“She sent us,” said Olga. “She told us to tell you, you were right. But that is not why we are here. It appears the US government has noticed us.”
“Oh.” Paulette put her glass down. “Shit.”
There was a moment’s heartfelt silence.
“Just how much have the feds noticed you guys?” Paulette asked carefully, meaning: Am I likely to get any of that attention?
“Thoroughly.” Olga looked tired for a moment. “Brill?”
“There’s an entire new federal agency devoted to us.” Brill took a mouthful of tea, frowned. “Super-black, off the books, siphoning money off the war appropriations and the NSA and the CIA, as far as we can tell. They’ve captured couriers and used them as mules to get into our world. Most recently they”—she swallowed—“used a backpack nuke to send us a message.”
“Oh Jesus.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that. “That’s not policing, that’s war.”
“Exactly,” Brilliana said heavily.
“Which leaves us with problems.” Olga picked up the thread. “We can no longer do business over here as usual”—business being the somewhat less legal side of the import-export trade—“and furthermore, this mess coincided with a political upset back home. Everything’s up in the air.”
“And you’re off the reservation,” Paulette said drily.
“Yes, there is that.” Olga glanced sidelong at Brill. “There’s no telling how long it’ll last.” Brill shook her head slightly. “But anyway . . . we came to apologize for dragging you into this mess.”
“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”
“Not necessarily. We can cut you loose. You were never directly involved in our principal business operations. There’s no record of you outside of a few handwritten ledgers in Niejwein, and the office Hel-Miriam bought, and there’s no sign that the feds are aware of what she was up to on her own behalf. I think if we cover your tracks we can be confident that they won’t stumble across you.” She halted awkwardly for a moment. “The flip side is, if they identify you as a person of interest, we won’t be able to do anything to protect you. We won’t even know.”
“Ah.” Paulette contemplated screaming, but it didn’t seem like it would do any good. “What could you do to help?”
“Well, that depends.” Olga put her hands between her knees, clearly uneasy. “Whatever happens next, the Clan will no longer be acting as, as an extradimensional drugs cartel anymore. The feds consider us to be a hostile government: Should we not act upon our status? Furthermore, the changes among the all-highest mean that they are not entirely wrong. Anyway, I didn’t come here merely to say we are cutting you loose.”
Here it comes. “What have you got in mind?” Paulette asked wearily. “And is it going to just evaporate under me again, three months down the line? . . .”
“That wasn’t Miriam’s doing.” Olga grimaced. “You should not underestimate the power of the enemies she made. She spent months under house arrest. Later, you can ask her yourself if you are so inclined. But this is different.”
“In what way is it different?” Why am I doing this? Paulette asked herself. Am I trying to get myself sucked in again? It was true, the money had been good—and Miriam was a friend, and it beat the ordinary daily grind she’d had before, and the tedious admin job she’d had to take up since; but the downside, attracting the attention of the government, and not in a good way, was almost enough to make her short-circuit the process and say “no” immediately. Only residual curiosity was keeping her going.
“Miriam has both a secure position and a plan,” said Olga. “She is in a position where, if she plays her hand correctly, she can set policy for the whole Clan. I am not entirely clear on her design, but she said I should tell you that unlike the old trade, this one is both legal and ethically sound. She said it would also need a lot of organizing at this end, materials and books and journals and specialist expertise to buy in . . . and to be firewalled completely from the Clan’s historic operations. Is that of interest to you?”
Paulette nodded. She’d visited New Britain once at Miriam’s behest, found it a strange and disorienting experience, like a trip to another century. “Well, it’s a plan. But what makes this time different?”
Olga glanced at Brill, as if for support. “She’s the queen,” she said.
Paulette blinked. “Queen,” she repeated. It was the last thing she’d have expected to hear.
“Yes. You know, woman who sits on a throne? Sometimes wears a crown?”
“Eh.” Paulette blinked again, then looked at Brilliana. Who was watching her, a flicker of tightly controlled amusement twitching her lips. “She’s not joking, is she?”
“Power is no joking matter.” The younger woman’s eyes were cold. “We’ve just fought a civil war over it. And now Helge is carrying the heir to the throne—long story, you do not need to look shocked—we would be fools not to seize the moment. And we need a new world to exploit, now that this one has shown itself hostile. That much has now become glaringly clear even to the most reactionary of the conservative wing.”
“Okay.” Paulette licked suddenly dry lips. She could feel her heartbeat. “So what’s in it for me?” If you say old time’s sake I may just punch you . . . this was the proverbial offer too good to refuse. No way will they just let me go now.
“A tenth of a point of gross,” said Olga. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Miriam is holding a meeting in a few days of her accomplices and confidantes. If you are interested, you may attend.” She slid a business card across the table. “Phone this number no later than four o’clock tomorrow afternoon and say yes or no, then follow the post officer’s instructions; they will see you across. The nature of the business, and your role in it, is such that if you choose to decline the offer, you have nothing to fear—you could spill everything you know, and the US government would learn nothing of use. Oh, and she sends you this. You can treat it as a nonreturnable advance against wages.” She slid a checkbook across the table to rest atop the card. “Half a million bucks in the account, Paulie. Try not to spend it all at once.”
It was just another summer party, held on the afternoon of a muggy, humid summer day twelve miles outside of Niejwein, in the grounds of a fortified mansion out near what would—in another world—be Lincoln, Massachusetts. Summer parties were a seasonal fixture among the aristocracy of Niejwein, required to live in proximity to their ruler and lacking in any kind of civil society that might host more public entertainments; but this was also the first Miriam had ever held. Just a summer party, Miriam reminded herself, glassy-eyed, as yet more carriages and their obligatory escorts of footmen and mounted guards drew up, disgorging men and women in the peacock finery of the nobility: It was more like the Academy Awards, minus the onlookers and the network television presence, but with added cockfighting behind the woodshed.
Sir Alasdair had a third of his men dispersed around the perimeter of her commandeered residence, another third staking out the doppelganger house in Lincoln, and the remaining cadre of guards on alert downstairs. Brilliana had the receiving line under control, looking for all the world like the lady of the house herself—and leaving Miriam (again wearing the persona of Helge, Prince Creon’s putative widow) free to focus on those she wished to talk to. Two teenage scions of the inner family lines, Barbara and Magraet, had been introduced into the household for transcription and translation and ensconced in a back room with a bottle of wine and a supply of spare batteries and Dictaphone tapes. And Earl Riordan—no, Baron Riordan, a reward by order in council for his support, paid out of the estates of several drastically pruned noble family trees—had sent her a dozen hard-eyed Security agents in the livery of waiters and other domestics. There’d be no trouble here, clearly. “It’s all under control,” Brill had assured her that morning. “Just relax and enjoy the affair.”