The Trade of Queens

“Neither did I,” said Olga. She took a mouthful of coffee, then put her mug down. “The people who did that are dead, Mr. Fleming. My people took them down. Do you have a problem with that?”

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“They didn’t stop at detonating bombs in your capital city,” Olga added. “They tried to murder everyone who stood in their way. A coup attempt.” Her minute nod made his stomach shrink. “They tried to kill me, and Miriam, and everyone aligned with us. Luckily we had a tip-off. They failed; the last of the plotters was impaled yesterday morning.”

“Impaled?” Paulette’s expression was rigid.

“Oh yes. After the executioners blinded and castrated them,” Olga added, and bowed her head. “My father was killed in the struggle, Mr. Fleming. I’d thank you not to place your eighteen thousand dead on my shoulders.”

Mike almost asked which faction her father had belonged to; a vestigial sense of shame stilled his tongue for a few seconds. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said eventually.

“But impaling—” Paulette stopped.

“It was no better than they deserved. The traditional punishment for such high treason is to spread the wings of the blood-eagle, then quarter the parts,” Olga added. “But that hasn’t been practiced since my grandfather’s time.”

Mike stared at his mug of coffee, and dry-swallowed. This wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “You failed to stop them,” he accused, knowing it signified nothing.

“You failed too. So we’re even. Failures all round.” The silence stretched on for half a minute. Finally Olga broke it. “Why did you call for help?”

Mike shuffled on his stool uncomfortably. “Did you find your mole?”

“We have more urgent problems right now.” It was an evasion. Olga looked at Paulette. “Thank you for continuing to source provisions for us; it has been more useful than you can know, but there are some new arrangements I need to discuss with you. Things are going to be busy for a while. Mr. Fleming, there have been reports of contrails over the Gruinmarkt. We don’t have much time for idle chatter. Do you know anything about them?”

“They’ve been planning some kind of incursion for at least six months,” Mike told her. The secret, divulged, left him feeling naked. “I saw a spec-ops helicopter. This was planned before the bombs went off. They know where all the oil is, and you’re a threat to national security. But since the bombs—now—I don’t think they’ll be satisfied with their original plans.”

“Do you believe they’ll use nuclear weapons?”

“Will they?” It was Mike’s turn to frown. “They already did: that castle up near Concord. The question isn’t whether, the question is when and how many.” Stripped of the bloody shirt of eighteen thousand dead, these events acquired a logic of their own. “They’ll kill a lot of people who have nothing to do with your extended family.”

“Yes.” Olga emptied her coffee mug. “And so, we are taking steps to leave, to put ourselves forever beyond contact with the US government. Those of us with any sense, that is. Some refuse to see the writing on the wall, as you would say. The Clan is breaking up, you know; a generation ago the mere suggestion of an open split would have been seen as treason.”

“Where are you going?” asked Paulette.

“You’ve been there, I seem to recall. On a visit.” Olga raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me for not describing it in front of Mr. Fleming. When we go—I am allowed to offer you a payoff in money, or asylum if you are afraid of the authorities here: We look after our friends. But it’ll be a one-way trip.”

“They’ll come after you. They’ll hunt you down wherever you run to,” Mike predicted.

“Let them try.” Olga shrugged. “Mr. Fleming, I didn’t choose to fight the US government; I’m not Osama bin Laden. Your former vice president, he—well. We have a rule. When we do business with outsiders, we have a rule: no politicians. WARBUCKS quit politics, in the late eighties: That’s when our West Coast subsidiary approached him—well. Water under the bridge. It was a serious oversight, but one we are in the process of rectifying. My question to you is, what are you going to do now? Paulette tells me your agency has tried to kill you. What do you want? I can give you money—we’ve got more than we know what to do with, we can’t take it where we’re going—or I can offer you asylum—”

“I want the files,” said Mike.

“The. What?”

“Your files on WARBUCKS.”

“Huh?” Paulette looked confusedly between them.

“WARBUCKS started this. I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t know a deliberate provocation when I saw one. This is all happening because he wants to cover up his past complicity with the Clan, and because the existence of the Clan is now a matter of public record. An awful lot of people are going to die to cover up his secret.” Mike’s frustration sought a way out. “People who have nothing to do with your nasty little family trade, or with me, or with WARBUCKS. Listen, I don’t much care for you. If it was business as usual I’d arrest you right now and put you away on racketeering, money laundering, and drugs charges. Oh, and the illegal firearm.” He gestured at Olga’s bag and she twitched a hand towards it; he shrugged. “But it’s not business as usual—probably never will be, ever again. The man who you guys have fallen out with is running my country. He’s corrupted my government, built a secret unaccountable agency with the capability to bypass the national nuclear command authority, disappeared people into underground prisons; you name it, he’s done it. He’s wiped his ass on the Constitution and it’s all thanks to dirty drugs money: not directly, oh no, but you’re complicit. I don’t care what happens to you people—but I swore an oath to protect the constitution of the United States, and it looks like for the past year I’ve been working for an organization designed from the get-go to undermine it. So I want your files on WARBUCKS, now they’re no use to you any more if you’re serious about pulling out. I want the dirt. And if you won’t give it to me, you’re worse than I think you are—and my opinion of you is pretty low right now.”

“What are you going to do with the files if we give them to you?” Olga asked slowly.

“Well, that depends.” He glanced at Paulette. “I take it your work here is mostly done, or you wouldn’t have told me even that much?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I need someone who knows how the press works. And I need ammunition. Someone’s got to blow the lid on WARBUCKS before he eats the US government from inside—and I don’t see anyone else volunteering.”

“But—” Paulette stopped and looked bleakly at Olga.

“What?” Mike glanced between them.

“Do you want to tell him?” asked Olga.

Paulette shook her head wordlessly and reached across to flick on the radio.

“—Cardiac arrest on the way to Bethesda Naval Hospital. Doctors worked for three hours to try to resuscitate the president but he was declared dead at five-fourteen this morning. The vice president is meeting with advisors but is expected to appear at a press conference to make a statement imminently; we understand that Supreme Court Chief Justice Scalia is on his way to the vice president’s location to administer the oath—”

“Fuck.” Mike stared at the radio. All his carefully considered plans crumbled. “Fuck.”

“That’s two presidents in a month,” said Olga. “I understand it’s a stressful job.”

“Jesus fuck.” Paulette looked at Mike reproachfully. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Olga was imperturbable: “Do you think your people will care about the misdeeds of KINGPIN’s predecessor?”

Mike shook his head. “Fuck. Sorry.” He stared at the radio. The presenter was babbling on about previous presidential emergency successions. “He’s dead. Why did the bastard have to die now?”

“What will this new President do?” Olga leaned toward him.

“KINGPIN? He’ll—” Mike chuckled weakly. “Oh dear god.”

“WARBUCKS was KINGPIN’s assistant, wasn’t he?” Paulette blinked, her eyes watery. “Back in the Ford era,