Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Is there anything I should know about?” I asked.

  “Nothing that isn't in the news. You're getting the summaries, aren't you?”

  I nodded. “What I don't quite understand is why there's not more maneuvering over energy supplies. The Russians have relied on their Caspian fields for hard currency for years, and the combination of increased demand and decreasing production have to be squeezing something.”

  “What's to maneuver, sir? The military gets whatever they need; heavy industry gets the next priority; the well-off have to pay exorbitant prices; and that leaves some for export.”

  The answer was too pat, like a lot of those I was getting, but in an autocracy, it might just be correct, and that was also depressing.

  “How did your dinner go?” Madley asked.

  “It was a marvelous formal dinner. Everyone wanted to talk to Llysette. The food was excellent, and Kulikovsky and his wife were charming. Their daughter studied voice at the Conservatory. They'll probably be at the concert on Thursday. As for anything else . . .” I shrugged.

  The commander and I went back upstairs at ten-thirty, and Christian was pacing back and forth. So I didn't let him wait.

  “What did you find, Christian?”

  “There have only been a few. There were meetings with Putilov—”

  “I thought they were a munitions outfit,” I said misleadingly.

  “They're also the Russian branch of AmeriSun, sir.”

  “Ah,” I nodded. “I'm sorry. Go ahead.”

  “The others were Colombian Dutch Petroleum—they met with both the first secretary and the ambassador—and AAVO.”

  I didn't have to try to look blank at the second name, although it sounded familiar.

  “That's the Swedish firm that holds most of the North Sea oil. They met with the first secretary, and the Swedish ambassador met with Ambassador Hagel.”

  “What about SAAB?” I asked, just to see if I got a reaction.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why do you think they'd be interested, sir?” asked Madley.

  “I'm not sure. I was thinking that military turbofighters burn a lot of fuel, but I suppose they leave those considerations to the Swedish embassy.” I paused. “But you'd said on the flight in that we had to avoid Swedish territory. Are things that tense between Russia and Sweden?”

  “Oh, no. The Swedes used to do joint exercises with the Russians, but they didn't work too well,” Madley said. “They both worry about the Austrians, but they couldn't trust each other. The joint exercises were the tzarina's idea.”

  “She's Swedish, isn't she?”

  “The sister of the king,” Christian replied.

  “With a direct wireline like that . . .” I laughed. “So the airspace problem is because they're both so worried about the Austrians that they have a tendency to shoot first?”

  “It's not that bad yet, but Minister Holmbek didn't want us to be the first bystander casualty.”

  “Makes sense.”

  So we headed back down the steps to find Olaf and the Volga, but he was waiting in the rear courtyard under the cloudy sky.

  I gave Olaf the address. He nodded, and we were off. “That's not in the main building of the General Staff complex,” Madley observed.

  “I'd be surprised if it were,” I replied. “He's an engineer in charge of canals and keeping rivers clear of obstacles. The combat types wouldn't consider him that necessary. You should see where our engineers have their headquarters.”

  The Russian headquarters annex building was tucked away a good two blocks farther east of the river from the main buildings of the general staff complex. The structure was of stone, but unlike the Winter Palace, the Admiralty, and the other major structures, it was just solid gray stone, with no pastel sections to relieve the monotony.

  The inquiry by the clerk was almost routine, and there was but a single guard in the dingy and cold stone lobby. We walked up two floors without an escort. The elevator wasn't working.

  The colonel general didn't keep us waiting, either, and this time, I took my entourage in with me, not that it was a problem because Kaselov had an aide-interpreter as well. His aide was a military officer in a formal gray and blue uniform, but I couldn't read the rank symbols. That meant five of us were sandwiched into an office space barely ten feet by fifteen, with a desk for Colonel General Kaselov, a straight-back wooden chair that might have dated to the Winter War beside his desk for his aide-interpreter, and three other uncomfortable wooden chairs for us.

  Kaselov said a few words in Russian, no more than a handful.

  The aide began in English. “The general has heard that you may be in possession or be able to be in possession of technical information that could be used to develop technologies to clean up contaminants from rivers.”

  “I am here on an environmental mission,” I admitted, waiting for Christian to translate before continuing. “Such technologies do exist.”

  Kaselov replied briefly, and the aide spun out the reply. “The general is responsible for the maintenance of open traffic on the waterways. He is concerned to know if using any of these technologies would affect river traffic.”

  “There are technologies that have been used in the past that would do so. They were not terribly effective and often created worse environmental problems. We would not recommend any of those.”

  A broad but somehow wry smile crossed Kaselov's narrow face as his aide translated.

  “What benefit would such technologies provide?”

  “I can think of several. First, it would remove the Austrians' grounds for provoking an incident. Second, it would improve Russian fisheries, which would make food in the areas both better and less expensive. Third, it would save you the expense of developing the technologies . . .” I shrugged. “I'm sure I could come up with more benefits.”

  The officer only offered a sentence.

  Christian looked at me. I nodded. Christian then added several sentences in Russian.

  Kaselov inclined his head, not quite dismissively, nor peremptorily, before replying.

  The Russian aide looked to Christian, who translated the response.

  “It's your business to offer the benefits; it's mine to see if they really benefit us.”

  “That's fine with Columbia,” I replied. “You'll find that they are worth a great deal.”

  “That may be. We will have to see. Both the Ministry of Interior and the Ministry of War work together on such matters.”

  “As they should. When the Interior Ministry pursues the matter, I presume you will be the one to whom copies of the materials should be sent?”

  I understood the single emphatic syllable.

  There were a few more polite sentences, and then the general stood, offered thanks through the interpreter, and we were soon headed down the stairs.

  Again, no one said anything until we were back in the Volga.

  “His translator was from army intelligence,” Madley said.

  “Why did he even want to meet me?” I asked. “Just so that he could say he'd looked into the situation? Or to give the intelligence officer a look at me?”

  “Both, I'd guess, sir.”

  “What next, sir?” asked Christian.

  I wished I knew. “We go back to the embassy, but the long way.”

  “The long way?”

  “Olaf, I'd like to drive past the university.”

  “That's on the other side of the river.”

  “That's fine. We have some time.”

  Christian and the commander exchanged glances, and Olaf pulled away from the dingy annex building and immediately turned westward, toward the Neva, and whatever bridge would take us over the river and onto Vasilevsky Island.

  The trip didn't take that long, less than fifteen minutes.

  The university campus did not look that different from the rest of St. Petersburg—gray buildings, snow, swept gray stone walks. In fact, it didn't look all that different from sections of the Unive
rsity of Assen in winter, except that St. Petersburg University seemed deserted.

  “Stop the car, please,” I said abruptly. “Just somewhere along here.”

  Olaf did so, but I could sense his puzzlement.

  “I need to get out for a moment.”

  This time another set of quizzical looks passed between Christian and Commander Madley.

  I stepped out of the Volga, under the gray skies. Commander Madley followed me, a step or two back, clearly nervous.

  As I walked, slowly, deliberately, I glanced in the direction of the Neva, although I couldn't see it, then back toward the building that looked more like a palace. As I recalled, there was a palace adjoining the university area, but I couldn't remember whose it was or had been. The street was nearly deserted, and only a few sedans rumbled past on the stone paving blocks.

  Looking back up at the long building that could have been classrooms or dormitories or both, I noticed that all the windows were shut, and all looked the same from the outside—on all floors except the ground floor, where the windows were longer.

  Except for the passing cars, the area was silent, as I supposed it would be with the colleges of the university closed until after the beginning of the next year.

  I strolled farther, listening and just trying to absorb the feel of the area, until the absolute quiet on all levels got to me, and I turned and walked briskly back to the Volga.

  Because I couldn't have explained what I'd learned, even to myself, I didn't try, just sat back and tried to think on the way back to the embassy.

  The chance to retreat and ponder didn't offer itself. As soon as I stepped out of the Volga in the embassy courtyard, under a sky that was hard and bright blue, with a chill wind that cut right through my heavy black wool overcoat, a clerk I didn't know was running up to me. He had to have been freezing, because he was only wearing a topcoat, not even a vest.

  “The ambassador was looking for you, Minister Eschbach.”

  “I'll be right up. His office is on the second floor at the end, isn't it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the young clerk scurried away, both Commander Madley and Christian looked at me.

  “I haven't any idea.”

  “Ah . . . sir . . .” Christian ventured. “This afternoon?”

  “Unless someone else wants to meet with us, I'm going to go with my wife and listen to her rehearsal. Then we'll have dinner somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Christian replied.

  “If you want to go to the rehearsal, either of you, it's at three at the Mariinsky.” I smiled and turned out of the teeth of the wind and toward the doors to the private side of the embassy.

  The honorable Charles Hagel was waiting for me, or presenting a reasonable facade of doing so when I stepped into his spacious office. His wide windows afforded a front view, more down the street toward the Nevsky Prospekt. He looked at me, almost quizzically, then gestured toward a black leather upholstered and comfortable chair across the desk from him.

  I sat down and waited, absently noting the chill from the closed windows behind him. Winter was definitely headed to St. Petersburg.

  “It appears as though you're making progress, Minister Eschbach, but I'd appreciate a little information.” Hagel offered one of those warm, charming, sincere, and utterly false political smiles, the kind that makes most people feel like the center of the universe. It just made me uneasy. “Walt said you had a unique style, and it's pretty clear you do.” He laughed. “But it does put me in an awkward position if I can't report something to Minister Vandiver and the Speaker.” The smile vanished. “It is rather difficult to explain the proximity of a senior Columbian minister to a terrorist bombing.”

  I shrugged. “First Secretary Darwaard warned me about sightseeing. Apparently, I didn't take him seriously enough. You can check with Christian De Witte. We were sightseeing. One fellow was friendly, and he left, and then I saw a suspicious-looking fellow. I did exactly what I would have done in Philadelphia or Asten or the federal district. I got out of there as quickly as I could. I never even got a good look at the man.” All of that was true.

  Another charming smile followed the nod. “You were fortunate.”

  “I still run a great deal. It helped.”

  Hagel ignored that. “Do you have any more plans or meetings?”

  “The ball's in their hoop now. I thought I might take in Llysette's rehearsal at the Mariinsky this afternoon.”

  “I just got a wirecall from Elston Hayworth. He's the negotiator for the Ministry of State's Alaskan Petroleum concession. He's been invited to preliminary talks with PetroRus and a representative of the Russian Minister of Interior. He said you did something.”

  “I've had a meeting or two with Kyril Kulikovsky,” I admitted. “I just emphasized that in an uncertain world cooperation for mutual practical benefit has many advantages. He said he'd consider what I offered. I've also met with the general in charge of rivers and waterways, and with a representative of the Ministry of Interior.”

  “I see. For less than two days in St. Petersburg, you appear to have been very busy.”

  “Busy . . . but we will have to see.” I didn't think my official schedule was nearly so busy as it should have been, for reasons about which I was getting more and more concerned, even if I had little enough proof. From what I'd heard so far, I wasn't about to claim more or to hand over anything of substance to the Russians until much greater interest manifested itself. Much greater interest.

  “That we will.” Yet another smile followed. “I don't want to keep you, Minister Eschbach, but I trust you understand my position.”

  I stood before he could. “I certainly do. I'll let you know if anything develops.”

  I had walked less than a dozen paces from the ambassador's office when Colonel Sudwerth appeared.

  “Minister Eschbach, the man I've been looking for. Might you have a moment, sir?” asked Sudwerth in his hearty and polite voice.

  “A few minutes, but I'm going to try to listen to Llysette's rehearsal this afternoon, and I'll have to get something to eat before that.”

  “This won't take long.”

  I followed him to his office, smaller and far more spare than the first secretary's, and with the only view that of the rear courtyard.

  Sudwerth closed the door but didn't sit down, as if to underscore that he intended to be brief. “I just wanted to know how your meetings were going and whether I might be able to offer any assistance.”

  “I've met with the people who were interested, and now we'll have to see.”

  “I understand you saw Colonel General Kaselov.”

  “That was this morning. He was concerned that any environmental technology might have an adverse impact on the usability of canals and rivers for transportation. I think I was able to reassure him on that score. What do you know about him?”

  “He seems to be what he is.”

  “Unlike many of their military?”

  “Russia is an autocracy, Minister Eschbach, and they have a secret police that is very thorough and effective. The Ohkrana has no fear of dealing with military officers. Anything that supports the tzar and the motherland is considered acceptable in some circles.”

  “That's scarcely a new idea,” I temporized. “Besides, I'm just offering environmental expertise that will result in improved energy recovery techniques and riverine cleanups. I doubt that they have much problem with saving roubles, not with Ferdinand knocking on the south door.”

  “The Russians' great strength is that they will take any losses necessary to destroy an invader. That hasn't changed since Napoleon.”

  “The Russians haven't changed, but the Austrians have,” I said mildly. “Except in the case of the March to the Sea and the fall of the Low Countries, they're content to take little bites, to provoke the other land, and then to chop up attacking forces. That's why they effectively hold all of continental Europe, except Sweden and Russia.” I watched Sudwerth closely as I a
dded the next sentence. “Unless Russia has something newer and more powerful than anyone has been able to discover, the Austrians will do the same thing they've been doing—most successfully. They'll just nibble away at Russia the way the Poles did in the tenth century or whenever it was, or perhaps they'll nibble up enough of the Ottomans to control the Bosphorus directly, and then turn their energies to Russia.”

  “You may be right, Minister Eschbach, but I'd advise against saying so loudly outside the embassy.”

  “I may be wrong, Colonel. I often have been. So I'm most unlikely to venture a public opinion.”

  Sudwerth laughed. “I've probably kept you . . .”

  “No problem. But I do need to find my wife.” I offered a last smile and slipped out his office door, keeping the expression in place until I was well away.

  I needed to know more, but that was getting more and more difficult, largely because I didn't speak Russian, and I wondered, not for the first time, why Harlaan had really wanted me in St. Petersburg, as opposed to someone who did know the language and the culture far better.

  28

  THE MARIINSKY THEATRE looked like a circular stone arena rising out of ornately rectangular buildings added on at irregular intervals, except it was tall, a good five or six stories. At a first impression, it didn't look as if any part of the theatre had more than a few yards of surface that were not broken by a projection, a pediment, a faux column, or stone casements, but all were tied together by the pastel bluegreen painted over the flat sections of gray stone. I could honestly say its exterior was like no other theatre or opera house I'd ever seen.

  Llysette's driver from the embassy pulled up on one side of the theatre, and we got out, into a steady wind that had dropped the temperature to well below freezing. I held the case with Llysette's music, although she'd never even carry it onstage, and followed her and Terese through a side door. A thin man in a gray jacket led the way. Eventually, we ended up in the wings of the theatre, stage right.

  As we stood there, I could hear the piano. In the center of the stage, lit by a single spotlight, a young man was obviously concluding a section of a piano concerto, playing with what seemed to me to be both great energy and talent.