“But—” Roland shut his mouth, visibly biting his tongue, as Miriam stared at him.
“I don’t think they were working together,” Miriam added after a brief pause. “That’s why I ... left.”
“I ought to get you to a safe house right now,” said Roland. “It’s what Angbard will expect. We can’t have random strangers trying to murder Clan heiresses. That they should have shot Olga is bad enough, but this goes far beyond anything I’d known about.” He glanced at her sharply. “It’s as if I’m being kept out of the loop deliberately.”
“Tell me about Olga?” Miriam asked. Well, we know just how reliable Angbard thinks you are. “How is she being looked after? What sort of treatment is she receiving?”
“Whoa! Slowly. Baron Oliver couldn’t afford to look as if he was ignoring an attack under his own roof—he personally got her across to an emergency room in New York, and notified the Duke while they stabilized her. Angbard had her moved to Boston Medical Center by helicopter once she was ready: She’s in a private room, under guard.” Roland looked mildly satisfied at her expression of surprise. “She’s got round-the-clock bodyguards and hot and cold running nurses. Angbard isn’t taking any chances with her safety. We could provide bodyguards for you, too, if you want—”
“Not an issue. But I want to visit Olga.” Miriam put her shoulder bag down on the bed. “Tonight.”
“You can’t. She’s stable, but that doesn’t mean she’s taking visitors. She’s on a drip and pain killers with a hole in one arm and a head injury. Shock and blood loss—it took us nearly two hours to get her to the emergency room. Maybe in a couple of days, when she’s feeling better, you can see her.”
“You said she had a head injury?”
“Yeah. The bad guy used a small-caliber popgun, that’s why she’s still alive.” He looked at her. “You carry—”
Miriam pulled out her pistol. “Like this?” she asked dryly. “Fuck it, Roland, if I was going to kill Olga, I wouldn’t mess around. You know damn well they were hoping to nail me instead.”
“I know, I know.” He looked irritated and gloomy. “It wasn’t you. Nobody with half a wit says it was you, and the fools that do don’t have any pull at court. But your departure set more tongues flapping than anything else that’s happened in years; a real scandal, say the idiots. Eloping with a lady-in-waiting, according to the more lurid imaginations. It doesn’t look good to them, the shooting coming so soon after.”
“Well, I don’t give a shit whether I look good or bad to the Clan.” Miriam stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What about my mother?” she asked.
“Your mother? Isn’t she alright?” He looked surprised. “Is she—”
“I went over there this morning. She phoned last night while I was away. Something about going on a long journey. Today there is a new back door in her kitchen, and a dead man’s body in the Dumpster behind her house, and not a sign of her to be found. I told Angbard that if anything happened to her, heads would roll, and I meant it.”
Roland sat down heavily in the room’s armchair. “Your mother?” His face was pale. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Miriam pursed her lips. “Would Angbard tell you if he was going to order her abducted?”
“Abducted—” Roland began to look worried. “Someone was shot on her doorstep?”
“You’re catching on. Someone was shot with a sawed-off shotgun. And she sure as hell didn’t stuff him into a Dumpster and repair the kitchen door before leaving, or mop up the blood stains. In case you didn’t know, she’s got multiple sclerosis. She’s in a wheelchair right now, and even when the disease is in remission she walks with crutches.”
Miriam watched him go through the stages of surprise, denial, anger, and alarm with gloomy satisfaction. “That doesn’t make sense!” he insisted. “Angbard put her under a protective watch! If someone had gotten through to her I would know about it!”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself.”
“But it can’t be!” He was vehement.
“Listen, I know a shotgun wound when I see one, Roland. I stuck my finger in it and waggled it about. You know something? It was sawed-off, either that or he was shot from at least fifty feet away, and I figure that would have attracted some attention. It makes a hell of a mess. Which ward is Olga in? I have got to go and see her. What the hell is Angbard playing at?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He’s not exactly been confiding in me lately.” Roland’s frown deepened.
Miriam took a deep breath. “I went over to my house,” she said quietly.
“Oh?” Roland looked slightly stunned, but it wasn’t the expression of a would-be murderer confronted by a surprisingly animated victim: He looked much the way she felt.
“Someone searched it efficiently. They left an, uh, surprise. Behind the front door. I’m not sure what kind except that it’s probably explosive and it’s wired to the handle. Only reason I’m here is I forgot my keys and had to use the back way in.”
“Oh shit—” He stood up, his hand going to his pocket instinctively. “You’re alright?”
“Not for want of somebody trying,” she said dryly. “Seems to me that we have a pattern. First, someone tries to kill me or mess with Olga. They then try harder to kill me and succeed in killing Olga’s chaperone. I shoot one killer and leave, taking Brill with me. Olga moves into my room at the palace and someone shoots her. Meanwhile, people who should know where I’ve gone don’t, and my mother vanishes, and everywhere I’m likely to go on this side starts I sprouting bombs. Can you tell me what kind of fucking pattern I am seeing here, Roland? Can you?”
“Someone is out to get you,” he said through gritted teeth. “More than one conspiracy, by the sound of it. And they’re getting Olga by mistake. Repeatedly. For some reason. And they’re lying to me, too. And Angbard is treating me as a potential security leak, keeping me in the dark and feeding me shit.”
“Right.” She nodded jerkily. “So what are we going to do about it?” She watched him like a hawk.
“I think—” He came to some decision, because he took a step toward her. “I think you’d better come with me. I’m going to take you to Angbard in person and we’ll sort out this out in person—he’s over here now, taking personal control. We can accommodate you at Fort Lofstrom, a fully doppelgangered apartment, round-the-clock guards—”
She pushed his hand away. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” He looked surprised.
“I can look after myself, thank you,” she said coolly. “I’m making arrangements. I’ll get this sorted out by Beltaigne. One last question. Do you have any idea who might be trying to kill me?”
“Lots of suspects with motives, but no evidence.” Puzzlement and worry mingled in his expression. For a moment he looked as if he was about to say something more, then he shook his head.
“Well then, that means I win because I do know roughly who’s trying to kill me,” she said, gloomily triumphant. “And I’m going to flush them from cover. Your clue is this: They’re not part of the Clan, and a doppelgangered house on the other side is no defense—but they can’t get at me while I’m here.”
“Miriam,” he rolled his eyes. “You’re being paranoid. I’ll get your mother’s house checked out immediately, but you’ll be a lot safer if we put a dozen armed bodyguards around you—”
“Safer from what? Safe from some blood feud that was ancient before I was born? Or safe from the idiots who think they’re going to inherit my mother’s estate if I can be declared incompetent next May, in front of a Clan council? Get real, Roland, the Clan is nearly as big a threat to my freedom as the world-walking assholes who shot Olga and booby-trapped the warehouse!”
“Booby-trapped—” his eyes widened.
“Yeah, a claymore mine on a tripwire in the doorway. And nobody cleared up the night watchman’s body. Do you begin to get it?” She began to back away toward the door. “Some
one set up the bomb, someone inside Angbard’s security operation! And,” she continued in a low voice, “you were in the right places at the right times.”
Roland looked angry. “Miriam, you can’t mean that!” He paced across the room restlessly. “Come on, look, let me sort everything out and it’ll be okay, won’t it? I’ll vet your guards—”
“Roland.” She shook her head, angry with him, angry with herself for wanting to give in and take him up on an offer that meant far more and went far further than words could express: “I’m gone. If you know where I’m going, the bad guys will find out—if you aren’t one of them.” She kept her hand in her pocket, just in case, but the idea of shooting him filled her with a numinous sense of horror.
He looked appalled. “Can’t we just... ?”
“Just what?” she cried. “Kiss and make up? Jesus, Roland, don’t be naive!”
“Shit.” He stared at her. “You really mean it.”
“I am going to walk out the door in a minute,” she said tensely, hating herself for her own determination, “and we are not going to see each other again until next May, probably. At least, not in the next few days or weeks. We both need time out. I need to get my head together and see if I can flush the bastards who’re trying to kill me. You need to think about who you are and who I am and where we’re going before we take this any further—and you need to find whoever’s wormed their way into Angbard’s confidence and whoever shot Olga.”
“I don’t care about Olga! I care about you,” he snapped.
“That is part of the problem I’ve got with you right now,” she said coldly, and headed for the door.
A thought occurred to her as she pulled the door open. “Roland?”
“Yes?” He sounded coldly angry.
“Tomorrow I’m going to get lost again, probably until Beltaigne. Keep checking your voice mail—there’s no need to hold this room any longer.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said quietly. She shut the door behind her and departed, her heart infinitely heavier than it had been when she arrived.
Ring ring. There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam sat hunched at one end of a bench.
“Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?”
“This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lofstrom is unavailable right now—”
“I said I’m Miriam. If you don’t know the name, check with someone who does. You have five minutes to get Angbard on the line before the shit hits the fan.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Please hold—”
beep beep beep
“Hello?” A different voice, not Angbard’s, came on the line.
“To whom am I speaking?” Miriam asked calmly.
“Matthias. And you are?”
“Miriam Beckstein. I want to talk to Angbard. Right now. This call has been logged by the front desk.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting. If—”
“If I don’t get him on the line right now I’ll make sure the Boston Globe receives a package that will blow your East Coast courier line wide open. You have sixty seconds.” Her fingers tensed on the handset.
“One moment.”
Click.
“Angbard here. What’s this?”
“It’s me,” said Miriam. “Sorry I had to strong-arm my way past your mandarins, but it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” She could almost hear the eyebrows rising. “I’ve never seen Matthias so disturbed since—well. Unpleasant events. What did you tell him?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Miriam leaned back, felt the cold bench bite through her coat, sat up straight again. “Listen. I told you something about my mother. That if anything happened to her I would be really pissed off.”
“Yes?” Polite interest colored Angbard’s voice.
“I’m really pissed off. Really, really pissed off.”
“What happened?” he demanded.
“She’s gone. There’s a dead man in the Dumpster behind her house, killed with a shotgun. She had time to phone me to say she was going on a journey—I don’t know if anyone was holding a gun to her head. Roland didn’t know this. Apparently it happened at the same time that Olga was shot. And my house has been burgled and stuff taken, and somebody booby-trapped the front door.”
“Come here immediately. Or if you tell me where you are I’ll send a carload of guards—”
“No, Angbard, that won’t work.” She swallowed. “Listen. I am about to vanish more deeply than last time. Don’t worry about Brilliana, she’s safe. What I want you to do ... look for my mother. By all means. Raise heaven and earth. I am going to visit Olga tomorrow and I do not expect to be stopped. If I don’t leave that meeting and reach a certain point, unhindered, later tomorrow, unpleasant letters will go in the mail. I am serious about this, I am pissed off, and I am establishing my own power base because I believe that civil war you told me about is not over and the faction who started it is trying to fire it up again, through me.”
“But Helge, that faction—” he sounded coldly angry—”they’re your father’s side of your family!”
“That’s not the faction I’m thinking of,” she said dryly. “The people I have in mind never signed on to the cease-fire. Listen, I will be in touch ahead of the Beltaigne conference. I’m going to have some really big surprises for you all, including ... well, anyone who tries to declare me incompetent is going to get a really nasty shock. I’m going to keep in touch through Roland, but he won’t know where I’m hiding. So, if you find my mother tell Roland. More to the point, don’t trust your staff. Someone is not telling you everything that happens in the field. I think you’ve got a mole.”
“Explain.” The terser he became the better Miriam felt.
She thought for a moment. Tell him about Roland? No, but... “Ask Roland about the warehouse warning I phoned him. Find out why instead of cleaners calling, someone turned up and booby-trapped the place. Looks like the same style as whoever planted the bomb behind the front door of my house. You didn’t know about that? Ask Matthias about the courier I intercepted on the train. Ask Olga about the previous assassination attempts. By the way, if I think her life is in danger, I reserve the right to move Olga somewhere safer. Once she’s out of immediate danger.”
“You’re asking for a blank check,” he said. “I’ve noticed the withdrawals. They’re big.”
“I’m setting up an import/export business.” Miriam took a deep breath. “I’ll announce it to the Clan at Beltaigne. By then, I should have a return on investment that will, um, justify your confidence in me.” Another deep breath. “I’d like another million dollars, though. That would make things run smoother.”
“Are you sure?” asked Angbard. He sounded almost amused, now.
“A million here, a million there, pretty soon you’re talking serious money. Yes, I’m sure. It’s a new investment opportunity in the family tradition. Like I said, I’m not setting up in competition—think of it as proof of concept for a whole new business area the Clan can move into. And a way of making Baron Oliver Hjorth and his backers look really stupid, if that interests you.”
“Well. If you insist, I’ll take your word for it.” He was using the indulgent paterfamilias voice again. “It’ll be in your account by the day after tomorrow. From central funds this time, not my own purse.” In a considerably icier tone: “Please don’t disappoint me in your investments. The Council has a very short way of dealing with embezzlement and not even your position would protect you.”
“Understood. One other thing, uncle.”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the other branch of the Clan? The one that accidentally got mislaid a couple of hundred years ago and is now blundering around in the dark trying to kill people?”
“The—” He paused. “Who told you about them?”
“Sleep well,” she told him, and hit the “off” button on her phone
with a considerable sense of satisfaction. She looked at the sky, saw night was pulling in already. It was time to go pick up Brill and visit the hospital. She hoped Olga would be able to talk to visitors. All she needed was confirmation of one little point and she could be on her way back to the far side, and the business empire she planned to establish.
Boston Medical Center was much like any other big general hospital, a maze of corridors and departments signposted in blue. Uniformed porters, clerical officers, maintenance staff, and lots of bewildered relatives buzzed about like a nest of bees. As they entered, Miriam murmured to Brill: “Usual drill, do what I do. Okay?”
“Okay.” They walked up to reception and Miriam smiled.
“Hi there, I’m wondering if it’s possible to visit a patient? An Olga, uh, Hjorth—”
The receptionist, bored, shoved hair up past her ear bug. “I’ll just check. Uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Miriam Beckstein. And a friend.”
“Yeah, they’re expecting you, go right up. You’ll find her on ward fourteen. Have a nice day!”
“This place smells strange,” Brill muttered as Miriam hunted for the elevators.
“It’s a hospital. Full of sick people, they use disinfectant to keep diseases down.”
“An infirmary?” Brill looked skeptical. “It doesn’t look like one to me!”
Miriam tried to imagine what an infirmary might look like in the Gruinmarkt, and failed. When were hospitals invented, anyway? she wondered irrelevantly as the elevator doors slid open, and a bunch of people came out. “Come on,” she said.
Ward fourteen was on the third floor, a long walk away. Brill kept glancing from side to side as they passed open doors, a hematology lab here, the vestibule of another ward there. Finally they found the front desk. “Hello?” said Miriam.
The Hidden Family Page 14