The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (46 page)

‘Choke them,’ Erasmus commented.

‘Excuse me?’ Wolfe stared at him.

‘There is stuff here we can’t deal with, it’s true. War reparations . . . but we know we can’t pay, and they must know we can’t pay. So buy them off with promissory
notes which we do not intend to honor. That’s the first thing. Then there’s the matter of the territorial demands. So they want Cuba.
Give
them Cuba.’ He grinned
humorlessly at Wolfe’s expression. ‘Hasn’t the small matter of how to put down the Patriot resistance there exercised us unduly? It all depends
how
we give them Cuba.
Suppose we accede to the French demands. The news stories at home will run, the French have
taken
Cuba. And to the Cubans, our broadcasts will say, sorry, but the Patriots stabbed us in the
back. And there is nothing to stop us funneling guns and money to the Patriots who take up arms against the French, is there? Let it bleed them, I say. They want Nippon? Let them explain that to
the shogun. It’s not as if he recognizes our sovereignty in any case.’

‘What naval concessions are they demanding?’ asked Daly. ‘We
need
the navy, the army isn’t politically correct – ’

‘They want six of our ships of the line, and limits on new construction of such,’ Erasmus noted. ‘So take six of the oldest prison hulks and hand them over. Turn the hulls in
the shipyards over to a new task – not that we can afford to proceed with construction this year, in any case – those purpose-built flat-topped tenders the air-minded officers have been
talking about.’ Miriam had lent Erasmus a number of history books from her strange world; he’d found the account of her nation’s war with the Chrysanthemum Throne in the Pacific
most interesting.

‘These are good suggestions,’ Sir Adam noted, ‘but we cannot accede to this – this laundry list! If we pay the danegeld, the Dane will . . . well. You know full well why
they want Cuba. And there are these reports of disturbing new weapons. John, did you discover anything?’

Daly looked lugubrious. ‘There’s an entire
city
in Colorado that I’d never heard of two weeks ago,’ he said, an expression of uneasy disbelief on his face.
‘It’s full of natural philosophers and artificers, and they’re taking quantities of electricity you wouldn’t believe. Something about a super-petard, made from chronosium, I
gather. Splitting the atom, alchemical transformation of chronosium into something they call osirisium in atomic crucibles. And they confirm the French intelligence.’ He glanced at Erasmus:
‘I mean no ill, but is everyone here approved for this news?’

Sir Adam nodded. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to report on it if I thought otherwise. The war is liable to move into a new and uncertain stage if we continue it. The French have these
petards, they may be able to drop them from aerodynes or fire them from the guns of battleships: a single shell that can destroy a fleet or level a city. It beggars the imagination but we cannot
ignore it, even if they have but one or two. We need them likewise, and we need time to test and assemble an arsenal. Speaking of which . . . ?’

‘I pressed them for a date, but they said the earliest they could test their first charge would be three months from now. If it works, and if ordered to, they can scale up production,
making perhaps one a month by the end of the year. Apparently this stuff is not like other explosives, it takes months or years to synthesize – but in eighteen months, production will double,
and eighteen months after that they can increase output fourfold.’

‘So we can have four of these, what do you call them, corpuscular petards? – corpses, an ominous name for an ominous weapon – by the end of this year. Sixteen by the end of
next year, thirty-four by the end of the year after, and hundreds the year after that. Is that a fair summary?’ Daly nodded. ‘Then our medium-term goal is clear: We need to get the
bloody French off our backs for at least three and a half years, strengthen our homeland air defenses against their aerodynes, and work out some way of deterring the imperialists. In which
case’ – Sir Adam gestured irritably at the diplomatic communiqué – ‘we need to give them enough to shut them up for a while, but not so easily that they smell a rat
or are tempted to press for more.’ He looked pointedly at Erasmus. ‘Finesse and propaganda are the order of the day.’

‘Yes. This will require care and delicacy.’ Erasmus continued reading. ‘And the most intricate maintenance of their misconceptions. When do you intend to commence direct talks
with the enemy ambassador?’

‘Tomorrow.’ Sir Adam’s tone was decisive. ‘The sooner we bury the hatchet the faster we can set about rebuilding that which is broken and reasserting the control that we
have lost. And only when we are secure on three continents can we look to the task of liberating the other four.’

*

An editor’s life is frequently predictable, but seldom boring.

At eleven that morning, Steve Schroeder was settling down in his cubicle with his third mug of coffee, to work over a feature he’d commissioned for the next day’s issue.

In his early forties, Steve wasn’t a big wheel on the
Herald
; but he’d been a tech journalist since the early eighties, and he had a weekly section to fill, features to buy
from freelance stringers, and in-depth editorial pieces to write. He rated an office, or a cubicle, or at least space to think without interruption when he wasn’t attending editorial
committee meetings and discussing clients to target with Joan in advertising sales, or any of the hundred and one things other than editing that went with wearing the hat. Reading the articles
he’d asked for and
editing
them sometimes seemed like a luxury; so he frowned instinctively at the stranger standing in the entrance to his cubicle. ‘Yes?’

The stranger wore a visitor’s badge, and there was something odd about him. Not the casual Friday clothes; it took Steve a moment to spot the cast on his leg. ‘You’re Steve
Schroeder?’

‘Who wants to know?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘You don’t know me.’ He produced a police ID card. Steve sat up, squinting at the badge.
Drug Enforcement
Agency?

‘Not my department; crime’s upstairs on – ’

‘No, I think I need to talk to you. You commissioned a bunch of articles by Miriam Beckstein a couple of years ago, didn’t you?’

Huh?
‘What’s this about?’ Steve asked cautiously.

‘Haven’t heard from her for a while, have you?’

Alarm bells were going off in his head. ‘Has she been arrested? I don’t know anything; we had a strictly business relationship – ’

‘She hasn’t been arrested.’ Fleming’s gaze flickered sidelong; if Steve hadn’t been staring at him he might not have noticed. ‘She mentioned you, actually, a
couple of years ago. Listen, I don’t know anyone here, and I’ve got very limited time, so I thought I’d try you and see if you could direct me to the right people.’ He
swallowed. ‘She pointed me at a story, kind of, before she disappeared. I need to see it breaks, and breaks publicly, or
I’m
going to disappear too. I’m sorry if that
sounds overdramatic – ’

‘No, that’s all right.’
Jesus, why me? Why now?
Steve glanced at his workstation for long enough to save the file he was reading.
Do I need this shit?
Building
security mostly kept the nuts out with admirable efficiency; and paranoids invariably headed for Crime and Current Affairs. If this guy
was
a nut . . . ‘Mind if I look at that?’
Fleming handed him the badge. Steve blinked, peering at it.
Certainly
looks
real enough
. . . He handed it back. ‘Why me?’

‘Because – ’ Fleming was looking around. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

Steve took a deep breath and gestured at the visitor’s chair by his desk. ‘Go ahead. In your own time.’

‘Last year Miriam Beckstein lost her job. You know about that?’

Steve nodded, guardedly. ‘You want to tell me about it?’

‘It wasn’t the regular post-9/11 slowdown; she was fired because she stumbled across a highly sophisticated money-laundering operation. Drug money, and lots of it.’

Steve nodded again. Trying to remember: What had Miriam said? She’d been working for
The Industry Weatherman
back then, hadn’t she? Something wild about them canning her for
uncovering –
Jesus
, he thought. ‘Mind if I record this?’ he asked.

‘Sure. Be my guest.’ Fleming chuckled as Steve activated his recorder. It was a hoarse bark, too much stress bottled up behind it. ‘Listen, this isn’t just about drugs,
and I know it’s going to sound nuts, so let me start with some supporting evidence. An hour ago, my car was blown up. The news desk will probably have a report on it, incident in Braintree
– ’ He proceeded to give an address. ‘I’m being targeted because I’m considered unreliable by the organization I’ve been working for on secondment. You can check
on that bombing. If you wait until this afternoon, I’m afraid – shit. There’s going to be a terrorist strike this afternoon in D.C., and it’s going to be bigger than 9/11.
That’s why I’m here. There’s a faction in the government who have decided to run an updated version of Operation Northwoods, and they’ve maneuvered a narcoterrorist group
into taking the fall for it. I’m – I was – attached to a special cross-agency task force working on the narcoterrorist ring in question. They’re the folks Miriam stumbled
across – and it turns out that they’re big, bigger than the Medellín Cartel, and they’ve got contacts all the way to the top.’

‘Operation – what was that operation you mentioned?’ Steve stared at his visitor.
Jesus. Why do I always get the cranks?

‘Operation Northwoods. Back in 1962, during the Cold War, the Chiefs of Staff came up with a false-flag project to justify an invasion of Cuba. The idea was that the CIA would fake up
terrorist attacks on American cities, and plant evidence pointing at Castro. They were going to include hijackings, bombings, the lot – the most extreme scenarios included small nukes, or
attacks on the capitol; it was all “Remember the
Maine
” stuff. Northwoods wasn’t activated, but during the early seventies the Nixon administration put in place the
equipment for the same, on a bigger scale – there was a serious proposal to nuke Boston in order to justify a preemptive attack on China. This stuff keeps coming up again, and I’d like
to remind you that our current vice president and the secretary for defense got their first policy chops under Nixon and Ford.’

‘But they can’t – ’ Steve stopped. ‘They’ve just invaded Iraq! Why would they want to do this now? If they were going to – ’

‘Iraq was the president’s hobbyhorse. And no, I’m not saying that 9/11 was stage-managed to drag us into that war; that would be paranoid. But there’s a whole new enemy
on hand, and a black cross-agency program to deal with them called the Family Trade Organization, and some of us aren’t too happy about the way things are being run. Let me fill you in on
what’s been going on . . .’

The marcher kingdoms of the East Coast, from the Nordtmarkt south, were scantily populated by American standards: The Gruinmarkt’s three to four million – there was
no exact census – could handily live in New York City with room to spare. The Clan and their outer families (related by blood, but not for the most part gifted with the world-walking talent)
were at their most numerous in the Gruinmarkt, but even there their total extended families barely reached ten thousand souls. The five inner families had, between them, a couple of thousand adult
world-walkers and perhaps twice that many children (and some seniors and pregnant women for whom world-walking would be a hazardous, if not lethal, experience).

At one point in the 1930s, American style, the inner families alone had counted ten thousand adult world-walkers; but the Clan’s long, festering civil war had been a demographic disaster.
To an organization that relied for its viability on a carefully preserved recessive gene, walking the line between inbreeding and extinction, a series of blood feuds between families had sown the
seeds of collapse.

Nearly twenty years ago, Angbard, Duke Lofstrom, the chief of the Clan’s collective security agency, had started a program to prevent such a collapse from ever again threatening the Clan.
He’d poured huge amounts of money into funding a network of fertility clinics in the United States, and the children of that initiative were now growing to adulthood, ignorant of the genes
(and other, more exotic intracellular machinery) for which they were carriers. Angbard’s plan had been simple and direct: to approach young female carriers selected from the clinics’
records, and pay them to act as host mothers for fictional infertile couples. The result was to be a steady stream of world-walkers, raised in the United States and not loyal to the quarreling
families, who could be recruited in due course. Miriam, Helge, had been raised in Boston by Angbard’s sister as an experiment in cultural assimilation, not to mention a political insurance
policy: Other children of the Clan had been schooled and trained in the ways and knowledge of the exotic West.

But Angbard had planned on being around to coordinate the recruitment of the new world-walkers. He hadn’t expected Matthias’s defection, or the exposure of the clinics to hostile
inspection, and he hadn’t anticipated the reaction of the Auld Bitches, the gaggle of grandmothers whose carefully arranged marriages kept the traditional Clan structure afloat. Their tame
gynecologist, Dr. ven Hjalmar, was a stalwart of the conservative club. He’d been the one who, at Baron Henryk’s bidding, had arranged for Helge’s involuntary pregnancy.
He’d also acquired the breeding program records for his faction and, most recently, taken pains to ensure that Angbard would never again threaten their prestige as gatekeepers of the family
trade. And now the surviving members of the Clan’s conservative clique – the ones who hadn’t been massacred by Prince Egon at the ill-fated betrothal feast – were cleaning
up.

On that July morning, approximately one in every hundred world-walkers died.