Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  I needed to do a little reconnaissance of my own—across the Neva to take another look at the University of St. Petersburg. I really wanted to confirm something, because I was operating far too much on feel and intuition. So I began to look for Olaf.

  I didn't get very far when a marine appeared in a heavy winter greatcoat. “Sir . . . your driver didn't show upthis morning, and Colonel Sudwerth asked me to fill in, sir. We're a bit short on drivers. Also, sir, he left this with me for you.” The marine handed me a sealed envelope.

  I opened it and read.

  V. Yelensov has agreed to a meeting with you at eleven. I'm meeting with the ambassador, but will try to join you.

  There was no signature, just a scrawled initial that looked like an “S” and an address below, on the Tolstoi Prospekt.

  “Do you know this address?” I offered the note to the marine.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I glanced upat the courtyard, then took a deepbreath, knowing the next few hours were going to be very dicey. But if I didn't play it out, I had this feeling that much of Europe would be zombies and black glass. I turned and smiled ruefully at the driver. “We'd better be going. Which car?”

  “The Volga at the end, sir.”

  I climbed in, and the driver guided the car through the iron gates, nodding at the sentry as we passed.

  From what I could tell from the maps I'd studied, and from what Olaf had said in carting me around the city, we were nowhere near the headquarters of the Imperial Rocket Corps, or anything else, but then I'd figured that was likely. I'd already slipped the calculator out of my pocket and had the projector pens in hand.

  Abruptly the Volga turned down a narrow lane, then started to slow.

  I slid to the curb side of the car, opened the door, and stumbled out onto snow-slippery stones before the embassy Volga totally stopped.

  Three figures in black coats appeared, all with rather long knives, but I was a good twenty feet from where they had obviously expected me.

  Before they took three steps, I'd already inserted the pens in the calculator and pressed the delete key.

  Two went down like undercut trees, but the third shook his head. He was either ghost-zombie resistant or I was out of power. The calculator went on the top of a small heap of snow as I kept moving.

  I still had muscle power, and before the third thug recovered fully I stepped inside the knife hand and put an elbow through his larynx, and a knee somewhat lower. He was trying to retch and turning purple.

  Then I turned and yanked the bulbous pen from my breast pocket.

  The hard-faced Republic marine was lifting the forty-five when the zombie beam hit him. I was too far away, which was probably a blessing, because, like the third thug, he just staggered.

  I wasn't as tough on him, but I wasn't gentle, either. I snapped his knee with a side kick and then broke his gun wrist. The semi-blankness in his eyes meant he probably wouldn't be too coherent about what had happened, and that was just fine.

  I borrowed his forty-five and used it on all three of the toughs. Since two of them hadn't any minds left, I wasn't doing any more than I'd already done—just changing the appearance of their virtual deaths into physical deaths.

  Then I emptied the weapon and left it several feet from the dazed marine. Moving quickly, I scooped up the calculator and the pen antennas—one had jarred loose and I had to dig through the loose snow to get it.

  I walked briskly out of the narrow lane, hoping I could reorient myself and get to where I needed to be.

  Behind me, I could hear windows opening, and voices, in delayed reaction to the shots, I was sure. In an autocratic police state, especially in winter weather, people are inclined to wait a bit before investigating gunshots.

  There are also certain advantages to being graying and older. People don't think of graying men with lined faces as able to act quickly. Someday I wouldn't be able to, and that day was probably closer than I wanted to admit. The way I was panting was more than enough indication of that.

  It was a long walk through the cold wind and snow, past what seemed too many canals and innumerable gray stone buildings, only a few of which were lightened with the pastels one saw in the tourist guides. It was close to two o'clock when I trudged into the lobby of the glass and slab-sided PetroRus building. The granite that had been reddish in the sunlight when I'd come before just appeared dull now.

  The clerk at the desk in the lobby looked at me blankly.

  “Minister Eschbach for Director Yusupov.”

  The clerk didn't understand, or pretended he didn't. I pretended not to understand him, which wasn't that hard, since I didn't, except in general terms. He said something, and I repeated who I was and who I wanted to see, and he shook his head. I stood there and repeated what I had to say.

  Finally, he picked up the wireset, then smiled wanly at me and pointed to it.

  I nodded and pointed upstairs.

  He shrugged.

  Shortly, some young and junior type emerged from the elevator and walked toward me.

  “There seems to be a misunderstanding here,” he began.

  “I'm sure we can work it out,” I said firmly. “I'm Minister Johan Eschbach of Columbia. I've had several meetings, the last one with Director Yusupov. I have some urgent information for him. Personally. I think he'd like to hear it. At the very least, he should hear that I am here.”

  “You are . . . the husband of the diva?” He smiled. “She was magnificent!” His face fell. “But Director Yusupov is not here.”

  “Then I suggest you inform either Director Kulikovsky or Prince Romanov.”

  He frowned.

  “Just ask,” I suggested.

  Finally, he nodded and vanished back into the elevator.

  I stood there stoically, in a semblance of a military parade rest. I really wanted to pace back and forth, but that would have given away too much.

  Less than ten minutes later, the young executive or clerk reappeared, looking more than a little puzzled. “Prince Romanov has requested to see you.”

  This time, the elevator went all the way to the top. By then, the tips of my ears had finally thawed out. A young woman, blonde and poised, met the elevator.

  “Minister Eschbach?”

  “Johan Eschbach,” I confirmed.

  “Prince Romanov is most interested in seeing you. Might I take your coat?”

  “Oh . . . yes. A moment.” I slipped the discharged calculator into my suit coat pocket, and put the pens in my breast pocket. “I hope I don't need these.”

  She smiled tolerantly and took the coat and the gloves I'd put in the pocket.

  Pyotr Romanov's office was on the northwest corner of the PetroRus building. The prince was standing beside a most traditional and ornate Russian desk that was a good two

  last one with Director Yusupov. I have some urgent information for him. Personally. I think he'd like to hear it. At the very least, he should hear that I am here.”

  “You are . . . the husband of the diva?” He smiled. “She was magnificent!” His face fell. “But Director Yusupov is not here.”

  “Then I suggest you inform either Director Kulikovsky or Prince Romanov.”

  He frowned.

  “Just ask,” I suggested.

  Finally, he nodded and vanished back into the elevator.

  I stood there stoically, in a semblance of a military parade rest. I really wanted to pace back and forth, but that would have given away too much.

  Less than ten minutes later, the young executive or clerk reappeared, looking more than a little puzzled. “Prince Romanov has requested to see you.”

  This time, the elevator went all the way to the top. By then, the tips of my ears had finally thawed out. A young woman, blonde and poised, met the elevator.

  “Minister Eschbach?”

  “Johan Eschbach,” I confirmed.

  “Prince Romanov is most interested in seeing you. Might I take your coat?”

  “Oh . . . yes
. A moment.” I slipped the discharged calculator into my suit coat pocket, and put the pens in my breast pocket. “I hope I don't need these.”

  She smiled tolerantly and took the coat and the gloves I'd put in the pocket.

  Pyotr Romanov's office was on the northwest corner of the PetroRus building. The prince was standing beside a most traditional and ornate Russian desk that was a good two centuries old. One wall had an ancient wooden bookcase that towered floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound volumes, books of different ages, sizes, and shapes, not designer ones.

  Through the broad green glass windows behind him, I could see the spire of the cathedral in the middle of the Peter and Paul Prison and, also, that the edges of the Neva were beginning to freeze.

  “Prince Romanov, Johan Eschbach,” I offered quietly.

  A broad smile appeared on Romanov's angular face as I stepped forward. “Please be seated.” Impossible as it seemed, his smile broadened. “You are an interesting man, Minister Eschbach. You arrive without a car and without an escort. That is the sign of a most confident man—or a most desperate one.”

  I laughed. “Some of each, I think. I'm very confident that we can put together something that will benefit both our countries, and strengthen Russia in dealing with Ferdinand.”

  “We do not need help—”

  I brushed off the disclaimer. “The Russian winter and the endless number of Russian peasants are useful only against massive attacks deepinto Russia. Ferdinand will never attack Russia in that way. He will nibble your borders away, and let you attack him, and that will allow him to use all of his weapons in self-defense. And when your armies are gone, destroyed to the last man, he will advance, perhaps a hundred versts, perhaps two hundred, and he will consolidate his gains, and then, in a generation, his successor will use similar tactics, just as Ferdinand's father did.”

  “The Imperial Rocket Corps?”

  “Even if you had a warhead as deadly as Ferdinand's nuclear devices, right now you don't have the roubles and the production capacity to produce enough of the Perun or what ever its successor may be. The arrangement I suggested will buy you time and provide hard currency from Columbia. Very hard currency that does not depend on politics. That currency can be used to strengthen whatever branch of the military the tzar wishes.”

  “And you can deliver this?”

  “I wouldn't be here if I couldn't.” And I'd make sure that Columbian Dutch Petro didn't welsh on their end of the deal, even if it meant using every political card and dirty trick I knew.

  “A most confident man.”

  “A man sent to put together a deal, not to make political points, or make large organizations happy.”

  “You are not giving this away.”

  “Absolutely not. I want three things.”

  Pyotr Romanov raised his bushy eyebrows, so at variance with his angular and almost reptilian face.

  “You want? What is to prevent us from taking what you offer?”

  “You might get the raw technical data, but you won't get the support that will make it easier, and you can't get the hard currency rolling in year after year without giving.” I smiled. “I can deliver the raw technical data within days. That's the token of good faith. That's what you show the tzar or whoever to prove you're getting.”

  “Not all that data will come to PetroRus.”

  “No. The environmental technology data goes to the Ministry of Interior and Director Vlasovich. You get the enhanced technology recovery equipment data—and whatever technical advice you need to make sense of it.”

  He nodded slowly. It wasn't a nod of agreement. “What are your three things?”

  “A signed agreement granting the Alaskan north-slope oil concession to Columbian Dutch Petroleum, along with an easement and the right to build a pipeline to our Northlands. That's the first. The second is even simpler. I want Viktor Yelensov—the director in the Imperial Rocket Corps—to be at the private concert where my wife is singing at the Winter Palace tomorrow, and I want a few minutes to talk to him alone there after the concert.”

  That definitely got a frown, as much of puzzlement as anything else.

  “And the third thing?” he asked.

  “Your word of honor that you will support the concession agreement so long as royalties are paid to PetroRus or whatever Russian entity is to receive them.”

  Romanov laughed. “Your third condition . . . is what Kulikovsky would call naive.”

  I laughed for a moment, then fixed my eyes on Romanov. “I don't think so. You're part of the longest existing royal lineage in the world, at least the longest with real power. If you choose to offer your word of honor, you and I both know that if you break it, you'll be the one to live with it. I'm not asking PetroRus. I'm asking you.”

  Romanov's next laugh was rueful. “You know the Russian code?”

  “I do.”

  “You are ten years older, perhaps more.”

  I smiled, and waited. He'd agree. He couldn't afford not to.

  “You realize I will have to escort Yelensov myself.”

  “I thought that was possible.”

  “Marshal Putin will not be pleased, nor will my cousin.”

  “The marshal would not risk angering the tzar for such a simple request. A concert and a reception in the Winter Palace for one of his more promising scientists and project leaders. And surely the tzar would not begrudge a few minutes.”

  “The marshal will complain later. So will my cousin.”

  “A meeting will cost neither you nor the tzar roubles. That part of the price is cheap. The marshal may complain, if he does not think it through. He also could use the increased revenues to the military.”

  “Why do you wish to talk to this Yelensov?”

  “Let us just say I need to see him in person, and let us say that he probably doesn't want to see me.”

  Romanov nodded. “Pardon me . . . but you know you cannot carry weapons into the Winter Palace?”

  “I brought no side arms, no weapons, even to Russia, and I won't have any on me tomorrow night. That would be stupid and more than foolish.”

  “That it would, and I do not think you are a foolish man, Minister Eschbach.” He smiled. “I will bring this . . . Yelensov to the concert for your meeting. That is my gesture of good faith, and you will bring the entire package of technical data to me on Monday.”

  “Agreed.”

  He stood, then smiled again. “It is still snowing. Would you be offended if I offered to have my limousine return you to your embassy?”

  I laughed as I also stood. “Scarcely. My driver seemed to have forgotten me. You are most gracious.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  He must have pressed a button, because the door opened, and the blonde young woman was there, with my coat, to escort me out and down to the garage.

  Romanov's limousine might have been a Volga, but it was twice the size of the embassy limousine—it seemed that way to me. It flew a flag on a jack staff set on each front fender—one flag being the Russian flag and the other the PetroRus flag, I thought.

  Riding back felt better than walking through cold streets in a city I barely knew, although I at least knew I could find my way back to the embassy.

  The driver stopped in front of the main embassy door and then came around and opened it for me, bowing.

  “Thank you very much.”

  His “You are welcome” was heavily accented, but far better than I could have done in Russian.

  Sudwerth practically came running after me as I walked through the business section of the embassy toward the guards that blocked the way to the rest of the embassy. I was ready to present my passport when he charged up.

  “Minister Eschbach! I didn't see the embassy car.”

  I turned and smiled ruefully. “Your driver didn't have a very good sense of direction. He let me off in some forsaken section of St. Petersburg, and then drove off. I haven't seen him since. Next time, I think I'll wait for Ola
f—or for you.”

  “We'd better go upstairs,” he said politely.

  I shrugged.

  Neither of us said anything until we were on the second floor.

  “My office is here.” He gestured.

  I entered, then turned. “You seem upset. What's the problem?”

  “The driver hasn't returned, and that was more than four hours ago.”

  “That's his problem,” I said tiredly. “I wasn't exactly pleased with him. I never could find either the address or Yelensov, and I ended up walking to my second appointment.”

  “Your second appointment?”

  “I finally got a meeting with Pyotr Romanov, the head of PetroRus.”

  Sudwerth's mouth almost opened, but he managed to keep a professional demeanor. “Congratulations.”

  “Not yet. It's looking favorable, but you can't count on things until they're actually completed.” I shrugged. “I should know in a few days.” I paused. “At least, I hope I will.”

  “About the driver?” Sudwerth said. “Where did he take you?”

  “I have no idea. It didn't look like what I thought Tolstoi Prospekt should look, but I don't read Cyrillic. He pointed to a building and said it was the place. I got out, and he was gone. So I went upand inside. It was an office of some sort. There was a clerk who wanted to know if I was there about bills of lading. I asked for a Mister Yelensov, and everyone just shook their head. One of them said I was in the wrong part of town and gave another address. I wasn't about to try to find it, not with another meeting. So I walked until I found a canal and followed it and finally got to the PetroRus building.”

  “And you had your meeting and walked back, I suppose?”

  “No. I had my meeting, and Prince Romanov loaned me the use of his limousine to bring me back, since my driver had obviously gotten lost. So I had to apologize for the embassy's incompetence.” I looked hard at Sudwerth. “I don't like apologizing for incompetence, Colonel.”

  “Perhaps if Commander Madley . . .”

  I just looked at him. “It's been a long day, and it would have been a waste if I'd had to rely on your man. I'm going to have dinner with my wife. Good evening, Colonel.”