The Trade of Queens (25 page)

The strange man seemed to be going out of his way to be nonthreatening, though. “Do you want a hand up?” he asked. “Figure you might be more comfortable on the sofa—” She waved him away, then pushed herself upright, then nodded. Things went gray again for a moment. “Listen, I'm not, uh, here on official business, exactly. But I need to talk to Miriam—” She rose, took two steps backwards, and collapsed onto the sofa. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“No,” she heard herself say, very distinctly. “I'm
not
okay. Who are you, mister, and what are you doing in my house?”

He hunkered down on the balls of his feet so that he was at eye level to her. “Name's Fleming, Mike Fleming. I used to know Miriam. She's in a whole bunch of trouble; if you know what she's been doing this past year, you'd know that—if you know about the Clan, you're in trouble, too. That goes for me, also.” He paused. “Want me to go on?”

“You're.” She stopped. “Why did you tell me you're DEA?”

“I was, originally—still carry a badge they issued. I'd prefer you not to phone them just yet to verify that. See, I'm willing to put my neck on the line. But I want to get to the truth. You know about the Clan?”

Paulie shook her head. “If I say anything, you know what those people will do?” She was saying too much, she vaguely recognized, but something about this setup smelled wrong.

“Which people? The Clan, or the Family Trade Organization?” Fleming paused. “I'm not in a position to arrest you for anything—I'm not here on official business. I need to talk to Miriam—”

“Wait.” Paulette tried to pull herself together. “The
what
organization? You want to talk to her? About what?”

Fleming looked at her quizzically. “The FTO is a cross-agency operation to shut down the Clan. I was part of it until, uh, about a week ago. It was an attempt to get all the agencies whose lines the Clan crossed to sing from the same hymn book. I came in from the DEA side when source GREEN—a Clan defector called Matthias—walked in the door. I've seen Miriam, about three months ago, in a palace in a place called Niejwein—want me to go on?”

Oh Jesus, save me—he's the real thing.
She shook her head numbly. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I need to talk to Miriam. She's in terrible danger—FTO has been penetrated. The president used to work with the Clan, back in the eighties and early nineties. He's the one behind this mess, he deliberately goaded them into using those nukes, and there's worse to come. He's running FTO. All the oil in Texas—
every
version of Texas—that's what he's after, that and a state of emergency at home to give him carte blanche to do whatever the hell he likes. I've tried to put out a warning via the press, but my contact didn't believe me until the attacks, and now—”

“You went to the press?” Paulette stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. “What did you have?”

“Nothing!” His frustration was visible.

“But you found me,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, after I turfed her house. Which is under police watch
and
booby-trapped; I found an old planner of hers, played back the answering-machine tape—”

“Shit.” She tried to stand, failed for a moment, then got her suddenly shaky knees to behave. “There was a tape?”
If you found me,
they
could find me.

“Relax. Those agencies you're thinking about don't talk to each other at that level. You're probably safe, for now.”

Probably safe
and her cousin
Don't worry
had helped many a girl get pregnant, in Paulie's opinion, and when the canoodling in question might lead to the queue for the execution chamber at Gitmo rather than a hospital delivery room, chancing it was not on her roadmap. “No, forget that: If they catch you they'll backtrack to me. Thanks a million, Mr. Fleming, you just doubled my chances of not getting out of this alive. I didn't ask for this shit! It just landed on my lap!” Her heart was hammering, she could feel her face flushing: Fleming was leaning away from her sudden vehemence. “Fucking goodfellas, I grew up in their backyard, you know what I'm saying? The old generation. You kept your nose out of their business and didn't do nothing and they'd mostly leave you alone, especially if you knew their cousin's wife or walked their sister's dogs or something. But if you crossed them it wouldn't be any fucking horse's head at the end of your bed, no fucking wreath at your funeral; you wouldn't
have
a funeral, there wouldn't be anything to bury. There were rumors about the meat-packing plant, about the cat and dog food. And the cops weren't much better. Shakedown money every Tuesday, free coffee and bagels at the corner, and you better hope they liked your face. And that was the
local
cops, and the old-time
local
hoods, who didn't shit in their backyard 'case someone took exception, you know where I'm coming from?”

Fleming just squatted on his heels and took it, like a giant inflatable target for all her frustration. “Yes, I know where you're from,” he said quietly when she ran down. “Keep a low profile and don't rock the boat and you think maybe you can get by without anyone hurting you. But where
I'm
coming from—that's not an option anymore. It's not Miriam's fault that she's descended from them and has their ability, not her fault about those bombs—she tried to warn me. There are back channels between governments: That was before my boss's boss decided to burn me. No; what
I'm
telling
you
is that we're caught in the middle of a fight that's been fixed, and if I don't get to talk to Miriam, a lot of people are going to die. The new president wants the Clan dead, because it's a necessary condition to cover up his own past connection with them: He ran their West Coast heroin-distribution arm for about seven years. He's had his fingers deep into their business since then, he's the one who nudged them into acquiring nukes and then prodded them into using them, and he's just been sworn in—we probably don't have much time to get the warning out. So are you going to help me? Or are you going to sit in your foxhole and stick your fingers in your ears and sing ‘La la la, I can't
hear
you'?”

“You're telling me it's the
president's
fault?” She stared. Fleming didn't
look
mad—

“Yes. I know where too many bodies are buried, that's why they tried to car bomb me four days ago. FTO itself is still secret: I know enough to blow the operation sky high. Black underground prisons on US soil, captured Clan members being forced to act as mules with bombs strapped to their necks, vivisection on subjects to find out what makes them tick, helicopters with black boxes containing bits of brain tissue—don't ask me how they got them—that can travel to the Gruinmarkt. There's an invasion coming, Ms. Milan, and they've been gearing up to attack the Clan in their own world for at least six months.”

“Call me Paulie,” she said automatically.

“It's not even the first time our government's considered setting off nukes on our own territory to justify an attack on someone else. Back in the early seventies, we figure Nixon—there was a bomb in Boston, you see, GREENSLEEVES planted it as a blackmail backup before he defected, and we ran across an older device while we were looking for his: a big one, the kind you air-dropped from a B52 when you wanted to flatten Moscow. It dated to 1972, just before Nixon showed up in Beijing to make nice. Turns out it was his Plan B: Get rid of a bunch of useless liberals and wave the bloody flag at the Commies. They didn't do it then, but they've gone and done it now, with the fall guy's fingerprints all over the throwdown.”

Paulie opened her mouth, then shut it again.

Fleming sighed. “I can see we're going to be here some time,” he said. “Any chance of a coffee?”

*   *   *

Two days after Huw and Yul hiked into Springfield to post a letter at great personal peril (two days in which six more ClanSec world-walkers and a full half-ton of requisitioned supplies reached the safe house, two days during which the neighbors kept a remarkably low profile), Miriam was sitting in the makeshift living room, single-mindedly typing up her to-do list, when something strange happened.

With no warning, the bulky wooden cabinet in the corner of the room crackled into life. “This is the emergency widecast network. Repeat, this is the emergency widecast network. The following message is for Miss Beckstein, last known in Springfield. Will Miss Beckstein please go to the shop in Boston where her sick friend is waiting for her. Repeat—”

The repetition of the message was lost in a clatter. “Shit!” Miriam applied some other choice words as she bent to pick up the dropped laptop and check it for damage.

“What's happened?” Brill called from the direction of the kitchen.

“Dropped my—we've got contact!”

“What?” A second later Brill pushed the door wide open.

“The radio.” Miriam pointed at it. “Huw didn't say there's an emergency station! Erasmus wants to see me. In Boston.”

Brill looked at her oddly. Miriam realized she was cradling the laptop as if it were cut-glass. “Are you sure—”

“This is the emergency widecast network. Repeat—”

“I told you!”

“Okay.” Brill nodded, then paused to listen. Her face tightened as she unconsciously clenched her jaw. “Oh yes. It worked. Well, my lady, you got what you wanted. What do we do now?”

“I'd think it was obvious—”

The other door opened; it was Sir Alasdair. “Hello? I heard shouting?”

Miriam stood up, shut the laptop's lid, and placed it carefully on the side table. “We're going to Boston,” she announced. “Erasmus has made contact—”

Alasdair cleared his throat. “Made contact how—”

“Now look here!” Miriam and Huw both stopped dead. “Have I your full attention?” Brilliana demanded. “Because as your loyal retainer I think we should consider this with care. My lady, what do you intend to do? Need I remind you these are dangerous times?”

“No.” Miriam looked at Sir Alasdair, who was watching Brilliana with the patience of a hound. “But this is exactly what we should have expected, isn't it? Erasmus is high in their ministry of propaganda, and we didn't tell him where I was. How else would he contact me, but a broadcast? So now the ball's back on our side of the court. I need to go visit him at the shop, because that's where he'll be. Unless you've got any better ideas?” Alasdair cleared his throat again. “Yes?” she asked.

“My lady d'Ost.” He glanced at Brill. “What is your threat assessment?”

“Hard to say. Getting there—dangerous because all travel in this land is risky in the season of civil war. Once there … I do not believe Burgeson means ill of my lady; he is as close to a friend, in fact, as any in the world.”

“But?” His word hung in the air for a few short seconds.

“Assuming the message is from Burgeson,” Brilliana said reluctantly. “There is no word of his disposition. Should he be the victim of an internal plot, this might be a trap. I'd think it unlikely, but stranger things happen. And then, should he in fact be the speaker—what then?”

“Wait a minute.” Miriam raised a hand. “The idea is to make contact. Then put my proposal to him and see what he thinks is achievable. At that point, once we've got a channel, it's down to diplomacy.”

“And capabilities.” Alasdair lowered himself onto one of the wooden dining chairs Huw and Yul had scared up in the furniture-hunting expedition. “Their expectation of our abilities must view us as a potential threat, just as the Americans do. They will want to know why we seek refuge here. If we tell them the unvarnished truth—”

“We
must
.” Miriam was forceful. “Yeah, we may have to admit the Clan fucked up royally in the United States. But you know something? It's nothing but the truth. If we tell them we fucked up and we want to start afresh and turn over a new leaf, it's not only believable—it's true, and they'll get the same story from everyone they ask. If we start telling white lies or trying to bamboozle them … how many of our people have to remember to tell the same lie?
Someone
will get confused and let something slip over a glass of wine, and then Erasmus's people get to let their suspicions run riot. And let me remind you this country is in the middle of a revolution? Maybe they're going to come out of it peacefully, but most revolutions don't—we have a chance to try and influence that if we're on the inside, but we won't have a leg to stand on unless we're like Caesar's wife, above reproach. So my goal is simple: get us
in
with the temporal authorities, so deeply embedded that we're indispensable within months.”

“Indispensable?”

“I've been doing some reading.” Miriam turned tired eyes on Alasdair. “Revolutions eat their young, especially as they build new power structures. But they
don't
eat the institutions that prop them up. Secret police, bureaucrats, armies—that's the rule. They may hang the men at the top, and go hard on their external enemies, but the majority of the rank and file keep their places. I think we can come up with a value proposition that they can't ignore, one that would scare the crap out of them if we didn't
very obviously
need their help.”

Sir Alasdair looked at Brill. “Do you understand her when she starts talking like this?” he grumbled.

“No. Isn't it great?” Brill flashed him a grin. “You can see why the duke, may he rest peacefully, wanted her for a figurehead upon the throne. My lady. What do you propose to do? Let us say we get you to Boston to meet with your man. What do you need?”