Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

I blinked, finding myself half on my knees, half against one of the salon chairs, trying to ignore the blazing in my left arm, and the dull aching from the impact of the first shot against the vest liner. I fumbled to pull the Russian sidearm out from inside my vest. Sudwerth looked at the splotches of darkness on his chest and, with shaking hands, slowly turned his weapon toward Llysette, who had fired from the floor.

  I finally fumbled out the Russian side arm, more quickly than it seemed, aimed it, and squeezed. It did go off, and Sudwerth went down, and he wasn't going to get up. He might not have, anyway, from what Llysette had done, but I'd wanted to be sure he didn't fire at her. That was the least I could do to atone for my stupidity.

  I wasn't sure I was going to get up, either, as stars flashed in front of my eyes.

  I was only out for a few minutes, I thought. But I was stretched out on one of the love seats, Llysette bending over me. Again, as once years before, she had bound my arm, and I could see Commander Madley standing behind her.

  “Greetings, Commander,” I croaked, half wondering how he'd gotten there so quickly.

  “Hush,” Llysette said. “The embassy doctor, he is coming.”

  Madley looked at my arm. “He shot you. Sudwerth shot you.”

  “He tried. It can't be that bad, or I wouldn't be here.”

  “You've lost some blood and then some,” Madley replied. “Doctor Emsworth will be right here. He said not to move you.” After a moment, he asked, “Colonel Sudwerth?”

  “The good colonel saved our lives, I think, by stepping in front of an Austrian assassin. The assassin escaped—regrettably. I don't know that it should be made public, but we should report the facts . . . and let his superiors determine what kind of commendation he should receive.”

  “The colonel, he tried to kill Johan. He was a traitor,” Llysette said. “But . . . it would not be good to tell the world. He said an assassin was here to kill us. The colonel—he stepped in front of the bullets to save me.”

  Weak and dizzy as I was, I could see the cold strength in her eyes.

  So did Madley. He took a step backward. “The guns . . . they have prints . . .”

  “They do not,” Llysette replied. “The assassins wore gloves. They will find no prints.” She looked at me. “Nor anything else.”

  I hadn't seen her wipe the guns, but I didn't doubt it. I also got the message about Sudwerth's “gadget.”

  Llysette and Madley were both right about one thing. I did need help. There were stars flashing in front of my eyes. Then I couldn't see anything.

  36

  THE DOCTOR, LLYSETTE, and Commander Madley wouldn't let me meet with Pyotr Romanov until Tuesday, more than two full days later, although they said he could have come to see me.

  What I had to say didn't belong inside the embassy, but I did ask for an armed guard from the embassy to escort me to and from PetroRus, and Commander Madley carried the case with all of the data and techniques I'd promised. The armed guard wouldn't have stopped the Imperial Rocket Corps, but it would have been far too embarrassing for anyone to try to overpower a detachment of Columbian marines—and it would have raised questions I knew no one wanted reopened.

  So, with my arm still in a sling, mainly because it was going to take a while for tissue and muscles to heal, I walked into the PetroRus building, flanked by a Republic Naval Air Corps lieutenant commander and four Republic marines.

  This time no one asked any embarrassing questions, and Commander Madley and I were escorted to the elevator and whisked to the top floor.

  Pyotr Romanov and Serge Yusupov both were waiting in the foyer on the top floor.

  Pyotr Romanov looked at the arm that was in a sling.

  “I'll explain . . . in a moment. It's why I'm a day late.” I turned to Madley. “Commander, if you'd open the case and give the documents inside to Prince Romanov.”

  Madley did.

  Interestingly, Romanov didn't hand them to Yusupov, but held on to them and looked at me. “We need a few minutes, do we not, Minister Eschbach?”

  “We do.”

  “Serge will provide some background to the commander while we talk.”

  So I followed the prince back to the ornate office that overlooked a gray St. Petersburg, although the temperature had risen to around freezing.

  After he closed the door and we sat down, he nodded toward my arm. “You were well when you left the Winter Palace.”

  “I was.” I gave a rueful smile. “The palace was safer than the embassy. It appears as though an Austrian agent, possibly an intermediary, penetrated our embassy. The agent was determined to stop the oil agreement, because the Austrians see that as a Columbian move to strengthen Russia. He thought he could do so by shooting me.”

  “It is an interesting story, Minister Eschbach.”

  “It's not only interesting, but the way it was reported.” I smiled. “I'm ready to have that agreement signed today.”

  “These things take time,” the prince temporized.

  “I was shot. A senior colonel was shot protecting me. The colonel was killed with either a luger or a Russian Maxim belonging to a zombie who was once a senior project manager for a most dubious adventure by the Imperial Rocket Corps.”

  “It is said that such an ‘adventure’ would restore greatness to Russia.”

  “There's great doubt that it will ever work.” I laughed, bitterly, ignoring what that did to my chest, upper arm, and shoulder. “Even if it did work, it would guarantee that all inhabited areas of Russia east of the Urals would be turned into black glass by Ferdinand's heavy bombers. The Swedes would immediately move into all areas that weren't radioactive, and Russia would be back in the tenth century so far as sovereignty happened to be concerned.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Prince Romanov . . . I don't play games. The Putilov people sold the Rocket Corps and the tzar a bill of phony goods. I don't deny that the basic de-ghosting technology exists. Ferdinand already has it, and, if Russia uses it to build mobile defensive projectors, you can certainly ensure that you can't be invaded—not without even greater costs than those created by the Russian winter.”

  His face remained impassive.

  “Now . . .” I emphasized. “You—or Russia—have gotten some good defensive technology, and you got it for next to nothing. You've just gotten the basis for oil recovery technology that cost others hundreds of millions, if not billions. I've just saved you from a worldwide disaster, and it's time for a gesture in return.”

  “You think I can provide such?” The eyebrows waggled.

  “Of course. You had your doubts about Yelensov and his projects from the beginning. You just didn't have the clout or the position to stop him. Neither did the Imperial Air Corps. Otherwise, you wouldn't have made sure that Yelensov came to the Winter Palace. If the tzar looked into that closely . . . at the very least, you might not be quite so favored. He may even have had some doubts, but wanted someone else to act.” I smiled. “So you recommend the Columbian Dutch Petro concession and get it signed because it offers more cash—hard dollars—and that will strengthen your position. And Russia.”

  “Putilov gets nothing?”

  “They got the solid fuel for your next-stage Perun, and Fyodor Ilyinsky gets to keep his job and his head. That's fair, I think.”

  “Why should I give away Russian oil?”

  I had the feeling we were backtracking, but you never know. “Look. You could do it as a joint venture, but joint venture means joint investment of capital and equipment, which you don't have. Nor do you have the shipping and other means to transport anything you did produce. You really can't safely bring in anyone besides Columbia, and, besides, only the Austrians have the capital to do it right, and Columbia would have some strong concerns there. I don't think the tzar would exactly want to cut a deal with the Austrians. So your options are fairly simple. Sit on it, and get no hard currency and no enhanced oil recovery technology and no environmental assistance and technology. Give the co
ncession to AmeriSun, and get less money, and no enhanced oil recovery technology and no environmental technology. Believe me, after already finding out that the information was leaked to Putilov, the Columbian government will block anything involving AmeriSun. So you give the concession to Columbian Dutch Petro and get everything, plus a happier tzar and a much happier Columbia.”

  “You do not mention Russian interests.”

  “I just have. But if you're talking about the Imperial Rocket Corps, Marshal Putin is going to be much happier if nothing gets mentioned, and it won't be by Columbia if this works out. And Yelensov's staff can figure out how to build groundbased de-ghosting projectors and come out looking fine.” I frowned. “I don't see that you have a problem . . . unless you make one.”

  “The tzar said he wished you were Russian. It is better you are not. No Russian would do as you have.” Romanov shook his head. “You will have your agreement.”

  I wasn't sure. I felt like I'd renegotiated the agreement twice, if not more, and until the money was in the bank, or until the concession agreement was signed and publicized worldwide, I wouldn't count on it. “This afternoon?”

  “This afternoon. From what I have seen and heard of you, Minister Eschbach, you will not stop until you complete your mission, or until you are dead. It would be most embarrassing to have you die, especially now, and . . . as you have pointed out, it is a most beneficial agreement for both sides.” The prince offered a smile less reptilian as he stood. “And your wife is the most outstanding diva of the generation.”

  I rose as well, almost gracefully, and we walked back out to the foyer where the commander and Serge Yusupov waited.

  Once I had a signed agreement, six volumes of environmental technology—the ones in Russian—were going directly to Director Vlasovich. If Vlasovich got a second set from PetroRus, he certainly wouldn't mention that he'd already received a set. That way, I could be sure Vlasovich had a chance of cleaning up the Dnepyr . . . as well as making sure I kept my word.

  37

  IN THE GRAY mid-morning on Wednesday, Llysette and I watched as two marines loaded our luggage into the embassy limousine. Commander Madley stood beside us in the rear courtyard of the embassy that had once been aworldclass hotel, and was yet haunted with ghosts. I was thankful Colonel Sudwerth wasn't one of them. Perhaps that was because he'd been so arrogant he hadn't believed he was dying, even as he was.

  “How do you feel about being detailed to replace Colonel Sudwerth for a while?” I asked the sober-faced officer.

  “It wasn't something I planned, sir.” A crooked smile crossed Madley's face. “It's probably better this way. Also, everyone knows I worked with you, and that association doesn't hurt. Everyone knows that you have a way of getting things done.”

  I wondered about that.

  “You were skeptical of the colonel for a while,” I said. “You didn't do anything.”

  Madley offered an embarrassed smile. “Minister Holmbek told me to stand back unless your life was in danger, sir. He said you had . . . a unique . . . way of operating.”

  “I appreciate his confidence. Any more uniqueness, and I'd have been dead.” I glanced toward the embassy, then lowered my voice. “As for the first secretary . . . you know what I think . . . I'm sure.”

  “Yes, sir, and I wouldn't go against your judgments.”

  I hoped Madley could do something about Darwaard, who might well have been more guilty than Sudwerth, but there was no proof I knew of, and Darwaard had certainly been skillful enough to avoid me for days without seeming to do so. Sometimes, the villains do get away with it—at least for a time.

  The doors to the private side of the embassy opened, and the ambassador stepped out and walked toward us. Smiling broadly, Ambassador Hagel bowed to Llysette. “Your concert was magnificent. Annette and I will remember it forever.”

  His smile was strained as he turned to me. “Minister Eschbach . . . I trust you will have a safe flight home and that you'll be fully recovered before long.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” I replied. “I'm sure that you'll have no trouble with the implementation of the petroleum concession, now that the tzar, PetroRus, and the Interior Ministries have approved it, and I'm certain that you'll see that the first secretary agrees that it's a good idea.” I emphasized the last phrase slightly.

  “The first secretary has already agreed. There's a name circulating about you, I've heard.” The ambassador tilted his head, then looked at Commander Madley.

  “Oh?” I looked at the commander.

  Madley looked back at the ambassador.

  “A Marshal Gorofsky, I believe, wired Commander Madley to pass on a message.” The ambassador grinned. “He said that you were the latest incarnation of the ghosts of the white nights. Or was it that you were fortunate to escape being the latest ghost of the white nights?”

  I laughed, ruefully and gently. “The latter, I'm sure.”

  “There is a legend that Peter the Great declared that the ghosts of the white nights would always save the city, Madley said. “It goes with the one about the Bronze Horseman.”

  “St. Petersburg can have the ghosts,” I said. The city needed them, and perhaps the tzar most of all, if he would but look at them.

  “They have more than enough,” announced Drummond Kent as he and Terese joined us. “I would like to leave them behind, and I do believe we're all here.”

  The Black Mesa Quartet and Robert Thies had left on Monday, for Stockholm, where they were appearing in separate concerts. I didn't envy them. The touring life wasn't what most people thought. The few appearances that Llysette was making were wearing enough. I couldn't imagine doing it day after day, week after week.

  “Have a safe trip home,” the ambassador called cheerfully as Commander Madley and the four of us climbed into the embassy limousine.

  Once outside the iron gates of the embassy courtyard, the driver headed southward, eventually along the Lvov Prospekt, toward the aerodrome.

  Leaving Russia was far easier than entering it, and Republic Air Corps 2 was even less crowded on the return trip. Llysette and I had one of the table areas to ourselves. Terese and Commander Madley were kind enough to take another to leave us some privacy. We didn't say much until we were airborne.

  “You're getting to be a wealthy woman,” I teased her. “Cheques from everywhere. Fifteen thousand from the government, twenty thousand from the tzar, and an emerald. Such an emerald.” I grinned, knowing she was wearing it under her high-necked dress, because she said there was no other safe way to carry it back.

  “That I did not expect.” She shook her head. “Nor the cheque from the tzar. Terese . . . she was also surprised at hers.”

  Actually they had been bank drafts of some sort, but imperial drafts, the kind we'd probably take a photograph of, just to remind us that it had happened.

  As I looked past Llysette and out the window of the turbo and down at the lines of white and gray that were St. Petersburg, and the areas of darker gray that were the Neva and Lake Ladoga, both fringed with white that showed they soon would be frozen, I had to wonder. Peter the Great had built St. Petersburg as a window to the west, and to the world, but what really was behind that window? Although Llysette and I had seen very little, there was far, far more to the vast land than St. Petersburg.

  In retrospect, what had happened was so obvious. The tzars had built a bureaucracy of highly educated men, a thin layer of expertise that had enabled the Romanovs to maintain order and control. The very thinness of that veneer had allowed me to do as I had, but even though I had seen very little except for that expertise, I had great doubts how much longer the Romanovs could maintain such absolute control.

  The student revolutionaries—they had wanted real change or real ghosts to show the brutality of the Ohkrana, but the de-ghosting technology had destroyed that. That destruction was also why the university area had felt so dead when I had looked around it. No one would ever know, but my guess was that hundreds, if
not thousands, of students had died there, their ghosts removed, and the student records obliterated, so that no one would ever know for certain. So, for the Ohkrana and the tzar, the answer was simple. No ghosts meant no unrest, and de-ghosting was yet another tool for maintaining the autocracy.

  Yet the intermittent Septembrist bombings continued, despite difference engines and the Ohkrana, and I wondered if they were not as inspired by the ghosts of the white nights as discouraged by those restless and endless spirits that infused the city of gray stone and skies.

  Would the ghosts of the white nights again save the Romanovs, or would the coming new millennium see the end of the dynasty—either through the advancing tanks of Ferdinand or through the slow erosion of the image of the tzar?

  Ferdinand controlled a system and a bureaucracy; I had the feeling that both controlled the tzar, much as he denied and protested it. And I had no doubts that the de-ghosting technology would reappear in Russia, and doubtless before long. I hoped that the Duma and those more perceptive than the tzar had a chance, perhaps a few more years, to make changes before the tides of revolt again surged in—and a chance is all any of us get.

  I couldn't see Marshal Putin making the de-ghosting technology widespread. It was too easy for rankers and even peasants to abuse. But word would leak out that Russia had the technology, and that would cool Ferdinand's rhetoric and efforts, because, if it did come to a war, the Russians would use anything.

  I shivered at that thought, because Pyotr Romanov had said that I had not acted as a Russian would. I feared I had, because I had used just about anything as well. Was it wrong to do what I had? Or was it a case, as the near-forgotten Speaker Breckinridge had once said, where everyone was wrong.

  “Pauvre homme,” murmured Llysette, laying her head against my good shoulder. “You worry much.”

  I did have one question, one I hadn't been about to ask while in Russia, and I laid my lips against her ear, whispering, “How did the luger . . .”