The Family Trade tmp-1 Page 8

  “Deal. I think my head hurts.” Miriam shuffled around and stood up. She felt a little shaky: Maybe it was the alcohol hitting her head on an empty stomach. “Where’s that takeout?”

  Paulette looked blank. “You ordered it?”

  “No.” Miriam snapped her fingers in frustration. “I’ll go do that right now. I think we have some forward planning to do.” She paused unevenly in the doorway, looking at Paulette.

  “What?”

  “Are you in?” she asked.

  “Am I in? Are you nuts? I wouldn’t miss this for anything!”

  Part 2

  They came for her in the early hours, long after Paulette had called a taxi and Miriam had slunk into bed with a stomach full of lemon chicken and a head full of schemes. They came with stealth, black vans, and Mac-10s: They didn’t know or care about her plans. They were soldiers. They had their orders; this was the house the damp brown chair was collocated with, and so this was the target. That was all they needed.

  Miriam slept through the breaking of the french window in her den because the two men on entry detail crowbarred the screens open, then rolled transparent sticky polyurethane film across the glass before they struck it with rubber mallets, then peeled the starred sheets right out of the frame. The phone line had been cut minutes before; there was a cell-phone jammer in the back garden.

  The two break-and-enter men took point, rolling into the den and taking up positions at either side of the room. The light shed by the LEDs on her stereo and computer glinted dimly off their night-vision goggles and the optics of their guns as they waited tensely, listening for any sign of activity.

  Hand signals relayed the news from outside, that Control hadn’t seen any signs of motion through the bedroom curtains. His short-wavelength radar imager let him see what the snatch crew’s night-vision gear missed: It could pinpoint the telltale pulse of warm blood right through a dry wall siding. Two more soldiers in goggles, helmets, and flak jackets darted through the opening and into the hall, cautiously extending small mirrors on telescoping arms past open doorways to see if anyone was inside. Within thirty seconds they had the entire ground floor swept clean. Now they moved the thermal imager inside: Control swept each ceiling carefully before pausing in the living room and circling his index finger under the light fitting for the others to see. One body, sleeping, right overhead.

  Four figures in black body armour ghosted up the staircase, two with guns, and two behind them with specialist equipment. The master bedroom opened off the small landing at the top of the stairs-the plan was to charge straight through and neutralize the occupant directly.

  However, they hadn’t counted on Miriam’s domestic untidiness. Living alone and working a sixty-hour week, she had precious little time for homemaking: All her neat-freakery got left behind at work each evening. The landing was crowded, an overflowing basket of dirty clothing waiting for a trip down to the basement beside a couple of bookcases that narrowed the upstairs hall so that they had to go in single-file. But there were worse obstacles to come. Miriam’s house was full of books. Right now, a dog-eared copy of The Cluetrain Manifesto lay facedown at one side of the step immediately below the landing. It was precisely as cold as the carpet it lay on, so to the night-vision goggles it was almost invisible. The first three intruders stepped over it without noticing, but the fourth placed his right boot on it, and the effect was as dramatic as if it had been a banana skin.

  Miriam jolted awake in terror, hearing a horrible clattering noise on the landing. Her mind was a blank, the word intruder running through it in neon letters the size of headlines-she sat bolt upright and fumbled on the dressing table for the pistol, which she’d placed there when she found she could feel it through the pillow. The noise of the bedroom door shoving open was infinitely frightening and as she brought the gun around, trying to get it untangled from the pillowcase-Brilliant light lanced through her eyelids, a flashlight: “Drop it, lady!”

  Miriam fumbled her finger into the trigger guard-

  “Drop it!” The light came closer, right in her face. “Now!”

  Something like a freight locomotive came out of the darkness and slammed into the side of her right arm.

  Someone said, “Shee-it” with heartfelt feeling, and a huge weight landed on her belly. Miriam gathered breath to scream, but she couldn’t feel her right arm and something was pressing on her face. She was choking: The air was acrid and sweet-smelling and thick, a cloying flowery laboratory stink. She kicked out hard, legs tangled in the comforter, gasping and screaming deep in her throat, but they were muffling her with the stench and everything was fuzzy at the edges.

  She couldn’t move. “Not funny,” someone a long way away at the end of a black tunnel tried to say. The lights were on now, but everything was dark. Figures moved around her and her arm hurt-distantly. She couldn’t move. Tired. There was something in her mouth. Is this an ambulance? she wondered. Lights out.

  The dogpile on the bed slowly shifted, standing up. Specialist A worked on the subject with tongue depressor and tubes, readying her for assisted ventilation. The chloroform pad sitting on the pillow was an acrid nuisance: For the journey ahead, something safer and more reliable was necessary. Specialist B worked on her at the same time, sliding the collapsible gurney under her and strapping her to it at legs, hips, wrists, and shoulders.

  “That was a fucking mess,” snarled Control, picking up the little snub-nosed revolver in one black-gloved hand. “Safety catch was on, luckily. Who screwed up on the landing?”

  “Sir.” It was Point B. “There was a book. On the stairs.”

  “Bitchin’. Okay, get little Miss Lethal here loaded and ready to move. Bravo, start the cleanup. I want her personal files, wherever she keeps them. And her computer, and all the disks. Whoever the hell was with her this evening, I want to know who they are too. And everything else. Charlie, pack her bags like she’s going on vacation-a long vacation. Clothing, bathroom stuff. Don’t make a mess of it. I want to be ready to evacuate in twenty minutes.”

  “Sir. Yes, sir.” Control nodded. Point B was going to pull a shitwork detail when they got home, but you didn’t discipline people in the field unless they’d fucked up bad enough to pull a nine-millimetre discharge. And Point B hadn’t. A month cleaning the latrines would give him time to think on how close he’d come to getting plugged by a sleepy woman with a thirty-eight revolver.

  Spec A was nearly done; he and Spec B grunted as they lifted the coffin-shaped framework off the bed. Miriam was unconscious and trussed like a turkey inside it. “Is she going to be okay?” Control asked idly.

  “I think so,” said Spec A. “Bad bruising on her right arm, and probably concussed, but I don’t expect anything major. Worst risk is she pukes in her sleep and chokes on her own vomit, and we can deal with that.” He spoke confidently. He’d done paramedic training and Van Two was equipped like an ambulance.

  “Then take her away. We’ll be along in half an hour when we’re through sanitizing.”

  “Yeah, boss. We’ll get her home.”

  Control looked at the dressing table, strewn with underwear, month-old magazines, and half-used toiletries. His expression turned to disgust at the thought of searching through piles of dirty clothing. “Sky father, what a mess.”

  There was an office not far from Miriam’s cell. The office was quiet, and its dark oak panelling and rich Persian carpets gave it something of the ambiance of a very exclusive Victorian gentleman’s club. A wide walnut desk occupied the floor next to the window bay. The top of the desk was inlaid with a Moroccan leather blotter, upon which lay a banker’s box full of papers and other evidence.

  The occupant of the office sat at the desk, reading the mess of photocopies and memos from the file box. He was in his early fifties, thickset with the stomach of middle age, but tall enough to carry it well. His suit was conservative: He might have been a retired general or a corporate chairman. Neither guess would be wrong, but neither would be the full t
ruth, either. Right now he looked as if he had a headache; his expression was sour as he read a yellowing newspaper clipping. “What a mess,” he murmured. “What a blessed mess…”

  A buzzer sounded above the left-hand door.

  The officeholder glanced at the door with wintry gray eyes. “Enter,” he called sharply. Then he looked back at the papers.

  Footsteps, the sound of male dress shoes-leather-soled-on parquet, were abruptly silenced as the visitor reached the carpeted inner sanctum.

  “You summoned me, uncle? Is there any movement on my proposal? If anyone wants me to-”

  Angbard Lofstrom looked up again and fixed his nephew with a long icy stare. His nephew shuffled, discomfited: a tall, blond fellow whose suit would not have been out of place in an advertising agency’s offices. “Patience,” he said in English.

  “But I-”

  “I said patience? Angbard laid the newspaper clipping flat on his blotter and stared at his nephew. “This is not the time to discuss your proposal. About which there is no news, by the way. Don’t expect anything to happen soon; you need to learn timing if you want to make progress, and the changes you are suggesting we make are politically difficult.”

  “How much longer?” The young man sounded tense.

  “As long as I deem necessary.” Angbard’s stare hardened. “Remember why you are here.”

  “I-yes, my lord. If it pleases you to accept my apologies…”

  “How is the prisoner?” Angbard asked abruptly.

  “Oh. Last time I checked-fifteen minutes ago-she was unconscious but sleeping normally. She is in one of the doppelganger cells. I removed the mnemonic she was wearing on her person and had one of the maids search her for tattoos. Her cell has no mirror, no shaving apparatus. I left instructions that I am to be called when she awakens.”

  “Hmm.” Angbard chewed on his upper lip with an expression of deep disapproval. “What does the doctor say?”

  “The doctor says that he might have to splint her arm, later-there is bruising-but she sustained no serious harm in the course of the pickup.”

  “Well.” Angbard waved one hand in the direction of the chairs positioned before his desk. “Sit down.” His nephew sat with alacrity, his back stiff. “Do we have any known loose ends, Earl Roland?”

  “Yes, sir, but nothing critical. We have retrieved the documents, camera, recorder, personal computer, and all the other effects that we could find. Her house was untidy, but we are fairly sure we were able to locate everything-her office was well-organized. The windows have been repaired, and the neighbours informed indirectly that she is on assignment away from home. She is unmarried and has few attachments.” Roland looked faintly disapproving. “There is reference to an elderly mother who lives alone. The only possible problem is referred to in the contractor’s report. Evidently on her last excursion a woman, identity unknown, arrived, collected her car, then her person, and drove her home. Presumably a friend. The problem is that she left the stakeout by taxi without any notice-I assume she summoned it by means of a mobile telephone-and our contractor team was too short-staffed to dispatch a tail. I have therefore instructed them to continue surveillance and reinstate the line tap, in the hope that the friend reappears. Once she does so-”

  Roland shrugged.

  “See that you do-I want them in custody as soon as possible.” Angbard harrumphed. “As to the prisoner’s disposition…” He paused, head cocked slightly to one side.

  “Sir?” Roland was a picture of polite attentiveness.

  “The prisoner is to be treated with all the courtesy due to one of your own station, indeed, as a senior Clan member, I say. As a respected guest, detained for her own protection.”

  “Sir!” Roland couldn’t contain his shock.

  Angbard stared at him. “You have something to say, my earl?” he asked coldly.

  Roland swallowed. “I hear and… and will of course obey,” he said. “Just, please permit me to say, this is a surprise-”

  “Your surprise is noted,” Angbard stated coldly. “Nevertheless, I will keep my reasons to myself for the time being. All you need to know at present is that the prisoner must be treated with, as they say, kidskin gloves.” He stared at the young officer intently, but he showed no sign of defiance: and after a moment Angbard relented slightly. “This-” he gestured at the box before him-“raises some most disturbing possibilities.” He tapped one finger on the topmost sheet. “Or had you noticed any strangers out with the Clan who are gifted with the family talent?”

  “Mm, no, sir, I had not.” Roland looked suddenly thoughtful. “What are you thinking?”

  “Later,” Angbard said tersely. “Just see she’s transferred to a comfortable-but securely doppelgangered-suite. Be polite and hospitable, win her trust, and treat her person with the utmost respect. And notify me when she is ready to answer my questions.”

  “I hear and obey,” Roland acknowledged, less puzzled, but clearly thoughtful.

  “See that you do,” Angbard rumbled. “You are dismissed.”

  His nephew rose, straightened his suit jacket, and strode toward the door, a rapier banging at his side. Angbard stared at the door in silence for a minute after he had gone, then turned his eye back to the items in the file box. Which included a locket that he had seen before-almost a third of a century ago.

  “Patricia,” he whispered under his breath, “what has become of you?”

  Daylight. That was the first thing that Miriam noticed. That-and she had the mother of all hangovers. Her head felt as if it was wrapped in cotton wool, her right arm hurt like hell, and everything around her was somehow wrong. She blinked experimentally. Her head was wrapped in cotton wool-or bandages. And she was wearing something unfamiliar. She’d gone to bed in her usual T-shirt, but now she was wearing a nightgown-but she didn’t own one! What’s going on?

  Daylight. She felt muzzy and stupid and her head was pounding. She was thirsty, too. She rolled over and blinked at where the nightstand should have been. There was a whitewashed wall six inches from her nose. The bed she was lying in was jammed up against a rough cinder-block wall that had been painted white. It was as weird as that confused nightmare about the light and the chemical stink-

  Nightmare?

  She rolled the other way, her legs tangling up in the nightgown. She nearly fell out of the bed, which was far too narrow. It wasn’t her own bed, and for a moment of panic she wondered what could possibly have happened. Then it all clicked into place. “Gangsters or feds? Must be the feds,” she mumbled to herself. They must have followed me. Or Paulie. Or something.

  A vast, hollow terror seemed to have replaced her stomach. They’ll ‘bury you so deep,’ she remembered. ‘So deep’ that-

  Her throat felt sore, as if she’d spent the entire night screaming. Odd, that. Maybe it was anticipation.

  Somehow she swung her legs over the side of the strange bed. They touched the floor much too soon, and she sat up, pushing the thin comforter aside. The far wall was too close, and the window was set high up; in fact, the whole room was about the size of a closet. There was no other furniture except for a small stainless-steel sink bolted to the wall opposite the door. The door itself was a featureless slab of wood with a peephole implanted in it at eye level. She noted with a dull sense of recognition that the door was perfectly smooth, with no handle or lock mechanism to mar its surface: It was probably wood veneer over metal.

  Her hand went to her throat. The locket was gone.

  Miriam stood, then abruptly found that she had to lean against the wall to keep upright. Her head throbbed and her right arm was extremely sore. She turned and looked up at the window, but it was above the top of her head, even if she had the energy to stand on the bed. High and small and without curtains, it looked horribly like the skylight of a prison cell. Am I in prison? she wondered.

  With that thought, Miriam lost what calm she had. She leaned against the door and pounded it with her left hand, setting up a hollow racket,
but stopped when her hand began to throb and the fear swept back in a suffocating wave, driving a storm surge of rage before it. She sat down and buried her face in her hands and began to sob quietly. She was still in this position a few minutes later when the door frame gave a quiet click and opened outward.

  Miriam looked up suddenly as the door opened. “Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.

  The man standing in the doorway was perfectly turned out, from his black loafers to the ends of his artfully styled blond hair: He was young (late twenties or early thirties), formally dressed in a fashionable suit, clean-shaven, and his face was set in neutral lines. He could have been a Mormon missionary or an FBI agent. “Miss Beckstein, if you’d be so good as to come with me, please?”

  “Who are you?” She repeated. “Aren’t you guys supposed to read me my rights or something?” There was something odd about him, but she couldn’t quite get her head around it.

  Past his shoulder she could see a corridor, blurry right now-then she realized what it was that she was having trouble with. He’s wearing a sword, she told herself, hardly believing her eyes.

  “You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension.” He smiled, not unpleasantly. “We don’t have to read you your rights. However, if you’ll come with me, we can go somewhere more comfortable to discuss the situation. Unless you’re entirely happy with the sanitary facilities here?”

  Miriam glanced behind her, suddenly acutely aware that her bladder was full and her stomach was queasy. “Who are you?” she asked uncertainly.

  “If you come with me, you’ll get your answers,” he said soothingly. He took a step back and something made Miriam suspect there was an implicit or else left dangling at the end of his last sentence. She lurched to her feet unsteadily and he reached out for her elbow. She shuffled backward instinctively to avoid contact, but lost her balance against the edge of the bed: She sat down hard and went over backward, cracking her head against the wall.