Room service delivered breakfast to the suite at seven. By seven-thirty I had talked to Hansen. He’d pick me up at the embassy at eight-thirty. Before eight I was dressed, wearing, among other things, the gray vest that looked like leather and was, in fact, little more than textured plastique. I had everything ready to go.
I had packed what I needed into the case—the professional papers, the code lines, the notes and quotes, and The Book of Mormon. I took the engineering drawings Dietre had supplied with me. Double or nothing, because if I got killed with the schismatics and they were found there’d be hell to pay. But if I left them behind they wouldn’t be there when I returned, and I deserved some payoff for the mess Harlaan and Jerome and all the others had gotten us into. Besides, it was almost a matter of principle. I needed to do more than expected, and I might need every bit of leverage I had once we got back to Columbia. If we got back.
No sense dwelling on that. So I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. Of course, the Second Secretary hadn’t called back. So I put in another call to the embassy.
“Ah … he’s not available at the moment.”
“This is Minister Eschbach, and I strongly suggest you find him—this moment. Or the First Secretary. The name is Eschbach, and neither President Armstrong nor Speaker Hartpence or a fellow by the name of Asquith will be very pleased if you don’t. Nor will Ambassador Klein or Minister Jerome.”
It took a few moments more—more than a few—on the wireset, with a few more helpful suggestions, before I put it down flatly.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes to see either the First or Second Secretary.”
“We can’t do that.”
“If you don’t, you’re all likely to be on a turbo to the Federal District by tonight. By the way, tell them it’s Hamilton’s Whiskey Revolt.”
“Would you hold for a moment, sir?”
“I’d be happy to.” I wasn’t in the slightest happy to hold.
“This is Second Secretary Trumbull-Hull.”
“Johan Eschbach. You have a condition red-two facing you. Hamilton Whiskey Revolt. Status amber, going red at eleven. I’ll be there to see you in ten minutes.”
“Eschbach? The Eschbach?”
“Yes. I’m back where I didn’t want to be.”
“I’ll be here.” He sounded less than pleased. I couldn’t blame him.
Someone had clearly briefed him, however, by the time I arrived by a steamer cab—a Reo, not a Browning. The embassy was on the hill, between Deseret University and the Temple, in a huge old complex that had probably housed some former patriarch’s establishment. The oak door was golden, with spotless brass furnishings, and it opened before I reached it.
Two Republic marines in blues stood back. “Minister Eschbach, sir?”
“That’s me.” I had out both the diplomatic passport and the government ID.
The shorter marine nodded. “This way, sir.”
The Second Secretary’s office was on the first floor on the back side, overlooking a garden. The conversion into an office had left an ancient fireplace, faced with blue and cream ceramic tile, with a hearth of the same tile, and a dark walnut mantel that held the picture of a handsome brunette and two children.
Trumbull-Hull was in his midthirties, taller than I was, and balding. His forehead was damp, and he stood behind an antique walnut desk as if it were a rampart under siege.
“Please have a seat.” He motioned to the chair in front of the desk.
“I take it that my concerns were reinforced?” I asked pleasantly.
He nodded stiffly. “I was told to offer any assistance within the power of the embassy.”
“Good. It isn’t that bad from your point of view.” How much should I tell him? Too much and he’d muck it up. Too little and he’d manage to obstruct everything.
“It’s rather simple. A contact went bad. The wrong people got involved, and they hold my wife. They want me. I need your help in a small way in ensuring her safety and the successful conclusion of the operation.”
“Your wife? The singer?” His mouth almost opened.
I nodded.
“The news media—”
“They don’t know yet, and I hope they never know. So do you. If this goes right, she’ll be here on your doorstep sometime after eleven—probably around noon, but the time could vary.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
“We’ll do what is possible.” His words were careful, calculated. “What, exactly, do you need from us?”
“Very little. We reached an accommodation—of sorts: Llysette is delivered here. I talk to her before going with them, but I have to be close to their reach. So what I need from you is a radio or the equivalent and someone listening constantly from eleven onward—a shortwave or similar unit that will reach from anywhere in several hundred miles to the embassy.”
“You’re going to do that?”
“You can’t defuse a bomb long-distance.” I laughed hoarsely. “Anyway, my wife is supposed to arrive here sometime after they contact me at eleven. I’ll need confirmation of that, and I’ll need to speak to her personally. If, and I hope this is not the case, she cannot speak, or she doesn’t arrive, I want you on the other end.” I smiled. It wasn’t a totally pleasant smile.
“Ah … I think we can do that. Is there anything else?”
“Once I’ve resolved the situation, we both get immediate turbo passage to the Federal District and guards to the aerodrome to ensure we get home.”
“And?” Trumbull-Hull asked warily.
“You may be contacted by a Bishop Hansen.”
“The Saint security chief? You are moving in … interesting circles, Minister Eschbach.”
“You can tell him one of two things—either that you have Llysette or you don’t.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked, almost perfunctorily.
“You don’t want an incident, and I don’t want one. I’d prefer things be kept very quiet. I was trained for this, and I doubt you have anyone acceptable.” I cleared my throat. “I’m sure you people can find a cover story if something happens to me. You can’t if it happens to her. Not exactly easily.” That probably wasn’t true. With enough effort, anything can be covered up, especially in a nation that would want it covered, but I didn’t want Second Secretary Trumbull-Hull thinking along those lines.
In the end, he saw it my way, not that I really had to press much, probably because he didn’t have many choices. Second Secretaries were often more self-serving and rational than the political appointees. More cowardly, often, too. The brave ones usually didn’t last, as was the case in so many other fields as well.
Still, I didn’t get back outside the embassy until eight-forty, lugging a small radio with a long collapsible antenna and my datacase. Brother Hansen was waiting in a dark green Browning with a young clean-shaven driver.
The day was gray and cold, and even my overcoat didn’t seem that warm.
Hansen held the door open from inside, and I climbed out of the wind.
“I see you persuaded Trumbull-Hull to part with a radio.”
“It wasn’t too hard.”
“You talk a good game, Eschbach, but do you really know what they want?”
“I don’t have an absolute confirmation, but almost anything would be better than what I’ve prepared for.” I laughed hoarsely. “Then, I’ll probably find out that what they want is even worse than that. It usually works that way.”
I was guessing, of course, but the kidnappers had agreed to my terms, and that meant I was the only one who could do what they wanted—and that was either to destroy or create a ghost. Since there were no rumors about ghosts in existence, that meant creating one, and I had a good idea what that meant.
The security limousine hissed to a stop outside a sandstone-type building. In the car park were a double handful of fresh-washed steamers. The sign read: “Deseret Rentals.”
Hansen almost choked at the invoice for renting the steamer. “Three hundred … and not even a Browning.”
“Groundnuts,” I said quietly, deciding he needed a reminder of what was at stake. “You want deGaulle’s Foreign Legions marshaling in Santa Fe for a quick march toward the San Juan gasification plants?”
Hansen looked puzzled and I really didn’t feel like explaining, but at this point some explanation—or speculation—wouldn’t hurt too much.
“Escobar-Moire and deGaulle need diesel for those fleets, and they really don’t want to pay your prices. Columbia does, and Ferdinand wants a civil war here and unrest all over North America. If Llysette disappears, you’ll get trouble with Columbia and problems from your schismatics. A rental steamer is cheap insurance.”
Of course, that was only part of the story, but a part that was true and certainly
wouldn’t hurt for Brother Hansen to hear. I would have paid for it, if necessary, but with all the risks Llysette and I were taking, I preferred that the Saints, and Counselor Cannon, paid as many of the bills as possible. I’d end up paying more than my share no matter how well matters turned out, and I didn’t even want to consider the costs if they didn’t.
With all the paperwork—every country had it—it was almost nine-forty-five before I fired up the rental steamer, a small brown Reno, barely big enough for four people.
“Let’s go back to the Inn,” Hansen suggested. “We haven’t finished.”
He was right about that, and I worried about what he had in mind.
Because I needed to eat, we sat in the corner booth in The Refuge, which confirmed, indirectly, that Hansen had had a lot to do with our seating and that the table was probably snooped to the gills and Hansen wanted my words on record. I’d have to be careful how I said what I said.
Hansen’s eyes met mine over the chocolate. “Would you mind telling me what is really going on?”
“An attempt to use religion as a weapon to alienate Columbia and Deseret forever by playing on the simplistic side of people’s faith in a time when life is too complex for many of them to handle.”
“My, you sound superior.”
“I don’t mean it that way, but that’s what I see.” With a sigh, I refilled my mug.
“You’re saying that the schismatics have no real faith and that they’re using their disputes as a cover to gain temporal power?”
“Not exactly.” How could I put it? “I have no reason to disbelieve the sincerity of what the schismatics believe. I do believe that they are being supported by outsiders who see the schismatics’ beliefs as more in the interests of the outsiders.”
“Very politely put. One can tell you were a politician.”
“A very bad politician, Brother Hansen.”
“So, Deseret’s … furor over faith … is being used for political goals.”
“That’s my guess. It’s only a guess.”
“And what’s in this for you, since you’re not exactly a Saint?”
He was right about that in both senses. “The first is obvious. I want my wife safe.”
“You love her. That is obvious, and praiseworthy. I do not believe that is the only reason.”
“No. I’d like to put a stop to those who would use people’s beliefs in ways that aren’t in their own interests.”
“High-sounding rhetoric, Minister Eschbach.”
“Probably, but I’ve noted that disruption fueled by religious disputes gets extraordinarily ugly, especially when the … temporal … stakes are high. I happen to think that Columbia and Deseret need to work out an arrangement that’s less adversarial. That won’t be possible if the schismatics succeed.”
Hansen stroked his beard. “That makes sense, but I’m still not totally convinced.”
I wasn’t either. So I sipped more chocolate and had another bite of the dry ham sandwich.
“There has to be more,” he prodded.
“There is. I really want to be left alone. I really want Llysette to be able to sing without fear or concern.”
He nodded, and he apparently understood enough that he asked a different question. “Are you certain you don’t want a close tail?”
“Look,” I said. “They won’t do anything until they’re convinced no one is following me. That’s why they want a rental steamer. I don’t want a tracker or a tail.”
“Then you’ll have to tell us where you’re headed.”
I laughed. “It’s all a blind. I’ll be back in Great Salt Lake City by tonight. Where in Great Salt Lake City I haven’t the faintest idea. This whole business is designed to make a transfer where you can’t get too close. But the best place to hide remains a city.”
“You don’t want us too close, do you?”
“Yes and no. I’d prefer to be rescued, but the problem is that the problem won’t stay solved if it’s not played out.” I’d only thought the problem had been played out the first time around. Self-deception can be so comforting, until you’re called on it. How could I have thought Branston-Hay’s theoretical formulations on creating ghosts would have stayed buried? I’d applied them. Probably Minister Jerome had people working on applying them.
“It’s your neck.”
Unfortunately, it was, but a lot of other necks were stretched under the knife as well. They just didn’t understand that.
At quarter to eleven I pulled the Reo up beside the red-faced wireset booth. No one was using the unit, and I walked over to it. No sense in letting someone decide to use it when Llysette’s life was possibly hanging on it.
At eleven-eleven the set chimed.
“Eschbach.”
“Take a steamer south on the expressway. When you get to Beehive Route Three, take it east. Once you see another steamer flying a purple banner, you may contact the Columbian embassy. When you’re satisfied, get back in the steamer and keep heading east. Follow the steamer with another purple banner. Stop when it does, and you will be contacted. Do you have that?”
“Expressway south to Beehive Three. East on Three, until I see the purple banner. Contact the embassy. Confirm Llysette’s safety. Then head east again. Stop when the next steamer with the banner does.”
“Correct.”
The line went dead.
Simple enough. What wasn’t spoken was equally simple. Once Llysette was free, my life was forfeit if at any point I tried to double-cross them. Somehow, I’d feel better, a lot better, once Llysette got into the Columbian embassy.
I wiped my forehead, damp despite the chill, looked at the pitifully small Reno, swallowed, and walked back to the steamer.
It sounded simple. I got to drive a small steamer south on the expressway and then out into the Fastness of Zion, along some back road, with no one following, not closely anyway.
Once the radio confirmed that Llysette was safe and I talked to her, then I would get back in the steamer and follow the first steamer I saw with another purple flag.
I followed 300 East south for three blocks, then turned east. Another five blocks found me turning onto the expressway south.
The traffic, for Deseret, was heavy, a mix of haulers, battered steamers, and glistening new Brownings, and I had to concentrate on driving, more than I had anticipated.
Beehive Route Three almost crept by me, and I had to take the ramp at a higher speed than I’d figured. The poor Reo shuddered as I applied the brakes to make the stop at the top of the incline.
I waited for a westbound tanker bearing the logo “Deseret Fuels” and easily several dozen times the size of the Reo. Then I turned behind a gray Browning that left me in the dust of the two-lane road that angled toward the mountains.
To my right, I could see a second flat lake, surrounded by factories, with smoke and steam pouring into the chill early-winter air. The higher reaches of the mountains framed by the front windscreen were mostly white.
I drove for more than a quarter of an hour, intermittently being passed, and drawing closer and closer to the mountains, taller than I realized. A glance in the rearview mirror told me that a glistening red steamer was sweeping up behind. The road on the other side was clear, and the red Browning swept past, then slowed. A purple flag popped from the side window and fluttered there. I just watched for a moment, then finally lowered my window and waved. What else was I supposed to do?
The red Browning accelerated out of sight even before I pulled out into a wide turnout on the right side.
I glanced around. The turnout was empty, except for a painted green metal drum for trash.
After opening the door and setting the radio on the roof, I cranked up the collapsible antenna. The frequencies were already set. I cleared my throat, my heart pounding.
“Embassy, this is Eschbach. Do you read me?”
After a moment of static, an answer squawked through the speaker: “Say again, please.”
“Embassy, this is Eschbach. Do you read me?”
“We read you, Minister. A little weak, but we read you. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
I hoped it was Llysette. Lord, I hoped!
“Johan?”
“Llysette?”
“Mais oui, mon cher… .”Her voice was tired, but it sounded like her voice, despite the static.
“How is Carolynne?” No one else would know what I meant, and I hoped that she wasn’t too tired to understand.
“Ah, she and I are well. Did you know that once she sang for the First Prophet?”
I frowned and tried to call up a memory or an image … but only got a hazy sense of limelights. “I don’t recall that.”
“That was before she met the deacon.”
“Are you all right?”
“I am tired. I have some bruises. This was not bad. This was not so bad as the Fall of France.” She laughed gently. “It was not so bad as when you and I came to know Carolynne better.”
“You’re sure.”
“Certain I am.”
I nodded. “You take care, and stay in the Columbian embassy until this is over.”
“Mais oui. I do not like what you do.”
Neither did I. “I’ll be fine,” I lied.
“You must take care. You, we want you back safely.”
“I wanted you back safely.”
“We know. Take care, mon cher.”
“You, too. I’ll do the best I can. Just keep yourself safe.”
I finally flicked off the radio and glanced around the turnout. A battered black hauler rumbled past, its front hood wreathed in steam, then another new Browning, this one blue.
The radio antenna went down, the unit back into the seat beside me, and I eased the Reo out back onto Route Three, still headed east. All I could do was hope … hope that everything went right, knowing that, once again, it probably wouldn’t.
I drove steadily east for another ten minutes, until I needed a side road. Abruptly a cargo hauler pulled out in front of me, a square purple banner flying from the black-painted door mirror frame. I slowed to follow the big steamhauler.
Five minutes later, the hauler turned left, back north, along Beehive Six, and in less than ten minutes we were back on the expressway, headed north.
Perhaps three miles farther north, the hauler slowed and stopped under a bridge. I swallowed and stopped right behind it, then picked up the case, leaving the radio behind but triggering the transmitter with a blank signal. That might help.
I walked toward the hauler, the kind with a double cab and without windows in the back. The rear cab door on the shoulder side was open. I saw no one, and the front window was blackened.
I stepped up into the rear seat, empty, and with a partition between the front seats and the rear.
Nothing happened.
I sighed and closed the door, sitting there in the gray gloom of the enclosed space, unable to see who was driving, where I was headed, and where I was going. With a hiss, the hauler eased out into the traffic I couldn’t see.