“Er, no! No!” Miriam was taken aback until she noticed Brill stifling laughter. “Er. That is, only if you want to. Have you seen enough of Cambridge yet? Don’t you want to look around here, first, before going to yet another world?”
“Do I want—” Olga looked as if she was going to explode: “yes!” she insisted. “I want it all! Where do I sign? Do you want it in blood?”
Early evening, a discreet restaurant on the waterfront, glass windows overlooking the open water, darkness and distant lights. It was six-thirty precisely. Miriam nervously adjusted her bra strap and shivered, then marched up to the front desk.
“Can I help you?” asked the concierge.
“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m Miriam Beckstein. Party of two. I believe the person I’m expecting will already be here. Name of Lofstrom.”
“Ah, just a moment—yes, please go in. He’s at a window table, if you’d just come this way—”
Miriam went inside the half-deserted restaurant, still filling up with an upmarket after-work crowd, and headed for the back. After weeks in New Britain she felt oddly exposed in a black minidress and tux jacket, but nobody here gave her a second glance. “Roland?”
He’d been studying the menu, but now he rocketed to his feet, confusion in his face. “Miriam—” He remembered to put the menu down. “Oh. You’re just—”
“Sit down,” she said, not unkindly. “I don’t want you to offer me a seat or hold doors open when it’s easier for me to do it myself.”
“Uh.” He sat, looking slightly flustered. She felt a sudden surge of desire. He was in evening dress, like the first time. Together they probably looked as if they were heading for a night at the opera. A couple.
“It’s been how long?” she asked.
“Four weeks and three days,” he said promptly. “Want the number of hours, too?”
“That would be—” She stopped and looked at the waiter who’d just materialized at her elbow. “Yes?”
“Would sir et madame care to view the wine list?” he asked stuffily.
“You go ahead,” she told Roland.
“Certainly. We’ll have the Chateau Lafite ’93, please,” he said without pause. The waiter scurried away.
“Come here often?” she asked, amused despite her better judgment.
“A wise man said, when you’re planning a campaign, preparation is everything.” He grinned wryly.
“Are we safe here?” she asked. “Really?”
“Hmm.” His smile slipped. “Angbard sent a message. Your house appears to be clear, but it might be a bad idea to sleep over there. It’s not doppelgangered, and even if it was, he couldn’t vouch for its security. Apart from that—” He looked at her significantly. “I made sure nobody back at the office knows where I am tonight. And I wasn’t tailed here.”
The wine arrived, as did the waiter. They spent a minute bickering good-naturedly over the relative merits of a warming chowder against the chef’s way with garlic mushrooms. “What has Angbard got you doing?” she asked.
“Well.” He looked ruefully out of the window. “After our last meeting it was like you’d thrown a hornet’s nest through his window. Everybody got to walk around downtown Cambridge in the snow, looking for a missing old lady in a powered wheelchair, you know? I ended up spending a week spying on a private security firm we’d hired. Didn’t find much except a few padded expenses claims. Then Angbard quietly started shuffling people around—again, nothing turned up except a couple of guards on the take. So then he put me back on regular courier duty in the post room, with a guard assignment or two on the side, moved himself to a high-rise in New York—real estate above the thirtieth floor is going cheap these days—left Matthias running Fort Lofstrom and Angus in Karlshaven, and declared that the search for your foster-mother couldn’t go on any longer. Uh, he figured we weren’t going to find anything new after that much time. Well.” He shrugged. “I can’t tell you any specifics about my current assignments, but his lordship told me that if you got in touch, I was to—” He paused.
“I think I can guess,” she said dryly.
“No, I promise! Angbard doesn’t know about us,” he said firmly. “He thinks we’re just friends.”
The appetizers arrived. Miriam took a sip of her chowder. The news about the hunt for Iris depressed her, but came as no real surprise. “Angbard. Does not know. That we, uh, you know.” Somehow the thought made her feel free and sinful, harboring personal secrets—as well as strategic information about the third universe—that the all-powerful intelligence head didn’t. She paused for a moment and studied the top of his head, trying to memorize every hair.
“I never told him,” Roland said, putting down his soup spoon. “Did you think I would?”
“You can keep secrets when it suits you,” Miriam noted.
He looked up. “I am an obedient servant to your best interests,” he said quietly. “If Angbard finds out he’ll kill us. If you want me to apologize for not giving him grounds to kill us, I apologize.”
She met his eyes. “Apology noted.” Then she went back to her soup. It was deliriously fresh and lightly seasoned, and Miriam luxuriated in it. She stretched out her legs, and nearly spilled soup everywhere as she found his ankle rubbing against hers. Or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. Nearly two months of lonely nights was coming to the boil. “What would you do for me?” she whispered to him over the remains of the appetizer.
“Anything.” He met her eyes. “Almost anything.”
“Well, I’d like that. Tonight. On one condition.” The waiter removed their bowls, discreetly avoiding the line of sight between them—obviously couples behaving this way were a well-understood phenomenon in his line of work.
“What?”
“Don’t, whatever you do, talk about tomorrow,” she said.
“Okay. I promise.” And it was that simple. He surrendered before the main course, a sirloin steak for him and a salmon cutlet for her, and Miriam felt something tight unwind inside her, a subliminal humming tension that had been building up for what felt like forever. She barely tasted the food or noticed as they finished the bottle of wine. He paid, but she paid no attention to that, either. “Where to?” he asked.
“Do you still have an apartment here?” she replied.
“Yes.” She heard the little catch in his throat.
“Is it safe? You’re sure nobody’s, uh—”
“I sleep there. No booby traps. Do you want to—”
“Yes.” She knew it was a bad idea, but she didn’t care about that—at least, not right now. What she cared about, as she pulled her jacket on and allowed him to take her arm, was the warmth at the base of her spine and the sure knowledge that she could count on tonight. All the tomorrows could take their chances.
He drove carefully, back to his apartment in a warehouse redevelopment not far from the restaurant. Miriam leaned back, watching him sidelong from the passenger seat of the Jaguar. “This is it,” he said, pulling into the underground garage. “Are you sure?” he asked, turning off the engine.
She leaned forward and bit his lower lip, gently.
“Ow—” Their mouths met. “Not here,” he panted.
“Okay. Upstairs.”
They worked their way into the elevator without getting too disheveled. It stopped on a neat landing with three doors. Roland freed up a hand to unlock one, and punched a code into a beeping alarm system. Then they were inside. He locked the door, put a chain across it, then bolted it—and she tackled him.
“Not here!”
“Where, then?”
“There!” He pointed through an open door into the living room, dimly lit by an old seventies lava lamp that shed moving patterns of orange and red light across a sofa facing the uncurtained window.
“That’ll do.” She dragged him over, and they collapsed onto the sofa. He was ready for her, and it was all Miriam could do to force herself to unwrap a condom before she launched herself at him. There was no time to
pull off his clothes. She straddled him, felt his hands working under her dress, and then she was—
—an hour later, sitting on the toilet, giggling madly as she watched him shower. Both of them frog-naked and sweaty. “We’ve got to stop this happening to us!” she insisted.
“Come again?”
She threw the toilet roll at him.
“You’re violent,” he complained: “That isn’t in The Rules!”
“You read that?”
“Olga’s elder sister had a copy. I sneaked a peek.”
“Ugh!” Miriam finished with the toilet. “Move over, you’re not doing that right.”
“I’ve been showering myself for years—”
“Yes, that’s what’s wrong. Stand up.” She stepped into the bathtub with him and pulled the shower curtain across.
“Hey! This wasn’t in the rules either!”
“Where’s the soap?”
“It does, doesn’t—ow!”
Morning came late. Miriam stirred drowsily, feeling warm and secure and unaccountably bruised. There was something wrong with the pillow: It twitched. She tensed. An arm! I didn’t, did I... ?
Memory returned with a rush. “Your apartment is too big,” she said.
“It is?”
“Too many rooms.”
“What do you mean?”
She squirmed backwards slightly until she felt his crotch behind her. “We managed the living room, the bathroom, and the bedroom. But you’ve got a kitchen, haven’t you? And what about the back passage?”
“I, uh.” He yawned, loudly. She could feel him stiffening. “Need the toilet,” he mumbled.
“Oh shit.” She rolled over and watched him stand up, fondly. Aren’t they funny in the morning? she thought. If only ... Then the numb misery was back. It was tomorrow, already.
Damn, she thought. Can’t keep it together for even a night! What’s wrong with me?
“Would you like some coffee?” he called through the open doorway.
“Yeah, please.” She yawned. Waking up in bed with him should feel momentous, like the first day of the rest of her life. But it didn’t, it just filled her with angst—and a strong desire to spit in the faces of the anonymous sons of bitches who’d made it so. She wanted Roland. She wanted to wake up this way forever. She’d even think about the marriage thing, and children, if it was just about him. But it wasn’t, and there was no way she’d sacrifice a child on the altar of the Clan’s dynastic propositions. Romeo and Juliet were just stupid dizzy teenagers, she thought morosely. I know better. Don’t I?
She stood up and pulled her dress on. Then she padded into Roland’s small kitchen. He smiled at her. “Breakfast?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She smiled back at him, brain spinning furiously. Okay, so why don’t you give him a chance? she asked herself. If he is hiding something, let’s see if he’ll get it off his chest. Now. She knew full well why she didn’t want to ask, but not knowing scared her. Especially while Iris remained missing. On the other hand, a plausible bluff might make him tell her whatever it was, and if it was about Iris, that mattered. Didn’t it? So what can I use—oh. It was obvious. “Listen,” she said quietly. “I know you’re holding out on me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You haven’t told Angbard. So who knows about us?”
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting: denial, maybe, or laughter; but his face crumpling up like a car wreck wasn’t on the list. “Damn,” he said quietly. “Shit.”
Her mouth went dry. “Who?” she asked.
Roland looked away from her. “He showed me pictures,” he said quietly. “Pictures of us. Can you believe it?”
“Who? Who are you talking about?” Miriam took a step back, suddenly feeling naked. Ask and ye shall learn.
Roland sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Matthias.”
“Jesus, Roland, you could have told me!” Anger lent her words the force of bullets. He winced before them. “What—”
“Cameras. All the cameras in Fort Lofstrom. Not just the ordinary security ones—he’s got bugs in some of the rooms, hidden and wired into the surveillance net. You can’t sweep for them, they don’t show up, and they’re not supposed to be there. He’s a spider, Miriam. We were in his web.” Roland’s face was turned toward her, white and tortured. “If he tells the old man—”
“Damn.” Miriam shook her head in disgust. “When?”
“After you disappeared, I swear it. Miriam, he’s blackmailing me. Not you, you might survive. Angbard’d kill me. He’d be honor-bound to, if it came out.”
Miriam glared at him. “What. What did he ask. You to do?”
“Nothing!” Roland cried out. He was right on the edge. I’m scaring him, she realized, an echo of grim satisfaction cutting through the numbness around her. Good. “At least, nothing yet. He says he wants you out of the picture. Not dead, just out of the Clan politics. Invisible. What you’re doing now—he thinks I’m behind it.”
“Give me that coffee,” Miriam demanded.
“When you called about the body in the warehouse, I told Matthias because he’s in charge of internal security,” Roland explained as he poured a mug from the filter machine. “Then when you told me there was a bomb, I couldn’t figure it out. Because if he wants to blackmail me he needs you to be alive, don’t you see? So I can’t see why he’d plant it, but at the same time—”
“Roland.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up. I’m trying to think.”
Shit. Matthias. Cameras everywhere. She remembered the servant’s staircase. Roland’s bedroom. So Matthias wants us out of the way? It was tempting. “Two million dollars.”
“Huh?”
“We could go a long way on two million bucks,” she heard herself say. “But not far enough to outrun the Clan.”
“You want to—”
“Shut up.” She glared at Roland. He’d been holding out on her. For what sounded like good reasons, she admitted—but the thought made her blood run cold. Roland was no knight in shining armor. The Clan had broken him. Now all it took was Matthias pushing his buttons to make him do whatever they wanted. She wanted to hate him for it, but found that she couldn’t. The idea of going up against an organization with billions of dollars and hundreds of hands was daunting. Roland had done it once already, and paid the price. Okay, so he’s not brave, she thought. Where does that leave me? Am I brave, or crazy? “Are you holding out anything else on me?” she asked.
Roland took a deep breath. “No,” he said. “Honest. The only person who’s got anything on me is Matthias.” He chuckled bitterly, ending in a cough. “Nobody else. No other girlfriends. No boyfriends, either. Just you.”
“If Matthias has primed you for blackmail, he must want something you can do for him,” she pointed out. “He knows he could get rid of both of us by just giving us a shitload of money and covering our trail. And if he was behind these attempts to kill me, I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? So what does he want to do that involves me and needs you—and that he figures he needs a blackmail lever for?”
“I—don’t know.” Roland pulled himself together, visibly struggling to focus on the problem. “I feel so stupid. I haven’t been thinking rationally about this.”
“Yeah, well, you’d better start, then.” Miriam took a mouthful of coffee and looked at him. “What does Matthias want?”
“Advancement. Recognition. Power.” Roland answered immediately.
“Which he can’t get, because ... ?”
“He’s outer family.”
“Right.” Miriam stared at him. “Do you see a pattern here?” she asked.
“He can’t get it, from the Clan. Not as long as it’s run the way it is right now.”
“So.” Miriam stood up. “We’ve been stupid, Roland. Shortsighted.”
“Huh?” He looked at her uncomprehendingly, lost in his private self-hatred.
“I’m not the target. You’re not the target. Angbard is the target.”
“Oh shit.” He straightened up. “You mean Matthias wants to take over the whole Clan security service. Don’t you?”
Miriam nodded, grimly. “With whoever his mystery accomplices are. The faction who murdered my mother and kept the family feuds going with judicious assassinations over a thirty-year period. The faction from world three. Leave aside Oliver and that poisonous dowager granny and the others who’d like me dead, Matthias is in league with those assassins. And before he makes his move—”
“He’ll tell Angbard about us, whatever we do. To get us out of the frame before he rolls the duke up. Miriam, I’ve been a fool. But we can’t go to Angbard with it—we’d be openly admitting past disloyalty, hiding things from him. What are we going to do ?”
Part 4
StakeOut
Tip Off
It was a Friday morning late in January. The briefing room in the police fortress was already full as the inspector entered, and there was a rattle of chairs as a dozen constables came to their feet. Smith paused for a moment, savoring their attentive expressions. “At ease, men,” he said, and continued to the front of the room. “I see you’re all bright and eager this morning. Sit down and rest your feet for a while. We’ve got a long day ahead, and I don’t want you whining about blisters until every last one of our pigeons is in the pokey.”
A wave of approving nods and one or two coughs swept the room. Sergeant Stone stayed on his feet, off to one side, keeping an eye on his men.
“You’ll all be wondering what this is all about, then,” began Smith. “Some of you’ll ’ave heard rumors.” He glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone looked surprised. Rumors were a constable’s stock in trade, after all. “If any of ’em turns out to be true, I want to know about it, because if you’ve heard any rumors about what I’m telling you now, odds are the pigeons’ve heard it too. An’ today we’re going to smash a nest of rotten eggs.”
He scanned his audience for signs of unease: Here and there a head nodded soberly, but nobody was jumping up and down. “The name of the game is smuggling,” he said dryly. “In case you was wondering why it’s our game, and not the Excise’s, it turns out that these smugglers have a second name, too: Godwinite scum. The illegal press we cracked last week was bankrolled from here, in my manor, by a Leveler quartermaster. We ain’t sure where the gold’s coming from, but my money is on a woman who’s lately moved into town and who smells like a Frog agent to me. At least, if she ain’t French she’s got some serious explaining to do.”
The Hidden Family Page 18
