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Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

Ghosts of Columbia (48 page)

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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Llysette blushed. “
Non .
..
pas de tout… .
”
“After your last recital, I’d have to agree with Eric,” I told her.
“You … you favor me, and so you do not listen. You hear what you would hear.”
“If Johan says that,” Eric interjected, “he means it. He’s never been known for undeserved flattery.”
“Thank you,” I told him. “What other words of welcome do you have?”
“I could have told that you’d arrived.” Eric added, more soberly, “Just from the news.”
I groaned, half in mock-anguish, half with concern. “Now what?”
“Secret talks between Deseret and the Speaker, the reappearance of the famous Llysette duBoise, and more speculation about the man she married—rumored to have been a top assassin in the Spazi foreign branch… .”
“You’re kidding, of course.” Eric had been known to stretch matters.
“I wish I were, Johan.” He shook his head. “They don’t want to leave you alone.”
I swallowed. “Who … when—”
“This afternoon’s
Post-Dispatch.
”
Llysette glanced at me and smiled, as if to say that it didn’t matter, and, now, between us, it didn’t. But it wouldn’t help her if the rest of the world thought I was a former killer dog.
I forced a shrug. “They can say whatever. An assassin is one of the few things I haven’t been, and heaven knows, I’ve done enough of which I’m not exactly proud.” And that was certainly true.
“It’s time for dinner,” Judith said firmly. “Such serious subjects require nourishment.” She glanced to Llysette. “Unless you need more time to practice.”
“Mais non …
I have practiced enough.”
Dinner consisted of a rack of lamb with a rosemary glaze, potatoes in a cheese soufflé, and green beans amandine, not to mention breads and salads.
At first, the conversation dealt with the trip, passing items, and praise of Judith’s cooking. Mostly I ate and listened.
Then Judith asked, “What are you singing?”
“Debussy, the aria of Lia from
L’Enfant du Prodigue
, and Mozart,
Exultate Jubilate
. Two is but what the president requested.” Llysette glanced at me.
“I haven’t heard the aria,” said Judith, “except through the parlor doors, but it sounded beautiful.”
“Everything she sings is beautiful.”
“You can’t tell he’s in love or anything,” said Eric.
took refuge in another bite of lamb.
“You’re different, Johan. More mellow, I’d say,” Judith offered.
“More there is that he feels,” opined Llysette. “And he will speak more.”
“The original Sphinx—he actually speaks about how he feels?” asked Eric.
“Quelquefois.
”
“If I don’t, she waits until I do.” And the waiting had gotten very cold at times before I learned.
“With this trip to Deseret, are you up to being spy, manager, bodyguard, and general flunky?” asked Eric.
“That’s about it, isn’t it? Except you forgot target. I don’t mind the others, but I worry that we’re being set up for something, and I don’t even know what.”
“They won’t let you be, will they?” said Judith, shifting her weight in the Jefferson spiral-back chair.
“Not when they need us.” I explained why I thought we—Llysette, actually—were being used as one of the cultural pawns to open energy trade.
“It figures,” added Eric, turning to Llysette. “The fact that you’re French will make it harder for deGaulle to say anything openly.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but Eric might well have been right.
Llysette yawned.
“You need some rest,” suggested Judith. “What time are your engagements tomorrow?”
“Ten,” I admitted. “I have a meeting, and she has a rehearsal.”
“Then you should be resting or relaxing, not sitting stiffly around a table with a pair of fossils,” said Judith..
“Fossils? Hardly.”
“You have been most kind, and for that I am grateful.” Llysette stood. “Perhaps you could visit us?” She laughed. “You could wait until the spring. The winter in New Bruges I would wish on no one.”
“That would be nice,” Eric said. “You know, we’ve never been there. It’s strange, but somehow …” He shrugged, and I appreciated his words.
“Shoo,” said Judith with a laugh. “We’d keep you talking all night, and while Johan wouldn’t suffer, Llysette would.”
I had to grin.
Llysette used the whirlpool tub in the overlarge guest bath, and I sat on the tiled edge in my undershorts, enjoying the warm steam and the view.
“You … are …
impossible …
,” she said slowly, accenting the French
“impossible.
”
“Me?”
“Toi!”
“I’m impossible,” I agreed, not averting my eyes. “How was the piano?”
“
Magnifique
… almost a concert instrument it is, and to have no one to play it …”
I wished I’d been able to afford one for her that good, but ours—hers, really—was a rebuilt thirty-year-old Haaren, good, serviceable, with a nice tone, but definitely not in the class of the grand Steinbach in the sitting room below. I wished I’d been able to give her something like that.
“You, you have given me … us … much. Do not worry yourself,” she commanded, as if she could read my thoughts, and perhaps she could. Or my face, anyway.
I tried not to, too much, and got her one of the big cream-colored Turkish towels instead.
She didn’t need it for long, and I wasn’t that impossible. Neither was she.
Later, after I’d turned out the lights and we’d climbed under the covers of the triple-width bed, Llysette snuggled up beside me. “Good people, they are,” she murmured sleepily. “I am glad we came.”
I was pleased that she was glad, less pleased that my Spazi past had shown up in the
Post
-
Dispatch
, and even less pleased that I’d been termed an assassin, since I hadn’t been. Even though I’d killed, as had most Spazi field agents being hunted by Ferdinand’s Gestaats, it had been only for self-preservation. Even as I reflected on that in the darkness, I had to ask myself—or had Carolynne’s ghost prompted me?—how much was self-justification. I tried not to shiver and wake Llysette. She needed her sleep.
T
he next morning Eric insisted on dropping us at the Presidential Palace, and Judith insisted—equally firmly—that she would pick us up whenever we wired. Judith’s parting words had been: “I’ve taken the day off, and I expect you two to take full advantage of that.”
I presented the government ID I still retained to the guards by the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the Presidential Palace. Llysette proffered her university card.
“One moment, sir and madam.”
I glanced eastward, toward the Capitol, the domain of the Speaker, its lower reaches blocked by the turrets of the B&P station on the Mall, the whiteness of the recently restored west front of the Capitol a contrast to the dingier structures that flanked an increasingly run-down Pennsylvania Avenue. The Capitol had been restored three times, but it had taken a century to finish the Washington Monument. Somehow that said something about the relative priorities of the Congress in dealing with politicians and soldiers.
“They’re expecting you both, sir and madam.”
I didn’t know about both of us. When we got to the east entry, a young man in a dark suit, with a goatee that looked glued on, immediately hastened up to Llysette. “Fräulein duBoise?”
Llysette nodded as if there could not possibly be any doubt, and I wanted to grin. Instead, I did the answering, like any good manager. “Yes. Who will be accompanying her?”
“Fraulein Stewart. She is already in the Green Room.”
We followed the goateed young fellow, and then I bowed to Llysette as she entered the Green Room, where a full-size concert Steinbach had been set up at one end. “I’ll wait somewhere if I’m done first.”
“And you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Harlaan Oakes.”
“Very good, sir.” The goateed fellow and the functionary in the butler’s outfit let me head toward the east entrance, except I doubled back and headed for the lower stairs. I didn’t get far before another fresh-faced young man, with the telltale bulge in his jacket, found me. “Minister Eschbach?”
“Yes? I presume Harlaan is where his predecessor was.”
“Ah … yes, sir. If you would follow me …”
No, they weren’t about to allow me to wander through the Presidential Palace by myself.
Harlaan, wonder of wonders, was actually standing in the lower hall. Like all political functionaries, he wore a gray suit so dark it was almost black. His maroon cravat blended with the faintest of stripes in the suit. “Johan. You are punctual, as always, as in everything.”
That bothered me. “I try. Sometimes circumstances don’t allow it, but today worked out.”
Harlaan gestured toward the small office that had been Ralston’s, and I followed him. His goatee was square, with a hint of gray. No trace remained in the small office of Ralston, the man who was now a zombie, the man I had turned into a zombie to protect Llysette and myself, to cover up one murder, and to, in the end, ensure that I took on the burden of two other souls.
The door closed behind us, seemingly of its own volition, and I took the battered wooden captain’s chair on the right of the desk. Harlaan looked at the chair behind the desk, then took the one in front, as if to admit we were equals, another less than wonderful sign.
“I caught a glimpse of your wife. She is beautiful.”
“She’ll also sing beautifully.”
“That will please the president … to no end.”
“Good. What did you have in mind, Harlaan, since this isn’t really a social call?”
The president’s adviser cleared his throat. “Johan, you’re also going to be contacted by some people on Minister Reilly’s staff, and we’ve been requested to ask if you would visit Deputy Minister Jerome after you’re done here. Reilly’s people are going to want you to do some sightseeing—or keep your eyes open for violations of the Colorado River Compact.”
“And see what else I can steal of environmentally friendly or synthfuels technology?” I shifted my weight in the old chair. “What does my friend Minister Jerome want? Or is it Asquith?”
“Officially, it’s Minister Jerome.”
I waited.
“And officially, he wishes to apologize for past discomforts.”
Worse and worst. That meant even more disasters to come.
“You scarcely look pleased, Johan.”
“Would you? In my position?”
Harlaan laughed, once. “Possibly not.”
“And why is the Spazi going to such lengths?”
“Because the Prophet, Revelator, and Seer of Deseret has requested your wife’s performance, and because Minister Holmbek is disturbed by the disruption of Venezuelan oil exports.”
“I presume you have been the one enlarging my exposure to the print media?”
Harlaan shrugged. “One is never sure whether what is printed here reaches New Bruges.”
“Do you know who made that attempt on our lives?”
“An attempt on your lives?”
“Harlaan.” I waited.
“No. We suspect Maurice-Huizinga or Ferdinand. You might ask Minister Jerome.”
That was all I’d get, and I changed the subject. “What else will Minister Reilly’s people want?”
“A written report, I am sure. They always want something in writing. I can’t imagine you have any problem with that.”
Not too much of a problem. Just writing a report doubtless of an adverse nature on a neighboring country for which I wouldn’t get paid. And if I did, the amount wouldn’t be near enough to cover the real costs.
“What do you want?” I asked, another foolish question.
“A copy of whatever you report would be appreciated, of course, although you’re certainly under no compunction to provide one.”
“Harlaan … a little more, please.”
“The president is concerned, Johan, deeply concerned.”
“That’s apparent. Why?”
“Deseret is almost a closed culture. Great Salt Lake City is the only place where they really allow outsiders, in any meaningful sense, you understand. The world has changed in the last century since the death of Prophet Young, but Deseret has not.”
I had to frown at that. “What about their advances in drip farming, the natural cottons, their synthetic fuel plants, their specialty steels? Or the results of their partnerships with the Bajan difference engine suppliers? Or their success in building on the original Fischer-Tropsch designs? Those aren’t exactly products of a backward culture.”
Harlaan raised his eyebrows. “As you know, all of those are derivatives of others’ ideas, not original in nature. That is the essence of Deseret, and why our concerns are social and political. The president is deeply concerned that any measurable unrest in Deseret will invite greater New French involvement under their mutual defense pact.”
“Those concerns wouldn’t have anything to do with the growing oil shortages, would they?” I asked. “This great interest in lack of Saint creativity and originality seems to have appeared from almost nowhere.”
“Those are more concerns of Minister Holmbek and Speaker Hartpence.”
“They’re real concerns,” I pointed out..
Harlaan shrugged. “Our concerns are political.”
“How can you have politics as we know them? Deseret is a theocracy, and
from what I know, their Prophet, the Twelve, and the First Speaker have close to iron control.”
“Exactly.” Oakes’s smile was anything but pleasant. “And in this modern world, social change is going to occur, either peacefully or from the barrel of a firearm. There have been rumblings about something called the Revealed Twelve. We don’t know much about them, except that they feel that the Twelve in power are rejecting the real teachings of their prophets.”
“Whereas you and the president hope that Deseret decides to move into the twentieth century before the rest of North America moves into the twenty-first? Perhaps so that you can reduce conflict with Deseret while tensions are building to the north and south—and, of course, with Ferdinand and our commitments to the Brits.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m somewhat confused, Harlaan. While I may understand the international implications, what does all this have to do with a retired subminister?”
“With a retired subminister … nothing. With a former Spazi agent who is familiar with some of the latest developments in … shall we say … the proliferation or de-proliferation of psychic realities … a great deal.”
“Oh?” I didn’t like his reference to the “proliferation” of psychic realities, not at all.
“We all have our sources, Johan. The decision to offer your Fräulein duBoise a contract to perform was not made purely on artistic grounds.” He held up his hand. “She is certainly well qualified, and as a Columbian citizen now, she certainly meets the requirements of the Cultural Exchange Act, which is the ostensible political rationale for the invitation. Artistically, the choice is impeccable, and now that she has married you, the decision conforms to the policies of the Twelve, which restricts female performers to those underage or married and accompanied by their husband. We and Minister Jerome have been offering, and will continue to offer, a modicum of, shall we say, residual and residential oversight, as we have for all of those associated with the recently discontinued projects of former minister vanBecton.”
The more I heard, the more superficial sense it made, and the less real logic Harlaan’s words held.
“Who is interested in such illegal psychic research?” I pressed, not wishing to admit much of anything. “Ferdinand knew it all to begin with, and vanBecton—and Minister Jerome—certainly knew. As do others.” Meaning the president and Harlaan.
“Certain equipment has been traced to Deseret. It’s a closed society, as I pointed out. We don’t know who or why, but your invitation wasn’t exactly by coincidence. Minister Jerome has doubtless come to the same conclusion.” Harlaan smiled grimly. “None of us like the idea of advanced psychic technology in a potentially unfriendly theocracy with an energy surplus on our borders—and on New France’s borders.”
I did wince slightly.
“Now … you understand that, under other circumstances, the president merely could have gone to the Speaker and suggested that your trip to Deseret would not have been in the national interest.”
I understood. President Armstrong and Speaker Hartpence were waging a silent but ongoing war for control and direction of Columbia, and any concession or request for cooperation would have been seized upon as a weakness. At the same time, they both agreed that anything that could destabilize Deseret or allow greater New French involvement there was in neither’s interest.
“So … what do you want from me?”
“What you want for yourself, Johan. Peace and quiet. Your pledge to avoid becoming entrapped in the politics of Deseret. That’s all.” Harlaan rose from his chair with a smile.
That was hardly all—hardly it at all—and we both knew it. Harlaan proved that with his next words.
“Minister Jerome’s limousine is waiting for you. They’ll bring you back after your meeting.”
I could hear Llysette and Fräulein Stewart still practicing as Harlaan escorted me to the less obvious west exit, where a dark gray Spazi car waited.
With just me and the driver, the short trip to the Sixteenth Street Spazi building was silent. I still swallowed when I entered the underground garage of the building officially called the Security Service building, for all that the entire world knew it as the Spazi building. Another young fellow in dark gray, with one of those new ear sets, was waiting for me and escorted me to the elevator and up to the fourth floor.
Neither the flat gray ceramic tiles and light blond wood paneling designed to hide the darkness behind each door had changed. The smell of disinfectant was particularly strong in the garage subbasement. Even in the elevator, the odor of disinfectant, common to jails and security services the world over, lingered, although it vanished when I stepped onto the dark rust carpet on the corridor leading to Deputy Minister Jerome’s office.
His clerk, though young, had a narrow, pinched face under wire-rimmed glasses and presided over a large wireline console. She nodded and tapped a stud on the console. “You are expected.”
The young Spazi agent waited, and I stepped through the paneled door alone.
Jerome, blond, expansive, and blue-eyed—and younger than vanBecton—stepped forward, extending his hand. “Minister Eschbach—”
“Minister Jerome, those days are past. I’m more of a simple professor, married to a woman far more famous than I am.”
“Nonsense, Johan. You two are perhaps the most visible couple in Columbia today.”
And whose doing was that?
I wondered, considering that no one had even heard of us a month previous.
“Please.” He gestured to one of the leather-covered chairs before the desk, then took the other. The blue eyes weren’t as friendly as the smile, but I supposed that had been true of every Spazi director I’d known.
BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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