“Guh. Uh. Pa. Pat. Uh.” He was clearly trying to say something. Alerted, Olga leaned closer.
“Please, I ask you, try to speak slowly. Is it a person?”
“Uh!”
“Patricia?” It was the obvious name: his half sister, mother of Helge, the wayward wildcat orphan and loose cannon who called herself Miriam.
“Yuh.”
“Oh! Good. Do you want to see her?” That could be difficult. Like most of the Clan’s elders who were familiar with American culture, she’d vanished into a deep cover identity when the shit hit the fan, and trying to bring her over could draw attention to her.
“Nuh.”
“Alright.” Olga racked her mind for options. “Do you have a message for her? Or about her? Hang on, if it’s a message for her, blink once? About her, twice?”
One blink.
Olga sat up, heart hammering. He’s still inside there. A hot flush of relief washed over her: The idea that Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, had lost his mind had been too terrible to voice, or even think. Paralyzed, deathly sick, but still the will to control went on. . . . “Can you spell it out? One for no, two for yes?”
Blink-blink.
“Milady, he looks very weak to me—” The first-aider sounded worried.
“He’s the best judge of his condition,” she said sharply. “And if he has a message of such import, he must give it. Have you pen and paper?”
“Uh, yes, milady.”
“Then take a note.”
It took half an hour, but they extracted two sentences from the duke before the corpsman’s entreaties began to sway Olga. False starts and mistakes made it a frustrating process—but his words dispelled any remaining fear she had for his mind. Finally, she sighed and stood up. “I’ll see it gets to her,” she reassured the duke. “Tomorrow, we’ll get you to a proper hospital bed. I must go now.” She bowed and stepped back, then took the sheet of paper from the corps-man’s pad. “You heard nothing,” she warned him. “This must go no further. And the duke needs to rest now.”
“Milady.” He bowed as she left the room and hurried towards the improvised communications center downstairs.
Carl, Earl of Wu by Hjorth—and the commander of the small army currently encamped in the castle—looked up as she entered. By a miracle, Oliver, Earl Hjorth, was absent. “What news?”
“Nothing bad.” She hurried to his side at the map table. “He’s sleeping now,” she continued quietly, “but he’s very weak. The good news is, he has his senses. He gave me a message to relay to Patricia Thorold-Hjorth by any means necessary.”
“He’s talking? . . .” Carl’s fist clenched.
“Do not hope for too much. It took much work to say this much.” She passed him the note. “Please, send this by way of Earl Riordan. There is no way of knowing how long it will take to reach her, and I fear it may be urgent. I’d advise keeping it from Earl Oliver.”
“Alright.” Carl took the piece of paper and stared at it. “What does it mean?”
“You’ll find out,” Olga assured him. “In good time.”
TELL PATRICIA GIVE CLINIC RECORDS TO HELGE. GET HELGE IN FRONT OF COUNCIL. MY WORD, HER PLAN B ONLY WAY FORWARD NOW.
3
Wet Work
D
owntown Boston, in summer: humid and warm and smelly with truck exhaust fumes, rumbling and roaring from the nearby turnpike. A well-dressed woman in late middle age driving an electric wheelchair along the sidewalk, chatting to a young woman walking beside her—a daughter, perhaps, or carer. The security guard glanced away from his screen, uninterested. He didn’t notice them stop and turn abruptly to enter the lobby of the office suite he was supposed to be monitoring. Not that it would have made any difference. They didn’t look like the sort of people he was supposed to keep out, and their faces didn’t feature on any watch list of undesirables. Not that he’d have been able to keep them out, even if they did.
The woman in the wheelchair hummed towards the receptionist’s station. “Iris Beckstein, to see Dr. Darling. He’s expecting me.” She smiled at the secretary: the self-assured smile of the financially secure.
“Sure, sign in here. . . .”
The receptionist’s lack of interest was convenient, Iris noted; possibly the doctor had encouraged it, although if so, his overreliance on other security precautions was risky. Iris signed, and nodded, and waited while her companion signed. False names, one and all, but the false name she was using would be a red flag to the people who would, in due course, check the visitor book.
“This way, dear,” Iris told her companion, then scooted towards the elevators. Mhara nodded and followed obediently, keeping her mouth shut. Despite having a good understanding of the tongue, she’d spent little enough time in America that her accent was still heavy. Most folks would mistake her for an Eastern European immigrant, but Iris didn’t feel like taking risks around this office—especially in view of the contents of her bag. As the doors slid shut, Iris reached for the fourth floor button. “On my word—but not a moment sooner,” she said in hochsprache, the underused words heavy in her mouth.
“Yes, milady.”
“You are about to be exposed to some of our most perilous secrets. If they confuse or dismay you, you may speak to me about them in private—but they must go no further.”
They ascended the rest of the way in silence. The lift was unusually slow, and Iris spent the time trying to relax. Adrenaline makes fools of us all, she reminded herself, then blinked irritably as the elevator doors opened. Ah, well.
The office suite was surprisingly quiet for this time of day, a few people moving between card-key-locked doors clutching mugs and papers. Iris rolled along the corridor, following memorized directions, until she found the correct door. She reached up with a card, swiped it, and pushed through as the lock clicked open.
“Hey, you can’t come in—”
“Cover,” she said in hochsprache. “Hello, Griben. Sit down, please.” The door clicked shut behind Mhara as she felt the weight of an empty leather shoulder bag land on one of her chair’s handles.
Griben ven Hjalmar, plump and goateed, in a brown three-piece suit, sat down slowly, keeping his hands clearly visible. His face was expressionless. The other man sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk was frozen in surprise. “And Dr. Darling. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Mrs. Beckstein? What’s the”—Darling swallowed convulsively—“what’s going on?”
Iris smiled crookedly. “Griben, what a coincidence. I was just thinking about looking you up. What brings you here? Thinking about cleaning up some loose ends?”
Dr. Darling—lean, middle-aged, the picture of a successful gynecologist—was looking between ven Hjalmar, Iris, and the muzzle of Mhara’s silenced Glock in slack-jawed surmise. “You—you—”
“I’d like to thank you both for the little number you played on my daughter. It wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I suggested the arrangement.”
Ven Hjalmar flushed beneath the force of her glare. “What did you expect us to do?” he demanded. “She was under house arrest! With an execution warrant on her head! You wanted the leverage—”
“Nevertheless.” Iris shifted uncomfortably in her wheelchair. “This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.”
“Excuse me?” Three heads turned to stare at Dr. Darling. “What are you—”
“Griben, do you mind?” Iris asked casually, speaking hochsprache.
“If you absolutely must. I’d finished with him, anyway.”
“Did you get the disks from him?” she added.
“Of course.”
“What do you want?” demanded Darling.
In hochsprache: “Mhara, now.”
Outside the office, the two muffled shots would be mistaken for a door banging. Darling dropped forward across his desk, spilling blood and fatty tissue onto the keyboard of his PC.
Griben sighed. “Was that strictly necessary?”
�
�Yes,” Iris said shortly. She glanced round. Mhara was standing, frozen, her pistol angled slightly upwards and a confused look in her eyes. “Mhara? Child?”
The young woman shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She picked up the shoulder bag and carefully stowed her pistol inside, using hook-and-eye strips to secure it. “Never done that before.”
“You’ve attended executions, surely. . . .”
“Yes, milady. But it’s different when you do it yourself.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Iris reassured her. “Griben, he knew too damned much. Family Trade are on our tail and he’s not Outer Family or personal retainer. He had to go. You’ve got the disks. Mhara, the other device, please.”
“Other—oh.” Ven Hjalmar looked at the PC in distaste. “You don’t expect me to”—
“I surely do.” Iris held up a pair of latex gloves. “You’ll want these.”
None of them were particularly experienced at black-bag jobs; it took them nearly ten minutes to unscrew the casing of the PC and position the bulk eraser’s electromagnet above the hard disk drive. Finally, Iris hit the power switch. “Ah, good,” she said, as the disk error warning came up on the blood-specked screen. “Mhara, you see the filing cabinets yonder? You take the right one, Griben can take the middle, and I shall take the left. Start at the top and work down. You are looking for anything pertaining to Applied Genomics Corporation, the W-316 clinical trial, Angbard Lofstrom, Griben ven Hjalmar here, or adoption papers relating to children.”
“Adoption papers?” Mhara sounded confused.
“Legal documents,” Iris said blandly.
“Iris.” Griben looked worried. “This is going to take some time. What if someone—”
Iris snorted. “You have your locket, yes? I had the site prepared.”
“But we’re on the fourth floor!”
“So there’s a net. Try not to break your nose with your kneecaps. It’ll be harder for me if we have to take it, so let us start searching right away, no?” She levered herself out of her wheelchair and shuffled cautiously towards the wall of cabinets.
The office was overheated, and the smells of burned powder and spilled blood hung over them as they pored over the file drawers. After ten minutes Griben finally hit pay dirt. “He had a file on Applied Genomics,” he announced.
“Ah, excellent.” Iris gestured at her wheelchair. “In there.”
“Milady.” Mhara gestured politely at another drawer. “Is this important?”
Iris leaned over to look. “Well, how interesting.” She lifted the fat, spiral-bound document out of its hanger. “Names and addresses. It seems you’re not the only doctor who doesn’t trust computers to remember everything for you, Griben.”
“Dash it! We specifically told him not to do that!”
Iris sighed. “I ordered someone to black-bag his house this morning. His divorce came through nine months ago, so I think there is no need to trouble his ex-wife and children.” She frowned, pensive. “What have I forgotten?”
Griben nodded across the room. “I should check the bookcase. And the desk drawers. Just to be sure.”
“An excellent idea. Perhaps you’d like to see me out, afterwards?”
Ven Hjalmar raised an eyebrow. “Why—”
Iris nodded at Mhara. “She has other tasks.”
“Ah, jolly good.” He nodded. Mhara picked up the files and waited attentively as he scoured the bookcases and finally the desk drawers—working carefully around Dr. Darling’s body—then nodded again. “That’s all,” he announced. Darling’s desk was mostly for show; beyond the usual collection of stationery items, the pedestal unit was empty.
Iris shuffled back to her wheelchair. “Good. Mhara?”
“Milady.” She bobbed her head, holding the files two-handed.
“I want these files burned before we leave the building. Afterwards, make your way back to the house when you are ready.”
“Yes, milady.” Mhara smiled, a brief flash of expression crossing her face. Then she tilted her left wrist to expose the face of a wristwatch, and vanished.
“You’re sure about the net,” Griben said reflectively.
“She’s sure about it, and that’s what matters.” Iris lowered herself carefully into the wheelchair. “Mind you, she was there when I ordered its construction.”
A thoughtful pause, then: “I think I can see where your daughter gets it from.”
“Oh dear.” Iris whirred towards the door, then glanced over her shoulder with a fey expression. “Come on, Griben! We have a conspiracy to conceal and if you keep thinking about it we’ll be here until suppertime.”
They left the room with the conviction of a job well done, and no inkling of the significance of the encrypted memory stick attached to the key ring in the corpse’s coat pocket.
In a muddy field outside Concord, behind a sign declaring it to be a HISTORY FAIRE, the circus-sized tent was swarming with spooks.
Colonel Smith’s driver stopped outside the gate. A pair of police cars, their lights strobing, blocked the entrance; beyond the uniformed officers Smith could see parked buses and the tents of the forensic crews. Serious-looking officers in black windbreakers bearing the letters DEA paced around under the watchful eyes of guards in body armor and helmets. Casual rubberneckers might mistake them for a police SWAT team, but Smith was under no such illusion.
“Give me that badge.” Smith waited as the cop checked his name against a clipboard, carefully compared his face to the photograph, then nodded. “Go ahead, sir. HQ is the third tent on the left.”
“You heard him.” Smith leaned back and closed his eyes for a minute as his driver crept across the rutted ground. Too many vehicles had come this way too recently. A familiar drumming noise prompted him to open his eyes. Sure enough, a big helicopter was thuttering across the sky, descending towards the field. It’s not black; just very, very, dark gray. Smith suppressed a grin. What had happened at this site was no laughing matter. How the hell did they manage it? he asked himself as he opened the door and climbed out of the back of the car.
The mood in the headquarters tent was gray, too, as he discovered the moment he walked through the door. “Sir? How up to date are you?” Judith Herz, latterly of the FBI but currently answering to Smith, had been on-site when the shit hit the fan. Now she looked drained, hollows under her eyes from close to twenty-four hours supervising the site cleanup.
“I’ve been too busy fighting brushfires and keeping the press off your neck to track everything. Have you got time to give me a guided tour?”
Herz rubbed the side of her face then glanced at one of the men sitting in front of a rack of radios and laptop computers. “John, you want to take over for an hour? I need to bring the colonel up to speed.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” John—heavily built, wearing one of the ubiquitous DEA windbreakers, nodded briefly before turning back to his screen.
“This way, Colonel.” Herz gestured back to the front awning of the tent. “Let me show you what we found.”
Forensics had already finished with the big top before Herz beckoned Smith past the incident tape and into the open space within. Smith glanced around curiously. Like any big top, its roof was held up by a pair of huge posts. But the resemblance stopped at that point; there were no seats, no trapezes or safety nets, and nothing in this particular ring could be described as a laughing matter.
“It’s a regular headquarters setup, we think,” Herz commented as she walked towards a row of tables at one side of the huge tent. “Look.” The tables showed every sign of having been abandoned in a hurry: folding chairs tipped over, equipment crates lying on their sides. One of the tables was covered completely by a large relief map, various implements strewn across it—notepads, pens, protractors, and folded pieces of card.
“Pay dirt,” breathed Smith. He paused momentarily. “Has it been checked out?”
“Everything’s been photographed in situ. I think they even dusted for fingerprints,
just in case.”
“Gotcha.” Smith leaned over the map. It didn’t take much to recognize the foothills, and the river valley forking downstream. But there was something odd about the map. He frowned. “Concord should be here, shouldn’t it?”
Herz followed the direction of his finger. “I guess so.”
“Hmm. Look.” The moving finger trailed south. A much smaller clump of buildings perched beside the river, surrounded by a sharply incised wall. “This is printed. It’s even got grid coordinates. Betcha they bought the map data from someone over here, in our world, then added their own survey points. Saves time, assuming the geography’s the same, and I guess they would know about any major features like landslides.”
Herz shook her head. “You mean this is a map of, of fairyland.”
“It’s not fairyland,” Smith said sharply. “It’s real enough that they can make a map of it like this, and plan . . .”
He paused, then peered back at the map. Hunting upstream of the small town, at the fork in the river, he found what he was looking for. “Go get one of our maps. I want to confirm that this is where we are,” he said, moving one of the cardboard markers to sit atop the heptagonal feature he’d noticed. “They were here for a reason, and I want to know what they were doing that took nearly two hundred of the bastards.”
He straightened up and looked around. There were more tables dotted around, and a stack of empty kit bags, but the center of the tent was dominated by a two-story-high aluminum scaffold with ramps and ladders leading up to platforms on both upper floors. Surveyor’s posts and reflector disks fastened to the uprights, and a pair of theodolites at opposite sides of the tent, made it clear that whoever had built the scaffold had taken pains over its exact location. Smith frowned, thoughtful. Nearly two hundred of them and they vanished into thin air in less than three minutes. How did they avoid falling over each other? A precision operation, like paratroops jumping in quick succession from the back of a plane. And why did they do it out in public, risking detection? It had to be something to do with this location, and whatever it was collocated with in the other time line.
The Revolution Business Page 7
