The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (15 page)

‘Take a card, move on out, Morgan over by the well house will show you the transit spot,’ he told them, holding the helmet before him. ‘You know what to do.’

‘Secure the area!’ Erik grinned at Helmut, his enthusiasm evidently barely dampened by the disaster on the rooftop two days ago.

‘They’re supposed to be friendly,’ Helmut chided him. ‘So use your discretion.’

‘Aye!’ Erik took a card and stepped forward. ‘Come on, you guys. Party’s this way.’

Olga watched from the back of the hall as the recon lance marched towards the well house and an appointment with an uncertain world.
Better them than me
, she told herself. There were any
number of things that could go wrong. They might have the wrong knotwork, a subtle flaw in the design, and go . . . somewhere. Or the long-lost cousins of the hidden family might decide to use this
opportunity to settle their old score against the eastern families. Any number of nasty little possibilities lay in that particular direction. Morgan’s appearance suggested otherwise, but
Olga had no great faith in his abilities, especially after what Helge – Miriam – had told her about the way he’d run her works in New Britain into the ground.
Whatever can go
wrong, probably has
already
gone wrong, and there’s no point worrying about it
. She tried the thought for size and decided it was an ill-fit for her anxiety. There’s nothing
to be done but wait and see . . .

Minutes passed, then there was another flicker in the shadows, out in the courtyard. A brief pause, then a figure trotted back towards the great hall.

‘Sir! The area was as described, and Cornet du Thorold sends word that he has secured the perimeter.’ The soldier looked slightly pale, but otherwise in good shape – he’d
made his first transit on a comrade’s back, specifically so he’d be able to make a quick return dash. ‘To my eye it’s looking good. There are four covered trucks waiting,
and eight men, not obviously armed, with your cousin Leonhard.’

‘Good.’ Captain Wu nodded. Then he glanced Olga’s way. ‘Your cue, milady.’

‘Indeed.’ Olga turned back to the side chamber where her small team was waiting. They’d brought the duke downstairs earlier. Now he lay on a stretcher, eyes closed, breathing
so slowly that she had to watch him closely to be sure he was still alive. ‘Come on,’ she told Irma, Gerd, Martyn, and the four soldiers she’d roped in. ‘Let’s get him
to safety.’

The slow march out to the moonlit well house, matching her pace to the stretcher beside her, the smooth touch of the laminated card between her fingers: Olga felt herself winding tight as a
watch spring. The gun slung across her shoulder was a familiar presence, but for once it was oppressive: If she found herself using it in the next few minutes, then the duke’s life –
and by extension, the stable governance of the Clan – would be in mortal jeopardy.
This has to work
.
Because if it doesn’t . . .

Seconds spun down into focused moments. Olga found herself crouching astride a heavily built trooper. ‘Are we ready?’ she asked, as the soldiers raised their cards and shone pocket
flashlights on them. ‘Because – ’

The world lurched –

‘Oh,’ she said, and slid down her porter’s back as he staggered.

There were
floodlights
. And walls of wood, and between the walls, four large trucks of unfamiliar design, and soldiers.
Familiar
soldiers, thank Sky Father, in defensive positions
near the gates to the compound. ‘What
is
this place?’ she demanded.

‘Lumberyard,’ said Leonhard Wu, beside her shoulder.

Olga suppressed an unladylike urge to punch him. Leonhard always left her feeling slightly dirty: something about the way his gaze always lingered for just a few seconds too long. ‘Nice to
see you, too,’ she replied.
Whose lumberyard
? she left unasked. The security implications were likely to prove disquieting, and right now she had a single task to focus on –

‘How is he?’ she asked Gerd, who crouched beside the duke, holding his wrist.

‘As good as can – ’

‘ – Is that the
duke?
’ Leonhard’s voice cracked into a squawk.

‘Hsst.’ Olga leaned towards him. ‘This is not Angbard Lofstrom, he wasn’t here, and you haven’t seen him. Not now, not here, not in this state. Do you
understand?’ She glared at him.

‘No need for that!’ He nearly collapsed in his haste to back away. ‘Ah, no, I haven’t seen anything. But, uh, don’t you think you ought to get your
nothing-to-see-here out of sight, Olga? Before the cousins – ’

‘That’s the idea.’ She nodded at the trucks. ‘Which of them is designated for officers?’

‘That one – ’

‘Good. You can help Gerd here carry John Doe over to the load bed and make him comfortable. Hmm. Irma, why don’t you go with Leonhard here and make sure everyone works together
splendidly? I have another job to do before we leave.’

She left Leonhard looking over his shoulder at her in fear and strode towards the gate, where Erik, the cornet in charge of the recon lance, stood with a couple of unfamiliar men in strange,
drab clothing.

‘Cornet, gentlemen.’ She nodded. ‘I believe you have a tactical plan.’

One of the men looked vaguely familiar. ‘Lady, ah, Thorold-Hjorth? You are a friend of, of Helge?’

She blinked. ‘Yes. You are . . . ah, Sir James.’ She bobbed her head. ‘I see you made it back home.’

‘Indeed.’ He smiled faintly. ‘And how may I serve you?’

‘Let’s walk.’

‘Certainly.’

James Lee had been dangerously smooth, she remembered, so smooth you could almost forget that his uncle and ancestors had waged a quiet war of assassination against her parents and grandparents,
almost as soon as they’d concluded – erroneously – that their patriarch had been abandoned by his eastern brothers. James was friendly, affable, polished, and a much better
diplomat than anyone had expected when, as part of the settlement between the families, he’d been sent to stay in Niejwein as a guest – or hostage.
Which only makes him more
dangerous
, she reminded herself. ‘I have a little problem,’ she said quietly.

‘A problem?’ He raised an eyebrow as they neared the rear of the truck where Irma and Gerd, with Leonhard’s unwilling help, were lifting the duke into the covered load bed.

‘A passenger who is somewhat . . . sick. We need dropping off elsewhere from the rest of Carl’s men, to make a crossing to the United States where he can receive urgent medical
care.’

‘If he’s so sick, why – ’ James paused. ‘Oh. Who is he?’

‘I don’t think you want to know. Officially.’

James paused in midstride. ‘There have been signals,’ he said. ‘Huge disturbances, civil strife in Gruinmarkt. We have eyes and ears; we cannot help but notice that things are
not going according to your plans.’

Olga nodded politely, trying not to give anything away. ‘Your point, sir?’

‘You are imposing on us for a big favor,’ he pointed out. ‘Six months ago our elders were at daggers drawn. Some of them are still not sure that sheathing them was a good idea.
We have our own external security problems, especially here, and escorting your soldiers through our territory is bound to attract unwanted attention. I’m sorry to have to say this so
bluntly, but I need something to give my elders, lest they conclude that you have nothing to offer them.’

‘I see.’ Olga kept her smile bland as she frantically considered and discarded options.
Shoot his men and steal their vehicles
was, regrettably, not viable; without native
guides to the roads of Irongate they’d risk getting hopelessly lost, and in any case the hidden family’s elders wouldn’t have sent James without an insurance policy.
Offer him
something later
would send entirely the wrong signal, make her look as weak as the debtor turning out his purse before a loan shark’s collection agents. Her every instinct screamed
no
at the idea of showing him the duke in his current state, but on the other hand . . .

‘Let me put it to you that your elders’ interests are served by the continued stability of our existing leadership,’ she pointed out. ‘If one of our . . . leaders . . .
had experienced an unfortunate mishap, perhaps in the course of world-walking, it would hardly enhance your security to keep him from reaching medical treatment.’

‘Of course not.’ James nodded. ‘And if I thought for a second that one of your leaders was so stricken, I would of course offer them the hospitality of our house – at
least, for as long as they lingered.’ He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Olga sighed. ‘You know we travel to another world, not like New Britain.’ Well, of course he did. ‘Their doctors can work miracles, often – at least, they are better than
anything I’ve ever seen here, or anything available back home. It does not reflect on your honor that I must decline your offer of hospitality; it is merely the fact that the casualty might
survive if we can get him into the hospital that is waiting for him, but he will probably die if we linger here.’ She looked James Lee in the eye. ‘And if he dies without a designated
successor, all hell will break loose.’

James’ pupils dilated. The violent amber flare of the floodlights made it hard to be sure, but it seemed to her that he looked paler than normal. ‘If it’s the duke –
’ He began to turn towards the truck, and Olga grabbed him by one elbow.

‘Don’t!’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t get involved. Forget your speculation. It’s not the duke; the duke cannot possibly be seen to be less than hale, lest a
struggle to inherit his seat break out in the middle of a civil war with the Pervert’s faction. Let Ang – Let our sick officer pass, and if he recovers he will remember; and if he dies,
you can remind his successors that you acted in good faith. But if you delay us and he dies . . . you wouldn’t want that to happen.’

She felt him tense under her hand, and clenched her teeth. James was taller than she, and significantly stronger: If he chose not to be restrained, if he insisted on looking in the truck
–

He relaxed infinitesimally, and nodded. ‘You’d better go, my lady.’ Shadows flickered behind them – another lance of Wu’s soldiers coming through. ‘Right now.
Your men Leonhard or Morgan, one of them can guide you. Take this truck; I will arrange a replacement for your soldiers.’ Olga released his elbow. He rubbed it with his other hand. ‘I
hope you are right about your dream-world’s doctors. Losing the thin white duke at this point would indeed not be in our interests.’

‘I’m pleased you agree.’ Olga glanced round, spotted Leonhard walking towards the driver’s cabin. ‘I’d better go.’

‘One thing,’ James said hastily. ‘Is there any news of the lady Helge?’

‘Helge?’ Olga looked back at him. ‘She passed through New London a week ago. One of my peers is following her.’

‘Oh,’ James said quietly. ‘Well, good luck to her.’ He turned and walked back towards the gate.

Olga watched him speculatively for a few seconds.
Now what was that about?
she wondered. But there was no time to be lost, not with the duke stricken and semiconscious on the back. She
climbed into the cab of the truck behind Leonhard and a close-lipped driver. ‘Let’s go,’ she told them.

‘There’s no time to lose.’

Governments run on order and process. There was probably a protocol for everything, thought agent Judith Herz – formerly of the FBI, now attached semipermanently to the
Family Trade Organization – short of launching a nuclear attack on your own territory. Unfortunately that was exactly what she’d been tasked with doing, and probably nobody since the
more psychotic members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff tasked with planning Operation Northwood during the 1960s had even imagined it. And even though a checklist had come down from on high, and the
colonel and Major Alvarez had confirmed it looked good, just thinking about it gave her a headache.

(1) 
Secure the package at all times
. She glanced up from her clipboard, across the muddy field, at the white armored truck with the rectangular box body. The floodlights they’d
hastily rigged that afternoon showed that it was having some difficulty reversing towards the big top; the rear axle would periodically spin, the engine roaring like an angry tiger as the driver
grappled with its overweight frame.
Maybe we ought to have just used a minivan
, she thought.
With a suitable escort, it would have been less conspicuous
. . . On the other hand, the
armed guards in the back, watching each other as well as the physics package, would probably disagree.

(2) 
Do not deploy the package until arrival of ARMBAND
. ARMBAND, whatever it was – some kind of magic box that did whatever it was the world-walking freaks from fairyland did
in their heads – had landed at MacArthur Airport; she’d sent Rich Hall and Amanda Cruz to escort it in.
Check
.

(3) 
PAL codes – call WARBUCKS for release authorization. That
was the bit that brought her out in a cold sweat, because along with the half-dozen unsmiling federal agents from
the NNSA, call sign
WAR-BUCKS
meant that this was the real deal, that the permissive action lock code to activate the nuclear device would be issued by vice president Cheney himself, as
explained in the signed Presidential Order she’d been allowed to read – but not to hold – by the corpse-faced bastard from the West Wing who Colonel Smith answered to.
Since
when does the President give the VP backpack nukes to play with, anyway?
she asked herself; but it
looked
official enough, and the folder full of top secret code words that had landed on
her desk with a palpable thud yesterday suggested that this might be a cowboy operation, but if so, it was being led by the number one rancher himself. At least, that was what the signatures of
half the National Command Authority and a couple of Supreme Court justices implied.

(4) 
FADM/ARMBAND final assembly and PAL programming to be carried out on launch scaffold
. The thing in the tent gave her the creeps; Smith called it a transdimensional siege tower,
but it looked too close to a field-expedient gallows for her liking. She was going to go up there with Dr. Rand and a posse of inspectors from NNSA and a couple of army officers, and when they came
down from the platform, some person or persons unknown would be dead. Not that she was anti-death-penalty or anything, but she’d started out as an FBI agent: The anonymous military way of
killing felt profoundly wrong, like a gap in a row of teeth, or a death in the family.