The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (52 page)

‘In a carriage,’ said the old woman. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’ She snorted. ‘The question you meant to ask is, how did I end up in this carriage in
particular?’

‘Jah: and, how am I, it, to leave, alive?’ The Russian princess gave his ribs a final warning poke, then withdrew into the opposite corner of the cramped cabin, next to the old
woman. Mike tried to focus: as his eyes adjusted he saw that under her fur coat she was wearing a camouflage jacket. The rifle – he focused some more – was exotic, some sort of foreign
bullpup design with a huge night-vision scope bolted above its barrel.
Blonde bombshell with fur coat and assault rifle.
His gaze slid sideways to take in the older one, searching for
reassurance: she smiled crookedly, one eyebrow raised, and he shuddered, déjà vu spiking through his guts as sharply as the pain from his damaged leg.

‘That’s enough, Olga,’ the old lady said sharply, never taking her eyes off Mike. ‘We’ve met, in case you’d forgotten.’

Oh fuck.
The penny dropped:
That’s the entire mission blown!
He stared at her in mortified disbelief, at a complete loss for words. His mind flashed back to events
earlier in the evening, to a hurried snatch of conversation with Miriam, the way she’d stared at him in perplexity as if she couldn’t quite fathom the meaning of his reappearance in her
life: now he felt the same scene repeating, horribly skewed. ‘You were –’ He paused. ‘Mrs. Beckstein. Well . . .’ His lips were as dry as the day when Miriam had
casually suggested they stop off on their way to the restaurant to say hello.
Just for ten minutes, so you’ve met my mother
– ‘I’m surprised. I thought you’d
adopted Miriam? What are you doing here?’

Olga, the Russian princess as he’d started thinking of her, glared at him malevolently: her rifle pointed at the floor, but he had no doubt she could bring it to bear on his head in an
eyeblink. But Mrs. Beckstein surprised him. She began to smile, and then her smile widened, and she began to chuckle, louder and louder until she began to wheeze and subsided into a fit of
coughing. ‘You really believed that? And you saw us together? What kind of cop are you?’ Something else must have tweaked her funny bone because a moment later she was off again, lost
in a paroxysm of thigh-slappingly disproportionate mirth. Or maybe it was just relief at being out of the firefight.

‘I do not see the thing that is so funny,’ Olga said, almost plaintively.

‘Ah, well, but he was such a nice young –’ Mrs. Beckstein began coughing again. Olga looked concerned, but given a choice between keeping Mike under observation and trying to
help the older woman – ‘Sorry, dear,’ she told Olga, when she got her voice back. ‘That’s how Miriam described you.’ She nodded at Mike. ‘Before she
changed her mind.’

Mike closed his eyes again.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is a fuckup!
He winced: obviously demons were feeding his leg-weasels crystal meth. ‘He’s called Mike,’ Mrs.
Beckstein continued remorselessly, ‘Mike something-beginning-with-F, I’ve got it in my diary. And he works for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Or he used to work for the DEA. Do you still
work for the DEA, Mike?’

He opened his eyes, unsure what to do: the painkillers were subsiding but he still felt unfocused, blurry about the edges. ‘I’m not supposed to talk – ’

‘You
will
talk, boy.’ Mrs. Beckstein glared at him, and he recoiled at the anger in her expression. ‘You can take your chances with me, or you can make your excuses to
my half-brother’s men, but you are going to talk sooner or later.’ She glanced at Olga. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe my luck,’ she said dryly. She turned back to Mike,
her expression harsh: ‘What have you done with my daughter?’

‘I –’ Mike stopped. Time seemed to slow.
My brother’s men. Jesus, she’s been one of them all along! How deep does this go
? He shuddered, his guts churning.
Until now he’d known, understood in the abstract, that Miriam was involved with these alien gangsters, narcoterrorists from Middle Earth: even meeting Miriam, dressed up for a medieval
wedding in the middle of an exploding castle, hadn’t really shaken what he’d thought he knew. But Miriam’s mother was a different matter entirely, a disabled middle-aged woman
living quietly in a small house in New England suburbia –
They’re everywhere!
He swallowed, choking back hysterical laughter. ‘I don’t know where she went. She said
she had a, one of the lockets, got it from a friend. Said she’d be in touch later. There was a perp in black, tried to stab her so I shot him – ’

‘Why?’

‘Orders.’ He cleared his throat. ‘They told me, talk to her. Offer her whatever she . . . well, anything.’

Mrs. Beckstein glanced at the Russian princess: evidently her expression meant something because a moment later she turned back to him. ‘You’re colluding with Egon.’

‘Who?’ His bewilderment must have been obvious, because a moment later she nodded.

‘All right. So how did you get over here?’

Mike stared at her.

Mrs. Beckstein took a deep breath. ‘Olga, if Mr. Fleming here doesn’t answer my questions, you have my permission to shoot him in the kneecap. At will.’

‘Which one?’ asked the Russian princess.

‘Whichever you want.’ Mrs. Beckstein sniffed. ‘Mike, I want you to understand one thing, and one thing only – I’m concerned for my daughter’s well-being.
I’m especially concerned when an ex-boyfriend of hers with a highly dubious employment record appears out of nowhere at a –’ she coughed ‘– joyous occasion, and all
hell breaks loose. And I am more concerned than you can possibly begin to imagine that she has vanished in the middle of the sound and the fury, because there is an official decree in force that
says if she world-walks without the permission of the Clan committee, her life is forfeit. She is my daughter, and blood is thicker than water, and I am going to
save her ass
. Call it
atonement for earlier mistakes, if you like: I’ve not always been a terribly good mother.’ She leaned closer. ‘Now, you may be able to help me
save her ass
. If I think
you might be useful to me, I can protect you up to a point. Or.’ She nodded at Olga. ‘Lady Olga is a friend of Miriam’s. She’s concerned for her welfare, too. Miriam has
more friends than she realizes, you see. So the question is: are we all agreed that we are friends of Miriam, and that we intend to
save her ass
? Or –’ she fixed Mike with a
vulture stare ‘– were you stringing her along?’

‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whoa.
Ow.
’ The weasels had graduated from carnivore school and were working on their diplomas in coyote impersonation. ‘What do you
want to know?’

‘Let’s start with, how you got over here.’

‘Same way Matthias got over to our – my – world.’ He could almost see the lightbulbs going on over Olga’s and Mrs. Beckstein’s heads. ‘Family Trade
captured a couple of world-walkers. Forced them to carry.’ He tried to shrug himself into a more comfortable position, half-upright.

‘Forced? How?’ Olga stared at him. ‘And what is Family Trade?’

‘Collar . . . bombs. They carry a cargo and come back, Family Trade resets the timer. They don’t come back, it blows their head off. When they’re not world-walking, FTO keeps
them in a high-rise jail.’

Mrs. Beckstein interrupted. ‘Family Trade – this is some spook agency, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’m – seconded – to it. Not my idea. Matt walked into the Boston downtown office while Pete – my partner – and I were on the desk. That’s
all.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs. Beckstein nodded to herself. ‘And they sent you here because they worked out that Miriam was . . . okay. I think I get it. Am I right?’ She raised an
eyebrow.

‘Yes, mostly,’ he said hastily: Olga was still glaring at him from her corner. ‘We don’t have much intel on the ground. Colonel Smith figured she’d be able to
develop a spy ring for us, in return for an exit opportunity. He wants informants. I told him it was half-assed and premature, but he ordered the insertion.’

‘He wants informants, does he?’ Mrs. Beckstein grinned. ‘What do you make of that, Olga?’

Olga’s expression of alarm surprised Mike in its intensity, cutting through the fog of drugs: ‘You can’t be serious! That would be treason!’

‘It’s not treason if it’s known to ClanSec in advance.’ Mrs. Beckstein waved a hand in dismissal. ‘One man’s spy is another man’s diplomatic back
channel to the other side; it just depends who’s playing the game and for what stakes.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Mike. ‘Your colonel wants information? Well, he shall
have it, and you shall take it to him. But in return, you’re going to find my daughter.’ A brief sideways nod: ‘You and Lady Olga, that is.’

The next day came too early for Erasmus. It was barely a quarter to eight when he checked out of the cheap traveler’s hotel he’d stayed in overnight, and walked
around to the rear entrance to Hogarth Villas. Lady Bishop’s taciturn manservant Edward answered the door, then led him down a servants’ passage and a staircase that led to a gloomy
basement, illuminated by the dim light that filtered down to the bottom of an air shaft.

‘Wait here,’ said Edward, disappearing round a corner. A moment later, he heard a rattle of keys, and low voices. Then:

‘Erasmus!’

He smiled stiffly, embarrassed by his own reaction. ‘Miriam, it’s good to see you again.’

‘I’d been hoping –’ She took two steps towards him, and he found himself suddenly at arm’s length; he’d advanced without noticing. ‘I’m not
imagining things?’

‘Everything will be all right.’ His voice sounded shaky in his own ears. ‘Come on, I’ll explain as we go.’ He forced himself to look past her face, to make eye
contact with Edward (who grimaced and shrugged, as if to say
you’re welcome to her
): ‘Do you have any luggage?’

‘It’s here.’ Edward hefted a leather valise. Erasmus took it. ‘I’ll be going now,’ said the servant, ‘you know the way out.’

A moment later they were alone. He found himself staring at Miriam: she looked back at him with a strange expression, as if she’d never seen him before.
Is this all a terrible
mistake?
he wondered:
Is she going to be angry with me for sending her here?
‘You came. For me?’

‘As soon as I heard.’ He found it difficult to talk.

‘Well, thank you. I was beginning to worry –’ She shivered violently.

‘My dear, this isn’t the sort of establishment one drops in on unannounced.’ He noticed her clothing for the first time; someone had found her a more suitable outfit than the
gown she’d worn in Lady Bishop’s spy-hole picture, but it would never do – probably a castoff from one of the girls upstairs, threadbare and patched. ‘Hmm. When I asked them
to find you something to wear I was expecting something a little less likely to attract attention.’

Her cheeks colored slightly. ‘I’m getting sick of hand-me-downs. You’ve got a plan?’

‘Follow me.’ It was easier than confronting his emotions – predominantly relief, at the moment, a huge and fragile sense that something precious hadn’t been shattered,
the toppling vase caught at the last moment – and it was nonsense, of course, a distraction from the serious business at hand. He climbed the stairs easily, with none of the agonizing
tightness in his chest and the crackling in his lungs that would have plagued him two months ago. The parlor was empty, the fireplace unlit. He placed the valise on the table. ‘Let’s
see what we’ve got.’

Her shadow fell across the bag as he opened it. ‘Ah, papers.’ He opened the leather-bound passport and held the first page up to the light. ‘That’s a good forgery.’
He felt a flash of admiration for Margaret’s facilities; if he hadn’t known better he’d have been certain it was genuine. Below it was a bundle of other documents: birth
certificate, residence permit for the eastern provinces, even a – his cheeks colored. ‘We appear to be married,’ he murmured.

‘Let me see.’ She reached over and took the certificate. ‘Damn, I knew something had slipped my mind. Must have been all the champagne at the reception. Dated two days ago, too
– what a way to spend a honeymoon.’ She sighed. ‘What is it about this month? Everyone seems to want to see me married.’

‘Lady Bishop probably thought it would be an excellent explanation for travel,’ he said, heart pounding and vision blurred. The sense of relief had gone, shattered: blown away by a
sense of disquiet, the old ache like a pulled tooth that he’d lived with for far too long. Remembering the last time he’d seen Annie, alive or dead. ‘Or perhaps Ed wanted a little
joke at our expense. If so, it’s in very bad taste.’ He made to take it from her hand, but Miriam had other ideas.

‘Wait up. She’s right, if we’re traveling together it’s a good cover identity.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘We’re supposed to travel
together?’

Erasmus pulled himself together, with an effort. ‘I’m supposed to take you back to Boston and look after you. Find a way to make her – you – useful, Margaret told me.
Personally, I don’t know if that’s possible or appropriate, but it gives her a respectable excuse to get you off her plate without sticking a knife in you first. What we do afterwards
– ’

‘Okay, I get the idea.’ Miriam picked up the passport and stared at it, frowning. ‘Susan Burgeson. Right.’ She glanced at him. ‘I could be your long-lost sister or
something if you’ve got trouble with the married couple idea.’

He shrugged.
Compartmentalize
. ‘It’s a cover identity. Nothing more.’

She looked thoughtful. ‘Is Erasmus Burgeson a cover identity, too?’

God’s wounds but she’s sharp!
‘If it was, do you think I’d tell you?’

‘You’d tell your wife,’ she said, teasingly – then did a double-take at his expression and looked stricken. ‘Shit! I’m sorry, Erasmus! I’d – I
didn’t realize. I’m sorry . . .’

‘Don’t be,’ he said tightly. ‘Not your fault.’

‘No, me and my –’ She took his hand impulsively. ‘I tend to dig, by instinct. Listen, if you catch me doing it again and it’s sensitive, just tell me to back off,
all right?’