The Revolution Trade (Merchant Princes Omnibus 3) (69 page)

The first citizen nodded slowly. ‘You don’t need to convince me further, Erasmus: It’s preposterous on first hearing but the world is indeed a strange place. But let’s
see, when this hits the central committee . . . argue me this: Why
you
? Why Propaganda? Why not Industry? Give me ammunition.’

Erasmus picked up his teacup. It’s rim clattered against the saucer it was balanced on. ‘Firstly, because they know me. Miss Beckstein trusts me, and she is their figurehead or
leader or at least highly influential among them. These people are not beholden to us and we can’t hope to corral them if they take fright. Secondly, because I’m
not
Industry.
What we learn from these aliens will have effects everywhere – Industry is only the beginning of it. The Schools of Health, for instance, and the Directorates of Agriculture and
Transportation – they’ll all be affected. The complex I propose to establish will not be building battleships or aerodynes or setting up experimental farms; it will merely provide
scientific advice on these topics. It is indubitably a subdivision of Propaganda – Information. And then there’s the final thing. This, this
Clan
, they are not the only people
who travel between worlds. The United States are building time machines and may stumble upon us one day; and there may be others. Our treatment of these refugees will set a precedent for future
diplomatic contacts with other worlds – and also our treatment of refugees from elsewhere on this one. Do you really think that hock-fist Scott, or perhaps Oswald the Ear, would handle the
nuances of disclosure effectively?’

Sir Adam’s smile was frozen. ‘Of course they wouldn’t. Erasmus, you have convinced me of most of your case, but you’re wrong on this last single point.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. If these people are as valuable as you tell me, we can’t possibly disclose their existence in public. Not now, not in twenty years’ time. Erasmus, I’m counting on
you to reel them in and put them in a deep, padded box – and build your institute and your complex of design bureaus and all the rest of the complicated machinery. We’re not going to
breathe a word of this to anyone, including the rest of the commission. Not the Peace and Justice puritans – they’ll just find a way to use your world-travelers as a stick to stir up
trouble. Not the Radicals: I’ve no idea what they’d do, but it’d probably be as stupid as those land-reform proposals they keep coming up with. And Foreign Affairs: If the Bourbon
gets so much as a whisper that they exist, he can make them an offer that would bankrupt our coffers to match. No. This needs to be kept secret, so secret that nobody gets a whiff of their
existence.

‘These aliens must belong to us – and us alone. Make it so.’

*

The morning after the night before: Mike Fleming jolted abruptly awake to the sensation of the world falling away beneath his back. His eyes flickered open from uneasy,
distorted dreams of pursuit, a panicky sense of disorientation tearing at his attention. He glanced sideways beneath half-closed lids; the light filtering in through the thin curtains showed him a
floral print hanging on pastel-painted walls, strange furniture, someone else’s decor. The jigsaw pieces of memory began to fill themselves in.
Paulie Milan’s spare room.
They’d ordered in a Chinese meal, sat up late talking. There ensued an uneasy tap-dance as he – unused to hospitality, living for too long without that kind of life – borrowed
towels and bedding, showered, prepared for an uneasy night’s sleep. (Which largely consisted of taking off his shoes and pants, but keeping his pistol close to hand and checking out the yard
from an unlit window before lying down atop the comforter.) It felt strange to be consigned to the guest room, like a one-night stand gone weirdly askew down some strange dimension of alienation.
Don’t sleep too deep,
he’d warned himself, only to close his eyes on darkness and open them in daylight.
Well damn, but at least nobody tried to cut my throat in the night
–

He was up and standing with his back to the wall beside the door, pistol in hand, almost before he realized he’d moved. Something was amiss. His nostrils flared as he breathed in, then
held his breath, listening: not to the sound of someone moving in the bathroom, or clattering in the kitchen, or voices on the radio, talking.
Not.
He’d slept through the normal noises
of another person’s morning. What he’d noticed was their absence, and it was infinitely more disturbing.

Voices on the radio? Talking?
He could hear voices.
Who
–

Mike did a double take and closed his eyes. Tried to visualize the kitchen layout. Was there a –

Creak of a footstep on the landing. Then a tentative voice: ‘Mike? Are you awake yet?’

His muscles turned to jelly as he sagged, lowering the pistol. He’d been unaware of the tension in his neck and shoulders, the totality of focus, his heart hammering with a flashback to a
cheap motel room in Tijuana that stank of stale cigarette smoke and claustrophobia. He pointed the gun at the floor beside him, letting its weight drag his wrist down. ‘Yeah?’

‘We have a visitor. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Do you want me to pour you one?’

Coffee plus visitor equals
– ‘Yes.’ He glanced across the room to the bedside table where he’d left his holster. Coming down from the jittery adrenaline spike, he
added, ‘I’ll be down in a couple of minutes. I need to freshen up first.’

‘Okay.’ Paulie’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

Mike let out a breath, quietly shuddering, still winding down. The radio, the sudden silence, whatever had triggered his ambush reflex – it was all right. Moving carefully, he placed the
pistol beside the holster, then picked up his pants from where he’d hung them over the back of a chair.
A visitor
almost certainly meant one of Miriam’s relatives. Paulette had
admitted knowing a few of them: the ice princess, another woman called Brill. He dressed hurriedly, then slid the pistol in its holster into his trouser pocket, just in case. Not that he
didn’t trust Paulette – he trusted her enough to sleep under her roof – but experience had taught him not to make assumptions when dealing with the Clan.

He descended the stairs, carefully keeping his left hand on the rail, and glanced sideways through the kitchen doorway. The ice princess, Olga, was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee.
She nodded at him coolly. ‘Mr. Fleming.’

The kitchen radio was babbling headline chatter about someone in the hospital. His jaw tensed as he stepped inside the room. ‘Good morning.’ He noticed Paulette leaning against the
kitchen worktop, her eyes worried. ‘Someone mentioned coffee.’ Paulette reached out and flicked off the radio as he glanced from side to side. A big leather shoulder bag gaping open on
the table, something dark and angular inside it – she wouldn’t come here unarmed – slatted blinds drawn down across the window onto the backyard –

‘It’s right here.’ Paulette gestured at a mug on the breakfast bar. Mike walked over and pulled a stool out, then sat down awkwardly opposite the ice princess.

‘How does it feel to be one of the most wanted people in the world?’ he remarked.

‘Why ask me? Surely you already know.’ She kept a straight face, but the chill in her voice made his pulse speed.

‘I didn’t murder eighteen thousand people.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Olga. She took a mouthful of coffee, then put her mug down. ‘The people who did that are dead, Mr. Fleming. My people took them down. Do you have a
problem
with that?’

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again.

‘They didn’t stop at detonating bombs in your capital city,’ Olga added. ‘They tried to murder everyone who stood in their way. It was a coup attempt.’ Her minute
nod made his stomach shrink. ‘They tried to kill me, and Miriam, and everyone aligned with us. Luckily we had a tip-off. They failed; the last of the plotters was crucified yesterday
morning.’

‘
Crucified?
’ Paulette’s expression was rigid.

‘Oh yes. After the executioners blinded and castrated them,’ Olga added, and bowed her head. ‘My father was killed in the struggle, Mr. Fleming. I’d thank you not to
place your
eighteen thousand dead
on my shoulders.’

Mike almost asked which faction her father had belonged to; a vestigial sense of shame stilled his tongue for a few seconds. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said eventually.

‘But crucifixion – ’ Paulette stopped.

‘It was no better than they deserved. The traditional punishment for such high treason is to spread the wings of the blood eagle, then quarter the parts,’ Olga added. ‘But that
hasn’t been practiced since my grandfather’s time.’

Mike stared at his mug of coffee, and dry-swallowed. This wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. ‘You failed to stop them,’ he accused, knowing it signified nothing.

‘You failed too. So we’re even. Failures all round.’ The silence stretched on for half a minute. Finally Olga broke it. ‘Why did you call for help?’

Mike shuffled on his stool uncomfortably. ‘Did you find your mole?’

‘We have more urgent problems right now.’ It was an evasion. Olga looked at Paulette. ‘Thank you for continuing to source provisions for us; it has been more useful than you
can know, but there are some new arrangements I need to discuss with you. Things are going to be busy for a while. Mr. Fleming, there have been reports of contrails over the Gruinmarkt. We
don’t have much time for idle chatter. Do you know anything about them?’

‘They’ve been planning some kind of incursion for at least six months,’ Mike told her. The secret, divulged, left him feeling naked. ‘I saw a spec-ops helicopter. That
was before the bombs went off. They know where all the oil is, and you’re a threat to national security. But since the bombs – now – I don’t think they’ll be satisfied
with their original plans.’

‘Do you believe they’ll use nuclear weapons?’

‘Will they?’ It was Mike’s turn to frown. ‘They already did: that castle up near Concord. The question isn’t whether, the question is when and how many.’
Stripped of the bloody shirt of
eighteen thousand dead
, these events acquired a logic of their own. ‘They’ll kill a lot of people who have nothing to do with your extended
family.’

‘Yes.’ Olga emptied her coffee mug. ‘And so, we are taking steps to leave, to put ourselves forever beyond contact with the US government. Those of us with any sense, that is.
Some refuse to see the writing on the wall, as you would say. The Clan is breaking up, you know; a generation ago the mere suggestion of an open split would have been seen as treason.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Paulette.

‘You’ve been there, I seem to recall. On a visit.’ Olga raised an eyebrow. ‘Excuse me for not describing it in front of Mr. Fleming. When we go – I am allowed to
offer you a payoff in money, or asylum if you are afraid of the authorities here: We look after our friends. But it’ll be a one-way trip.’

‘They’ll come after you. They’ll hunt you down wherever you run to,’ Mike predicted.

‘Let them try.’ Olga shrugged. ‘Mr. Fleming,
I
didn’t choose to fight the US government; I’m not Osama bin Laden. Your former president, he – well. We
have a rule. When we do business with outsiders, we have a rule:
no politicians
. Mr. Cheney quit politics, in the late eighties: That’s when our West Coast subsidiary approached him
– well. Water under the bridge. It was a serious oversight, but one we are in the process of rectifying. My question to you is, what are you going to do now? Paulette tells me your agency has
tried to kill you. What do
you
want? I can give you money – we’ve got more than we know what to do with, we can’t take it where we’re going – or I can offer you
asylum – ’

‘I want the files,’ said Mike.

‘The. What?’

‘Your files on the president.’

‘Huh?’ Paulette looked confusedly between them.

‘Mr. Cheney started this. I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t know a deliberate provocation when I saw one. This is all happening because he wants to cover up his past
complicity with the Clan, and because the existence of the Clan is now a matter of public record. An awful lot of people are going to die to cover up his secret.’ Mike’s frustration
sought a way out. ‘People who have nothing to do with your nasty little family trade, or with me, or with the president. Listen, I don’t much care for you. If it was business as usual
I’d arrest you
right now
and put you away on racketeering, money laundering, and drugs charges. Oh, and the illegal firearm.’ He gestured at Olga’s bag and she twitched a
hand towards it; he shrugged. ‘But it’s not business as usual – never will be, ever again. The man who you guys have fallen out with is
running my country
. He’s
corrupted my government
, built a secret unaccountable agency with the capability to bypass the national nuclear command authority, disappeared people into underground prisons, instituted
torture of state enemies; you name it, he’s done it. He’s wiped his ass on the Constitution and it’s all thanks to dirty drugs money: not directly, oh no, but you’re
complicit. I don’t care
what
happens to you people – but I swore an oath to protect the constitution of the United States, and it looks like for the past year I’ve been
working for an organization designed from the get-go to undermine it. So I want your files on Mr. Cheney, now they’re no use to you any more if you’re serious about pulling out. I want
the dirt. And if you won’t give it to me, you’re worse than I think you are – and my opinion of you is pretty low right now.’

‘What are you going to do with the files if we give them to you?’ Olga asked.

‘Well, that depends.’ He glanced at Paulette. ‘I take it your work here is mostly done, or you wouldn’t have told me even that much?’ He didn’t wait for a
reply. ‘I need someone who knows how the press works. And I need ammunition. Someone’s got to blow the lid on him before he eats the US government from inside – and I don’t
see anyone else volunteering.’