“Inside the lining of the metal purse.” She smiled. “There is lead in the sequins.”
How far we had come. She'd shot me, in the beginning, and now had used the same luger to save my life.
38
BOTH LIYSETTE AND I were just happy to get back to Vanderbraak Centre, even if a northeastern winter storm blanketed the town and most of New Bruges within hours of our return. We were happy to be snowed in for the next day or so, and Llysette didn't complain about the cold. But, she didn't have to. I kept the woodstove in the parlor stoked, and there were plenty of staples laid aside in the cellar, even if little was fresh.
And that was that. The world teetered on. The doktor and the diva had done their bit, and no one said a word, because saying something would have revealed just how close matters could have come to disaster, and because none of us involved could really have proved how dangerous the situation had been. There were some indications in the weeks after we returned to New Bruges, if one knew where to look.
The head of the united Columbian defense staff died unexpectedly when his limousine was hit by an AmeriSun petro hauler that burst into flames, and four other senior generals took early retirement for unspecified reasons. The clean-cut Verner Oss had vanished from my classes, probably headed off to another assignment, and I still had no idea whether he'd been detailed from Holmbek to protect me or from the Air Corps for less friendly reasons, but his disappearance was a good sign in most ways, except I missed having him as a bright student.
The chief executive of AmeriSun's Rocketrol chemicals division died from a gunshot wound to the head, but no suicide note was ever found, although the gun did bear his prints. Columbian Dutch Petro was beginning to drill exploratory wells in Russian Alaska, and building highways. The Northlands tar sands petroleum conversion plants came on line and began to send kerosene south. I supposed all that showed that representative governments, so long as they represent everyone, and neither just the elite nor just the mob, can in fact muddle through.
Back in Russia, ionization and filtration equipment was being installed on the Dnepyr, and his high excellency Dimitri Vlasovich had become a deputy minister in charge of environmental improvement—that was what the short note I'd gotten from him indicated, along with thanks for the materials and contact lists. Ferdinand changed his tack and now was complaining that the change in the water purity would disrupt the Romanian fisheries.
The Russians announced the Firebird, the successor to the Perun, and said that they were building it for research purposes, but that it could be easily reconfigured to carry multiple warheads if necessary. They didn't say what kind, but I had an idea that they were “less fantastic,” as Marshal Gorofsky would have termed it, after Marshal Putin died when his transport crashed on takeoff from St. Petersburg. And I never did find out if anything happened to Piet Darwaard, although I doubted it. His type was far too careful.
Llysette's students began to do recitals, and she spent too many nights up at the music and theatre building. But . . . as a result of the St. Petersburg concert, Llysette received another half dozen invitations throughout Columbia—and two from abroad. One from Quebec and one to perform in Citie de Tenochtitlan, sponsored by FrancoPetEx. I suspect Dietre had something to do with that, since he'd been in Deseret as their “representative,” but I doubted that we'd ever know for certain, unless he showed up at the concert—which wasn't beyond probability. He did get around, and he did love Llysette's singing.
Then, on the first Saturday in March, three packages arrived at the post centre. A smiling Maurice had a padded registered letter to me, registered from the Office of the Speaker. There was also another thin letter from International Import Services, PLC, Columbia City, Federal District, and a much larger package from the Presidential Palace, addressed to Llysette.
I'd been going to go to McArdles' and do the grocery shopping. Instead, I eased the Stanley through the slush from Thursday's snow, back up Deacon's Lane.
Llysette was at the door.
“What . . . Is something the matter?”
I couldn't help smiling as I carried the packages and envelopes into the study. “I don't think so. We received some packages, of sorts.”
I opened the thin letter from International Import Services, Harlaan's “consulting” front, wondering if the envelope held the “fee” he'd promised months ago, and if it did, whether it would actually amount to something. I swallowed. There was no letter, just a cheque, for fifty thousand dollars. I had to read the numbers twice. Then I showed it to Llysette.
“Mon cher, you are the wealthy one now.”
“Only until your next two concerts,” I pointed out.
The padded letter from the Speaker was next. There were two pieces of paper in the letter from the Speaker. I read the formal letter first.
Dear Minister Eschbach:
On behalf of the government of Columbia, Iwould like to be the first to congratulate you on your most successful efforts to facilitate the cleansing of the Dnepyr River and to provide environmental expertise beyond anyone's expectations . . .
I would like to invite you and Mme. duBoise to attend the Speaker's Honors Dinner in June, where Iwould like to present you personally with the Columbian Civilian Achievement Medal.
While Iwish the government could offer greater recognition of your services, Ido wish to offer my deepest thanks and appreciation.
The handwritten and unsigned note was briefer.
Our deepest thanks for what will never be known.
I wondered about both sentiments. Thanks of those in power are brief, and everything becomes known in time. Still, I'd at least delayed the development and deployment of the zombie bomb—assuming that Yelensov had been right and it could be built at all.
Llysette tapped me on the shoulder. I smiled and handed her both sheets of paper.
“At last . . . they recognize you.”
“At last,” I agreed. “David and the dean will enjoy telling the world about another distinguished faculty achievement.”
“You are not pleased?”
“I am, and I'm not.”
Llysette nodded. She understood.
I looked to the second package. It was from the Presidential Palace, addressed to Llysette, and was fairly light, but not small. “You open this one.”
Llysette opened the first box carefully to find a second inside, bearing inscriptions in Russian, German, French, and English, and from the three that I could read, they all meant the same thing—“Fragile.” The inside box also bore the name “Pavlova” and an envelope fastened to it. She then opened the unsealed envelope to extract a card. The card was unsigned, but bore the words: “This was sent to the president for transmission to you.”
“If it's what I think it is,” I said, “be very careful.”
Llysette raised her eyebrows, but she was careful.
I was right. Inside the box was a small display case, and in the case was an exquisite Pavlova miniature porcelain—that of a dark-haired singer in a shimmering silver-green gown, with a short black and silver jacket. The figure was less than a foot tall, but small as it was, I could recognize Llysette's every feature replicated there.
From what I could tell, she had been given the second of one hundred limited edition figures.
“It is magnifique . . . ”
“You were magnifique . . . ” I insisted.
“Not I,” she said gently, looking up from the porcelain, “you were the one who saved the world . . . all would be zombies and ghosts . . .”
I wasn't sure I'd done that. I think Llysette had done that, for without her songs, no one would have listened to me, and the memories of her songs in St. Petersburg would last far longer than the rumors of what I'd done, and that was certainly for the best.
But . . . the world goes on, lurching from danger to danger, as would any world, and the spies are forgotten far sooner than the great singers, and that, too, is as it should be.
L. E. Modesitt, Jr., Ghost of the White Nights
Ghost of the White Nights Page 33
