“Iron-face?”
“What we called her. Me and your aunt Elsa.”
“I have an aunt, too?”
“Had. She died. Olga, if you don’t mind taking over my chair? Miriam seems to be having trouble.”
“Died—”
“You didn’t think I had it in for the old bat just because of how she treated me, did you?”
“Oh.” Miriam bolted back the rest of her wine glass, sensing the depths she was treading water over. “I think I need another glass now.”
“Better drink it quick, then. Things are about to get interesting again.”
There was a low bed with a futon mattress on it. It occupied most of a compact bedroom on the third floor of an inconspicuous building in downtown Boston. The bed was occupied, even though it was late morning; Roland had been awake for most of the night, working on the next month’s courier schedule, worrying and reassigning bodies from a discontinued security operation. In fact, he’d deliberately worked an eighteen-hour shift just to tire himself out so that he could sleep. The worries wouldn’t go away. What if they find her incompetent? was one of them. Another was, What if the old man finds out about us? In the end he’d slugged back a glass of bourbon and a five-milligram tab of diazepam, stripped, and climbed into bed to wait for the pharmaceutical knockout.
Which was why, when the raid began, Roland was unconscious: dead to the world, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, twitching slightly beneath the thin cotton sheet.
A faint bang shuddered through the walls and floor. Roland grunted and rolled over slowly, still half-asleep. Outside his door, a shrill alarm went off. “Huh?” He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes to clear the fog of night, and slapped vaguely at the bedside light switch.
The phone began to shrill. “Uh.” He picked up the handset, fumbling it slightly: “Roland here. What is it?”
“We’re under attack! Some guys just tried to smash in the front door and the rooftop—”
The lights flickered and the phone died. Somewhere in the building the emergency generator cut in, too slowly to keep the telephone switch powered. “Shit.” Roland put the handset down and hastily dragged on trousers and sweater. He pulled his pistol out of the bedside drawer, glanced at the drawn curtains, decided not to risk moving them, and opened the door.
A young Clan member was waiting for him, frantic with worry. “Wh-what are we going to do, boss?” he demanded, jumping up and down.
“Slow down.” Roland looked around. “Who else is here?”
“Just me!”
“On site, I mean,” he corrected. He shook his head again, trying to clear the Valium haze. At least he could world-walk away, he realized. He never removed his locket, even in the shower. “Is the door holding?”
“The door, the door—” The kid stopped shaking. “Yessir. Yessir. The door?”
“Okay, I tell you what I want you to do.” Roland put a hand on the kid’s shoulder, trying to calm him. He was vibrating like an overrevved engine. “Calm down. Don’t panic. That’s first. You have a tattoo, yes?”
“Y-yessir.”
“Okay. We are going to go below then, and—when did you last walk?”
“Uh, uh, hour ago! We brought the lord secretary over—”
“The secretary?” Roland stopped dead. “Shit. Tell me you didn’t.” The kid’s expression was all the confirmation Roland needed.
“Wh-what’s wrong?”
“Maybe nothing,” Roland said absently. Shit, shit, he thought. Matthias. It was a gut-deep certainty, icy cold, that Matthias was behind this. Whatever was going on. “Follow me. Quickly!” Roland grabbed his jacket on the way out and rummaged in one pocket for a strip of pills. With his hair uncombed and two day’s growth of beard, he probably looked a mess, but he didn’t have time to fix that now. He dry-swallowed, pulling a face. “Go down the stairs all the way to the bottom, fast. When you get to the parcel room, pick up all the consignments in bin eleven that you can grab and cross over immediately. If men with guns get the drop on you, either cross immediately or surrender and let them take you, then cross as soon as you can, blind. Don’t try to resist; you’re not trained.”
“You, sir?” The kid’s eyes were wide.
“Me neither.” Roland shrugged, tried a grin, gave up. “C’mon. We’ve got to get word out.”
He clattered down the concrete emergency stairwell taking the steps two at a time, stopping at the ground floor. He motioned the kid on down. “Send word as soon as you get through,” he called. Then he stopped, his heart hammering.
“Sir?” He looked up. It was Sullivan, one of the outer family guards who lived on the premises.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Tell me!”
A hollow boom rattled through the corridor and Sullivan winced.
“We’re on skeleton strength,” he said. “They’re trying to batter down the door!” The front door was armored like a bank vault, and the walls were reinforced. A normal ram wouldn’t work, it would take explosives or cutting tools to get through it.
“Who?” Roland demanded.
“Cops.”
“How many we got here?”
“Nine.”
“I just sent the kid away. Walkers?”
Sullivan just looked at him.
“Shit.” Roland shook his head, dumbfounded. “There’s nobody?”
“Martijn and young Poul came in with the lord secretary this morning. They’re the only walkers who’ve come over since Marissa and Ivar finished their shift last night. And I can’t find Martijn or his lordship’s proxy.”
“Oh.” Everything became clear to Roland. “How long can we hold out?”
“Against the feds?” Sullivan shrugged. “We’re buttoned up tight; it’ll take them time to bring in explosives and cutting gear, and shields. At least, it will if we risk shooting back.”
“The escape tunnel—”
“—Someone sealed it at the other end. I don’t think it would help, anyway.”
“Let’s hit the control room.” Roland started walking again. “Have I got this straight? We’re under siege and I’m the only walker who knows. The lord secretary came over, but he went missing before the siege began. So did his number-one sidekick. The outer rooms are shuttered and locked down and we’ve got supplies, power, and ammo, but no way out because somebody’s blown the escape tunnel. Is that it?”
“Pretty much so,” Sullivan agreed. He looked at Roland tensely. “What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” Roland paused in the office doorway. “Shit, what can I do?” He opened the door and went in. The control room had desks with computer monitors around the wall. CCTV screens showed every approach to the building. Everything looked normal, except for the lack of vehicular traffic and the parked vans on every corner. And the van parked right up against the front door. Obviously the ram crew had used it for cover.
“We have half a ton of post in transit at any one time,” Roland thought aloud. “There’s about fifty kilos of confidential memos, documents, shit like that—enough to flame out the entire East Coast circuit.” There was a knock on the door. Sullivan waved in the man outside, one of the colorless back-office auditors the Clan employed to keep an eye on things. “We’ve got another quarter of a ton of produce in transshipment. It was due out of here next week. That’s enough to bankroll our ops for a year, too.”
Sullivan looked pissed. “Is that your priority?” he demanded.
“No.” Roland waved him down. “My priority is number one, getting all of us out of here, and number two, not letting that fucker Matthias take down our entire operation.” Sullivan subsided, leaning back against the door frame with a skeptical expression. “It’s going to take eighteen walks to pull everyone out—more than I could do in a week. And about the same to pull out the goods.” Roland pulled out a chair and sat. “We can’t drive away or use the tunnel. How long for them to get in? Six hours? Twelve?”
“I think it�
��ll be more like three, unless we start shooting,” Sullivan opined.
“Shooting—” Roland froze. “You want me to authorize you to shoot at FBI or DEA agents. Other than in self-defense.”
“It’s the only way,” said the auditor, looking a little green.
“Huh. I’ll table it.” Roland unfrozen, drummed his fingers on the nearest desk. “I really don’t like that option, it’s too much like sticking your dick in a hornet’s nest. They can always point more guns at us than we can point back at them. Has anyone phoned the scram number?”
“Huh?” Sullivan looked puzzled. “Bill?”
“Tried it five minutes ago, sir,” the auditor said with gloomy satisfaction. “Got a number-unavailable tone.”
“I am beginning to get the picture. Have you tried your cell phone?”
“They’ve got a jammer. And snipers on the rooftops.”
“Shit.” I am going to have to make a decision, Roland thought. And it had better be one I can live with, he realized sickly.
“Someone needs to walk over and yell like hell,” Roland said slowly. Sullivan tensed. “But, I’m working on the assumption that this is deliberate. That bastard Matthias, I’ve been watching him.” It was easy to say this, now.
“I sent the kid, what’s his name?”
“Poul,” Bill offered.
“I sent him over alone.” Roland’s eyes went wide. “Shit.”
“What are you thinking?” Sullivan leaned forward.
“My working assumption right now is that Matthias has betrayed the Clan. This is all preplanned. He rigged this raid to cover his escape. So he isn’t going to want any random courier walking into Fort Lofstrom and raising the alarm, is he?”
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed as Roland stood up. “You and I,” he announced, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “are going to cross over together. I know what you’ve been thinking. Listen, Matthias will have left some kind of surprise. It’s going to be a mess. Your job is to keep me alive long enough to get out of the fort. Then there’s a, a back route. One I can use to get word to the Clan, later today. It’ll take me about six or seven hours to get from Fort Lofstrom to Niejwein, and the same again to come back with a bunch of help—every damn courier I can round up. I’m assuming Matthias sent everyone away from the fort before pulling this stunt. Can you hold out for twenty-four hours? Go into the sub-basement storm shelter with all the merchandise and blow the supports, bring the building down on top of you?” He addressed the last question to Bill, the auditor.
“I think so,” Bill said dubiously.
“Right. Then you’re going to have to do that.” Roland met his eyes.
“We can’t afford for the feds to lay hands on you. And whatever you think I’m thinking, I figure you’re too valuable to write off. Any family member, inner or outer, is not expendable in my book. Sullivan, think you can handle that?”
Sullivan grinned humorlessly at him. “I’ll do my best.” He nodded at the auditor: “He’ll be back. Trust me on this.”
The extraordinary meeting resumed with an argument. “The floor is open for motions,” quavered the ancient Julius. “Do I hear—”
“I have a motion!” Miriam raised her hand.
“Objection!” snapped Baron Hjorth.
“I think you’ll find she already has the floor,” Angbard bit out. “Let her speak first, then have your say.”
“Firstly, I’d like to move that my venture into New Britain be recognized as a Clan subsidiary,” Miriam said, carefully trying to keep a still face. It was bitterly disappointing to risk ceding control, but as Olga had pointed out, the Clan took a very dim view of members striking out on their own. “As part of this motion I’d like to resolve that the issue of this sixth family be dealt with by participants in this subsidiary, because clearly they’re the members most directly affected by the situation.”
“Objection!” Shouted someone at the back of the hall. “Clan feud takes precedence!”
“Are you saying the Clan can afford to lose more people?” asked Miriam.
“Damn the blood! What about our dead? This calls for revenge!” Ayes backed him up: Miriam forced herself to think fast, knowing that if she let the heckling gather pace she could very easily lose control of the meeting.
“It seems to me that the lost family is sorely depleted,” she began.
“They had to send a child to supervise an adult’s job. You know, as I know, that the efficiency of a postal service like the one responsible for the Clan’s wealth is not just a function of how many world-walkers we have. It’s also a function of the number of routes we can send packages over. They’re small, and isolated, and they’re not as numerous as we are. However, rooting them out in the name of a feud will uncover old wounds and risk depleting our numbers for no gain. I’m going to stick my neck out and assert that the next few years are going to be far more dangerous for the Clan than most of you yet realize.”
“Point of order!” It was Baron Hjorth again. “This is rubbish. She’s trying to frighten us. Won’t you—”
“Shut up,” grated Angbard. “Let her finish a sentence, damn your eyes.”
Miriam waited a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “Factors to think about. Firstly, a new world. This is going to be important because it opens up new opportunities for trade and development, as I’ve already demonstrated. Secondly, the state of the Clan’s current business. I don’t know how to approach this subtly so I won’t: You’re in big trouble.
“To be perfectly blunt, your current business model is obsolescent. You can keep it running for another two to five years, but then it’ll go into a nosedive. In ten years, it’ll be dead. And I’m not just talking about heroin and cocaine shipments. I mean everything.
“You’ll have noticed how hard it has become to launder the proceeds of narcotics traffic on the other side in the past few years. With the current anti-terrorist clampdown and the beefing up of police powers, life isn’t going to get any easier. Things are changing very fast indeed.
“The Clan used to be involved in different types of commerce: gold smuggling, gemstones, anything valuable and lightweight. But those businesses rely on anonymity, and like I said, the anti-terrorist clampdown is making anonymity much harder to sustain. Let me emphasize this, the traditional business models don’t work anymore because they all rely on the same underlying assumption that you can be anonymous.
“Many of you probably aren’t aware of the importance of electronic commerce, or e-commerce. I’ve been working with specialists covering the development of the field. What you need to know is that goods and services are going to be sold, increasingly, online. This isn’t an attempt to sell you shares in some fly-by-night dot-com; it’s just a statement of fact—communications speed is more important than geographical location, and selling online lets small specialist outfits sell to anyone on the planet. But with the shift to online selling, you can expect cash money to become obsolete. High-denomination euro banknotes already come with a chip, to allow transactions to be traced. How long do you think it’ll be before the greenbacks you rely on stop being anonymous?
“The fat times will be over—and if you’ve spent all your resources pursuing a blood feud, you’re going to be screwed. No money on the other side means no imports. No imports mean no toys, antibiotics, digital watches, whatever to buy the compliance of the landowners. No guns to shoot them with, either. If you try to ignore reality you will be screwed by factors outside your control.
“But this isn’t inevitable. If you act now, you can open up new lines of revenue and new subsidiaries. Take ancient patents from my world, the world you’re used to using as a toy chest, and set up companies around them in the new world, in New Britain. Take the money you raise in New Britain and import books and tools here. Set up universities and schools. Build, using your power and your money to establish factories and towns and laboratories over here. In a couple of generations, you can pull Gruinmarkt out of the mire and start an i
ndustrial revolution that will make you a true world power, whether or not you depend on the family talent.
“You can change the world—if you choose to start now, by changing the way you think about your business.”
There was total silence in the hall. A puzzled silence, admittedly, but silence—and one or two nodding heads. Just let them keep listening, Miriam thought desperately. Then voices began to pipe up.
“I never heard such a—”
“—What would you have us put our money into?”
“—Hear, hear!”
“—Gather that educating the peasants is common over—”
“Silence,” Angbard demanded testily. “The chair has a question.”
“Uh. I’m ready.” Feeling tensely nervous, Miriam crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Describe the business you established in the new world. What did you take with you to start it? And what is it worth?”
“Ah, that’s an interesting one.” Miriam forced herself to keep a straight face, although the wave of relief she felt at Angbard’s leading question nearly made her go weak at the knees. “Exchange rate irregularities—or rather, the lack of them—make it hard to establish a true currency conversion rate, and I’m still looking for a means of repatriating value from the new world to the United States, but I’d have to say that expenditure to date is on the order of six hundred thousand dollars. The business in New Britain is still working toward its first contract, but that contract should be worth on the order of fifty thousand pounds. Uh, near as I can pin it down, one pound is equivalent to roughly two to three hundred dollars. So we’re looking at a return on investment of three hundred percent in six months, and that’s from a cold start.”
A buzz of conversation rippled through the hall, and Angbard made no move to quell it. The figures Miriam had come up with sounded like venture capitalist nirvana—especially with a recession raging in the other world, and NASDAQ in the dumps. “That’s by selling a product that’s been obsolete for thirty years in the U.S.,” Miriam added. “I’ve got another five up my sleeve, waiting for this first deal to provide seedcorn capital for reinvestment. In the absence of major disruptive factors—” like a war with the hidden family, she added mentally “—I figure we can be turning over ten to a hundred million pounds within ten to fifteen years. That would make us the equivalent of IBM or General Motors, simply by recycling ideas that haven’t been invented yet over there.”
The Hidden Family: Book Two of Merchant Princes Page 29
