The Clan Corporate (ARC)

by Charles Stross

  Definitely some kind of autoimmune-Miriam forced herself to stop thinking. She sat down carefully, grateful for the support.

  "Leave us." Angelin's gimlet stare sent all but two of the guards packing. The last two stood in front of the door, their faces turned to the woodwork but their hands on the hilts of their swords. The Queen Mother looked back at Miriam. "It is seven years since Eloise died," said Angelin. "And Alexis is not inclined to remarry. He's got his heir, and for all his faults, lack of devotion to his wife's memory is not one of them."

  "Ah." Miriam realized her fingers were digging into her knees, and she forced herself to let go.

  "You can relax. This is not a job interview; nobody is going to offer you the throne," Angelin added, so abruptly that Miriam almost choked.

  "But I didn't want-" She brought herself up fast. "I'm sorry. You, uh, speak English very well. The vernacular-"

  "I grew up over there," said Angelin, then was silent for almost a minute.

  She grew up there? The statement was wholly outrageous, even though the individual words made sense.

  Eventually, Angelin began to speak again. "The six families have aspired to become seven for almost a century now. I was only eighteen, you know. Back in 1942. Last time the council tried to capture the throne. They didn't want me siding with my braid lineage, so they had me brought up in secrecy, in America; it wouldn't be the first time, or the last. They brought me back and civilized me then farmed me out to the third son when I came of age. Both his elder brothers subsequently died, in a hunting accident and of a fever, respectively. The council of landholders-the laandsknee-screamed blue murder and threatened to annul the marriage: but then the six started tearing each other's guts out in civil war, and that was an end to the matter, for a generation."

  The lamplight flickered and Miriam felt an icy certainty clutching at her guts. "You mean, the Clan?" she asked. "You're a world-walker?"

  "I was." Angelin's eyes were dark hollows in the dim light. "Pregnancy changes you, you know. And I doubt I'd survive if I tried it, today. My old bones are not what they were. And I gather the other world has changed, too. But enough about me." A withered flicker of a smile: "I know your grandmother. She swears by you, you know. Well, she swears about you, but that's much the same: it means you're in her thoughts. She's pigheaded, too."

  "I don't see eye to eye with her," Helge said tightly. The Duchess Hildegarde had once sent agents to kill or dishonor her, thinking her an imposter; since proven wrong, she had subsided into a resentful sulk broken only by expressions of disdain or contempt. What a loving family we aren't.

  "She told me that herself," the Queen Mother said dismissively. Her eyes gleamed as she looked directly at Helge. "I wanted to see you myself before I made my mind up," she said.

  "Made your mind up?" Miriam could hear her voice rising unpleasantly, even though everything she'd learned as Helge told her she must stick to a cultivated awe in the royal personage. "About what? I've just been threatened by your grandson-"

  "Don't you worry about that." Angelin sounded almost amused. "I'll deal with Egon later. You may leave now. I won't stand on ceremony. Thurman, show the lady out-"

  "What is this?" Miriam demanded plaintively.

  "Later," said the Queen Mother, as one of the guards-Thurman-urged Helge toward the door. "The trait is recessive," she added, slightly louder. "That means-"

  "I know what it means," Miriam replied sharply.

  "We'll talk later. Go now." The Queen Mother looked away dismissively. The door closed behind Helge, stranding the younger woman at one side of a sprung dance floor where couples paced in circles around each other in complex patterns that defied interpretation. Miriam-at this moment she felt herself to be entirely Miriam, not even an echo of the social veneer that formed her alter ego Helge remaining to cover the yawning depths-took a ragged breath. She felt stifled by layers of artifice, suffocated by the social expectations of having to live as a noble lady: and now she had to put up with threats, innuendo, and hints from the royal family? She felt hot and cold at once, and her stomach hurt.

  The trait is recessive. The king was a carrier. That meant that each of his sons had a one in four chance of being a carrier. Have you thought about marriage? Obviously not from the right angle, because You've been too successful, too fast. Wasn't Prince Egon-golden boy with a thousand-yard stare, watching her with something ugly in his eyes-already engaged to some foreign princess? Raised in secrecy. Might he be a carrier? I know your grandmother.

  "Lady Helge!" It was Kara, two maids in tow, looking angry and relieved simultaneously. "Where have you been? We were so worried!"

  "Hold this," said Miriam, thrusting the empty glass at her. Then she darted outside as fast as she could, in search of a bush to throw up behind.

  Translated Transcript Begins

  "Has the old goose been drinking too much, do you suppose?"

  "Hist, now! She'll hear you!"

  "Oh don't worry. She only understands one word in ten. It can't be helped, I suppose. She grew up in fairyland, wearing trousers and chopping up dead men to understand how they work. They didn't have time to teach her how to speak as well."

  "What, you mean-" (shocked giggle) "-to the Crone?"

  "No, I don't suppose she's that stupid. But she's one of the kind such as have a thoughtful temper. You don't want to get on the wrong side of her, you know. Wait, here she comes-" (English) "-would you like another glass, ma'am?"

  (Click.)

  "Phew, there she goes again, bouncing after some stuffed-pants longhair. This one looks like he swallowed a ferret, look at the way he's twitching."

  "Raw with lust for the old goose."

  "Hist! Is that your third glass?"

  "Who's counting, madam? Listen, you have that one. Oh, over there! Don't look, don't be so obvious. Himself with the brown hair and the, um, isn't he something?"

  "He-"

  (Click.)

  "Not as if my lady is stupid, but she is strange. Witchy-weird like any of the Six, but more so, if you follow me. Wears breeches and talks the Anglaische all the time except when she's trying to learn. But she does it so badly! Look at the way she carries herself. Wagging tongues have it that she seduced Sieur Roland, but if something like that could seduce anything then I'm Queen of Summer Angels. What do you say, Nicky? Dried-up bluestocking or-"

  "Don't underestimate her, she's not stupid, even if she doesn't understand much. She may not look like a lizard but she's descended from a long lineage of snakes. Sieur Roland is dead, isn't he, so I'm led to believe? Do you think she had something to do with that? Suck the man dry and cast aside his bones like a spider."

  "Nicky! That's disgusting!"

  "Not as disgusting as what that spotty lad wanted with you in the bedchamber when she was away."

  "Don't you go talking like that about me-"

  "Then don't you go calling me disgusting, miss."

  (Sigh.) "I'm not calling you disgusting."

  "Then it's a good thing I didn't call you a whore, isn't it? People might misunderstand."

  "Here, have another-drink while she's not looking. Who is that longshanks oddboy, anyway?"

  "Him? He's one of the hangers-on on at court. Some fancy-boy or other to the king's bedchamber. Dresser-on-of-codpieces or some such."

  "You don't know, do you? She doesn't know!"

  "Rubbish, he's Sieur Villem du Praha and he's married to Lady Jain of Cours, and he rides with the king's hunt. And look, there's our missy Kara going all gushy over him."

  "Kara? She's-"

  "You just look, whenever she gets within six feet of him she has to tie her knees together with her stay laces to stop them falling apart. Silly little bitch, she hasn't seen the way he looks at his wife."

  "Milady Kara's not one to turn her nose up at a lost cause. But what's with milady the honorable Old Goose? What's she doing with him?"

  "Who the-knows, pardon my loewsprache, she's being a witch again. Shamelessly talki
ng to strange men."

  "What's shameless about it? She's got her chaperone-"

  (Laughter.) "Red-Minge Kara is a chaperone? What color is the sky in your county, and do the fish have feathers to match the birds' scales?"

  "I'd like to know what she's talking about, though."

  "I've got an idea. Wait here."

  (Click.)

  "So? What's the story?"

  "Give me that."

  "Must be a long story to wet your throat like that."

  "Long? You haven't heard the first of it-"

  "Is she trying to fix Kara up with a paramour?"

  "Is she-bah! Even Old Witchy-Goose isn't that stupid, what would people say if her lady-in-waiting got pregnant? I'm sorry I asked. I thought it would be something like that. And the promises I had to make!"

  "Promises?"

  "Yes, I said I'd ask you to meet Oswelt-him with the belly-behind the marquee in half an hour for a midnight promenade."

  "Bitch!"

  "Now now, mind your language! Remember I said you weren't a whore? I didn't promise you'd be there, just said I'd ask."

  "You did . . ."

  "So if you want . . ."

  "What about her ladyship? What did you find out?"

  "Well, it's as well I asked because something tells me we'll be dragged hither and back in the next months, or I'm not a household hand."

  "Really? Why? What's she want from him?"

  "He's not with the king's wardrobe, he's with the prince's. And you know what that means."

  "Oh!"

  "Yes."

  "The slut!"

  "Absolutely wanton."

  "We'll be back here three times a night before the month is out."

  "Indeed."

  "Hmm. So what else did you tell master Oswelt about me . . . ?"

  (Click.)

  Transcript Ends

  5

  Incorrect Assumptions

  Twelve weeks ago (continued):

  Mike Fleming leaned back in his chair and tried desperately to stifle a yawn. This is crazy, he told himself. How can you be tired at a time like this?

  The air conditioner in the conference room wheezed, losing the battle to keep the heat of the summer evening at bay. He desperately needed another coffee. Despite the couple of hours' nap he'd caught back home before the spooks from NSA sucked him in, his eyes kept half-closing, threatening him with a sleep-deprivation shutdown.

  "Agent Fleming?"

  "Oh. Yeah? Sorry, what was the question?"

  "How long have you been awake?" It was Smith, his expression unreadable.

  Mike shook himself. "About fifty hours. Got about an hour's sleep before your guys picked me up."

  "Ah-right." Out of the corner of one eye Mike barely registered Herz from the FBI office looking sympathetic. "Okay, I'll try not to keep you," said Smith. "We need you awake and alert for tomorrow. Meanwhile, can you give us a brief run-through on the background to Greensleeves? I've read Tony's write-up of your report, but everyone else here needs to be put in the frame, and it's probably better if they get it from the horse's mouth first before they get the folder. How do you take your coffee?"

  Mike yawned. "Milk, no sugar." He stood up. "Shall I?"

  "Be my guest." Smith waved him toward the podium.

  "Okay." Mike forced himself to breathe deeply, suppressing another yawn, as Colonel Smith quietly picked up a white phone and ordered a round of coffees for the meeting. "Sorry, folks, but it's been a long couple of days." Appreciative muttering. "Source Greensleeves. Don't ask me who dreams up these stupid names. A couple of weeks ago Greensleeves, whoever he was, casually dropped the hammer on a ring operating out of Cambridge. At this time it was purely a standard narcotics investigation. A low-level wholesaler, name of Ivan Pavlovsk, was handling the supply line for a neighborhood street gang who were shifting maybe a kilo of heroin every month. Greensleeves left a code word and said he'd be back in touch later. I thought at first it was the usual caped-crusader bullshit but it turned out to be solid and the DA up there is nailing down a plea bargain that should put our Ukrainian friend behind bars for the next decade." He leaned against the podium and glanced at Smith. "Are you sure you want the whole list?"

  "Give us the highlights." Smith's eyebrows wrinkled. "Up until yesterday. What you told Tony Vecchio." Tony was Mike and Pete's boss in the investigation branch.

  "Okay. We had two more leads from Greensleeves, at one-week intervals. Both were for intermediate wholesale links supplying cocaine in single-digit kilogram amounts to retail operations. There was no lead on Greensleeves himself. Each time, he used a paid-for-cash or stolen mobile phone, called from somewhere populous-a restroom in the Prudential, the concourse of the Back Bay station-and spent between thirty seconds and three minutes fifteen seconds on the phone before ringing off. He came straight through to my desk extension and left voice mail each time-the third time we had a tap and trace in place but couldn't get any units there in time. He used the same password with each call, and gave no indication as to why he was trying to shop these guys to us. Until yesterday Pete here was betting it was an internal turf war. My money was on an insider wanting to cash out and make a WSP run, but either way the guy was clearly a professional." Mike paused.

  "If anyone wants a recap, we're having copies of the case notes prepared for you," Smith added. "Can I ask you all not to make any written notes of this briefing," he added pointedly in the direction of Frank the surveyor. "We'd only have to incinerate them afterward."

  Like that, is it? Mike wondered. "Shall I continue?"

  "When you're ready."

  "Okay. We got a tip-off from Greensleeves five weeks ago, about Case Phantom's main distribution center for Boston and Cambridge. Case Phantom is Pete's specialty, a really major pipeline we've been trying to crack for months. Greensleeves used the same code word, this time in an envelope along with a sample of merchandise and-this is significant-a saliva sample, not to mention the other thing that I presume is why we're all here. Greensleeves wanted to turn himself in, which struck us as noteworthy: but what set the alarm bells going was Greensleeves wanting to turn himself in and enlist in the Witness Protection Scheme in return for knocking over Case Phantom. And helping us get it right, this time."

  Pete sighed noisily.

  "Yeah," said Mike. "Operation Phoenix was part of Case Phantom, too. Back before Greensleeves decided to come aboard. It was a really big bust-the wrong kind."

  Now he saw Agent Herz wince. They'd taken up the tip-off and gone in like gangbusters, half the special agents posted at the Boston DEA office with heavy support from the police. But they'd hit a wall-literally. The modern-looking office building had turned out to be a fortress, doors and windows backed by steel barriers and surveillance cameras like a foreign embassy.

  Worse, the defenders hadn't been the usual half-assed Goodfellas wannabes. Someone with a Russian army-surplus sniper's rifle had taken down two of the backup SWAT team before Lieutenant Smale had pulled them back and called up reinforcements for a siege. Then, four hours into the siege-just as they'd been getting ready to look for alternative ways in-the building had collapsed. Someone had mined its foundations with demolition charges and brought it right down on top of the cellars, which were built like a cold war nuclear bunker. The SOCOs and civil engineers were still sieving the wreckage, but Mike didn't expect them to find anything.

  "In retrospect, Phoenix should have been a signal that something really weird was happening," Mike continued. "It took us a long time to dig our way into the rubble and what we found was disturbing. Bomb shelters, cold stores, closed-circuit air-conditioning . . . and fifty kilograms of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine in a vault. Plus an arsenal like a National Guard depot. But there were no bodies . . ." He trailed off introspectively. Too tired for this, he thought dizzily.

  "Okay, now fast-forward. You've had a series of tip-offs from source Greensleeves, leading up to Greensleeves turning himself in three days ago," Colonel Sm
ith stated. "What about the saliva sample? It's definitely him?"

  Mike shrugged. "PCR says so. Matthias is definitely source Greensleeves. He got us an armored fortress in downtown Cambridge with fifty kilos of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine and a Twilight Zone episode to explain, plus a series of crack warehouses and meth labs up and down the coast. Biggest serial bust in maybe a decade. He's-" Mike shook his head. "I've spent a couple of hours talking to him and it's funny, he doesn't sound crazy, and after watching that video-well. Matt-Greensleeves-doesn't sound sane at first, he sounds like a nut. Except that he's right about everything I checked. And the guy vanishing in front of the camera is just icing on the cake. He predicted it." Mike shook his head again. "Like I said, he sounds crazy-but I'm beginning to believe him."

  "Right." Colonel Smith broke in just as a buzzer sounded, and a marine guard opened the outer door for a steward, who wheeled in a trolley laden with coffee cups and flasks. "We'll pause right here for a moment," Smith said. "No shop talk until after coffee. Then you and Pete can tell us the rest."

  The debriefing room wasn't a cell. It resembled nothing so much as someone's living room, tricked out in cheap sofas, a couple of recliners, a coffee table, and a sideboard stocked with soft drinks. The holding suite where they'd stashed Greensleeves for the duration didn't look much like a jail cell, either. It had all the facilities of a rather boring hotel room-beds, desk, compact en-suite bathroom-if the federal government had been in the business of providing motel accommodation for peripatetic bureaucrats.

  But the complex had two things in common with every jail ever built. First, the door to the outside world was locked on the outside. And second, the windows didn't open. In fact, if you looked at them for long enough you'd realize that they weren't really windows at all. Both the debriefing room and the holding suite were buried in a second-story basement, and to get in you'd have to either prove your identity and sign in through two checkpoints and a pat-down search, or shoot your way past the guards.

  Mike and Pete had taken the friendly approach at first, when they'd first started the full debriefing protocol. After all, he was cooperating fully and voluntarily. Why risk pissing him off and making him clam up?