Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “It is nothing. For what they pay, we rehearse when we rehearse.”

  Even with the power of a government behind her, Llysette was running into the same kinds of space conflicts she faced at Vanderbraak State. The problems were the same, but the conflicting parties were just more prestigious.

  “I'm still sorry.” I slipped my briefcase from under the small desk and opened it. It didn't seem to have been tampered with again, and I pulled out the two manuals that I'd been sent by the Columbian Ministry of Interior.

  “You? You have another meeting?”

  “PetroRus wants to talk some more.”

  “Talk, it is cheap.”

  “I know, but we'll provide a little bait today. We don't meet until two. I'm going downstairs to make copies of what I need, and then I'll be back.”

  “I will be hungry then. But these I want to look over once more.” She held up the music.

  I was already hungry when I headed back down to the office section, the pair of manuals in the case I carried.

  “What are we copying, sir?” asked the waiting Christian.

  “Sections two and five,” I said.

  Christian frowned, but it was a questioning frown.

  While I didn't have to explain, someone needs to educate the young public servants, preferably before they become older public servants. “Section two lays out all the technologies. I don't want to tell them how many there are. Section five clearly implies that there have to be five, but the ending leaves the impression of more—it says something like ‘the next technology is a variation on this, while those that follow offer totally different approaches.’ ” I handed him the Russian version. “You copy these, and then we'll cross-check.” Then I looked at the commander. “There's no need for you to hang around following me until around one-thirty. After we get this copied, I'm going to have something to eat, probably in the dining room, with Llysette. So I won't be leaving the embassy again until we leave for PetroRus. You probably ought to get something to eat.”

  “Yes, sir.” Commander Madley looked as though he wanted to say something.

  “Christian . . . where are the duplicators?”

  “That room there.”

  I handed him the Russian version. “Start copying section two. I'll be there in a minute.”

  Once Christian had hurried away, I asked Madley, “What did you have in mind, Commander?”

  “I have to say, sir, that I worry about your safety. You took that walk this morning, without any armed escort, and . . . then you went off to dinner last night, and . . . well, no one knew even where you were.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I'll try to do better. That's why I wanted you to know about this afternoon.” I didn't say that I'd probably been safer at dinner at the Winter Swan than at any other time since I'd been in St. Petersburg. “I promise I won't leave the embassy until we go to PetroRus.” I paused. “Is this something that Colonel Sudwerth mentioned?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see he's looking after us.” I smiled. “That's good. I'm going to check the copying first, then have lunch. You can watch or join us later.” After the briefest of pauses, I said, “Then, again, maybe it might be best if you asked Colonel Sudwerth if he has any specifics on what we should be aware of or any places we should avoid. Could you do that?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  Christian already had the first section copied by the time I got into the hot copy room. After the second was done, I had Christian read the first part of the Russian version of each section aloud while I scanned the English version just to make sure the sections were the same. They were. They also came

  to more than sixty pages, which I replaced in my briefcase along with the originals.

  “Who do I charge them to?” asked Christian.

  “If there's an account for me, use that. If not, wherever you think best, and blame it on me after I leave.” I grinned. “Now . . . if you'll excuse me, I have a date for lunch with a beautiful diva.”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir.”

  Christian was figuratively scratching his head as I left the copy room to go back up to the fourth floor, lugging both my originals and the copies.

  Llysette was almost ready, and, after I took the originals from my briefcase and returned them to the traveling case, we walked down to the embassy dining room. There were just two choices for lunch—a baked unspecified white fish and a club sandwich. Both seemed rather unsuited to the elegant imperial decor of the embassy dining room, but unspecified anything, especially fish, left me uneasy. We had the club sandwiches with the tomato soup, and I managed to prevail upon the waiter to bring me chocolate. Llysette had tea. My chocolate was bitter, and even four spoonfuls of sugar didn't remove the edge.

  “This meeting, will it help?” she asked after nibbling at a wilted salad.

  “It should help, but whether it will help enough, who knows? I don't think the Russians really understand the huge long-term diseconomies of environmental degradation, or the costs involved. They're just interested in picking up technology they don't have to spend capital to develop and test.”

  “They should develop it if they can get it from you?”

  She had a point there.

  “The problem is that they may not know what it's worth. They probably don't care.” What I was certain Kulikovsky and Yusupov cared about was the promise of large and immediate cash payments by Columbian Dutch Petro. Vlasovich might care greatly, but how much pressure he and his minister might bring was far less than what other ministries might have to weigh against them.

  “You must make them care.”

  I'd have to think about how I could pin their survival on supporting the agreement.

  Unhappily, lunch and even the dry club sandwiches were over too quickly, and I was back in the embassy car, being driven back to the PetroRus building with both Christian and the commander.

  This time, there was even less of a delay. We were waved upstairs, with a guard, but the guard was smiling, and all he did was turn the key and punch the buttons on the elevator. When we stepped out on the sixth floor, the charming Elenya was standing by the elevator—and so was Executive Director Kulikovsky.

  “You are always prompt, Minister Eschbach. You do not make time a game of position.”

  “Oh, but I do. My time is important. So is yours. When I waste neither, you find yourself indebted to me.” I offered a slightly crooked smile, hoping he'd smile or laugh.

  He laughed.

  Behind us, as Kulikovsky escorted me down a corridor, I heard Elenya saying, “I have some Russian cakes for you two.”

  We walked past Kulikovsky's office and into one furnished more in what I would have called Russian traditional, with more ornately carved and darker furniture, the upholstery in dark green velvet, set off by silver piping. Behind the desk sat Serge Yusupov. He stood and gestured toward the chairs. “Greetings, Minister Eschbach.”

  I sat down and set my briefcase by my knee.

  Kulikovsky bowed and left, closing the door behind us.

  Yusupov tilted his head slightly to the left. “You have suggested a few possibilities, but we have not gotten into specifics.”

  “No, we haven't.” I opened my case and handed across the first section—some twenty-eight pages, at least in English. I hadn't counted the Russian pages, but I thought the translation was shorter. I closed the case, leaving the second section inside.

  Yusupov took the section and began to read. After perhaps three pages, he stopped, then flipped to the back and read more before looking up. “Very interesting. In Russian, and on white paper. How thoughtful.”

  “It might make matters somewhat easier.”

  “You are not concerned that . . . There is the matter of, shall we say, credit?”

  “If you intend to steal it, removing identification markings would be easy enough. Besides, Columbia, as we discussed earlier, is interested in other matters. This way, PetroRus could t
ake a greater share of . . . credit . . . for your ingenuity, at least.”

  “In some ways, Minister Eschbach, you are a pleasure to deal with.”

  “Obviously, someone isn't pleased,” I said with a laugh.

  For a moment, Yusupov frowned. “That is true. I do not think Marshal Putin is pleased with your appearance, but we are.”

  “Putin? I don't recall his name. Is he with the Air Corps?”

  “ Nyet . . . the Imperial Rocket Corps.”

  “Ah . . . I presume, because of the Putilov connection?”

  A look of something—not quite surprise—flickered across his face before he spoke. “I would not speculate. Prince Romanov might, but I would not.”

  “When one is less directly related to the tzar, one must be more circumspect?” I suggested.

  “One must always be circumspect in St. Petersburg. Sometimes one must be even more circumspect.” He cleared his throat, then lifted the section. “This is most useful . . . yet how would one know that there might be more, that this is not . . .”

  “A bluff . . . a teaser?” I shrugged. “That would be in bad faith. If we acted so poorly, I don't doubt you could come up with reasons to void any agreement. That wouldn't be in our interests.”

  “I know that. But . . . I do not make the decision. I recommend.” This time, he shrugged.

  I gave a dramatic sigh.

  He knew it was dramatic but managed to keep a straight face.

  I bent down and extracted the second section—thirty-three pages—and extended it. “This might help.”

  He read some of it, checked the pages, and read the last section, then grinned. “You knew I would ask.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “And if I wanted more proof?”

  I held up the empty case, open so that he could see it was empty. “It's your turn.”

  “It is.” He stood. “We have enough to consider. I appreciate all you have done.”

  “I trust we can work something out,” I said as I rose from the green velvet-upholstered chair. “It's to your benefit, and to that of PetroRus and Russia, as well as to us.”

  “There are things we must consider, but we will.”

  The door opened, and Kyril Kulikovsky was waiting to escort me out.

  Yusupov smiled, and so did I.

  As we walked back along the corridor, I turned to Kulikovsky. “What is his title or position?”

  Kulikovsky laughed humorously. “He has no title. He doesn't need one. He says it would hinder him.”

  So much for that.

  “Besides Prince Romanov, you could talk to no one better, but I would not mention such in your embassy. Not until the matter is decided.”

  “I appreciate the advice.”

  “Advice, I can always give.” He laughed again as we entered the foyer, where Christian and Commander Madley were talking with Elenya, in Russian.

  Everyone bowed or the equivalent, and we took the elevator down to the main floor, where the clerk at the desk smiled and inclined his head, and the eyes of the guards followed us, more with speculation, I thought, than out-and-out distrust.

  “Did you learn anything this time?” I asked once we were in the car and headed back to the Columbian embassy.

  “Not too much,” Christian conceded.

  “She did hint that everyone knows who you are,” Madley said. “She wanted us to know that.”

  Christian looked surprised.

  “Did she say that?” I directed the question to Christian.

  “Not that way . . . it was more like . . . you must be very honored to be working with such a distinguished minister . . . is it true he was a hero and a high government minister? And then she said something like . . .” Christian glanced to the commander and swallowed before going on. “It isn't often that a hero and the world's greatest singer are married and come to St. Petersburg . . .”

  “I did take the liberty of telling her just how few Republic Air Crosses have ever been awarded,” the commander added.

  “Besides that, we talked more about food,” Christian said.

  “Did she suggest any good places to eat?” I asked.

  “The Parizhmuzyka . . . the first secretary ate there once, I think . . . and La Metropole . . .”

  “Was there anything else?”

  “I can't think of anything.” Christian glanced at Madley. “Can you, Commander?”

  The aviator shook his head.

  The rest of the short return drive was silent, as I tried to sort out what had been said, what had been meant, and what had been implied—and what had not.

  The saying was that you never saw one ghost, but a plethora, or it never rained, but it poured. Either way, it works out the same, and this time, as I had left the Volga on my way into the embassy, there was another diplomat, a shorter and wiry man, with a darker complexion. It took me a moment to pick out his name from my memory—Hamilton Tavoian, the second secretary.

  “Minister Eschbach . . . there's someone to see you.”

  “I'd be happy to see them.” I glanced around. “I don't have an of. ce . . .”

  “Ah . . . First Secretary Darwaard is meeting with the ambassador, but he said earlier in the week that you could use the conference room next to his office if you needed it.”

  “I guess I need it.” I paused. “Who wants to see me?”

  “The AmeriSun representative in St. Petersburg. His name is Clinton Mills.”

  That surprised me—and it didn't.

  “I . . . took the liberty of having him wait in the conference room.”

  “That's fine.” I didn't sigh. I just turned to Christian and Commander Madley. “I won't be needing you two for a while.”

  “I can catch up on exit visas,” Christian said cheerfully.

  “I'll see if Commander Sudwerth has anything new,” added Madley.

  We all followed Tavoian up the stairs, and then my de facto aides went different ways, and I went to the conference room. The only thing cheerful in the entire room was the large cherry conference table. The chairs were upholstered in green leather so dark it was almost black, and the only wall decorations were faded etchings of scenes of the federal district.

  The man who was waiting for me was a good half foot taller than I was, with the broad and cheerful smile of a professional lobbyist, which was certainly what he was. He stepped forward and extended his hand, even before Tavoian had closed the door behind him, leaving the two of us alone in the conference room.

  “Clinton Mills, Minister Eschbach. I do appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

  “I'm happy to see you, but I can't imagine what I can do for you, Mister Mills.” I dropped into one of the chairs and gestured for him to sit down.

  He did, but easily, with the grace of an athlete who knew that he was too big to sit quickly or heavily.

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “I just wanted to give you some background. I don't know if anyone at the embassy explained my concerns. I'm from the corporate headquarters of AmeriSun in Philadelphia.” He smiled winningly. “Actually, my assignment is here in St. Petersburg, but I report directly to McCoy Johnson. He's the president of AmeriSun.”

  “What is your assignment?” I managed to keep smiling.

  “Liaison, mostly. I'm sure you know that Putilov is a wholly owned subsidiary of AmeriSun. Under Columbian and Russian law, for very different reasons, the president of Putilov must have the freedom to determine the company's goals and objectives.”

  “So AmeriSun can fire the president, but not direct his actions?”

  “Exactly.” Mills spread his hands. “That's where I come in. Fyodor Ilyinsky certainly doesn't want to undertake initiatives that will be viewed . . .”

  “Unfavorably in Philadelphia?” I suggested.

  “You might say that I'm here to make sure that there are no surprises on either side.”

  Like too many professional politicians, Clinton Mills had the ki
nd of personality that focused on the person he addressed, so much that almost everyone felt special. As with the politicians, I just felt uneasy. “That explains what you do, and why it's necessary. I'm still a bit puzzled as to why you wanted to see me.”

  He offered that warm smile. “The word is that you're trying to broker some sort of deal between PetroRus and Columbian Dutch Petro.” He held up his hand. “I'm not saying it's true. Rumors have a way of taking on a life of their own. I hope it's not true, especially because, well . . . that could put our government in a delicate situation, and you've had a most distinguished and admirable career.”

  I laughed. “Far less noted and distinguished than you're implying.”

  “All the world knows of you, sir.” That statement arrived with an honest and open look of deep sincerity.

  “I do doubt that, but . . . go on. You were about to discuss the delicacy of a situation about which I'm clearly totally unaware. What is this situation?”

  “As you may not know, sir, through its Putilov venture and its connections, AmeriSun has been working to build a closer relationship commercially between Columbian business and Russian interests. This has taken a considerable investment of time and capital over a number of years, and it has been a gradual process, of necessity . . .” Another smile followed his words, this one half apologetic. “If political considerations were to supersede agreements being developed through mutual understanding and commercial benefit . . .”

  I wanted to laugh. Since when hadn't both politicians and business types incessantly meddled in each others' affairs? But I didn't betray any humor or disgust. I just nodded soberly. “I think you may have misunderstood why I am here. My background is environmental. I am indeed trying to work out something, but . . .” I paused. “You may have heard that Ferdinand has objected to the level of pollutants and the effluent characteristics of the Dnepyr River? That he has complained of the impact on the Romanian fisheries?”

  The faintest touch of a frown crossed Mills's face before the smile reappeared. “I had heard words to that effect, but . . . I was under the impression that was more pretext than anything else.”