven to nine. You're senior staff. After that, there is a canteen in the basement.”

  “But I take it that's only for the truly desperate?”

  “It's not quite that bad, sir.”

  But almost, I gathered. “Newspapers, news services?”

  “I can have you get what the ambassador and senior secretaries get. That's a summary of major stories from everywhere, plus those that bear on Russia, and a copy of the wire edition of the Times of London. It will be outside your door by six-thirty, if that's all right.”

  “I'd also like to change some dollars to roubles.”

  “If it's not a large amount, we can do that through the embassy accounting office.”

  “Just a few hundred. We may not even need it, but we'd both feel better.” I smiled apologetically. “Being in a strange city without local currency . . . roubles aren't exactly easy to get in either Asten or Vanderbraak Centre.”

  “We can do that, sir.”

  “That's very helpful. Do you know when I'm supposed to meet with the first secretary?”

  “Piet Darwaard? It's on his schedule for nine-thirty. You also have an informal meeting at PetroRus at eleven o'clock and another at the Ministry of Interior at two. Piet has the details, though. I don't know more than that.”

  So I had another appointment beyond those Harlaan had laid out. That was slightly encouraging. “Thank you.”

  “Anything I can do, sir.”

  For all that, he looked slightly uncomfortable, and I didn't press. “That's all. Sometimes people overlook the little details. Thank you again.” With another smile and a nod, I slipped to the bar, where the bartender was a senior enlisted marine, I would have bet, probably from the embassy's security detail and moonlighting for extra income.

  “What sort of white wines do you have?” I asked.

  “A Washington state chardonnay, Hague Valley, and a Samvian pinot grigio.
”

  “Two of the Samvian, if you would.”

  “Good choice, sir.”

  With the two wineglasses in hand, I edged my way past the aides of Drummond Kent, whom I'd never met, and back toward Llysette and Drummond Kent. Ambassador Hagel, his wife, and Terese had moved aside and were talking separately.

  “Piano for years,” Annette Hagel was saying, “but I didn't have that burning desire. . . .”

  “I can talk to large groups of people,” Minister Kent was telling Llysette, “but the thought of singing, of having people judge . . .” He shook his head.

  I slipped up beside Llysette's shoulder and extended the wineglass. “Your wine, dearest.”

  “Merci, mon cher.”

  I glanced around the lounge again, taking in the detail of the carved crown moldings and of the sideboard.

  “You look bemused, Eschbach,” offered Drummond Kent.

  “Looking into the past, in a way,” I replied.

  “It's easy to do here. This whole country's in the past.”

  “Is that why Minister Vandiver didn't come? Or because he's too much of a southerner to deal with the combination of Russian bluntness and deviousness?”

  “That was the Speaker's decision.” Kent laughed lightly, suggesting I was probably right. “You'd best ask him.”

  “By the time I could, we'll both know, I suspect.”

  Llysette laughed politely.

  “That may be.” Kent coughed slightly. “I see that Colonel Sudwerth is moving this way.” He turned. “Colonel, you look most distinguished.”

  Sudwerth was wearing undress blues, the military equivalent of a dark suit, with the only insignia the gold wings of a command pilot. Above the navy blue double-knotted cravat and white shirt he was smiling, as if he'd just heard a good joke and was still enjoying it. “The advantage of uniforms, Minister Kent, Minister Eschbach. Never have to ask what to wear. That's a great benefit in St. Petersburg, where there's a proper and an improper attire for everything.”