Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “As little disruption as possible—double or nothing is the way to go.” He shrugged. “I have great faith in you, Johan. So does your Minister Jerome, and quite a few others. The problem is that you solve problems, shall we say, in a rather unique way. On behalf of our … group, as you put it, I would like this solution confined to the recovery of your lovely bride.” He nodded toward the not-so-thin leather case I held. “That will help us all.”

  Both my ghosts—and I—sensed that Dietre was telling the truth, and that scared me.

  “And, by the way, I suspect that in the group that will contact you is someone who was tied into the unfortunate attempt in New Bruges. I don’t know who that might be, but it doesn’t make sense any other way.”

  The more I heard, the less I liked it.

  “Now … our group did agree to pass a message to you. We’re still playing both sides of the fence, much as I would prefer otherwise. You’re to take a walk through the Temple grounds between one and one-thirty. Thirteen hundred Republic military time.” He laughed at that reminder.

  I didn’t.

  “You’ll be contacted. You won’t recognize whoever it is. I wouldn’t either.” With a broad smile he rose and said loudly enough for his voice to carry, “Give your lovely wife my congratulations, Minister Eschbach!”

  “Thank you. Best wishes on your new venture.” I stood as he left.

  The Danites watched, but that was all.

  I sat and took a sip of chocolate and several bites more of the breakfast I really didn’t taste before opening the folder.

  The thick file contained detailed engineering drawings—from what I could tell—for the stage III synthfuels plants, the materials specifications, and the highly proprietary information on the Saint catalysts. I closed the leather folder casually, and for a time I sat there forcing myself to eat and sipping chocolate, trying to sort it through.

  Dietre was one of Maurice-Huizinga’s top operatives. Some of what he said was false as a lead schilling—like the business of not involving families. Maurice-Huizinga had effectively held poor Miranda Miller’s son hostage to get Miranda to spy on me and Llysette on behalf of New France. So I couldn’t believe that somehow they had a soft spot for families or Llysette.

  Yet if what he’d said were true and the plans and specifications were accurate, it meant that my first assumptions had been correct, that Llysette had been taken by agents of the Revealed Twelve.

  Why the synthfuels specifications, specifications for which Reilly and his staff would have sacrificed dozens of operatives? Dietre, or, more precisely, Maurice-Huizinga, wanted something, and Dietre had said double or nothing. Then, Dietre had referred to “the unfortunate attempt in New Bruges.” “The”—as in singular—and that meant, first, he only knew of one and, second, New France hadn’t been involved in either. There was a possibility, as always, that he was lying, but, again, I didn’t see much point in a lie on that point, although I’d have probably been hard-pressed to explain why.

  After a time, I nodded to myself. Double or nothing. If I managed to pull it off, somehow, and I didn’t have more than the vaguest idea of what was involved, then Columbia would have the plans that represented years of trial and error engineering based on the original Austrian research—effectively reducing over time the Saint energy and chemical monopoly.

  If I didn’t pull it off, I’d be dead, probably linked to spying to devastate the Saints’ energy industry, with chances of Columbia getting energy supplies from Deseret close to nil for another decade—or longer.

  For all that, Dietre’s efforts were weighted toward helping me. Why? Altruism wasn’t exactly the watchword of New France, and the sale of Deseret oils to Columbia would probably deprive someone else.

  I took another sip of cold chocolate and checked my watch—still only slightly past nine-thirty. Then I swallowed. How had Dietre known I’d been in The Refuge? I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  That just illustrated how unclear everything was. How was Llysette’s kidnapping tied into what had to be domestic Deseret politics? How would helping me resolve the problem, with a bonus of sorts, and benefit New France?

  I smiled grimly. By playing messenger to the schismatics, Dietre was implying New French support, and he could build on that if they won. By assisting me, if I managed to turn the tables on the schismatics, he was implying support for Columbia and the established Deseret government. His connections to the loser would never come out.

  Equally important, someone had figured out that stiff-necked Columbia hated to be in anyone’s debt. But Columbia couldn’t afford not to build some synthfuels plants, and Ferdinand would certainly not be pleased to see them because it would eventually reduce the effect of his control of the Arabian peninsula oil, and the Austrians planned far into the future. That was exactly how they’d taken Europe and were taking over the Mid-East.

  I signed the check and stood. I had a meeting in an hour and a half and then a rendezvous. I wasn’t looking forward to either.

  The lobby smelled of perfume, an unfamiliar brand, as I crossed to the elevators. The concierge offered a brief smile.

  Up in the performing suite, I made more preparations, ensuring the scanproof dart gun was ready and that the blade was easily reachable. Brother Hansen arrived at closer to ten-thirty, accompanied by two policemen in uniform and another man in a conservative brown suit.

  “Minister Eschbach.”

  “Brother Hansen. Have you discovered anything?”

  “No. Have you been contacted?”

  “Indirectly.” I glanced toward the door. “I thought Counselor Cannon would be here.”

  “Counselor Cannon and Second Counselor Kimball are scheduled to meet us at eleven.”

  “I’d prefer not to explain it all twice.”

  “As you wish.” Hansen glanced toward the bedroom door, half-ajar. “Do you mind if we look around? There might be some … indications.”

  “Be my guest.” Nothing I’d put in my suitcase looked terribly suspicious, and anyone who would recognize certain items should know that I was going to need them. I hoped they wouldn’t be foolish enough to make an issue out of them.

  I made some of the powdered chocolate and sipped it slowly as they wandered through the suite. The chocolate was so bad I had to sip it. I couldn’t have gotten it down any other way.

  Hansen stepped over several minutes into their search. “Your wife is dark-haired, is she not? With long hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s likely these are her hairs, and we’ll be taking what we can find just in case.”

  “Fine.” I didn’t want to discuss the implications of “just in case.”

  Besides the hair, they found nothing—nothing that they wanted to talk about, at least—and that was fine with me. Close to eleven, the four gathered in the sitting room. Hansen looked at his watch. “Counselor Cannon and Second Counselor Kimball should be here before long.”

  Unlike the audiences at the Salt Palace performing complex, the two counselors were punctual. They came into the suite unaccompanied, but I saw at least two Danites or other plainclothes security types station themselves in the corridor outside.

  Cannon looked at Hansen’s three subordinates. Hansen nodded, and they bowed and left.

  The four of us sat around the small table.

  “Minister Eschbach,” Cannon said sonorously and with concern dripping from his voice, “I deeply regret this unfortunate situation, and I want you to know that we will do whatever is necessary to ensure your wife’s safety.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, we have little to go on.” His eyes went to Hansen. “Have you anything to add, Brother Hansen?”

  “We have some indications that the kidnappers had scouted the complex earlier. We also have confirmed that the Browning they used was stolen. It was recovered early this morning near Point of the Mountain. We have recovered several strands of dark hair that may match samples we’ve taken from here.”

&n
bsp; “Are there any other signs?” asked Counselor Kimball.

  “Nothing that the forensics people are willing to talk about yet,” Hansen said. “Would you have been in the dressing room with your wife normally?”

  “Probably.” I shrugged. “Probably. She wasn’t too interested in listening to me talk about water reuse treatment systems, and she was tired. I usually help her after she performs.”

  “So, based on your actions of the first two nights of the concerts, the kidnappers would have expected you to be there?” pressed Hansen.

  “Probably.”

  “Is there anything else that might lend support to the idea they were after you? Besides the note itself?”

  The three looked at me.

  “I’ve already had a message,” I said, cradling the empty chocolate cup for lack of anything better to do with my hands.

  “The gentleman who visited you at breakfast?” asked Hansen.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was an intermediary—just told to tell me where I should be to be contacted.” I waited. “On the Temple grounds early this afternoon.”

  “That would make sense,” mused Hansen. “The grounds and the park are crowded then. Did he say anything else?”

  “He said that Llysette gave an exceptional concert.”

  “Nothing else?” pressed Hansen.

  “He said to congratulate her, and that he was sorry to have been contacted as an intermediary for such a sorry situation—or words to that effect.”

  “Dietre Treholme,” Hansen said crisply. “He’s supposedly the accredited FrancoPetEx representative here. He knew you personally, Minister Eschbach. From old times, I take it.”

  “I have met him before. FrancoPetEx has operations in Columbia, and they had environmental concerns.” All of that was true.

  “He’s the chief operative of the New French intelligence service here.”

  “I can imagine that,” I answered. “He’s always seemed mysterious, and he did hint that his organization had nothing to do with Llysette’s disappearance, but I couldn’t imagine that the state oil company would, energy politics or not.”

  Counselor Cannon cleared his throat softly. Hansen paused.

  “Bishop Hansen, do we have any indication that this Dietre Treholme is acting as anything other than an intermediary?” The First Counselor’s eyes remained warm, interested.

  “No, sir.”

  “The note said they did not want your wife, Minister Eschbach,” interjected the Second Counselor. “That would mean they want you for some reason or another.”

  “Either that,” I answered, “or they want me to do something. Or obtain something.”

  “What might that be?” asked Kimball.

  That had me stumped. I wasn’t about to discuss ghosting and de-ghosting technology, and I hadn’t the faintest idea what else they might want.

  “Embarrassment,” suggested the First Counselor. “If we cannot protect visiting artists and government officials in our own capital, how can Deseret be trusted to keep other agreements?”

  “How can we claim … ,” began Kimball, but stopped as Cannon eyed him.

  “Exactly,” said Cannon quietly.

  I got the message anyway. The problem with being a theocracy is that if too many bad things happen, either God has turned away or the leaders have turned from God.

  “The Revealed Twelve?” I asked, stirring the pot a little.

  Kimball’s face twisted. Hansen offered a frigid poker face.

  “What do you know about the so-called Revealed Twelve, Minister Eschbach?” asked Cannon.

  “Very little except that they exist. I’ve read some news clippings that suggest you’ve been waging a covert war or opposition to the group.” I picked up the empty cup again.

  “You are well-informed. I would not expect otherwise,” answered Cannon dryly, so dryly it was clear he’d been well briefed on my background. “And, yes, if this effort is the creation of the Revealed Twelve, and if it succeeds, it will cause a certain … reassessment of the policies of the First Presidency. Such a reassessment would not be in the interests of Columbia, I must admit.”

  “I had already come to that conclusion. That means I have to do what they want, especially until they release Llysette.”

  “We cannot accept the schismatics’ terms,” announced Hansen.

  “I do not believe that was precisely what Doktor Eschbach proposed,” said Cannon quietly.

  What had I proposed? Had I proposed anything, really, except getting Llysette back? My head ached, still, I realized, and my thoughts were fuzzy. Fine secret agent and spy I was, letting my own wife get kidnapped out of her own dressing room.

  “I want my wife back, safe and unharmed. So do you,” I finally managed..

  Hansen frowned. “We want the schismatics. Or whoever did this.”

  I had to look at Cannon. He nodded cherubically, and that meant I got to explain.

  “You’ve trumpeted to the world that Deseret is a cultural capital, and that it is a modern city. Exactly how are you going to explain to the world that a world-class diva has been abducted by a group of religious extremists? And if you try to hush it up, how will you explain the disappearance of a Columbian Subminister for Environmental Protection and his wife, a world-class diva?” I waited.

  Hansen still looked blank.

  “That plays into their hands. You give Columbia an excuse to make demands you can’t or don’t want to meet. Then they divert all the headwaters of the Colorado into their Aspinall tunnel project, citing the fact that you broke the Reciprocity Agreement. The schismatic group then has you on two counts—you aren’t following the Prophet, and you’re bringing harm to Deseret.”

  Kimball turned to the First Counselor. Cannon nodded. “Doktor Eschbach has a point there. What do you suggest, Doktor?”

  I swallowed. “Let me do what they think they want.”

  “Why?”

  In for a penny, in for a sovereign. I swallowed. “Right now, you have a missing diva. If I can work a trade for her …”

  “Who are you trading?” asked Kimball.

  “Me.” I’d thought that was obvious, but maybe it wasn’t in a society that still clung to polygamy. Or maybe it was just Kimball.

  “What is our advantage there?” asked Cannon quietly. “We still have a prominent Columbian in the hands of a … radical organization.”

  “If something happens to a singer, it’s an outrage,” I pointed out. “If something happens to a former official of a powerful neighbor, who in Deseret can fault you for taking whatever steps are necessary to bring the malefactors to justice?”

  Even Kimball nodded.

  “You seem anxious to do this,” said Hansen.

  “I’m not looking forward to putting myself in the hands of a bunch of religious screwballs.” Especially screwballs funded by either Ferdinand or someone else. “But I’d rather act sooner than later.”

  Cannon smiled almost benevolently. The smile vanished with my next words.

  “I’ll also need a solid briefing on the Prophet and where you feel that the schismatics diverged from his teaching or whatever.”

  Cannon winced at the term “or whatever,” but his face smoothed over.

  “What does doctrine have to do with it?” asked Hansen.

  “With fanatics, doctrine is everything,” I answered. “The last thing I want is to say the wrong thing and push the wrong button. It also might give me some insight.”

  “Minister Eschbach seems determined to meet their demands. What do you want me to do?” Hansen’s voice did not quite conceal a bitterness.

  “Wait to see how matters develop,” suggested Cannon. “Offer Minister Eschbach the support he needs.”

  And above all, I reflected, keep things quiet. But that seemed to be understood in the Saint culture. No one was going to be happy with the solution, no matter what First Counselor Cannon said.

  I turned to Hansen.
“I’d appreciate it if you would get together all the condensed and direct quotes of a theological nature from your first two prophets—and the current codified doctrine, or whatever you call it. I’ll need it by the time I get back.”

  “How do you know you’ll come back?” asked Hansen.

  “I don’t, but I have to plan as though I will.” I forced the smile. “I need to get ready.” I also wanted time to think.

  After a nod from the First Counselor, the other three stood.

  “Good luck,” offered Counselor Cannon warmly as he left. “Please let us know if there is any way in which we can assist.”

  “I will.” I hoped I wouldn’t have to ask Cannon for anything, but I wasn’t burning bridges I might have to cross. He’d probably give me what I needed. After all, it was clear by his presence that a satisfactory resolution was important to him. I had the feeling that our definitions of satisfactory might differ considerably.

  I left the suite not much after the dignitaries, taking too-long strides toward the Temple area and trying to breathe deeply and maintain some semblance of relaxation. While I carried a number of items that Brother Hansen might not have approved of, I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them.

  The faint odor of late fall, molding leaves, a mustiness, ebbed and rose around me in the intermittent wind.

  Despite the partly overcast skies, the Temple park was filled with families and a large number of young couples. Were such family outings where young Saints met? Or, like all young adults, were they just taking advantage of the opportunities?

  To my right, a slender dark-haired girl in a dark blue wool coat, braided hair swinging slightly, looked down at the stones of the walk when a sandy-haired youth murmured something. She raised those green eyes, and he flushed slightly. Would Llysette and I have been like those two, had we been raised in Deseret?

  After a half hour or so, while I loitered reading the week’s concert program posted outside the Assembly Hall, a heavyset and bearded man in a checked brown suit that had gone out of fashion a half-century before even in Deseret eased up beside me and peered at the program.

  “Minister Eschbach, if you wish to see your wife again, please follow me down South Temple. Keep walking until you are picked up.”