“But if they—”
Someone was jogging down the track, waving. Miriam focused, swallowing bile. It was Brill. She didn’t look happy.
“Wait here.” Olga’s door opened; before Miriam could say anything, she was heading towards Brill. After a brief exchange, Brill turned and headed back up the path. Olga returned to the Explorer. “She says it’s safe to proceed to the shack, but there’s a problem.” Her lips were drawn tight with worry.
“You’d better go,” Riordan added. “We’re on a timetable here.”
“We’re—” Oh. Miriam put the SUV in gear and began to crawl forward. It’s an evacuation plan; they’ve got to figure on hostiles blowing it sooner or later, so … She’d seen enough of the Clan’s security machinations in action to guess how it went. Wherever they were evacuating through, the safe house—shack?—would be anything but safe to someone arriving after the cutoff time.
The track curved around a stand of trees, then down an embankment and around another clump to terminate in a clearing. At one side of the clearing stood a windowless shack, its wooden slats bleached silvery gray by the weather. Brilliana stood in front of the padlocked door, white-faced, her P90 at the ready in clenched hands. “Park here,” said Olga, opening her door again.
Miriam parked, then climbed down from the cab. “Where’s Alasdair?” she asked, approaching Brill.
Brill shook slightly. “Milady, he’s gone across already. Please don’t go there—” But Miriam had already seen what was round the side of the shack.
“What happened?” she demanded. “Who are they?” Riordan had also seen; he knelt by the nearer of the two bodies, examining it. Lying facedown, dressed in hunting camouflage jacket and trousers, they might have been asleep. Miriam stared at Riordan, then back at Brill. “What happened?” she repeated.
“They were waiting for us.” Brill’s voice was robotic, unnaturally controlled. “They were not the guards we expected to see. That one”—Riordan was straightening up—“I recognized him. He worked for Henryk.”
Riordan was holding something at arm’s length. As he came closer, Miriam recognized it. “Silenced,” Riordan told her, his voice overcontrolled as he ejected the magazine and worked the slide to remove the chambered round. “An assassin’s weapon.”
Brill nodded, her face frozen; but something in the set of her shoulders unwound, slumping infinitesimally.
“Oh my god.” Miriam felt her knees going weak. “What’s Sir Alasdair walking into?”
“I don’t know.” Brill took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. Don’t worry, my lady, he’ll try to save one of them for questioning.”
Miriam shivered. Her sense of dread intensified: not for herself, but for Alasdair. The man-mountain had already saved her life at least once; deceptively big and slow, he could move like an avalanche when needs must. “What are they doing here?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say the conservatives think they’re inside our OODA loop.” Olga looked extremely unhappy. “This has to have been planned well in advance. My lady, I beg your indulgence, but would you mind waiting in the truck? It has been modified—there is some lightweight armor—it would set my mind at ease.”
“Really?” Miriam fought back the urge to scream with frustration.
“Lady Olga, allow me.” Brill touched Miriam’s arm. “Walk with me.”
Brill led Miriam back up the track, just beyond the bend.
“What’s going to—”
Brill cut across her, her voice thick with tension. “Listen, my lady. In a couple of minutes, two of us—I would guess the earl and myself—will have to cross over, piggyback. If the map is truthful, if Sir Alasdair has been successful at his task, I will return. Then Lady Olga will have to carry you across, while the returnee recovers their wits. If I don’t come back you should assume that we are both dead and that before we died we betrayed your presence here to your enemies. In which case you and Lady Olga must drive like hell then go to ground and lose yourselves as thoroughly as you can imagine. Because if Earl-Major Riordan is dead or captured, our enemies will have accomplished their end, and all they need you for is to bring the heir to term and then … they won’t need you anymore. Do you understand? Do you understand?”
Brill’s grip on her wrist was painful. Miriam nodded, jerkily. “How long?” she managed.
“About … hmm. No more than five minutes.” Brilliana’s lips quirked. “If Sir Alasdair ran into trouble and we can’t fix it, we’ll come back. No false heroics. So you see? If I don’t come back soon, it’s because I can’t.”
“You could be walking into an ambush.” Her heart was going too fast, Miriam realized distantly.
“We could but we won’t.” Brill nodded her head at the uphill slope. “What do you think that is?”
“That’s a—” Miriam stopped. “Oh. Clever.”
“Yes.” The ground level in the Gruinmarkt didn’t always match the level in this world. World-walking tended not to go too well if the world-walker arrived several meters above ground level; and it didn’t work at all if they tried to cross over inside a solid object. “The shack is the primary location, but there’s a secret secondary. At the crest of the ramp, step off the track to the left, about six feet, then cross over. There’s an outhouse, and you come out at roof level with a clear field of fire.” Brill hefted her gun. “Listen, go back to the truck and wait with Lady Olga.” She smiled diffidently: “It will work out, you see.”
* * *
Near a small town in Pennsylvania, six miles north of Camp David, Highway 16 runs through rolling hills and open woodland, past the foot of a low mountain called Raven Rock.
A casual visitor turning off the highway onto Harbaugh Valley Road wouldn’t see much: a wire mesh fence and a narrow track off to one side, and a sign warning of a restricted area. But if they drove up the road a couple of miles it would be another story—assuming the armed guards didn’t stop them first. Tucked away behind the trees on top of the mountain there was a huge array of satellite dishes and radio masts. And beneath the ground, buried under many meters of bedrock, lay the Raven Rock Mountain Complex, home of the Alternative National Military Command Center, the 114th Signal Battalion, and the emergency operations centers for the army, navy, air force, joint staff, and secretary of defense.
Of course, a casual visitor wouldn’t have seen the visitors arriving in the back of unmarked black Lincoln Town Cars with smoked windows, that sat oddly low on their suspension. They wouldn’t have seen the thick steel doors that opened inside the low, windowless buildings, or the downward-sloping tunnel that cut into the ground, or the elevators and cranes and the blast doors set into the side of the tunnel. Indeed, there was no such thing as a casual visitor at the concrete-and-steel-lined installation embedded in the ground beneath the motel and golf club buildings.
Welcome to the Undisclosed Location.
In a compact, brightly lit conference room ninety feet below the ground, the vice president sat with his advisors, watching television. They had a lot of television to watch; a rack of six sets covered half a wall, flicking through channels on a twenty-second cycle. Bloomberg, CNN, Fox News, and C-SPAN played tag with the Cartoon Network and Discovery Channel on four monitors; two others were permanently tuned to NBC and the view from a traffic camera overlooking a street intersection in Dupont Circle.
The vice president leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms, and glanced at the skinny Yalie with his lapel-pin crucifix and rimless spectacles. “This is the boring part,” he confided. “We used to come down here and game these scenarios every month or so during the nineties, you know. All weekend long. Used to be the Russkies on the other side, or the Iranians. They’d set up their opening move, we’d set up our response, and then we’d see how it all played out, whether or not we locate and kill the threat before it activates, which branch of the crisis algorithm we go down. The trouser legs of terror.” He chuckled, a throaty laugh that terminated in a bubbling cough. “So
. Do you think they’re bluffing?”
Dr. Andrew James glanced past his boss, at the empty chair where State’s assistant secretary ought to be sitting if this session wasn’t classified FAMILY TRADE–only. “I couldn’t say for sure, sir, but that phone call sounded promising.” He gestured at the desk telephone in front of him, beige and stuffed with buttons with obscure labels that only made sense to the NSA eggheads who designed these gadgets. “The call terminated promptly.”
“Good,” WARBUCKS said vehemently. “Gutless bastards.”
“We don’t know for sure that it terminated as intended, sir,” James warned. “The adversary’s INFOSEC is pretty good for an amateur operation, and the bugging transcript from contact FLEMING indicates at least one of them was concerned about the bait phone.”
“They got the message, either way. Bart, is there any noise on the Continuity side?”
“Nothing new, sir.” Bart, a graying DISA apparatchik, was hunched over a laptop with a trailing cable patched into a wall jack—a SIPRNet connection. “They’re all just standing by. SECDEF is aboard KNEECAP on the ramp at Andrews AFB, standing by for JEEP with short-notice takeoff clearance. BOY WONDER is in the EOB as usual. Uh, message from SECDEF. He wants to know if you’ve got an update.”
“Tell him no”—WARBUCKS stared at the wall of televisions, then reached behind his left ear to adjust the multichannel earpiece—“but if they don’t send us a message within the next twenty-four hours I think they’re probably going to fold. I just want him where—want backup. This could go wrong.”
Dr. James’s BlackBerry buzzed for attention. Glancing down at its screen, he froze. “Sir.”
“Speak.”
“SIGTRADE just issued a RED FLASH—some kind of coded signal. It’s running through their network—” The machine buzzed again. “Uh, right. Something is going on. Post six reports surveillance subjects all just freaked. They’re moving, and it’s sudden.”
WARBUCKS closed his eyes. “Round ’em up, then. That’s plan—which plan—”
Another aide riffled hastily through a ring binder. “Would that be HEAD CRASH, sir? Track and disable immediate, then hood and ship?”
“That’s the one.” WARBUCKS nodded. “Send it,” he told Bart. “And tell them I want hourly head counts and updates on everything—misses as well as arrests.”
* * *
In private, behind locked doors, the discussion took a different shape.
“Sit down, Jim. Have a whisky?”
“Yes, please.” James Lee settled into the overstuffed armchair and waited while his father—Elder Huan’s nephew Shen—filled two crystal tumblers from a hip flask and ensconced himself in the room’s other armchair. His den was furnished in conventional Western style, free of exotic affectations or imported reminders of the Middle Empire here; just two overstuffed armchairs, a battered mahogany bureau from the inventory of a retired ship’s captain, and a wall of pigeonholes and index files. The Lee family’s decidedly schizophrenic relationship with New Britain was tilted to the Occident, here; but then, Dad had always been a bit of an Anglophile. “How’s Mother keeping? And Angelina? I haven’t seen them lately—”
“Neither have I, Jim. We write, regularly—Xian says all is well and they’re enjoying the peace in the summer house near Nan Shang.” Nan Shang in what would be California, two worlds over—or the Middle Empire in the world where the eastern seaboard belonged to the marcher kingdoms. With the fiscal crisis in full flow, and latterly the riots and disorder, many of the family’s elders had deemed it prudent to send their dependents away to safety. While the Lee extended family were nothing like as prominent in the West as the six Eastern families had become in the East, their country estates were nevertheless palatial. “The postal service is still working. Do you want me to—”
“No, I’m sorry, Father. Just curious. You wanted a chat?”
“Yes.” His father was silent for a few seconds. Then: “What is your opinion of the doctor? Did you have an opportunity to form an opinion of him during your stay with the cousins?” During the six months during which James had been a pampered hostage.
“I didn’t know him well, Father. But—you want my honest opinion? He’s a worm. A most dangerous, slimy, treacherous worm.”
“Strong words.” The lightness of his father’s tone was belied by his sour face. “Do you have reason for it?”
“I believe so. I don’t think he told Eldest any outright untruths, but nothing he said was quite right, either. He was telling the truth when he said he was the personal physician to many of the Eastern cousins’ womenfolk, but he was also … not as put-upon as he would have you believe. He said he earned the undying hatred of the woman Helge—and he was telling the truth there, too. But Helge didn’t impress me as being anybody’s fool. She’s neither naive nor stupid, and when we had time to talk—there’s something unpleasant underneath this excess of servility on his part, Father. I can’t tell you precisely what he’s hiding, but he’s hiding something.”
“That much was obvious from his performance.” Shen took a sip of whisky. “I don’t think Mei is serious about finding him a wife—unless she means to set the Widow Ting on him.” James flinched; avoiding cousin Ting and her dangerous games had been one of his wiser moves. “I gather she’s itching to marry again. That would make … three? Four? No matter. It is perfectly clear that the doctor is as twisty as a hangman’s noose. What your uncle would like to know is—can he deliver what he offered?”
“I don’t know.” James paused. “You may know more than I, Father. Is it true that Helge is with child?”
For a long moment his father stared into his tumbler. “It might be so.”
“Because.” James licked his lips. “Before the Per—before the youngest son’s rebellion, she was held prisoner and securely chaperoned. And I met the heir to whom she was betrothed. He wasn’t going to do any begetting on her. There was unsavory whispering about some of ven Hjalmar’s works, among the servants I cultivated. Some said that the man was an abortionist. Others accused him of drugging and raping noblewomen—a story I find incredible, under the circumstances described. What is true is that the Clan’s ladies, whom he served, made use of a hospital or clinic in the United States, which he helped run. I know that much. And Helge was leashed for poking her nose into some business that sounds very like this baby clinic he offered to elder Yuan. So: I believe he is mostly telling the truth—again, only mostly.”
“What do you think he plans?”
“What he—” James stopped. “You can’t be thinking of working with him! He’s a viper. He’s stung two masters already, why would he stop short of making it three? It’s in his nature!”
“Calm down, boy, I’m not making that decision!”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“That is good. Don’t worry unduly—we trust him no more than you do. But we need to have some idea of his goals before we can decide whether to make use of him or not. If he can deliver what he offers—perhaps as many as five hundred world-walkers within ten years—that is a matter of enormous significance! We would not have to worry about the Eastern cousins after that. It would open up new business possibilities, ways of making ourselves useful to those in authority—whoever they may be, when the current incivility dies down—new blood in our thinning arteries. Can he do it? That is what my brother asks. If he can, then we can use him: tie him down, shadow his work, and eventually take it over. But if he’s a mere charlatan”—Shen made a dismissive gesture, casting the shadow of ven Hjalmar over his left shoulder—“we know how to deal with that, too.”
James tried again: “I think it’s unwise—”
“You have made that clear already!” his father snapped. “Your opinion is noted. But the decision-making is for your elders; they must balance the safety and needs of the family against the risks involved in taking this asp to our breast. All my brother needs from you now is an assessment—is what he says possible?”
James
took a deep breath, embarrassment and anger warring. “I … I can’t deny it. From what the Eastern cousins were saying, when they had no reason to guard their tongues—yes, very possibly.”
“Thank you.” Shen lifted his tumbler. “I think it best if we do not include you in the discussion; you are, perhaps, too close to its subjects. I agree with your assessment of the doctor’s character—but even serial traitors may be useful to us on occasion. Especially if we know their weaknesses. Which is why I ask again: What do you believe his goals are?”
James frowned. “What goals? Beside keeping his head on his shoulders?”
Shen leaned forward. “Has it gone that far?”
“He did something to Helge that angered her greatly. And she is pregnant, with an heir to the throne of Gruinmarkt that is universally acknowledged as such by the Eastern cousins, who say something about a, uh, DNA paternity check, whatever that might be. Are they fools, Father? Is she a fool? I think those rumors about drugs and rape are … not true, exactly, but close. Ven Hjalmar got Lady Helge pregnant with seed from the royal line—then his patron died, and he must run for his life. He wants money, sanctuary, and time to continue his work—which is this breeding program. He wants to use us, Father, that’s what I think.”
“Ah.” His father relaxed, smiling at last. He raised his glass. “And you think that’s all?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but—”
“It’ll do.” Shen took a sip. “Thank you, son. I think I can discuss this with Eldest now.”
James’s shoulders sank. “You think Uncle will take Dr. ven Hjalmar on.”
“Yes.” Shen’s smile widened. “But don’t worry. He will be under control.…”
* * *
The second thing to catch Miriam’s attention was the mingled smells of scorched wood and warm blood. The first was managing to control her fall; being carried piggyback was hard enough when the steed was a strapping young soldier, never mind a physically fit but lightly built younger woman. As Miriam and Olga disentangled themselves, Miriam looked around curiously. They’d come through in the target area once a deeply relieved Brill had confirmed that the zone was secure, and it was Miriam’s first chance to see the havoc that the Pervert’s army had inflicted on the Clan’s outlying minor steadings.
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