The Chosen

A dangerous one, son, Raj said. Be very careful.

Jeffrey could have told that. The eyes fastened on him were the coldest he'd ever seen, colder than the far side of the moon.

'Oh, we picked him up in Corona,' Heinrich said.

'You should have turned him over to us, or the Fourth Bureau.'

'Well, he's a neutral-and a relative of sorts, Johan's foster-brother. At loose ends, the Santy legation in Corona stopped a couple of thousand-kilo bombs with its roof.'

'Jeffrey Farr,' Gerta said; she seemed to be filing and sorting information behind her eyes. 'He's a spook, Heinrich. You ought to shoot him.'

'I haven't been showing him the plans for the new torpedo,' Heinrich said, a slight exasperation in his voice.

Gerta shrugged, and holstered her automatic. Jeffrey felt a slight prickle of relief. Unlikely that she'd just shoot him down as he stood-

probability 27 %, ±7, Center said.

— but it was still a relief. She shrugged.

'It's your command. Let's get this ratfuck organized, shall we?'

'Ya.' Heinrich turned his head slightly, towards Jeffrey: 'My wife, Captain Gerta Hosten.' Back to her: 'What's the theater situation?'

'FUBAR, but we're winning-not exactly the way we expected to, but we are. Once this position's blocked, General Summelworden's got them in the kettle and we can turn up the heat; Ciano next. Where do you want my machine guns? And get me something to stop this leak, would you? I can't keel over just yet.'

'Automatics over by-'

The conversation slid into technicalities. Heinrich waved at a passing medic who then knelt to put a pressure bandage on Gerta's thigh.

Ciano next, Jeffrey thought. That's going to be ugly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Everything was calm and unhurried in the Imperial situation room. There was a huge map of the Empire on one wall, stuck with black pins to represent Land forces and green ones for Imperial. A relief map of the same territory stood in a sunken area in the center of the floor, with a polished mahogany rail around it, and enlisted men pushed unit counters with long-handled wooden rakes. One wall of the big room was all telephones and telegraphs, their operators scribbling on pads and handing them to decoders.

Aides in polished boots and neat, colorful uniforms strode back and forth; generals frowned at the maps; the Emperor tugged at his white whiskers and bunked sleepy, pouched eyes. Behind him stood guards in ceremonial uniform, and several civilians. .

No, John Hosten thought, appraising them. Their eyes flickered ceaselessly over the room, appraising, watching. Waiting. The real guards. And by their looks, the only people in this room who're doing their jobs.

John Hosten approached, flanked by two ushers, and made his bow. Behind the surface of his mind he could feel Raj and Center examining the maps, the computer's passionless appraisal and Raj's cold scorn.

Systematic lying, Raj thought. All the way up the chain of command. It's always the commander's fault when that happens. Once you let people start telling you what you want to hear, you're fucked-and everyone else with you.

'Rise, Signore Hosten,' the Emperor said.

He was an old man, but John was slightly shocked at his appearance; there was a perceptible tremble to his hands now, and a faint smell of sickness. Count del'Cuomo beside him looked even worse, if possible-but then, he probably had better information available, as Minister of War.

'Your Majesty,' John said.

He handed over the folder of documents, neatly tied with a green-and-red ribbon.

'My credentials, Your Majesty. And my regrets, but my government requires my services at home. I will be returning to Santander City.'

The Emperor smiled absently. 'And taking one of our fairest flowers with you. . where is young Pia?'

'Currently, she's working as a volunteer nurse,' John said. Against my advice.

The Emperor frowned. 'Not. . not really suitable, I'd have thought,' he murmured.

Count del'Cuomo shrugged. 'She was always too much for me, your Majesty,' he said. He looked up at John. 'But my son-in-law will take good care of her, and return in happier times, when we have driven the tedeschi back to their island, as we did before.'

John bowed again, more deeply, and took the required four paces backward. That nearly ran him into an aide with a stack of telegrams, but he ignored the man. Ignored everything, until a turn down the corridor gave him a view down over the city. Then he took in a sharp breath.

It was early morning, still almost dark. The news of the fall of Milana must have reached the people in the hour or so he'd spent waiting. Not from a courier or coded message, surely; the Imperial armies hadn't fallen apart quite that drastically. . yet. More probably from a refugee on a fast riverboat. As for official statements, by this time they just confirmed what they denied. Even when they were sincere, and he'd bet it just meant that the lower-level functionaries writing them had been suckered by their own propaganda.

John Hosten stood for a moment looking down at the rioting and the fires, past the gardens of the palace and the cordon of Guard troops stationed along the perimeter. A man of thirty, tall and a hard-faced, in a diplomat's black morning coat, wing collar and dark-striped trousers. A servant almost walked into him, saw his face and silently stood aside.

'Back to the embassy,' John said to himself; then aloud, to the driver of his car.

'Don't know if we can, sir,' the driver said. He was an embassy man himself, diplomatic service, and quite capable. Harry. Harry Smith, John reminded himself. It was too easy to forget about people, when you spent time looking at the world through Centers eyes.

Too true, son, Raj said. And if you think it's a problem for you. .

'Lot of the streets looked to be blocked,' Smith went on. He shrugged. 'Kin find m' way through, maybe.'

'Mr. Smith,' John said.

The driver twisted around to look at him; he was a slight, grizzled man, with blue eyes and wrinkles beside them. There was a slight eastern twang in his Santander. John recognized it, and the manner.

'My wife is down near the train station, working in the emergency hospital,' he said. 'I have to get to the embassy to get some help so I can get through to her. If you don't think you can make it through, I'll drive.'

The blue eyes squinted at him. 'Nossir. You watch our back, I'll drive.' He reached under the front seat and pulled out a pump-action shotgun. 'You know how to use one of these, sir?'

Smiling, John took it and racked the action. A shell popped out; he caught it one-handed and fed it back into the gate in front of the trigger. A wary respect came into Smiths eyes; it increased when John tucked the weapon under a traveling rug on the seat beside him.

'I'll bring it out if we need to use it, or show it to somebody,' he said. 'Now let's get going.'

* * *

'I need some volunteers,' John said. 'To get someone out of the city.'

He nearly had to shout over the clamor of the crowd outside the gilded wrought-iron gates of the embassy compound. There were thousands of them, more crowded down the street, surging and screaming. Marine guards in blue dress uniforms were stationed inside the gate and along the walls, carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. A little ceremonial saluting cannon had been wheeled out and faced the main entranceway, just as a hint in case the crowd decided to try and batter the metal down. That was unlikely; under the gilding the bars were as thick as a woman's wrist. The Marines were discouraging those trying to break through with the butts of their rifles, or short jabs with their bayonets. Nothing more was needed, not yet.