The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) (10 page)

‘Get frightened fast, babe; it’s your ass we’re talking about. I’ve had two days to think about your vanishing trick and our wiseguy problem, and I tell you, you’re
still thinking like an honest journalist, not a paranoid. Listen, if you want to clean up, how about the crack trade? Or heroin? Go down to Florida, get the right connections, you could bring a
small dinghy over and stash it on the other side, no problems – it’d just take you a while, a few trips maybe. Then you could carry fifty, a hundred kilos of coke. Sail it up the coast,
then up the Charles. Bring it back over right in the middle of Cambridge, out of nowhere without the DEA or the cops noticing. They say one in four big shipments gets intercepted –
that’s bullshit – but maybe one in five, one in eight . . . you could smuggle the stuff right under their noses in the middle of a terrorist scare. And I don’t know whether
you’d do that or not – my guess is not, you’ve got capital-P principles – but that is the first thing the cops will think of.’

‘Hell.’ Miriam stared into the bottom of her glass, privately aghast. ‘What do you suggest?’

Paulette put her own glass down. ‘Speaking as your legal adviser, I advise you to buy guns and move fast. Mail the disk to another newspaper and the local FBI office, then go on a long
cruise while the storm breaks. That – and take a hammer to the locket and smash it up past recognition.’

Miriam shook her head, then winced. ‘Oh, my aching head. I demand a second opinion. Where is my recount, dammit?’

‘Well.’ Paulette paused. ‘You’ve made a good start on the documentation. We can see if it’s just you, run the experiments, right? I figure the clincher is if you
can carry a second person through. If you can do that, then not only do you have documents, you’ve got witnesses. If you go public, you want to do so with a splash – so widespread that
they can’t put the arm on you. They’ve got secret courts and tame judges to try national security cases, but if the evidence is out in the open they can’t shut you up, especially
if it’s international. I’d say Canada would be best.’ She paused again, a bleak look in her eye. ‘Yeah, that might work.’

‘You missed something.’ Miriam stabbed a finger in Paulette’s direction. ‘You. What do you get?’

‘Me?’ Paulette covered her heart with one hand, pulled a disbelieving face. ‘Since when did I get a vote?’

‘Since, hell, since I got you into this mess. I figure I owe you. Noblesse oblige. You’re a friend, and I don’t drop friends in it, even by omission.’

‘Friendship and fifty cents will buy you a coffee.’ Paulie paused for a moment, then grinned. ‘But I’m glad, all the same.’ Her smile faded. ‘I didn’t
get the law job.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Will you stop doing that? Every chance you get to beat yourself up for getting me fired, you’re down on your knees asking for forgiveness!’

‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize it was getting on your nerves,’ Miriam said contritely.

‘Fuck off !’ Paulette giggled. ‘Pardon my French. Anyway. Think about what I said. Tomorrow you can mail that disk to the FBI if you want, then go on a long vacation. Or stick
around and we’ll work on writing a story that’ll get you the Pulitzer. You can catch all the bullets from the hitmen while I’ll be your loyal little gofer, get myself a
star-spangled reference and a few points of the gross. Like, fifty percent. Deal?’

‘Deal. I think my head hurts.’ Miriam shuffled around and stood up. She felt a little shaky: Maybe it was the alcohol hitting her head on an empty stomach. ‘Where’s that
takeout?’

Paulette looked blank. ‘You ordered it?’

‘No.’ Miriam snapped her fingers in frustration. ‘I’ll go do that right now. I think we have some forward planning to do.’ She paused unevenly in the doorway,
looking at Paulette.

‘What?’

‘Are you in?’ she asked.

‘Am I in? Are you nuts? I wouldn’t miss this for anything!’

PART TWO

HOTEL MAFIOSI

They came for her in the early hours, long after Paulette had called a taxi and Miriam had slunk into bed with a stomach full of lemon chicken and a head full of schemes. They
came with stealth, black vans, and H&K MP5s: They didn’t know or care about her plans. They were soldiers. They had their orders; this was the house the damp brown chair was collocated
with, and so this was the target. That was all they needed.

Miriam slept through the breaking of the French window in her den because the two men on entry detail crowbarred the screens open, then rolled transparent sticky polyurethane film across the
glass before they struck it with rubber mallets, then peeled the starred sheets right out of the frame. The phone line had been cut minutes before; there was a cell-phone jammer in the back
garden.

The two break-and-enter men took point, rolling into the den and taking up positions at either side of the room. The light shed by the LEDs on her stereo and computer glinted dimly off their
night-vision goggles and the optics of their guns as they waited tensely, listening for any sign of activity.

Hand signals relayed the news from outside, that Control hadn’t seen any signs of motion through the bedroom curtains. His short-wavelength radar imager let him see what the snatch
crew’s night-vision gear missed: It could pinpoint the telltale pulse of warm blood right through a dry wall siding. Two more soldiers in goggles, helmets, and flak jackets darted through the
opening and into the hall, cautiously extending small mirrors on telescoping arms past open doorways to see if anyone was inside. Within thirty seconds they had the entire ground floor swept clean.
Now they moved the thermal imager inside: Control swept each ceiling carefully before pausing in the living room and circling his index finger under the light fitting for the others to see. One
body, sleeping, right overhead.

Four figures in black body armor ghosted up the staircase, two with guns, and two behind them with specialist equipment. The master bedroom opened off the small landing at the top of the stairs
– the plan was to charge straight through and neutralize the occupant directly.

However, they hadn’t counted on Miriam’s domestic untidiness. Living alone and working a sixty-hour week, she had precious little time for homemaking: All her neat-freakery got left
behind at work each evening. The landing was crowded, an overflowing basket of dirty clothing waiting for a trip down to the basement beside a couple of bookcases that narrowed the upstairs hall so
that they had to go in single-file. But there were worse obstacles to come. Miriam’s house was full of books. Right now, a dog-eared copy of
The Cluetrain Manifesto
lay facedown at
one side of the step immediately below the landing. It was precisely as cold as the carpet it lay on, so to the night-vision goggles it was almost invisible. The first three intruders stepped over
it without noticing, but the fourth placed his right boot on it, and the effect was as dramatic as if it had been a banana skin.

Miriam jolted awake in terror, hearing a horrible clattering noise on the landing. Her mind was a blank, the word
intruder
running through it in neon letters the size of headlines
– she sat bolt upright and fumbled on the dressing table for the pistol, which she’d placed there when she found she could feel it through the pillow. The noise of the bedroom door
being shoved open was infinitely frightening and as she brought the gun around, trying to get it untangled from the pillowcase –

Brilliant light lanced through her eyelids, a flashlight: ‘Drop it, lady!’

Miriam fumbled her finger into the trigger guard –

‘Drop it!’ The light came closer, right in her face. ‘Now!’

Something like a freight locomotive came out of the darkness and slammed into the side of her right arm.

Someone said ‘Shee-it’ with heartfelt feeling, and a huge weight landed on her belly. Miriam gathered breath to scream, but she couldn’t feel her right arm and something was
pressing on her face. She was choking: The air was acrid and sweet-smelling and thick, a cloying flowery laboratory stink. She kicked out hard, legs tangled in the comforter, gasping and screaming
deep in her throat, but they were muffling her with the stench and everything was fuzzy at the edges.

She couldn’t move. ‘Not funny,’ someone a long way away at the end of a black tunnel tried to say. The lights were on now, but everything was dark. Figures moved around her and
her arm hurt – distantly. She couldn’t move.
Tired
. There was something in her mouth.
Is this an ambulance?
she wondered.
Lights out.

The dogpile on the bed slowly shifted, standing up. Specialist A worked on the subject with tongue depressor and tubes, readying her for assisted ventilation.

The chloroform pad sitting on the pillow was an acrid nuisance: For the journey ahead, something safer and more reliable was necessary. Specialist B worked on her at the same time, sliding the
collapsible gurney under her and strapping her to it at legs, hips, wrists, and shoulders.

‘That was a fucking mess,’ snarled Control, picking up the little snub-nosed revolver in one black-gloved hand. ‘Double action: she could have shot someone. Who screwed up on
the landing?’

‘Sir.’ It was Point B. ‘There was a book. On the stairs.’

‘Bitchin’. Okay, get little Miss Lethal here loaded and ready to move. Bravo, start the cleanup. I want her personal files, wherever she keeps them. And her computer, and all the
disks. Whoever the hell was with her this evening, I want to know who they are too. And everything else. Charlie, pack her bags like she’s going on vacation – a long vacation. Clothing,
bathroom stuff. Don’t make a mess of it. I want to be ready to evacuate in twenty minutes.’

‘Sir. Yes, sir.’ Control nodded. Point B was going to pull a shitwork detail when they got home, but you didn’t discipline people in the field unless they’d fucked up bad
enough to pull a nine-millimeter discharge. And Point B hadn’t. A month cleaning the latrines would give him time to think on how close he’d come to getting plugged by a sleepy woman
with a thirty-eight revolver.

Spec A was nearly done; he and Spec B grunted as they lifted the coffin-shaped framework off the bed. Miriam was unconscious and trussed like a turkey inside it. ‘Is she going to be
okay?’ Control asked idly.

‘I think so,’ said Spec A. ‘Bad bruising on her right arm, and probably concussed, but I don’t expect anything major. Worst risk is she pukes in her sleep and aspirates
her own vomit, and we can deal with that.’ He spoke confidently. He’d done paramedic training and Van Two was equipped like an ambulance.

‘Then take her away. We’ll be along in half an hour when we’re through sanitizing.’

‘Yes, my lord. We’ll get her home.’

Control looked at the dressing table, strewn with underwear, month-old magazines, and half-used toiletries. His expression turned to disgust at the thought of searching through piles of dirty
clothing. ‘Sky Father, what a mess.’

*

There was an office not far from Miriam’s cell. The office was quiet, and its dark oak paneling and rich Persian carpets gave it something of the ambiance of a very
exclusive Victorian gentlemen’s club. A wide walnut desk occupied the floor next to the window bay. The top of the desk was inlaid with a Moroccan leather blotter, upon which lay a
banker’s box full of papers and other evidence.

The occupant of the office sat at the desk, reading the mess of photocopies and memos from the file box. He was in his early fifties, thickset with the stomach of middle age, but tall enough to
carry it well. His suit was conservative: He might have been a retired general or a corporate chairman. Neither guess would be wrong, but neither would be the full truth, either. Right now he
looked as if he had a headache; his expression was sour as he read a yellowing newspaper clipping. ‘What a mess,’ he murmured. ‘What a blessed mess . . .’

A buzzer sounded above the left-hand door.

The officeholder glanced at the door with wintry gray eyes. ‘Enter,’ he called sharply. Then he looked back at the papers.

Footsteps, the sound of male dress shoes – leather-soled – on parquet, were abruptly silenced as the visitor reached the carpeted inner sanctum.

‘You summoned me, uncle? Is there any movement on my proposal? If anyone wants me to – ’

Angbard Lofstrom looked up again and fixed his nephew with a long icy stare. His nephew shuffled, discomfited: a tall, blond fellow whose suit would not have been out of place in an advertising
agency’s offices. ‘Patience,’ he said in English.

‘But I – ’

‘I said patience.’ Angbard laid the newspaper clipping flat on his blotter and stared at his nephew. ‘This is not the time to discuss your proposal. About which there is no
news, by the way. Don’t expect anything to happen soon; you need to learn timing if you want to make progress, and the changes you are suggesting we make are politically difficult.’

‘How much longer?’ The young man sounded tense.

‘As long as I deem necessary.’ Angbard’s stare hardened. ‘Remember why you are here.’

‘I – yes, my lord. If it pleases you to accept my apologies . . .’

‘How is the prisoner?’ Angbard asked abruptly.

‘Oh. Last time I checked – fifteen minutes ago – she was unconscious but sleeping normally. She is in one of the doppelgänger cells. I removed the mnemonic she was wearing
on her person and had one of the maids search her for tattoos. Her cell has no mirror, no shaving apparatus. I left instructions that I am to be called when she awakens.’

‘Hmm.’ Angbard chewed on his upper lip with an expression of deep disapproval.

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘The doctor says that he might have to splint her arm, later – there is bruising – but she sustained no serious harm in the course of the pickup.’

‘Well.’ Angbard waved one hand in the direction of the chairs positioned before his desk. ‘Sit down.’ His nephew sat with alacrity, his back stiff. ‘Do we have any
known loose ends, Earl Roland?’

‘Yes, sir, but nothing critical. We have retrieved the documents, camera, recorder, personal computer, and all the other effects that we could find. Her house was untidy, but we are fairly
sure we were able to locate everything – her office was well-organized. The windows have been repaired, and the neighbors informed indirectly that she is on assignment away from home. She is
unmarried and has few attachments.’ Roland looked faintly disapproving. ‘There is reference to an elderly mother who lives alone. The only possible problem is referred to in the
contractor’s report. Evidently on her last excursion a woman, identity unknown, arrived, collected her car, then her person, and drove her home. Presumably a friend. The problem is that she
left the stakeout by taxi without any notice – I assume she summoned it by means of a portable telephone – and our contractor team was too short-staffed to dispatch a tail. I have
therefore instructed them to continue surveillance and reinstate the line tap, in the hope that the friend reappears. Once she does so – ’