(5) ARMBAND failure contingency plan. That was the worst bit of all, because if ARMBAND failed to work as advertised, she and Lucius Rand and everyone else would be standing on a scaffold with a ticking bomb on a sixty-second countdown, and they'd get precisely two chances to enter the eight-digit abort code.
It was a good thing that she'd taken the time for holy communion and attended confession that morning, she thought, as she walked towards the tent. It had been a long day, and she had a feeling that the night was going to be even longer.
Her earbud crackled: "Herz, speak to me." It was the colonel.
"Stage one is in hand, I'm waiting on news of ARMBAND." Out of one corner of her eye she saw moving headlights, another of the undercover patrol cars circling the block slowly, looking for rubberneckers. "Everything seems to be on track so far."
"Please hold." She walked on, briefly looking round to check on the armored car. (It was reversing again, pulling free of the patch of soft ground that had stymied it.) "Okay, that's good. Update me if there are any developments."
So the colonel is jittery? Good. A uniform over near the support truck from the NNSA was waving to her; local cops drafted in for crowd control and vehicle marshaling. She changed course towards him. So he should be. "What's up?" she demanded.
"Uh, agent—" He was nervous; not used to dealing with FBI.
"Herz." She nodded. "You have something."
"Yeah, there's a car at the north quadrant entrance, driver says it's for you. Name of Hall."
"Oh."—what's Rich doing up there?—"If that's Rich Hall and Amanda Cruz, we're expecting them." She kicked herself mentally: Should have told them which gate to use. "Let them in. They've got a package we're expecting."
"Sure thing, ma'am." He leaned over towards the driver's window of the patrol car, talking to his partner. Herz walked on, jittery with too much poor-quality caffeine and a rising sense of tension. We're about to fire the opening shot in a war, she thought. I wonder where it's going to end. . . .
It was dark, and the moon already riding low in the sky outside the kitchen window, when Huw yawned and conceded defeat. He saved the draft of his report, closed the lid of his laptop, picked up two glasses and a bottle of zinfandel, and went upstairs to bed.
As he closed the door and turned on the light, the bedding moved. A tousled head appeared: "What kept you?"
"I have a report to write, in case you'd forgotten." He put the glasses and the bottle down on the dressing table and began to unbutton his shirt. "I hope you had a better day than I did, my lady."
"I very much doubt it." She sat up and plumped up the pillows. As the comforter dropped, he saw that she was naked. Catching his gaze, she smiled. "Lock the door?"
"Sure." He dropped his shirt on the carpet, let his jeans fall, then went to the door and shot the dead bolt. Then he picked up the wine bottle and twisted the screw cap. "What happened?"
"Head office are going mad." She screwed up her face. "It's unreal. The council are running around like half-headed turkey fowl, the whole flock of them."
"Well, that's a surprise." He filled a glass, sniffed it, then held it out to her. She took it. "Any word? . . ."
"Olga's bringing him out within the next hour. Assuming nobody attacks the ambulance, he'll be in a hospital bed by dawn. The last word from that quarter is that he's tried to talk, since the incident."
Huw filled his own wineglass, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "Can we forget about politics for a few hours? I know you want me to bring you up to date on what I was doing back in New York, and I'm sure you've got a lot of stuff to tell me about what's been going on since the last time we were together, but I would like, for once, to take some time out with you. Just you and me alone, with no unquiet ghosts."
Her frown faded slightly. "I wish we could." She sighed. "But there's so much riding on this. We'll have time later, if we succeed, but"—she glanced at the door anxiously—"there's so much that can still go wrong. If Miriam has any mad ideas about running away . . ."
"Well, that's an interesting question. While you were away, we had a talk. She seemed to need it."
"Oh?" Brilliana drank down a mouthful of wine. "How is she doing?"
"Not well, but I don't think she's going to run out on us, as long as she feels we're standing alongside her."
"It's that bad? I've known her for, ah, nearly a year, and her highness does not strike me as disloyal to her friends."
Huw did not miss the significance of the honorific. "She hasn't acceded to that rank yet. Has she?"
"No." Brill's expression was bleak. "I don't think she's even realized, yet, what it means—she was having a difficult time understanding that vile business of Henryk's, much less thinking about what is going to happen . . ."
"Er, I think you're wrong." Huw emptied his glass in one long swallow. "Needed that. Excuse me. Did you buy her a pregnancy test kit?" He refilled her glass, then topped up his own.
"I—yes, but I haven't given it to her yet. She asked you about that?"
"She is remarkably open, but her ability to trust—anyone, I think—is badly damaged by the whole business of the succession. I I. . . I offered to help her obtain an abortion if she thought she needed one."
"Huw!" Brill clapped one hand to her mouth. Then: "Why?"
"She raised the subject." Huw hunched his shoulders. "I don't think she will, but . . . if she feels pressured, what will she do?"
"React," Brill said automatically. "Oh. Yes, that was cleverly played, my love. But you should have warned me. That's too clever by half. What if she'd called your bluff?"
"What if it wasn't a bluff?" He shrugged. "She's no use to our cause if she doesn't trust us. No use to anyone at all. That is true whether or not she has a royal bun in the oven. We're trying to break the pattern, not reinforce it."
"Uh-huh. Winning her trust is one thing." She leaned towards him. "But you'd help her shoot herself in the head?"
"If I was convinced that she wanted to, and knew what she was asking for . . . yes." He looked at Brilliana with a bleakness that sat badly with his age. "I'd try to save her first, mind you."
"Would you try to save me from my worst urges?" she asked sharply.
Huw put his glass down. "That's one of those questions to which there's no safe answer, isn't it?"
"Yes." She drained her own glass and reached across him, to put it down beside his. He shivered as she pushed her breasts against his side; her nipples were stiff. "My worst urge right now says I want you to fuck me like there's no tomorrow. Because tomorrow"—she ran her hand down his chest—"we might both be dead."
Erasmus was going over the next morning's news with John Winstanley and Oliver Smith, the party commissioners for truth and justice, when word of the abdication came in.
Smith was reading down a plate, his lips moving silently as he read the raised bright mirror-text of the lead: ". . and we call upon all right minded men to, hang on, here's a dropped—"
"Yes, yes," Erasmus said acidly. "No need for that, leave it to the subs. What I need to know is, do you think it's sound?"
"Is it sound?" Winstanley nodded lugubriously. "Well, that's the—"
The door rattled open. Burgeson looked up sharply. "What is it?" he demanded.
The messenger boy—or youth—looked unabashed: "It's Mr. Burroughs, sir! He wants you to come, quick like! 'E says it's important!"
Erasmus stared at him. "Where is he?" he demanded.
"'E's in the mayor's mansion, sir! There's news from out east—a train just came in, and there was folks on it who said the king's abdicated!"
Erasmus glanced at Smith. "I think you'd better hold the front page," he said mildly, "I'm going to go see what this is all about."
It was an overcast, gray summer's day outside, with a thin fog from the bay pumped up to a malignant brown haze by the smoke from a hundred thousand stoves and steam cars on this side of the bay. Fishing boats were maneuvering around the wharves, working their way in and
out of the harbor as if the crisis of the past weeks was just a distant rumor. From the front steps, waiting as his men brought the car round to him, Erasmus could just make out the dots of the picket fleet in the distance, military yachts and korfes riding at anchor to defend the coast against the approach of French bombardiers or submarines. He eyed them warily every morning, half afraid they would finally make their move, choosing sides in the coming struggle. Word from the cadres aboard the ships was that the sailors were restive, unpaid for months now, but that the officers remained crown loyalists for the most part. Should putsch come to shove, it would be an ugly affair—and one that the realm's foreign enemies would be keen to exploit. Which was probably why John Frederick had not tried his luck by ordering the picket into the bay to put down the provisional government forces. It was a card he could only play once, and if it failed, he might as well dust off Cromwell's block. Although if the messenger lad was right . . .
By the time he arrived at the mayoral mansion, a light rain was falling and the onshore breeze was stiffening, blowing the smog apart. Erasmus paused for a deep breath as he stepped out of the back of the car, relishing the feel of air in lungs he'd almost despaired of a year ago. Where are you now, Miriam? he wondered briefly. It was her medication that had cured him, of that he was certain, even though the weird pills had turned his urine blue and disrupted his digestion. What other magic tricks do you have up your sleeve? It was something he'd have to explain to the chairman, sooner or later—if he could work out how to broach the subject without sounding as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "Follow," he said over his shoulder. The two bodyguards and the woman from the stenography pool moved hastily into position.
The committee offices on the first floor were seething—nobody was at their posts except for the militia guards, their rifles clenched in nervous hands. "Where's the chairman?" Erasmus demanded when they came to the first checkpoint.
"He's in the committee room, sir," said the senior man—Erasmus, being a regular enough visitor (and a member of the committee to boot), ranked above the regular interrogation such a question might have drawn from a stranger. "Can you tell us what's going on?"
"That's why I'm here." Erasmus grimaced. "There'll be a statement later." He glanced at his stenographer. "Minute that for me." He swept through the corridors towards the former dining room that Sir Adam had requisitioned as a meeting place for the committee, only pausing at the door where two heavies in the red, white, and blue armbands of internal security waited with shotguns. "Erasmus Burgeson, commissioner for information, here to see the chairman," announced one of his guards.
"Aye, right." These guards were going by the book. Erasmus waited patiently as the senior one uncapped a speaking tube and announced him, then listened for instructions. "You're to go in, sir. Your party"—a thumb gesture—"can wait in the guardroom."
Burgeson nodded at them. "You heard him." And then he opened the door.
The Committee for Democratic Accountability was neither accountable, nor democratic, nor even much of a committee—these words were all statements of aspiration, as much as anything else, for in the early days of building a better nation these words held power, and it was Sir Adam's hope that his institutions would grow into their names. Personally, Erasmus thought this was dangerously naive—he'd read a number of books that Miriam had loaned him, strange books describing the historical processes of her even stranger world—but it was at least worth a try. Not all revolutions ended up eating their young, and heaven knew it was an opportunity to break with the dead hand of the oppressive past, but the thought that this revolution might go the way of some of those in Miriam's books had kept him awake into the small hours on more nights than he cared to think about.
Inside the committee room, there was an atmosphere of euphoria. Sir Adam was standing behind the lectern, and about half the delegates from the district councils seemed to have packed themselves in. Someone had opened a crate of cava and orange farmers from down south were toasting shipyard workers from the east bay with foam sparkling from their chipped tea mugs. Erasmus grabbed the first shoulder he could catch inside the doorway. "What's going on?" he demanded.
"It's the king!" The man grinned broadly. "He's gone! Packed up his bags in New London and ran. The garrison in Montreal picked him up!"
A sharp stab of anxiety gnawed at Erasmus.
"Are they ours?" "They mutinied three weeks ago and elected a workers' and soldiers' council! They're with the white guards!"
Erasmus blinked. "Excuse me." He began to elbow his way through the crush towards the lectern where Sir Adam was earnestly holding forth to a gaggle of inner party graybeards who remained obdurately sober in the face of the collective derangement.
"Ah, Erasmus." Sir Adam smiled. "I gather the good news has reached you."
"I need to know where it came from"—Erasmus pointed a thumb over his shoulder—"if we're to get the word out where it's needed. I've got a stenographer waiting in the guardroom, and a front page to fill by three."
"That's easy enough." Burroughs gestured. "You know Edward MacDonald, I take it."
Erasmus nodded. "We've met." Ed, Lady Bishop's right hand man, nodded back, cautiously.
"He brought certain other news of your activities out east, news that I personally consider would stretch the bounds of credibility—if anyone less than Lady Bishop vouched for their truth." Burroughs contemplated Erasmus, an expression of perplexity on his face that reminded Burgeson of a schoolteacher examining a pupil who had just done something that, while not actually deserving of punishment, was inexplicably wrong. "We'll need to talk about it in due course."
"Yes, we will." Erasmus surprised himself with the assurance of his answer. "But this isn't the time for addressing longterm problems. We've got to get the word of these momentous events out first. Once the loyalists realize they have been abandoned by their false monarch, that will change the entire situation!" He nodded at Edward. "What's happened out east? What can you tell me that I can print? I need pictures, damn it! Who witnessed the events?"
The attack began an hour before dawn. Otto ven Neuhalle watched from a discreet distance as his men walked their precious M60s onto the front of the gatehouse from long range, firing parsimonious bursts—wary of his threats to damage any man who damaged his precious guns. The defenders declined to fire randomly into the dark, although a ghastly white glare opened its unblinking eye above the barred front gate, casting long shadows across the beaten ground before it—shadows that promised pain and death to anyone who ventured into view of the firing slits in the walls.
"Keep their heads down!" he shouted at Shutz and his men. "But watch for our own!"
They didn't have many minutes to wait. Creaking and squealing with an ominous rumble, two large wagons rolled round the shoulder of the hill, following the road that led to the gate. The bullocks that pulled them didn't sound too happy, roaring and lowing beneath their heavy burden. Otto bared his teeth as he heard the voice of their driver and the crack of his whip.
"This should be fun," a familiar voice commented from behind him.
Otto shivered as a chilly sweat broke out across the nape of his neck. "Your Majesty has the better of me." He turned around slowly—it was a faux pas to turn one's back on the monarch, and he had no desire to draw attention to it—and bowed deeply.
"Rise." The king gestured impatiently. The lance of royal bodyguards around him faced outward; the armor and colors he wore were indistinguishable from their uniform, but for the lack of an armband of rank. "Two minutes, no more. They should be shooting by now."
Otto found his tongue. "May I ask if the carts are for men or explosives, my liege? I need to prepare my men. . . ."
"Explosives." Egon nodded towards them. "The driver will take them up to the gate then set them off."
"The—oh." Otto nodded. The driver would do what he was told, or his family would be done by as the king had decreed: probably something creatively horrible, to reinforce his reput
ation as a strong and ruthless monarch. "By your leave, I shall order my men to take cover just before the blast."
"We wish them to advance and provide covering fire for the cavalry immediately afterwards," Egon added offhand.
"Cavalry?" Otto bit his tongue, but even so the word slipped out first. Beyond the gatehouse was a wet moat, and then a steep descent into a dry moat before the gate into the castle's outer battlements. Nobody in their right mind would use cavalry against the layered defenses of a castle!
"Cavalry." The royal grin was almost impish. "I hope you find it educational."
"My lord—" One of the guards cleared his throat.
"Momentarily." Egon stared at Otto. "I intend to surprise everyone, Baron. This is just the start."
Otto bowed his neck jerkily. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Go." Dismissed, Otto turned to warn Shutz and his gunners about the wagons—and to leave the king's disturbing presence. Behind him, Egon was mounting the saddle of a stallion from the royal stable. A pair of irreplaceable witch-clan night vision glasses hung from his pommel.
The defenders were asleep, dead, or incompetent, Otto decided as he watched the wagons roll along the road towards the gatehouse. Or they'd been struck blind by Sky Father. The glaring hell-light cast a lurid glow across the ground before the gatehouse, but there was no shouted challenge, no crack of gunfire. What are they doing? He wondered. A horrid surmise began to gnaw at his imagination. They're dead, or gone, and we're advancing into their ground while they sneak through the land of the dead, to ambush us from behind—
Rapid fire crackled from the gatehouse, followed by a squealing roar of bovine distress: Otto breathed again. Not dead or gone, just incompetent. They'd shown little sign of movement earlier in the campaign, and despite their lightning-fast assault on the castle when he'd taken it, they'd failed to follow through. The witch-clan were traders, after all, lowborn tinkers, not knights and soldiers. He grinned as the wagon ground forward faster, the uninjured oxen panicked halfway to a stampede by the gunfire and the smell of blood. It had fifty yards to go, then forty—why aren't they firing? Are they low on ammunition?—then twenty, then—
The Revolution Business: Book Five of the Merchant Princes Page 12
