* * *
Ring ring.
There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam sat hunched at one end of a bench.
“Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?”
“This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lofstrom is unavailable right now—”
“I said I’m
Miriam
. If you don’t know the name, check with someone who does. You have five minutes to get Angbard on the line before the shit hits the fan.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Please hold—”
beep beep beep
“Hello?” A different voice, not Angbard’s, came on the line.
“To whom am I speaking?” Miriam asked calmly.
“Matthias. And you are?”
“Miriam Beckstein. I want to talk to Angbard. Right now. This call has been logged by the front desk.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting. If—”
“If I don’t get him on the line
right now
I’ll make sure the
Boston Globe
receives a package that will blow your East Coast courier line wide open. You have sixty seconds.” Her fingers tensed on the handset.
“One moment.”
Click.
“Angbard here. What’s this?”
“It’s me,” said Miriam. “Sorry I had to strong-arm my way past your mandarins, but it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” She could almost hear the eyebrows rising. “I’ve never seen Matthias so disturbed since—well. Unpleasant events. What did you tell him?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Miriam leaned back, felt the cold bench bite through her coat, sat up straight again. “Listen. I told you something about my mother. That if anything happened to her I would be really pissed off.”
“Yes?” Polite interest colored Angbard’s voice.
“I’m really pissed off. Really,
really
pissed off.”
“What happened?” he demanded.
“She’s gone. There’s a dead man in the Dumpster behind her house, killed with a shotgun. She had time to phone me to say she was going on a journey—I don’t know if anyone was holding a gun to her head. Roland didn’t know this. Apparently it happened at the same time that Olga was shot. And my house has been burgled and stuff taken, and somebody booby-trapped the front door.”
“Come here immediately. Or if you tell me where you are I’ll send a carload of guards—”
“No, Angbard, that won’t work.” She swallowed. “Listen. I am about to vanish more deeply than last time. Don’t worry about Brilliana, she’s safe. What I want you to do … look for my mother. By all means. Raise heaven and earth. I am going to visit Olga tomorrow and I do
not
expect to be stopped. If I don’t leave that meeting and reach a certain point, unhindered, later tomorrow, unpleasant letters will go in the mail. I am serious about this, I am pissed off, and I am establishing my own power base because I believe that civil war you told me about is not over and the faction who started it is trying to fire it up again, through me.”
“But Helge, that faction—” he sounded coldly angry—”they’re your father’s side of your family!”
“That’s not the faction I’m thinking of,” she said dryly. “The people I have in mind never signed on to the cease-fire. Listen, I will be in touch ahead of the Beltaigne conference. I’m going to have some really big surprises for you all, including … well, anyone who tries to declare me incompetent is going to get a really nasty shock. I’m going to keep in touch through Roland, but he won’t know where I’m hiding. So, if you find my mother tell Roland. More to the point, don’t trust your staff. Someone is not telling you everything that happens in the field. I think you’ve got a mole.”
“Explain.” The terser he became the better Miriam felt.
She thought for a moment.
Tell him about Roland?
No, but… “Ask Roland about the warehouse warning I phoned him. Find out why instead of cleaners calling, someone turned up and booby-trapped the place. Looks like the same style as whoever planted the bomb behind the front door of my house. You didn’t know about that? Ask Matthias about the courier I intercepted on the train. Ask Olga about the previous assassination attempts. By the way, if I think her life is in danger, I reserve the right to move Olga somewhere safer. Once she’s out of immediate danger.”
“You’re asking for a blank check,” he said. “I’ve noticed the withdrawals. They’re big.”
“I’m setting up an import/export business.” Miriam took a deep breath. “I’ll announce it to the Clan at Beltaigne. By then, I should have a return on investment that will, um, justify your confidence in me.” Another deep breath. “I’d like another million dollars, though. That would make things run smoother.”
“Are you sure?” asked Angbard. He sounded almost amused, now.
“A million here, a million there, pretty soon you’re talking serious money. Yes, I’m sure. It’s a new investment opportunity in the family tradition. Like I said, I’m not setting up in competition—think of it as proof of concept for a whole new business area the Clan can move into. And a way of making Baron Oliver Hjorth and his backers look really stupid, if that interests you.”
“Well. If you insist, I’ll take your word for it.” He was using the indulgent paterfamilias voice again. “It’ll be in your account by the day after tomorrow. From central funds this time, not my own purse.” In a considerably icier tone: “Please don’t disappoint me in your investments. The Council has a very short way of dealing with embezzlement and not even your position would protect you.”
“Understood. One other thing, uncle.”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the other branch of the Clan? The one that accidentally got mislaid a couple of hundred years ago and is now blundering around in the dark trying to kill people?”
“The—” He paused. “Who told you about them?”
“Sleep well,” she told him, and hit the “off” button on her phone with a considerable sense of satisfaction. She looked at the sky, saw night was pulling in already. It was time to go pick up Brill and visit the hospital. She hoped Olga would be able to talk to visitors. All she needed was confirmation of one little point and she could be on her way back to the far side, and the business empire she planned to establish.
* * *
Boston Medical Center was much like any other big general hospital, a maze of corridors and departments signposted in blue. Uniformed porters, clerical officers, maintenance staff, and lots of bewildered relatives buzzed about like a nest of bees. As they entered, Miriam murmured to Brill: “Usual drill, do what I do. Okay?”
“Okay.” They walked up to reception and Miriam smiled.
“Hi there, I’m wondering if it’s possible to visit a patient? An Olga, uh, Hjorth—”
The receptionist, bored, shoved hair up past her ear bug. “I’ll just check. Uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Miriam Beckstein. And a friend.”
“Yeah, they’re expecting you, go right up. You’ll find her on ward fourteen. Have a nice day!”
“This place smells strange,” Brill muttered as Miriam hunted for the elevators.
“It’s a hospital. Full of sick people, they use disinfectant to keep diseases down.”
“An infirmary?” Brill looked skeptical. “It doesn’t look like one to me!”
Miriam tried to imagine what an infirmary might look like in the Gruinmarkt, and failed.
When were hospitals invented, anyway?
she wondered irrelevantly as the elevator doors slid open, and a bunch of people came out. “Come on,” she said.
Ward fourteen was on the third floor, a long walk away. Brill kept glancing from side to side as they passed open doors, a hematology lab here, the vestibule of another ward there. Finally they found the front desk. “Hello?” said Miriam.
“Hello yourself.” The nurse at the desk glanced up. “Visiting hours run until eight,” she commented, “you’ve got an hour. Who are you looking for?”
“Olga Hjorth. We’re expected.”
“Hmm.” The nurse frowned and glanced down, then her frown cleared. “Oh, yeah, you’re on the list. I’m sorry,” she looked apologetic. “She’s only taking a few visitors; we’ve got orders to keep strangers out. And she’s on nil by mouth right now, so if you’ve brought any food or drink you’ll have to leave it right here at the desk.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Miriam. “Uh, can you ask if she’s willing to see my friend here? Brill?”
“That’s me,” said Brill, miscueing off Miriam’s request.
“Oh, well—you’re on the clear list.” The nurse shrugged. “It’s just that somebody shot her.” She frowned. “She’s under guard. Spooks, if you follow my drift.”
Miriam gave her a sympathetic smile. “I follow. They know us both.”
“That way.” The nurse pointed. “Second door on the right.
Knock
before you open it.”
Miriam knocked. The door opened immediately. A very big guy in dark clothes and dark glasses filled it. “Yes?” he demanded, in a vaguely central-European accent.
“Miriam Beckstein and Brill van Ost to see Olga. We’re expected.”
“One moment.” The door closed, then opened again, this time unobstructed. “She says to come in.”
It was a small anteroom and there were not one but three heavies in suspiciously bulky jackets and serious expressions hanging around. One of them was sitting down reading a copy of
Guns and Ammo
, but the other two were on their feet and they studied Miriam carefully before they opened the inner door. “Olga!” cried Brill, rushing in. “What have they done to you?”
“Careful,” warned Miriam, following her.
“Hello,” said Olga. She smiled slightly and shifted in the bed.
“Excuse
me
,” the young nurse said waspishly. “I’ll just be finishing here before you disturb her, if you don’t mind?”
“Oh,” said Brill.
“I don’t mind,” said Miriam, staring at Olga. “How are you?” she asked anxiously.
“Bad.” Olga’s smile warmed slightly. “Tired’n’bruised. But alive.” Her eyes tracked toward the nurse, who was fiddling with the drip mounted on the side of the bed, and Miriam nodded minutely. The back of her bed was raised and there was a huge dressing over her right shoulder. Alarming-looking drain tubes emerged from it, and a bunch of wires from under the neck of her hospital gown fed into some kind of mobile monitor on a trolley. It chirped occasionally. “Damn.” Half of her hair was missing, and there was another big dressing covering one side of her head, but no drain tubes—which, Miriam supposed, was a good sign. “This feels most strange.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Miriam said with some feeling.
Wow,
she thought, thinking about Brill’s first reaction to New York,
she’s handling it well.
“Did they find whoever did it?”
“I’m told not.” Olga glanced at the nurse again, who glanced back sternly and straightened up.
“I’ll just leave you to it,” she announced brightly. “Remember, no food or drink! And don’t tire her out. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes; if you need me before then, use the buzzer.”
Miriam, Brill, and Olga watched her departure with relief. “Strange fashions here,” Olga murmured. “Strange buildings. Strange everything.”
“Yeah, well.” Miriam glanced at the drip, the monitoring gear, everything else. Cable TV, a private bathroom, and a vase with flowers in it. Compared to the care Olga would receive in the drafty palace on the other side, this was the very lap of luxury. “What happened?”
“Ack.” Olga coughed. “I was in your, your room. Asleep. He appeared out of nowhere and shot … well.” She shifted slightly. “Why doesn’t it hurt more?” she asked, sounding puzzled. “He shot at me, but I am a light sleeper. I was already sitting up. And I sleep with my pistol under my pillow.” Her smile widened.
Miriam shook her head. “Did he get away?” she asked. “If not, did you get his locket?”
“I wondered when you would ask.” Olga closed her eyes. “Managed to grab it before they found me. It’s in the drawer there.”
She didn’t point at the small chest of drawers, but Miriam figured it out. Before she could blink, Brill had the top drawer open and lifted out a chain with a disk hanging from it. “Give me,” said Miriam.
“Yeah?” Brill raised an eyebrow, but passed it to her all the same.
“Hmm.” Miriam glanced at it, felt a familiar warning dizziness, and glanced away. Then she pulled back a cuff and looked at the inside of her right wrist.
The same.
“Same as the bastard who killed Margit.
Exactly
the same. While the other bunch of heavies who tried to roll us over at the same time didn’t have any lockets. At all.”
“Thought so,” murmured Olga.
“Listen, they’re after us both,” said Miriam. “Olga?”
“I’m listening,” she said sleepily. “Don’t worry.”
“They’re after us both,” Miriam insisted. “Olga, this is very important. You’re probably going to be stuck here for two or three days, minimum, and it’ll take weeks before you’re well—but as soon as you’re well enough to move, Angbard will want to take you back to his fortress on the other side. It is really important that you don’t go there. I mean, it’s vital. The killers can reach you on the other side, in Fort Lofstrom, even in a doppelgängered room. But they can’t reach you here. Listen, I’ve got a friend here working for me. And Brill’s here, too. You can stay with us, if you like. Or talk to Roland, get Roland to help. I’m pretty sure he’s reliable—for you, at least. If you stay in Angbard’s doppelgängered rooms on this side, the ones he uses to stop family members getting at him in the fort, you’ll be safe from the lost family in world three, and from the other conspirators, but not from the mole. And if you go back to Niejwein, the conspirators will try to kill you.”
“Wait!” Olga struggled visibly to absorb everything. “Lost family? World three? What’s—”
“The assassin who killed Margit.” Miriam tensed. “It’s a long story. I think they’re after you, now, because of me.”
Olga shook her head. “But why? I mean, what purpose could that serve?”
“Because it’ll discredit me, or it’ll restart the civil war, and I’m fairly certain that’s what the bunch from world three, the long-lost relatives, want to achieve. If I die and it can be blamed on one half of the Clan, that starts it up again. If
you
die and it looks like I’ve schemed with Roland to get you out of the way so I can marry him, it starts up for a different reason. Do you see?”