The Trade of Queens (7 page)

Dr. Andrew James glanced past his boss, at the empty chair where State's assistant secretary ought to be sitting if this session wasn't classified FAMILY TRADE–only. “I couldn't say for sure, sir, but that phone call sounded promising.” He gestured at the desk telephone in front of him, beige and stuffed with buttons with obscure labels that only made sense to the NSA eggheads who designed these gadgets. “The call terminated promptly.”

“Good,” WARBUCKS said vehemently. “Gutless bastards.”

“We don't know for sure that it terminated as intended, sir,” James warned. “The adversary's INFOSEC is pretty good for an amateur operation, and the bugging transcript from contact FLEMING indicates at least one of them was concerned about the bait phone.”

“They got the message, either way. Bart, is there any noise on the Continuity side?”

“Nothing new, sir.” Bart, a graying DISA apparatchik, was hunched over a laptop with a trailing cable patched into a wall jack—a SIPRNet connection. “They're all just standing by. SECDEF is aboard KNEECAP on the ramp at Andrews AFB, standing by for JEEP with short-notice takeoff clearance. BOY WONDER is in the EOB as usual. Uh, message from SECDEF. He wants to know if you've got an update.”

“Tell him no”—WARBUCKS stared at the wall of televisions, then reached behind his left ear to adjust the multichannel earpiece—“but if they don't send us a message within the next twenty-four hours I think they're probably going to fold. I just want him where—want backup. This
could
go wrong.”

Dr. James's BlackBerry buzzed for attention. Glancing down at its screen, he froze. “Sir.”

“Speak.”

“SIGTRADE just issued a RED FLASH—some kind of coded signal. It's running through their network—” The machine buzzed again. “Uh, right. Something is going on. Post six reports surveillance subjects all just freaked. They're moving, and it's sudden.”

WARBUCKS closed his eyes. “Round 'em up, then. That's plan—which plan—”

Another aide riffled hastily through a ring binder. “Would that be HEAD CRASH, sir? Track and disable immediate, then hood and ship?”

“That's the one.” WARBUCKS nodded. “Send it,” he told Bart. “And tell them I want hourly head counts and updates on everything—misses as well as arrests.”

*   *   *

In private, behind locked doors, the discussion took a different shape.

“Sit down, Jim. Have a whisky?”

“Yes, please.” James Lee settled into the overstuffed armchair and waited while his father—Elder Huan's nephew Shen—filled two crystal tumblers from a hip flask and ensconced himself in the room's other armchair. His den was furnished in conventional Western style, free of exotic affectations or imported reminders of the Middle Empire here; just two overstuffed armchairs, a battered mahogany bureau from the inventory of a retired ship's captain, and a wall of pigeonholes and index files. The Lee family's decidedly schizophrenic relationship with New Britain was tilted to the Occident, here; but then, Dad had always been a bit of an Anglophile. “How's Mother keeping? And Angelina? I haven't seen them lately—”

“Neither have I, Jim. We write, regularly—Xian says all is well and they're enjoying the peace in the summer house near Nan Shang.” Nan Shang in what would be California, two worlds over—or the Middle Empire in the world where the eastern seaboard belonged to the marcher kingdoms. With the fiscal crisis in full flow, and latterly the riots and disorder, many of the family's elders had deemed it prudent to send their dependents away to safety. While the Lee extended family were nothing like as prominent in the West as the six Eastern families had become in the East, their country estates were nevertheless palatial. “The postal service is still working. Do you want me to—”

“No, I'm sorry, Father. Just curious. You wanted a chat?”

“Yes.” His father was silent for a few seconds. Then: “What is your opinion of the doctor? Did you have an opportunity to form an opinion of him during your stay with the cousins?” During the six months during which James had been a pampered hostage.

“I didn't know him well, Father. But—you want my honest opinion? He's a worm. A most dangerous, slimy, treacherous worm.”

“Strong words.” The lightness of his father's tone was belied by his sour face. “Do you have reason for it?”

“I believe so. I don't think he told Eldest any outright untruths, but nothing he said was quite right, either. He was telling the truth when he said he was the personal physician to many of the Eastern cousins' womenfolk, but he was also … not as put-upon as he would have you believe. He said he earned the undying hatred of the woman Helge—and he was telling the truth there, too. But Helge didn't impress me as being anybody's fool. She's neither naive nor stupid, and when we had time to talk—there's something unpleasant underneath this excess of servility on his part, Father. I can't tell you precisely what he's hiding, but he's hiding
something
.”

“That much was obvious from his performance.” Shen took a sip of whisky. “I don't think Mei is serious about finding him a wife—unless she means to set the Widow Ting on him.” James flinched; avoiding cousin Ting and her dangerous games had been one of his wiser moves. “I gather she's itching to marry again. That would make … three? Four? No matter. It is perfectly clear that the doctor is as twisty as a hangman's noose. What your uncle would like to know is—can he deliver what he offered?”

“I don't know.” James paused. “You may know more than I, Father. Is it true that Helge is with child?”

For a long moment his father stared into his tumbler. “It might be so.”

“Because.” James licked his lips. “Before the Per—before the youngest son's rebellion, she was held prisoner and securely chaperoned. And I met the heir to whom she was betrothed.
He
wasn't going to do any begetting on her. There was unsavory whispering about some of ven Hjalmar's works, among the servants I cultivated. Some said that the man was an abortionist. Others accused him of drugging and raping noblewomen—a story I find incredible, under the circumstances described. What is true is that the Clan's ladies, whom he served, made use of a hospital or clinic in the United States, which he helped run. I know
that
much. And Helge was leashed for poking her nose into some business that sounds very like this baby clinic he offered to elder Yuan. So: I believe he is mostly telling the truth—again, only mostly.”

“What do you think he plans?”

“What he—” James stopped. “You can't be thinking of working with him! He's a viper. He's stung two masters already, why would he stop short of making it three? It's in his nature!”

“Calm down, boy, I'm not making that decision!”

“I'm sorry, Father.”

“That is good. Don't worry unduly—we trust him no more than you do. But we need to have some idea of his goals before we can decide whether to make use of him or not. If he can deliver what he offers—perhaps as many as five hundred world-walkers within ten years—that is a matter of enormous significance! We would not have to worry about the Eastern cousins after that. It would open up new business possibilities, ways of making ourselves useful to those in authority—whoever they may be, when the current incivility dies down—new blood in our thinning arteries.
Can he do it?
That is what my brother asks. If he can, then we can use him: tie him down, shadow his work, and eventually take it over. But if he's a mere charlatan”—Shen made a dismissive gesture, casting the shadow of ven Hjalmar over his left shoulder—“we know how to deal with that, too.”

James tried again: “I think it's unwise—”

“You have made that clear already!” his father snapped. “Your opinion is
noted
. But the decision-making is for your elders; they must balance the safety and needs of the family against the risks involved in taking this asp to our breast. All my brother needs from you now is an assessment—is what he says
possible
?”

James took a deep breath, embarrassment and anger warring. “I … I can't deny it. From what the Eastern cousins were saying, when they had no reason to guard their tongues—yes, very possibly.”

“Thank you.” Shen lifted his tumbler. “I think it best if we do not include you in the discussion; you are, perhaps, too close to its subjects. I agree with your assessment of the doctor's character—but even serial traitors may be useful to us on occasion. Especially if we know their weaknesses. Which is why I ask again: What do you believe his goals are?”

James frowned. “What goals? Beside keeping his head on his shoulders?”

Shen leaned forward. “Has it gone that far?”

“He did something to Helge that angered her greatly. And she is pregnant, with an heir to the throne of Gruinmarkt that is universally acknowledged as such by the Eastern cousins, who say something about a, uh,
DNA paternity check
, whatever that might be. Are they fools, Father? Is
she
a fool? I think those rumors about drugs and rape are … not true, exactly, but close. Ven Hjalmar got Lady Helge pregnant with seed from the royal line—then his patron died, and he must run for his life. He wants money, sanctuary, and time to continue his work—which is this breeding program. He wants to use us, Father, that's what I think.”

“Ah.” His father relaxed, smiling at last. He raised his glass. “And you think that's all?”

“I wouldn't swear to it, but—”

“It'll do.” Shen took a sip. “Thank you, son. I think I can discuss this with Eldest now.”

James's shoulders sank. “You think Uncle will take Dr. ven Hjalmar on.”

“Yes.” Shen's smile widened. “But don't worry. He will be under control.…”

*   *   *

The second thing to catch Miriam's attention was the mingled smells of scorched wood and warm blood. The first was managing to control her fall; being carried piggyback was hard enough when the steed was a strapping young soldier, never mind a physically fit but lightly built younger woman. As Miriam and Olga disentangled themselves, Miriam looked around curiously. They'd come through in the target area once a deeply relieved Brill had confirmed that the zone was secure, and it was Miriam's first chance to see the havoc that the Pervert's army had inflicted on the Clan's outlying minor steadings.

One farmhouse looked much like another to her eye—in the Gruinmarkt they tended to be thick-walled, made from heavy logs or clay bricks depending on the locally available materials—but this one bore clear signs of battle. The roof of one wing was scorched and blackened, and the window shutters on the central building had been wrecked. More to the point—

“Who—” she began, as Olga raised a hand and waved at the armed man standing guard by the door.

“My lady!” He went to one knee. “Lord Riordan awaits you in the west wing.”

“Rise, Thom. Where are Knuth and Thorson?” Olga was all business, despite what had to be a splitting headache.

“We haven't seen ear nor tail of them since they crossed over yesterday.” The guard's eyes widened as he looked at Miriam: “Is this—”

“Yes, and you don't need to make a scene over me,” she said hastily. Turning to Olga: “The other two—they're your missing guards?”

“Let us discuss that indoors.” Olga nodded at the farmstead's front door, which stood ajar. Thom followed behind like an overeager dog, happy his mistress was home. “I think Knuth and Thorson are probably dead,” she said quietly. “The two who were waiting for us definitely weren't them.”

Miriam nodded, jerkily. “So they were assassins? Just there to kill whoever turned up?”

“Whoever turned up at the duty staff officer's primary evacuation point, yes.” The picture was clear enough. The evac point had been guarded by a lance of soldiers, two on the American side and six in the Gruinmarkt. The assassins had murdered the two guards in the state park, then planned on catching Earl Riordan and his colleagues as they arrived, one by one. They hadn't anticipated a group who, forewarned, arrived expecting skullduggery. “I expect Lady d'Ost will try and find where they hid the bodies before she comes hither to report. Come on inside, my lady.”

The farmstead was a wreck. The guards had made a gesture towards clearing up, pushing the worst of the trashed furniture and shattered kitchenware up against one wall and sweeping the floor—the pretender's cavalry had briefly used it as a stable—but the scorch marks of a fire that had failed to take hold still streaked the walls, and there was a persistent, faint aroma of rotting meat. The guards had brought out camp chairs and a folding table, and Riordan had set up his headquarters there, organizing the guards to man a shortwave radio and track unfolding events on a large map. He looked up as Miriam arrived. “Welcome, Your Majesty.”

“How bad is it?” Miriam asked.

“We're getting reports.” He grimaced. “The evac plan is running smoothly and I've ordered all stations to check out the other side for unwelcome visitors. Didn't want to say why—things will be chaotic enough without setting off a panic about a civil war. The trouble is, we're fifteen miles out of Niejwein—the eye of the storm—half a day's ride; and I'm not happy about disclosing your location. In the worst case our enemies may have direction-finding equipment, and if they've got their hands on Rudy's ultralight … we've got to sit tight as long as possible. I've ordered Helmut to bring a couple of lances here as soon as he's nailed down the Summer Palace and I've put orders out for the arrest of the entire postal committee and, I regret to say, your grandmother. We can weed that garden at our leisure once we've got it fenced in. Unless you have any other suggestions?”