“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.”
Running Dog
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 alright.” 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 an odd 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. 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 immediately looked stricken. “Shit! I’m sorry, Erasmus! I’d—it completely slipped my mind. 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?”
He took a deep breath. It’s not your fault. “Certainly. I think I owe you that much.”
“You owe—” She shook her head. “Enough of that. What else have we got?”
“Let’s see.” The bag turned out to contain a suit of clothes, not new but more respectable than those they’d already given Miriam. “If we’re traveling together, you’d probably better change into these first. We’ll look less conspicuous together.”
“Okay.” She paused. “Right here?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
He stood with his back to the parlor door for a few scant minutes that felt like hours. He spent some of those hours fantasizing about wringing Ed’s neck—a necessary proxy, for the thought of challenging Lady Bishop over the matter was insupportable, but damn them! Why did they have to do that, of all things?
Miriam was a sharp knife, too sharp for her own good—sharp enough to cut both ways. Dealing with her as a contact and a supplier of contraband had been dicey, but not impossible. Living with her was an entirely different matter, but it wasn’t exactly feasible to stick her in a tenement apartment and leave her to her own devices. She’ll figure everything out, sooner rather than later. And then what? The precious vase was back teetering on the edge of the precipice, with no hand in place to catch it this time. And it was full of ashes.
There was a knock at the door. A moment later it opened, as he turned round. “How do I look?” She took a step back.