The Clan Corporate tmp-3

by Charles Stross

  Afterward, Erasmus Burgeson always wondered why he hadn’t seen it coming.

  It was a humid evening, and he’d sat on the open top deck of the streetcar as it rattled toward the hotel downtown where he was to meet his contact. He breathed deeply, relishing the faint smoky tang of the air now that his sore old lungs had stopped troubling him: I wonder where Miriam is? he idly thought, opening and refolding his morning news sheet. She’d changed his life with that last visit and those jars of wonder pills. Probably off somewhere engaging in strange new ventures in exotic worlds far more advanced than this one, he told himself. Democracies, places ruled by the will of the people rather than the whim of a nearsighted tyrant. He sighed and focused on the foreign affairs pages.

  Nader Demands Rights to Peshawar Province. The Persian situation was clearly deteriorating, with the Shah’s greedy eyes fastened on the southern provinces of French Indoostan. Of course, the idiot in New London wouldn’t be able to let something like that slip past him: Government Offers to Intercede with Court of St. Peter. As if the French would listen to British representations on behalf of a megalomaniac widely seen as one of John Frederick’s cat’s-paws . . . Prussian Ambassador Wins Duel. Well, yes—diplomatic immunity meant never having to back out of a fight if you could portray it as an affair of honor. Burgeson sniffed. Bloody-handed aristocrats. The streetcar bell dinged as it rattled across a set of points and turned a wide corner.

  Erasmus folded the paper neatly and stood up. Nothing to do with the price of bread, he thought cynically as he descended the tight circular staircase at the rear of the car. The price of bread was up almost four-twelfths over its price at this time last year, and there had been food riots in Texico when the corn flour handed out by the poor boards had proven to be moldy. Fourteen dead, nearly sixty injured when the cavalry went in after the magistrates read the riot act. The streetcar stopped and Erasmus followed a couple of hopeful hedonists out onto the crowded pavement outside. The place was normally busy, but tonight it was positively fizzing. There was something unusual in the air. He took another deep breath. Not having his chest rattle painfully was like being young again: he felt lively and full of energy. And the night was also young.

  The Cardiff Hotel—named for Lord Cardiff of Virginia, not the French provincial capital of Wales—was brightly lit with electricals, broad float-glass doors open to the world. A green-and-white-striped canopy overhung the pavement, and a pianist was busy banging both keyboards on his upright instrument for all he was worth, the brass-capped hammers setting up a pounding military beat. Burgeson stepped inside and made his way to the back of the bar, searching for the right booth. A hand waved, just visible above the crowd: he nodded and joined his fellow conspirator.

  “Nice evening,” Farnsworth said nervously.

  “Indeed.” Erasmus eyed the other man’s mug: clearly he was in need of the Dutch courage. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’m sure—ah.” A table-runner appeared. “Have you any of the hemp porter?” Farnsworth enquired. “And a drop of laudanum.”

  “I’ll have the house ale,” said Erasmus, trying not to raise an eyebrow. Surely it’s a bit early for laudanum? Unless Farnsworth really was upset about something.

  When the table-runner had left, Farnsworth raised his tankard and drained it. “That’s better. I’m sorry, Rudolf.”

  Burgeson leaned forward, tensely. “What for?”

  “The news—” Farnsworth waved his hand helplessly. “I have no images, you understand.”

  Burgeson tried to calm his racing heart. He felt light-headed, slightly breathless: “Is that all? There’s no reason to apologize for that, my friend.”

  Farnsworth shook his head. “Bad news,” he croaked.

  The table-runner returned with their drinks. Farnsworth buried his snout in his mug. Erasmus, trying to rein in his impatience, scanned the throng. It was loud, too loud for even their neighbors in the next booth to overhear them, and there were no obvious signs of informers. “What is it, then?”

  “Prince James is—it’s not good.”

  “Ah.” Erasmus relaxed a little. Not that he was pleased by news of the crown prince’s suffering—no matter that the eight-year-old was due to grow up to be tyrant of New Britain, he was still just a bairn and could not be held responsible for his parents’ misdeeds—but if it was just more trivial court gossip it meant the sky hadn’t fallen in yet. “So how is he?”

  “The announcement will be made in about two hours’ time. I have to be back at the palace by midnight to plan his majesty’s wardrobe for the funeral.”

  “The—” Erasmus stopped. “What?”

  “Oh yes.” Farnsworth nodded lugubriously. “It will mean war, you mark my words.”

  War? Erasmus blinked rapidly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you know?” Farnsworth seemed startled.

  “I’ve been on a train all afternoon,” said Erasmus. “Has something happened?” Something more than a sick little boy dying?

  “They caught one of the assassins,” Farnsworth said tensely. “An Ottoman subject.” He peered blearily at Burgeson’s uncomprehending face. “Prince James was murdered just after lunchtime today; shot in the chest from a building overlooking the Franciscan palace. It was a conspiracy! Bomb-throwing foreigners on our soil, spreading terror and fomenting fear. Naval intelligence says it’s a message for his majesty. The crisis in the Persian Gulf. Sir Roderick is recommending a bill of attainder to his majesty that will seize all Ottoman assets held by institutions here until they back down.”

  Burgeson stared at him. “You. Have got to be kidding.”

  Farnsworth shook his head. “All hell’s broken loose, the seventh seal has sounded, and I very much fear that we are about to be bathed in the blood of ten million lambs—conscripted into a war started as a distraction from the empty larders of the provinces, a matter which has most exercised the prime minister these past weeks.” He grabbed Burgeson’s hand. “You’ve got to do something! Make your friends listen! It’s the outside threat to distract and befuddle us, the oldest trick in the library. A brief successful war to wrap themselves in the glory of the flag and justify calls for austerity and belt-tightening, and to distract attention from the empty coffers and supply a pretext to issue war bonds. Only this time, we know the Frogs have got corpses. And so have we. So it’s going to be an unusually violent war. And of course they’ll clamp down on dissenters and Ranters. They’ll implement French rule here, if you give them the chance.” French rule—summary justice, the martial law of the Duc du Muscovy. The Stolypin necktie as an answer to all arguments, as that strange otherworld history book Miriam had given him had put it. Erasmus felt cold sweat spring out at the back of his neck.

  “I’ll tell them immediately,” he said, rising.

  “Your drink—”

  “You finish it. You look as if you need it more than I do. I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Good luck.”

  Erasmus dived into the throng of agitated, wildly speculating men filling the bar and worked his way outside. A street hawker was selling the last of the evening edition: he snagged a copy and stared at the headlines. ARAB TERROR screamed the masthead in dripping red letters above an engravature of the boy prince lying on the ground, his eyes open. “Shit.” Erasmus looked around, searching for a cab. I’ll have to notify Lady Bishop, he thought, and Iron John. Find out what the Central Committees want to do about the situation. Another thought struck him. I must talk to Miriam; she knows of other worlds more advanced than this. They’re ruled by republics, they must have corpuscular weapons—I wonder what she knows about them? A cab pulled up and he climbed in. Perhaps we could achieve a better negotiating position if the movement had some . . .

  BREAKOUT

  Mike realized something was wrong the moment he passed the checkpoint on the fourteenth floor and found Pete Garfinkle and Colonel Smith waiting for him, with a blue-suiter behind them. The guard was carrying a gun and try
ing to look in six different directions simultaneously. This worried Mike. Armed guards were a normal fact of life in the FTO, but nervous ones were something new.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We have a problem,” said Smith.

  “Matt went for a walk about two hours ago,” said Pete, nervously fingering his document folder.

  “Went for a—”

  “Down the express elevator from the twenty-third floor, or so it would appear judging from the elevator logs,” Smith added. “Although there’s no evidence he was actually in the elevator car except for the RFID tags concealed in his underwear. Which he is no longer wearing. And there’s a missing window on the twenty-third floor. Shall we talk about it?”

  They went up to the newly installed Vault Type Room on the nineteenth floor and Smith signed them in. Then they authenticated each other and locked the door. The blue-suiter waited outside, which was a relief to Mike—but only a temporary one. “Do we know where he went?” he asked as soon as they were seated around the transparent conference table.

  “Not a clue.” Smith inclined his head toward Pete. “Dr. James is going to shit a brick the size of the World Trade Center as soon as he finds out, which is”—he glanced at his wrist-watch—“going to happen in about thirty minutes, so it is important that we are singing from the same hymn book before he drops in. Unless we can find our runaway first.” The colonel grinned humorlessly. “So. From the top. How would you characterize Client Zero’s state of mind last time you spoke to him?”

  I’m not on the spot, Mike realized with an enormous sense of guilt-tinged relief—because it meant someone else was going to catch it in the neck. “He seemed perfectly fine, to be honest. A bit stir-crazy, but that’s not unexpected. He wasn’t depressed or suicidal or excessively edgy, if that’s what you’re looking for. Why? What happened?”

  Colonel Smith shook his head and shoved his voice recorder closer to Mike’s side of the table. “Summarize first. Then we’ll go round the circle. Treat this as a legal deposition. Afterward I’ll fill you in.”

  “Okay.” Mike recounted his last meeting with Matthias. “He was asking about his Witness Protection Program status, but—” Mike stopped dead. “You said he took a lift down from the twenty-third-floor window. He was on the twenty-fourth floor. With no direct elevator between them. How’d he get downstairs?” Through two security checkpoints and four locked doors and then downstairs in an elevator car with a webcam and a security guard?

  “Later,” Smith said firmly.

  “Uh, I’d like to register a note of caution here. Did anyone see Client Zero move between floors twenty-four and twenty-three? And was there any evidence that he left the building by one of the ground-level doors?”

  There was a pregnant pause.

  “I’d have to say that we don’t know that,” said Smith. His eyes tracked, almost imperceptibly, toward the door outside which the blue-suiter with the gun would be standing guard.

  “Oh.” Oh shit, thought Mike.

  “I’m betting he got riled up and broke out,” said Smith, his voice even. “How he managed that is a troubling question, as is why he chose to do it right at this moment. But he’s a smart cookie, is Client Zero. Just in case he had outside help, we’re going to full Case Red lockdown. Nobody goes below the tenth floor without an armed escort until we’ve clarified the situation.”

  “He can’t have evaded our monitoring completely, even if he managed to bypass the guards.”

  Smith’s pager beeped for attention. He glanced at it, then stood up: “I’m going to deposit this, then take a call. Back in ten minutes.” He disappeared through the door, taking the voice recorder and leaving Mike and Pete alone in the windowless room with the glass furniture and the vault fittings.

  “He got stir-crazy,” said Mike.

  Pete looked at him.

  “What am I not hearing?” asked Mike.

  Pete coughed. “After your last meeting I dropped in on him. He was pissed—you said you’d been called away—”

  “By Eric, he can confirm it—”

  “Well sure, but Matt didn’t see it that way, he thought you were bullshitting. He was worried. So to get him calmed down I tried to draw him out a bit about why he came over to us. I mean, you’ve been doing all those grammar sessions and he was getting bored, you know?”

  “Okay.” Mike leaned back to listen.

  Pete got into the flow of things. “He had this crazy paranoid-sounding rant about how he was a second-class citizen as far as the bad guys are concerned, on account of how he can’t do the magic disappearing trick—well, I’ll buy that. And then something about a long-lost cousin turning up and destabilizing some plans of his. Seems she grew up on our side of the fence, worked in Cambridge as some kind of tech journalist. They rediscovered her by accident and she made the wheels fall off Matt’s little red wagon by snooping around and stirring up shit. So Matt tried to persuade this Helga woman to get off his case and she—she’s called Miriam something here, something Jewish-sounding—”

  Can’t be, thought Mike. She can’t be the same woman. The idea was too preposterous for words.

  Pete stopped. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing. So what happened? What went wrong with Matt’s plans?”

  “She wouldn’t blackmail—he said she wouldn’t play ball, but that’s my reading—and there’s some stuff about her discovering a whole other world where the Clan guys have got a bunch of relatives who don’t like them and who were paying Matt to look after their interests—he’s always been a bit of a moonlighter—and the upshot is, he had to cut and run. He’s still pissed at her. He came to us because he figured we’d protect him from his former associates.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mike nodded. Miriam—what was her other name? “What’s this got to do with the time of day?”

  “Well.” Pete looked embarrassed. “I asked him how he thought it had worked, and that was when he got agitated. Said you’d told him something about him being in military custody now? So I tried to get him calmed down, told him it wasn’t what it sounded like. But he wasn’t having it. And at about five in the morning he went missing. Do I have to draw you a diagram?”

  “No,” said Mike. He sighed. “I knew this military thing was a bad idea.”

  “Yeah, well. Which of us is going to tell Smith?”

  They found the colonel at the security checkpoint by elevator bank B, talking to one of the guards. He didn’t look terribly happy. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I’ve got a hypothesis I’d like to test, sir. I think Matt may still be in the building. Did we catch him leaving?”

  “That’s what I was just ascertaining,” said Smith. He glanced around irritably. “Get me . . .” He snapped his fingers, searching for a name—“Sergeant Scoville, mister.”

  “Sir.” The guard pulled out his walkie-talkie and began talking to someone.

  “So.” Smith pointed a bony finger at Mike. “Explain.”

  “Client Zero is no dummy. He knows he’s upstairs. He decided he wants to take a walk. We can be fairly sure he can move between floors but he’s not on camera, so either he’s been holding out on us—and I don’t believe he’s got what it takes to hack our sensors—or he’s gone to ground. My bet is either under the false floor or over the suspended ceiling, probably on the twenty-third but possibly on the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth floors. He probably ran into the security zone on the twenty-second and bounced. Now he’ll be waiting for an opportunity to go elevator surfing or a chance to slip outside while we’re distracted.”

  “Okay. Now tell me why he’s doing this. Where’s he likely to go?”

  Mike glanced at Pete. “I think he’s breaking out because he thought he was looking at a comfortable relax-a-thon in the Witness Protection Program, and a new identity afterward, with us to protect him from his former associates. Unfortunately, once Dr. James switched him to military custody we lost track of the WP program and his ne
w identity, and he finally twigged that he was one step away from being given the whole unlawful-combatant treatment. As for where he’s going—I bet he’s got his own spare identity stashed away, from before he decided to come in. It won’t be as good as what we could have given him if we’d kept him in witness protection, but it beats being a ghost detainee.”

  “Right.” The guard offered Smith his handset. “Jack? Our current best guess is that the target’s still in the building, above the security zone on ten. My top priority is, I want you to secure the entry zone and the lobby. Nobody leaves the building even if a Boeing flies into the top floor: our target may try to provoke an evacuation so he can escape in the crowd. I want a security detail to start on floor ten and work their way upstairs, one level at a time, until they get to the roof. They will need torches, floor-tile lifters, and ladders because they’re going to check the crawlways and overheads, and they need to be armed because our target is dangerous. How soon can you get that started? How many bodies have we got up here anyway?” He listened for a few seconds. “Damn, I’d hoped for more. Okay, assemble them. Smith out.” He glanced back at the two DEA agents. “Right. Any other suggestions?”

  Mike took a deep breath. “Is he still valuable to us, if we can get him back?”

  “Possibly.” Smith stared at him. “Your call, son.”

  Time stood still. “I need to work on my grammar,” Mike said slowly. “But of course, after CLEANSWEEP we’ll have more subjects to work with.”

  Smith held out his hand for the walkie-talkie, watching Mike’s face as he spoke: “Sergeant? Change of plan. Hold the floor sweep, I don’t think we’ve got enough people to risk it, if the target manages to arm himself . . . Instead I want you to stand by to execute code BLUEBEARD. That’s BLUEBEARD. I’m going to make an announcement in a couple of minutes. If the fugitive doesn’t give himself up, we’ll execute BLUEBEARD, then ventilate and search the place afterward.”

  Pete looked shocked. Mike elbowed the younger agent in the ribs to get his attention. “Go get us all respirators,” he said. Smith nodded at him. “You really going to do it, sir?”