The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (6 page)

‘But – ’ Mike shook his head, confused. ‘What about the negotiations?’ Miriam’s crazy mother and her sidekick, the blond sniper who looked like a Russian
princess: They were supposed to be making contact, negotiating over the stolen nuke. ‘Don’t you want – ’

‘Son, don’t be naïve.’ Dr. James smiled, and this time he looked Mike in the eyes. Mike tried not to shiver; he’d seen a warmer smile on the pet alligator he’d
once tripped over during a raid on a drug dealer’s pad. ‘The missing gadget has been retrieved so the negotiations are over. We don’t need them anymore. Our job is now to hit
these people so hard they won’t ever mess with the USA again.’ The ambulance bounced hard across a pothole and Mike’s stomach lurched as he felt it accelerate down a steep
gradient. ‘I don’t think your contacts will be back, but if they are, it’s kill-or-capture time.’

‘The phone . . . ?’ Colonel Smith had given him an untraceable cell phone to pass on to the ice princess if the Clan wanted to negotiate.

‘It’s a Kidon special.’ Made by Mossad’s – the Israeli secret service’s – assassination cell. ‘It works fine, but there’s ten grams of C4 in
the earpiece. If one of them tries to call us, that’s one less bad guy to worry about.’

‘Oh.’ For a moment a vision of Olga’s blond head flashed through Mike’s mind, bloodied and slack-jawed. He bit down on his reaction:
That’s assassination!
He
swallowed, queasy. ‘If that’s the way you’re playing it.’
( You’re a cop, he’s a spook. You knew these things happened. So why’s he telling you
now?)
‘You said you want an interpreter, but you’re not talking to the Clan. So what’s going on?’

‘There’s been a breakthrough.’ Dr. James leaned back against the side of the ambulance, his death’s-head grin fading. ‘Pretty soon we’re not going to need the
freaks for transport anymore, so we’re winding up to restart CLEANSWEEP. This time we’ve got the logistic support to set up a full-scale expeditionary force on the other side.
You’ll be going over in about three months as a civilian advisor. But in the meantime, I’ve got a little extra job for you as soon as you’re cleared for duty again. You’ve
already got a clearance; you’re going to need a higher one for this job. Unless you think there’s something that might disqualify you . . . ?’

Mike swallowed again. ‘Uh, what do you mean?’

James gestured irritably: ‘I can’t tell you what you’re needed for until you’ve been cleared. Additional background checks will be required. So this is your chance to
come clean about anything you wouldn’t want to disclose during a polygraph interrogation.’

‘You’re offering me an amnesty?’ Mike raised an eyebrow.

‘Son, I don’t care if you’re f– . . . sleeping with the Russian ambassador’s grandson; all I care is that you’re not keeping secrets from
me
,
you’re not going to embarrass me in front of an internal affairs polygraph, and you’re up to, to listening in on a bunch of conversations in gook-speak and translating them into English
for me. And keeping a lid on it. So. Is there anything you really
don’t
want to be quizzed about during your clearance interview?’

‘I – ’ The penny dropped. ‘It’s not CLEANSWEEP that’s so damn secret, is it?’ he said without thinking. ‘It’s the content, isn’t it?
You’ve got some kind of source – ’

‘Mr. Fleming.’ Dr. James’s stare was leaden. ‘What do we pay you for?’

Mike winced. ‘Sorry. Forget I asked.’ He took a deep breath. ‘As for your question, I’m not blackmailable. Nothing to hide here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘So.
When do I begin?’

‘Soon as you go back to the office, son. You’ll be scheduled for a full security re-cert within a couple of days, then I’ll have some extra work for you. Which will go on your
worksheet as routine admin, incidentally. That should keep you busy right up until the invasion.’

‘Invasion?’ Mike echoed incredulously. ‘You’re going to invade the Gruinmarkt?’

‘We’re going to have to sooner or later. Unless you’ve got any better ideas for how we ought to handle the existence of such a major security threat to American soil . . .
?’

‘But how?’

James cast Mike a knowing look. ‘Ask me again when you’re cleared.’

Baron Otto Neuhalle was afraid of very few things; the wrath of gods, the scorn of women, and the guns of his enemies were not among them. He was, however, utterly terrified of
one man – Egon the First, former crown prince and now self-proclaimed monarch of Gruinmarkt. Egon was a handsome-faced, graceful, hale, and charismatic young man who had all the pity of a
rattlesnake for those who failed him. Even if Otto hadn’t failed yet, failure nevertheless looked disturbingly possible in light of the witch-clan’s continuing occupation of the Hjalmar
Palace. And the cloud of dust he could see from his vantage point near the brow of the hill was almost certainly the vanguard of Egon’s army.

‘Another hour, sir,’ said Anders, who had materialized at his elbow while he peered through the witch-bought ‘binoculars’.

‘Nonsense, they’ll be three at least – ’ He blinked. ‘Wait.
What
will be another hour?’

‘The ammunition, my lord.’

‘
Scheisse . . .
’ Otto turned back to the castle, barely visible behind its banked ramparts on the other side of the moat and the sloped killing apron. Bodies littered the
ground before it, and clouds of smoke still billowed from the gatehouse his men had latterly abandoned. He’d gotten two of the witch-clan’s machine guns out of the gatehouse to cover
his soldiers’ retreat, but things hadn’t gone well: The enemy forces had laid down a stupefying volume of fire, and they’d brought some kind of artillery with them, not honest
cannon but an arquebus-sized tube that belched fingers of flame that exploded on impact. And his gunners, undertrained, had burned through their ammunition too fast.
They weren’t supposed
to counter-attack for at least a day. If it hadn’t been for that flying spy
. . . He shook his head. The buzzing witch-bird would cut less ice with his majesty than the heat-warped
machine gun barrels and prematurely expended stockpiles of valuable, irreplaceable cartridges. ‘What word is there from Hern?’

‘The waterway holds so far, my lord. That’s recent.’

Otto nodded thoughtfully. The castle’s dependence for fresh water on a buried culvert leading to the nearby river was a weakness. If the new defenders were foolish enough to rely on the
well, or the casks in the cellar . . .
No, they’re not inexperienced
. He glanced at a nearby soldier. ‘You, March. Bring me paper. And pen. I have a report to write.’

‘My lord.’ March bowed and scurried back towards the hastily established headquarters tent.

And if I write well, will it save my neck?
Otto suppressed a shudder. All told, it had been a
good
plan, and the witches had been on the defensive for the past several weeks as the
king’s forces harried their homesteads and burned their crops – the plan to force them to counterattack in a place of his choosing, where they could be chopped up by the king’s
stealthily stolen machine guns and mines, was a good one. But the upstart clan of witches-turned-nobles had struck back viciously fast, and shown a good few surprises of their own, from the flying
spy down.
And they can walk through the shadow world
, Otto reminded himself. Evidence of witchcraft, but he’d also seen a couple of them vanish in front of his own eyes: Otto was a
believer.
What could I do with an army like that?
He raised his glasses again and peered at the castle. ‘Sir Anders,’ he said quietly. ‘A general order. Be on watch for the
dog that fails to bark in the night. If any man notices that the enemy have fallen silent for more than a quarter of a bell, they are to send word to me immediately, regardless of the hour of day
or night.’

‘Sir?’ Anders raised a craggy brow.

‘Remember who we are fighting.’ Otto watched as dawning understanding – and fear – crept across his hetman’s face.

The dust cast up by the royal army crept closer over the next half hour as Otto scratched an abbreviated report, then sealed it in a hide tube and sent a messenger careening towards the
vanguard. Occasionally he had one or another of his troops’ preprepared positions light up the walls, or take careful aimed shots at the windows of the castle: The returning spasms of
automatic fire were reassuringly solid, evidence that the enemy was not yet melting into shadows and mist that could reappear in his rear at any moment. Otto didn’t waste his reprieve. His
men were beginning to grumble about the amount of ditch-work he was making them dig, but his periodic rounds of the trenches and foxholes they were preparing kept the muttering under control. With
a high, fine overcast to keep the sun off their necks, and no rain to bog them down, the weather wasn’t giving them much to complain about – but if the witch-clan staged a breakout, or
the king arrived to find the works incomplete, they’d have something to moan about for the rest of their lives, however short.

The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the apron in front of the castle (putting his snipers at a considerable disadvantage) when the first column of riders thundered up the valley floor
and came to a stop by the guards. They didn’t pause for long: After no small amount of shouting, half a dozen of them walked on, mounts breathing heavily, towards the headquarters tent. Otto,
who had been checking the second gun emplacement, steeled himself as he walked back downhill towards the group. He’d been expecting this moment, trying not to allow it to get in the way of
his urgent defensive preparations for most of the day.

‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed deeply, but without flourish.

‘Otto.’ The golden boy’s face was calm, but his eyes were stony. ‘Your tent, please. We will have words.’ The guards behind him sported strange black weapons,
machine-pistols looted or stolen from the Clan’s dead.

‘Yes, sire.’ He gestured towards the tent. ‘If you would follow me?’

‘Certainly,’ Egon said, easily enough, but Otto had a hard time pretending to ignore the two guards who preceded them, or the two who took up stations beside the tent.

Inside the tent, the young king turned to face Otto. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘In your own words.’

‘They counterattacked too early.’ Otto frowned. ‘We took the castle as planned. But we’d only been there for half a day when a witch – flying beneath a wing like a
bat’s – flew overhead. My men shot at him, but he got away. High up, high as an eagle. I redoubled my efforts to prepare the grounds, but only two hours later there was an explosion,
then witch-troops everywhere. They came from inside the palace, as your majesty predicted, but they arrived before we were ready for them. Seven hours, I reckon, from our entry to their
arrival.’

‘Seven hours . . .’ Egon stared at Otto measuringly, although Otto couldn’t guess whether it might be for a medal or a noose. ‘This flying witch. Describe what you
saw.’

Otto felt himself burst into chilly perspiration. ‘It made a buzzing noise, as of bees, only louder . . .’ He described the ultralight haltingly, its arrival from the southwest and
subsequent departure after overflying the castle.

‘And two hours later they arrived in force,’ Egon said musingly. ‘What of your force did you recover?’

The next ten minutes were the hardest examination of Otto’s life, as he explained the precise disposition of his withdrawal. ‘In the end, we lost two of the machine guns, and we have
but four gun barrels left. We have also expended all but four belts of ammunition,’ he finished. ‘Of men, eighteen dead and twenty-three wounded. The defensive positions are nearly
complete, although I do not propose to defend them past dawn tomorrow – too much risk of the witches infiltrating our lines. My men are at your disposal, sire.’

Egon glanced at the rough map of the surrounding area on Otto’s camp chair. ‘Flying spies. Some sort of artillery – that’s a new twist.’ He nodded to himself.
‘They are still bottled up in there?’

‘Yes, sire.’ Otto nodded back, reflexively. ‘I’ve detailed my men to tell me at once if the witches stop replying to our probing fire. But so far they’re sitting
tight. It’s almost as if they can’t simply walk away.’

For the first time, the young king’s poker face relaxed. ‘Well.’ His lips quirked. ‘You’ve done no worse than aught of our commanders might. And that flying witch
– yes.’ He nodded briskly. ‘Bravely done, Baron Neuhalle.’ Then he smiled, and Otto’s blood ran cold at the look in the royal eyes. ‘Something you might not know
about the witches is that they have to use their magic sparingly – should they walk through the paths of the dead too frequently, they fall ill and die. By your own word it is barely a day
since they retook the palace. Normally that would be enough time to allow them to escape, but I have intelligence that suggests to me a new possibility. Your men
did
succeed in dropping the
culvert and poisoning the well, I trust?’ Unsure where this was leading, Otto nodded. ‘Good.’ The king clapped his hands. ‘Krentz. Fetch Sir Geraunt and Baron
Rolfuss.’

‘Sire.’ One of the bodyguards bowed, then ducked through the tent door; the other visibly tensed, watching Otto alertly.

‘Your Majesty?’ Otto tried not to let his own tension show.

‘We’re going to take them.’ Egon’s eyes twinkled. ‘Because, you see, they are not only under siege
here
. They may be able to walk through the realm of the
dead, but the dead, I am informed, have taken a dislike to them. They won’t be able to escape this time. All that remains to be established is how we may dig them out of that castle. And my
other intelligence suggests a solution.’

*

The house squatting behind the densely tree-clad hillside had seen better years, that much was clear: its wooden decking needed a fresh coat of paint, the shingled roof was
silver and cracked behind the eaves, and the chain-link fence that surrounded the acre lot was rusted. But the padlock holding the gate closed was well-oiled, and as she followed Brill and her team
of bright young adventurers up the front steps, Miriam spotted the discreet black dome of a CCTV camera lurking in the shadows of the verandah. That, at least, looked to be new and
well-maintained.