Kent inclined his head. “If you two will excuse me, I believe the ambassador has someone for me to meet.”
The someone was Terese Stewart, whom he'd already met several times, but I merely smiled and took the barest sip of the pinot grigio, a 1988, I thought.
“I understand you also were once a Naval Air Corps aviator, Minister Eschbach.” Sudwerth's tone was jovial, just like van Becton's had been, although the former Spazi director and the colonel looked nothing alike.
“A number of years ago,” I admitted, stepping aside a little as Lieutenant Commander Madley eased up to join the three of us.
Madley offered a slight nod, enough to suggest respect, but not to require a response that would have interrupted the colonel.
“You aren't old enough for Singapore,” suggested Sudwerth.
“Panama Standoff.” I took but a sip of the wine.
“There was an Eschbach,” offered Madley, “awarded an RAC. Was he any relation?”
Llysette glanced at me. I'd told her that I'd been decorated, but not the grisly details.
“Guilty as charged,” I said dryly. “It was a long time ago.” Madley's eyes widened, if fractionally, while Sudwerth's narrowed, also but fractionally.
“Then you got into politics?” Sudwerth pursued.
“All government is politics, Colonel,” I said cheerfully. “Even the Air Corps, isn't it?”
“I suppose you're right about that.” He laughed, not quite heartily. “What sort of government politics did you specialize in?”
“You do what you have to,” I replied. “I guess I'm most noted for my stint as an environmental subminister, before it became a full ministry.”
“Ah . . . that does explain a few matters.”
“Perhaps my worst failing was attempting to thwart the building of the Dutch Masters wing of the National Gallery.” I shook my head. “The Speaker informed me that deficient architectural design did not justify a disapproval on environmental grounds.”
Both officers laughed politely.
“So I retired when I could, and began to teach, and that is where I met Llysette.”
“I never saw any teachers as beautiful on any campus,” Sudwerth offered gallantly.
“There probably aren't at the military schools—you were Annapolis?”
Sudwerth nodded. “But I knew I'd go Air Corps all the time.”
“How did you get here, if I might ask?” I smiled. I really was interested in what he had to say, if not for the reasons most might be.
“Russian was my language; my grandmother was Russian, and she insisted I learn some when I was a child. I studied more at the academy, and a lot of my collateral duties helped.” He shrugged. “Once you've had a squadron, you have to get staff experience or embassy experience, if you want to go on, and I couldn't see myself flying difference engines and filing cabinets in the federal district annex. So . . . they sent me here two years ago.”
“We all go where we're sent.” I fingered my chin, then inclined my head. “I presume you've met, at least socially, some of your peers in the Russian armed services. How would you characterize them?”
“People are people. They don't generalize well.” Sudwerth laughed.
I laughed ruefully. “You're right about that. I guess I didn't say what I meant very well. We have a command structure that relies very heavily on what I would call experienced professionals, people like you. The Brits have a few from Sandhurst, but equally as many from their public schools, while the New French train all their officers practically from childhood. I don't know about the Russians, though . . . and? . . .” I left the question hanging.
“I don't see too many of them, but I'd have to say that, in a way, the Brit model comes closest.” Sudwerth pursed his lips. “The best of the Russian officers are very good. Some come from the old nobility, and some come from the sons of professional people in St. Petersburg, Moscow, a few other cities.”
“They could use more of the best?”
“Couldn't we all?” countered Sudwerth.
“And how in general terms are they organized? I mean, we have the marines, the Air Corps, the Navy, the Naval Air Corps . . .”
The colonel nodded. “Much the same—they have the Imperial Rocket Corps, the Aviation Corps, the Navy, and the Army.”
That told me one thing. “I assume they have elite units . . .”
“Oh, yes.” Sudwerth's next laugh was hearty, rueful, and genuine. “The Blue Cuirassiers, the Horse Guards Artillery . . . but every unit thinks it's elite in some way. Just stay out of any discussions along those lines.” He fingered his watch, then looked up. “If you'll excuse me . . .” With a bluff smile and a nod to Llysette, he was gone.
Sudwerth had to have known about my involvement with the Nord scandal, but he'd never mentioned it, never even alluded to it, and that bothered me, along with a lot of other things.
“Interesting man,” I mused, studying Commander Madley.
“He was commended for his command of the First Off-Shore Attack Wing, you know?”
“No . . . I didn't know. I imagine he's not exactly fond of the Austrians, then.”
“He doesn't say much, sir. When I asked him about it earlier, his voice got a lot harder.”
“Ah . . . Minister Eschbach!” Ambassador Hagel's voice cut in before I could reply.
I turned. With the ambassador was a tall and blond man, solidly built, but not heavy or overweight, probably in his late thirties or early forties.
“Piet, I would like you to meet Minister Eschbach. Minister Eschbach, this is Piet Darwaard, the first secretary. And this is the renowned soprano, Miss Llysette duBoise. Minister Eschbach had either the luck or the talent to ensure she married him.”
“Luck, and her grace.” I bowed slightly.
Llysette smiled, politely.
“I'm honored, Minister.” Piet Darwaard bowed, offering an open and warm smile.
He was old-country Dutch from name to appearance, tall, blond, blue-eyed, and broad shouldered, with the kind of honest face that made every man want to slap his back and every woman bring him home to meet her daughter. I distrusted him instantly, perhaps unfairly, but anyone who had made first secretary in a major embassy with those physical attributes needed to be watched.
“I am also most honored to meet you, Miss duBoise. The St. Petersburg papers have made much of your coming concert appearance.”
“Thank you,” Llysette replied. “I hope I will not disappoint. It has been a long journey, and there is much yet to do.”
“I am certain that if you delighted the Saints, you will delight people here even more. They love fine music here, more than in any place where I've been.” He offered a warm smile.
“So I have heard.”
“I wanted you both to meet Piet,” the ambassador said, “because he's the one who really runs the embassy. He's already set up some things for you, Minister Eschbach, and he's making sure that Hamilton Tavoian is taking good care of you, Miss duBoise.”
“I certainly wouldn't want to talk business so soon after you arrived,” the first secretary said. “So I'll just mention that you both have meetings at nine-thirty tomorrow. I'll be meeting with you, Minister Eschbach, and Hamilton—he's in charge of cultural affairs—will be meeting with you, Miss duBoise.” He smiled again and bowed.
A chime began to ring, and the voices in the lounge died away.
“I think we're being summoned,” the ambassador said. “Best we go, or Annette will be telling me that everything ran late because I kept talking.”
I had the feeling that we'd be seated with the ambassador and his wife, and probably with Drummond Kent, and that we'd talk pleasantries, and that I'd learn very little new, no matter how hard I tried, because Hagel was a well-trained politician and could talk forever while only seeming to impart information and because he knew very little of what was going on and because Drummond Kent knew even less.
I was right.
Thankfully, the di
nner wasn't too long, and we did stumble back up to our opulent guest quarters, where it was scarcely difficult to fall asleep. I did remember to bolt the door and set the alarm. I should have done more, but I was far too tired to think as clearly as I probably should have.
24
THE ALARM WENT off far too early, and it took me several moments to discern where I was, because it was still fairly dark. Then, seven o'clock was before dawn in December in St. Petersburg.
“Johan . . .” Llysette mumbled.
“I know. It's dark.”
“Cold . . .”
“It's St. Petersburg.” I managed to beat the alarm into silence, if not submission, before struggling into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Finally, I stood and staggered out of the enormous bedchamber and through the salon and into the minuscule kitchen. There wasn't much there, except teabags and a kettle. There wasn't even sugar, and that meant I'd have to choke down bitter tea.
While the electric kettle began to heat, I decided to see how effective Christian had been in obtaining news. I peered through the spy hole first, but the corridor was empty. In the wooden box affixed to the wall beside the left-hand door was a newspaper and a sheaf of standard pages stapled in the upper left-hand corner. I brought all the papers inside, rebolted the door, and went back to the kitchen, where the kettle was groaning but not yet boiling. I didn't try to read the Times of London but began to skim the summaries put together by the embassy staff.
. . . prices of kerosene and crude petroleum still rising in major markets . . .
. . . two more Austrian submersibles said to be patrolling the Indian Ocean . . . denied by Foreign Minister von Braun . . .
. . . Fifteenth Austrian Mountain Division posted west of L'Vov . . .
. . . King Constantine protests Austro-Hungarian pressure to allow unlimited access to Greek ports by Austrian warships . . . and lease of land for a military aerodrome . . .
. . . Austria may plan detonation of a “massive” nuclear device at its North African proving grounds to counter recent Russian tests of the Perun missile . . .
. . . Minister of Defense Holmbek refused to comment on the report that Columbia was increasing its capabilities to wage a cold weather war . . .
A particularly loud groan, followed by a hiss and then a shriek, informed me that the kettle was boiling. I poured the boiling water into the teapot. The tea was old, and I'd had to use a strainer because I couldn't find a tea ball, and that meant loose fragments in the tea, which I didn't care for . . . but old tea with dregs was better than no tea, especially as we were still adjusting to a rather radical time change.
I carried two cups to the bedroom, where I tendered one to Llysette, who had managed to prop herself up with pillows and turn on one light, the closest bedside lamp.
“Thank you, Johan.” For a time, Llysette sipped the tea slowly.
“What's your schedule?” I finally asked her.
“At eleven o'clock, we will practice here. At half past two, we leave in an embassy voiture for the theatre, and we have but an hour there.”
“And then?”
She shrugged. “Et toi, mon cher?”
“I supposedly have two meetings. They may lead to something. They may not.” I took a sip of the tea. It was bitter. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“Always you hurry . . .” But she smiled warmly.
“Always,” I admitted, setting the teacup down on the bedside table.
I finished showering and dressing before Llysette. So I took an armchair in the long salon and began to read through the Times of London. Most of the interesting articles were merely elaborations on the embassy news summaries, but there was one other interesting article, although I wasn't quite sure that everyone would find it as interesting as I did.
St. Petersburg (Special Report). How Many Students? Who knows? Even in well-ordered Russia, students can occasionally ruffle more than egos. Last month's student riots have had an interesting outcome. The disruptions went further than demonstrations in halls and courtyards. The registrar's office has admitted that there are more than a few missing records. Even the paperwork section of the Okhrana, an organization well known in Imperial Russia and elsewhere, and renowned for its expertise in finding and keeping every known form of documentation on individuals, has admitted that it cannot find the current student registration list at the University of St. Petersburg. Last century's class lists, of course. Even last year's list, but not this year's lists. Students will be students, and even a tzar can't order them not to be. . . .
There was something about it, but I couldn't finger it, not exactly.
“Johan?” called Llysette from the master chamber.
“I'm out here. Are you ready to go down for breakfast?”
“Mais oui.” Llysette emerged wearing a black woolen suit with a deep blue silk blouse and a multicolored silk scarf that somehow tied everything together.
“You have your key?” I asked.
“You plan to leave me so soon?”
I almost fell for it, but just grinned. “You're feeling better.”
“Sleep, it always helps.”
Terese didn't join us as we walked down toward the elevator, but after her performance on the turbo, I wouldn't have been surprised had she had been up for hours and out running the streets of St. Petersburg.
As we left the elevator, I could hear voices from the corridor that led to the “business” side of the embassy. Although it was still dark outside, the wheels of commerce and diplomacy started early, even in St. Petersburg. Just slightly after eight, and it appeared as though we were about the only ones in the dining area. Apparently, the working day started very early for even the senior staff, although I doubted that the ambassador or his wife ate in the dining area. Maybe he was an early riser, too. He'd been a one-term senator from Nebraska, as I recalled.
“Tea, coffee, sir, madame?” asked a steward who had appeared from nowhere. The accent was pronounced, which meant he was probably Russian.
“Do you have chocolate?”
“Yes, sir.”
I glanced at Llysette, and she nodded. “Two chocolates, with breakfast.”
There were no menus, and we ended up with eggs halfway between scrambled and omelets, link sausages that were slightly better than Scottish blood sausages, but not much, toast just short of blackened, stewed tomatoes, and a huge pot of marmalade.
Nine-thirty found us on the second floor of the embassy, Llysette headed into one office, and me into another. Piet Darwaard's office was as I imagined most of those in the embassy. The cherry-paneled walls remained, as did the narrow floor-to-ceiling windows, the high ceilings, and the carved chair rail and crown moldings. The once-painted or gilded ceilings were off-white, and where there had probably once been velvet hangings framing the window casements, the only window treatments were wooden-slat blinds, which had been raised to show a gray morning.
“Good morning, Minister Eschbach.”
“Good morning. You have a good view here,” I observed, before taking the chair opposite the too modern oak desk that fitted neither in color nor in style the room itself.
“I don't have much chance to enjoy it.” Darwaard's smile was a shade warmer than polite.
“Tell me about the meetings you've set up, if you would. I'd gotten a preliminary list which had a meeting with a Dimitri Vlasovich at the Ministry of the Interior.”
Darwaard handed me two folders, each blank on the outside. “Today, you have two. The first is at eleven o'clock with the number-two man at PetroRus, a Kyril Kulikovsky. I don't recall his patronymic, but it's in the folder. The second is the one with Vlasovich at three o'clock.”
I flicked through the folders, but both happened to be exactly the same as the dossiers I'd already gotten from Harlaan. “What else can you tell me about Kulikovsky?”
“He's cultured and personable. He'll probably be at the concert. He's the one Pyotr Romanov uses to meet and screen everyone. If Kulikovsky d
oesn't pass on you, you don't meet anyone of import. He's sort of a high-level gatekeeper. No one thinks he makes any decisions, but you can't get to see anyone who does without meeting him first.”
“What's his passion? Or what does he hate?”
Darwaard frowned. “I couldn't say. I've never seen him other than composed and charming.”
“What about Vlasovich?”
“He's got two or three engineering degrees, one in environmental engineering from the University of Assen. He's one of the few to get into the top four ranks of the civil servants without money or blood behind him. As soon as he heard that you were coming, his office contacted me. The word is that he lives, breathes, and dreams engineering in some form or another. He'll also steal any engineering idea that's not walled away.”
“Is he married? Or does engineering serve that function, too?”
“He is married, to a French woman he met at one of the engineering schools. She teaches at St. Petersburg University.”
“What happened with those riots? There were stories in the papers, even in New Bruges.”
Darwaard lifted his shoulders. “The students were demonstrating for a constitutional monarchy, and removal of the tzar's absolute veto over any laws passed by the Senate and Duma. Things got out of hand.”
“How much out of hand? One set of reports suggested hundreds of students were killed; others said very few.”
“We don't know. It couldn't have been very many, because there weren't any new ghosts there at the university, but there had to be some because the university has been shut down until next semester. I'd speculate that part of the reason for the closure is to analyze what happened and make sure it won't occur again, and partly to ensure that tempers cool down.”
“And partly to track down the instigators?”
“The Okhrana is very effective in finding student trouble-makers. They always have been; that's why there's still a tzar.”
Ghost of the White Nights Page 18
