The Trade of Queens (26 page)

“I've got a list,” said Miriam, picking up the laptop. “Let's get started.…”

BEGIN RECORDING

“—Latest news coming in from Delhi, the Pakistani foreign minister has called off negotiations over the cease fire on the disputed Kashmir frontier—”

(
Fast forward
)

“—Artillery duels continuing, it looks like a long, tense night for the soldiers here on the border near Amritsar. Over to you in the studio, Dan.”

“Thank you, Bob Mancini, live from the India-Pakistan border region near the disputed Kashmir province, where the cold war between the Indian and Pakistani militaries has been running hot for the past month. A reminder that the catastrophic events of 7/16 didn't stop the shooting; may in fact have aggravated it, with rumors flying that the quantum effect used by the attackers is being frantically investigated by military labs all over the world, we go to our military affairs expert, Erik Olsen. Hello, Erik.”

“Hello, Dan.”

“Briefly, what are the implications? Mr. Mukhtar's accusation that the Indian secret service is sneaking saboteurs across the border via a parallel universe is pretty serious, but is it credible? What's going on here?”

“Well, Dan, the hard fact is, nobody knows for sure who's got this technique. We've seen it in action, it's been used against us to great effect—and nobody knows who's got it. As you can imagine, it's spoiling a lot of military leaders' sleep. If you can carry a nuclear weapon across time lines and have it materialize in a city, you can mount what's called a first strike, a decapitation stroke: You can take out an enemy's missiles and bombers on the ground before they can launch. Submarines are immune, luckily—”

“Why are submarines immune, Erik?”

“You've got to find them first, Dan, you can't materialize a bomb inside a submarine that's underwater unless you can find it. Bombers that are airborne are pretty much safe as well. But if they're on the ground or in dry dock—it upsets the whole logic of nuclear deterrence. And India and Pakistan both have sizable nuclear arsenals, but no submarines, they're all carried on bombers or ground-launched missiles. Into the middle of a hot war, the conflict over Kashmir with the artillery duels and machine gun attacks we've been hearing about these past weeks, it's not new—they've fought four wars in the past thirty years—the news about this science-fictional new threat, it's upset all the realities on the ground. India and Pakistan have both got to be afraid that the other side's got a new tool that makes their nuclear arsenal obsolete, the capability to smuggle nukes through other worlds—and they're already on three-minute warning, much like we were with the USSR in the fifties except that their capital cities are just five minutes apart as the missile flies.”

“But they wouldn't be crazy enough to start a nuclear war over Kashmir, would they?”

“Nobody ever wants to be the first to start a nuclear war, Dan, that's not in question. The trouble is, they may think the other side is starting one. Back in 1983, for example, a malfunctioning Russian radar computer told the Soviets that we'd launched on them. Luckily a Colonel Petrov kept his head and waited for more information to come in, but if he'd played by the rule book he'd have told Moscow they were under attack, and it's anyone's guess what could have happened. Petrov had fifteen minutes' warning. Islamabad and New Delhi have got just three minutes to make up their minds, that's why the Federation of American Scientists say they're the greatest risk of nuclear war anywhere in the world today.”

“But that's not going to happen—”

(
Fast forward
)

“Oh Jesus.” (
Bleeped mild expletive.
) “This can't be—oh. I'm waiting for Bob, Bob Mancini on the India-Pakistan border. We're going over live to Bob, as soon as we can raise him. Bob? Bob, can you hear me?… No? Bob? We seem to have lost Bob. Our hearts go out to him, to his family and loved ones, to everyone out there.…

“That was the emergency line from the Pentagon. America is not, repeat
not
, under attack. It's not a repeat of 7/16, it's … it appears that one of the Pakistani army or the Indian air force have gone—a nuclear bomb, a hydrogen bomb on Islamabad, other explosions in India. Amritsar, New Delhi, Lahore in Pakistan. I'm Dan Rather on CBS, keeping you posted on the latest developments in what are we calling this? World War Two-point-five? India and Pakistan. Five large nuclear explosions have been reported so far. We can't get a telephone line to the subcontinent.

“Reports are coming in of airliners being diverted away from Indian and Pakistani airspace. The Pentagon has announced that America is not, repeat
not
, under attack, this is a purely local conflict between India and Pakistan. We're going over live to Jim Patterson in Mumbai, India. Jim, what's happening?”

“Hello Dan, it's absolute chaos here, sirens going in the background, you can probably hear them. From here on the sixth floor of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel there's traffic gridlocked throughout the city as people try to flee. In just a minute we're going down into the basements where” (
Click.
)

“Jim? Jim? We seem to have lost Jim. Wait, we're getting—oh no.
No.
”

END RECORDING

The View from Forty Thousand Feet

“I don't know if this will work,” said Paulette. “I've never done it before.”

“Don't worry, they'll have set this up to be fail-safe. Believe me, we had enough trouble cracking their communication security—they know what they're doing. You may not get an immediate answer, but they'll know you paged them.”

“I don't know how you can sit there and be so calm about it!”

Mike shrugged. “I've had a long time to get used to the idea,” he said. Not exactly true: He'd had a couple of weeks. But the stench of bureaucratic excess, the penumbra of the inquisition, had clouded his entire period of service at the Family Trade Organization. “Sometimes you can smell it when the place you work, when there's a bad atmosphere? When people are doing stuff that
isn't quite right
? But nobody says anything, so you think it's just you, and you're afraid to speak out.”

Paulie nodded. “Like Enron.”

“Like—more than Enron, I guess; like the CIA in the early seventies, when they were out of control. Throwing people out of helicopters in Vietnam, mounting coups in South America. It's like they say, fish rot from the head down.”

She lifted the phone handset she'd been gripping with bony fingers and hesitantly punched in an area code, and then a number. “We did an in-depth on Enron. It was just unbelievable, what was going on there.” The phone rang, unanswered; she let it continue for ten seconds, then neatly ended the call. “What's next?”

Mike consulted the handwritten list she'd given him. “Second number, ring for four seconds, at least one minute after ending the first call.” She didn't need him to do this: She could read it herself, easily enough. But company helped. “The hardest part of being a whistle-blower is being on your own, on the outside. Everybody telling you to shut the hell up, stop rocking the boat, keep your head down and work at whatever the wise heads have put in front of you. Hmm. Area code 414—”

Paulie dialed the second number, let it ring for four seconds, then disconnected. “I did an interview with Sherron Watkins, you know? When the whole Enron thing blew up. She said that, too, pretty much.” She stabbed the phone at him. “Harder to blow the whistle on these guys, let me tell you. Much harder.”

“I know it.” He stared at the third number on the list. “On the other hand, they're not your regular gangsters: They think like a government.”

“Some folks say, governments
are
gangsters. A bunch of guys with guns who demand money, right?”

“There's a difference of approach. Gangsters aren't part of the community. They don't put anything back into it, they don't build roads and schools, they just take the money and run. Governments think differently. At least, working ones do.”

“But the Clan take money out of
our
communities. They don't spend it on
us
, do they? From our point of view they're like gangsters.”

“Or an empire.” Mike turned the thought around, examining it from different angles. “Like the Soviet Union, the way they drained resources from outlying territories.” There was something not quite right with the metaphor, if he could just figure it out. “Oh, next number time. Area code is 506—”

They worked down the list over the course of an hour, as the jug of coffee cooled and the evening shadows lengthened outside. There were five numbers to call for varying lengths of time, at set minimum intervals; the third had an annoying voice menu system to navigate, asking for a quotation for auto insurance, and the fifth—answered in an Indian call center somewhere—was the only one with human interaction required: “Sorry, wrong number.”

The whole tedious business was necessary for several reasons. A couple of random numbers to make traffic analysis harder; a couple of flags to say
I need to talk
and
I am not under duress
; and words spoken into a recording device to prove that the contact was, in fact, Paulette Milan, and not an agent in an FTO office. There were other rituals to perform: the curtains to be left undrawn in the spare bedroom but drawn in the main, a light to be left on inside the front door. Rituals of tradecraft, the magic rite of summoning spies, impenetrable to outsiders but practiced for good reason by those on the inside.
Someone sets up a small but highly professional intelligence agency. Question: Where do they get their training? Given that we know their soldiers use the USMC as a finishing school
 … Mike pondered for a moment, then winced. Every one of the possible answers that came to mind was disturbing.

Finally they were done. “I should hear back within twenty-four hours,” Paulie said diffidently. She paused.
What now?
he wondered.

“I've been staying in a motel.” It would be racking up another night's charges. The idea of driving back there to spend another night in silence abruptly made him nauseous. “Don't get me wrong, but I think I should be here if they come unexpectedly—”

She looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. “You can use the spare bedroom if you like. There's spare bedding in the closet.”

“Thank you.” To fill the potentially awkward silence he added, “I feel like I'm imposing on you.” He'd had his fill of silence: Silence concealed lies. “Can I buy you dinner?”

“Guess so.” The set of her shoulders relaxed slightly. “Where did you meet Miriam, the first time?”

*   *   *

The sky was overcast, and the muggy onshore breeze blew a stink of fish guts and coal smoke across the streets, gusting occasionally to moan and rattle around the chimney stacks—the barometer was falling, a rain front threatening to break the summer heat.

Driving sixty miles over the poor-quality roads in a pair of steamers with leaf-spring suspensions had taken them the best part of four hours, but they'd started early and the purposeful-looking convoy had apparently convinced the more opportunistic highwaymen to keep a low profile. The only delays they encountered were a couple of checkpoints manned by volunteer militias, and as these were mostly concerned with keeping the starving robber gangs out of their suburbs, Miriam's party were waved through—a rapid progress doubtless greased by the low-denomination banknotes interleaved between the pages of the inkjet-forged Vehicle Pilot's Warrants that Huw and Alasdair presented when challenged. It was, perhaps, for the best that the militiamen's concupiscience avoided the need for a search: much better to hand over a few hundred million New Crown notes than to risk a brisk and very one-sided exchange of gunfire.

“Did you see that?” Brill asked Miriam indignantly as they left the second checkpoint: “Half of them were carrying pitchforks! And the one with the bent nose, his tines were rusty!”

There were few obvious signs of revolution as they drove through the outskirts of Boston. More men and women in the streets, perhaps, hanging out in small groups; but with the economy spiraling into a true deflationary depression and unemployment nearing fifty percent, that was hardly surprising. There were soup kitchens, true, and the street cars bore banners proclaiming that the People's Party would feed the needy at certain listed locations—but there were also fishmongers and grocery stalls with their wares laid out in front, and the district farmer's market they passed was the usual chaos of handcarts and wagons piled high with food.
Someone
was keeping things moving, between town and country—a good sign, as far as Miriam could tell.

And then they were into familiar streets and the second car turned off, heading for its prearranged rendezvous point. “I'll get out here and walk the rest of the way,” Miriam said quietly as they sat behind a streetcar that had stopped for a horse-drawn wagon to unload some crates. “You know the block. I'll remember to press once every ten minutes while things are going well.”

“Check it now,” said Brilliana, holding up her own earpiece.

“Check.” Miriam squeezed her left hand, inside a coat pocket. Brill's unit beeped. “Okay, we're in business.”

Brilliana caught her arm as she opened the door. “Take care, my lady. And if you sense trouble—”

“There won't be any trouble,” Miriam said firmly.
Not with Sir Alasdair and his team watching my back.
If there was any trouble, if she was walking into a baited trap rather than a safe meeting, things would get spectacularly messy for the troublemakers. It wasn't just a matter of them having modern automatic weapons, two-way radios, and the ability to world-walk out of danger: Alasdair had cherry-picked the best men he could find in Clan Security for her bodyguard, and they'd planned and rehearsed this meeting carefully. “I'll be fine.”