Brentford nodded, impassive. These were not unusual orders; Citizen Reynolds took a very robust approach to dealing with subversives. "The, ah, exception, sir? Do you have any other instructions to deal with that case?"
"No." Reynolds made a fist, squeezing. "If anything comes up I'll handle it myself."
"The danger, sir—"
"They're petty smugglers and racketeers, citizen. I dealt with them before, during the Long Emergency; it's almost a certainty that they want to deal themselves a hand at the table, in which case they're in for a short, sharp surprise. I merely reserve the final judgment
in case
there's something more serious at hand." He stood, behind his desk, and straightened his uniform tunic, flicking invisible dust motes from one black lapel. "Plain clothes, I say again. I'll see you at eight."
Reynolds strode to the door as Brentford saluted. He didn't look back. Brentford was a reliable party man, a typical functionary of the new organization: He'd do as he was told, and look up to Reynolds as a bluff fellow who led from the front, as long as he occasionally indulged in eccentricities such as periodically going into the field to gather up nests of vipers and traitors with his own hands.
Reynolds didn't smile at the thought. There were risks attached to this behavior, and he didn't hold with taking risks unless there was something he held to be personally important at stake. Maintaining his carefully constructed public image was all very well, but placing himself in front of a desperate fugitive's knife was . . . it was
undignified.
On the other hand, sometimes it was necessary to deal with former Polis informers himself, to insure that they fell downstairs or swallowed their suicide pills. He considered it to be a small mercy—far less unpleasant than what fate held in store for them in the ungentle hands of his enthusiastic staff in Interrogations and Inquiries.
Citizen-Commissioner Stephen Reynolds was more than willing to go into the field in person and meet past friends—especially if it meant that he could silence them before they could spill their guts to the interrogators in the BIS basements.
The venue Eldest Huan had chosen for the meeting was a tiny front-room bar in a public house in Menzies Gate, a run-down suburb on the edge of what, in another world, would be called Brooklyn. His foot soldiers had paid the owner handsomely to take his wife and six children and two servants and move out for the night: a three-month amnesty from protection money,
and
a wallet bulging with ration coupons. "I want privacy," Huan had told One-Eye Cho, "and I want a safe exit. See to it." The pub, unbeknownst to its owner, was colocated with a trackless forest clearing in the northern Sudtmarkt—one carved out with sweat and axe and saw by Cho's sons. Eldest had dealt with Reynolds before, and with the Polis, and was under no illusions about the hazards of dining with devils in Secret Security Police uniforms. "Place two reliable bearers in the exit, and two armed guards. Find someone who can pass as white, and put him behind the bar with a shotgun to cover my retreat. He can be the bartender. Put another in the kitchen, who can at least provide cold cuts and soup if our guest is hungry."
The pub was a theater: Reynolds and Huan had both prepared scripts for the other's benefit. The only question remaining was that of whose review would be more favorable.
Eight o'clock; the sky was still bright, but the shops were mostly shuttered, the costermongers and peddlers and rag-and-bone men and beggars had mostly slunk away, and the front windows of the pub were dark. Reynolds surveyed it professionally as he approached along the pavement. He'd swapped his uniform for a suit of clothes as ill-fitting—even moth-nibbled—as any he had worn during the long desperate years on the run. On the far side of the road, a couple of dusty idlers clustered near a corner; he glanced away. Down the street, a steamer sat by the curb, curtains drawn in its passenger compartment. All was as it should be. He nodded, then turned back towards the door and rapped the head of his cane on it twice.
A spy-slot slid aside. "We're shut."
"Tell your master an old friend calls." Reynolds kept his voice low. "Remember New Catford to him."
The spy-slot closed. A moment later, the door opened. Reynolds slid inside.
The pub was indeed short on customers, but as the barman shot the bolts and returned to his place, Reynolds was intrigued by the appearance of the couple sitting at the one sound table, each with a glass of beer to hand. The old Chinaman he recognized, after a pause: It was indeed the gangmaster and smuggler from New Catford who had called himself Cheung. But who was the middle-aged white man?
Questions, questions.
Reynolds smiled broadly as he approached the table and Cheung stood.
"Ah, Citizen Reynolds!" cried Cheung—Reynolds suppressed a wince—and the other fellow stood, somewhat slowly. "How wonderful to see you prospering so in these harsh times. Please, this is my associate Dr. yen Hjalmar, a physician. Please have a seat. Beer? Spirits? Have you eaten?"
Reynolds negotiated the social minefield and sat, without glancing at the bartender—whose impassivity told him more than he needed to know about his loyalties.
Most professional,
he decided: Cheung clearly knew what he was about. Which suggested a simple wrap-up might be difficult—but then, the presence of the doctor implied that this might be rather more complex than the usual pathetic blackmail attempt. "A beer would be welcome. I gather you had a business proposal you wanted to bring to my attention?"
"Oh yes, indeed." Cheung smiled happily. "To your very good health!" He raised his glass. Reynolds perforce followed suit and submitted to another five minutes of trivial niceties. "We considered putting some elements of this proposal to you all those years ago, in Catford, but the unfortunate excess of zeal displayed by the Polis impressed upon us the need for discretion. Now, however, anything we choose to confide in you is unlikely to be beaten out of you by the royalist inquisitors. So: another toast, to our future business success!"
Reynolds blinked as he answered the toast: This was very much
not
what he'd been expecting. "I'm afraid you have the better of me," he admitted. "What business do you have in mind?"
Cheung glanced around before he replied. "You must have realized that I had a most effective way of moving dispatches and contraband between locations, without fear of interception." Reynolds nodded. "Well, that . . . mechanism . . . is still available. And I believe that, given the nature of your current engagement, you might very well find a use for it." Reynolds nodded again, slightly perturbed.
What's he on about?
he wondered. Cheung beckoned at the bartender. "Scott. Please come and stand in front of Citizen Reynolds, then make yourself scarce. Have Ang report to me in five minutes."
The bartender—Scott—bowed slightly, then stepped in front of the table. "Observe," he told Reynolds. He looked away, in the direction of the archway leading to the kitchen. Then he vanished.
"This is our family secret," Reynolds heard Cheung saying behind him as he waved his arms through the thin air where Scott had stood: "We can walk between worlds. We have had to hold this to ourselves, in utter confidence, for generations; I'm sure you can imagine the consequences if word were to leak out in public. However, I know you to be a man of utmost probity and integrity, and in your new and elevated rank, I am certain you will recognize the desirability to keep this a secret as close to your chest as any matter of state. I brought the doctor along because he can explain to you the origins, transmission, and limits of our family talent better than I; it is hereditary, and we have never met any people to whom we are not blood kin who can do it. . . ."