Empire Games Series, Book 1(98)
“Thanks for all the hard work.” Rita eased her trainers off and began to work her way into the boots. “I mean that. Sorry I can’t wait around, though—I’ve got to go and see Ivan next. Last time he was threatening to break out skin-whitening creams, and God knows what he’s going to want to do to my hair.”
NEW LONDON, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020
Adrian Holmes, Secretary to the Central Commission of the Inner Party, ran his department from a small, windowless room deep in the former imperial palace. In place of a window, his office wall had a painting: a classic by George Stubbs, part of the Commonwealth State Art Collection: Frederick, Prince of Wales, Arrives in Boston. A fifty-two-year-old king to be, in white wig, hose, and red coat—not yet the ermine and crown and scepter of the emperor in exile—standing on a pier, graciously accepting the welcome of the city fathers. In the background, lurking, the engineer of the royal settlement and first Prime Minister of the New Empire, Baronet Benjamin Franklin—in Holmes’s opinion, a beacon and an object of emulation.
Holmes was not happy. Neither, for that matter, were the two men standing before his desk. “Stop, please, and rephrase your report,” Holmes said, staring at the older, shorter one of the two (silver-streaked gray hair combed back around his shining pate, a deeply lined face and a smashed nose souvenirs of a more exciting youth than his sober minister’s tailcoat now suggested). “As succinctly as possible, if you will.”
The younger man (skinny and bearing an air of perpetual worried puzzlement) sighed quietly and shifted from foot to foot, his hands clutched behind his back. He glanced at his elder, then back to the Secretary, who was younger than either.
“The Burgesons are active,” said the older man. “The wife was summoned to an emergency meeting of a cross-departmental security committee the day before yesterday. Other attendees included Commonwealth Guard and Transport Police officials. Her director of espionage at the DPR then took off for Philadelphia with some handpicked officers, wiring orders ahead that stirred up the local constabulary and Guard barracks like hornets’ nests. Something to do with alien spies of the world-walking variety. Meanwhile, Mr. Burgeson is holding meetings with every Commissioner who’ll give him the time of day. Promising them a chicken in every pot and a pie on every plate.”
“And the other thing?” Holmes turned his gaze on the younger man.
He dry-swallowed. “My correspondent within the Ministry confirms the rumor we caught wind of back in April. They are pursuing some scheme in great secrecy, on which account they have detached a Major Hulius Hjorth of the DPR—a world-walker—for special duty. The new information is that they’re sending him to Berlin. In great secrecy.
“The correspondent in question has not yet been able to tell me what is happening, only that the assistant director of security at the Department of Para-historical Research is managing it directly, on Mrs. Burgeson’s orders. And that Major Hjorth is a relative of hers. He went underground a few months ago, but we know nothing about what he’s been doing except that they shipped him down to Maracaibo for some sort of special training.”
“Lovely.” Holmes looked away, resting his eyes on the painting. “The rats are scrambling.” He looked squarely at the younger fellow. “Keith. I want to know more about this operation in Berlin.” (Keith was not so young: merely in his early thirties. And not so puzzled and worried, unless it was the perpetual puzzlement and worry of the espionage-obsessed. Which was indeed the main purpose in life of Keith Pierrepoint, Holmes’s rat-catcher-in-chief.) “It’s out of their usual territory. I am distressed. Are you following the news from the enemy court?”
“The royal betrothal, sir?” Pierrepoint raised an eyebrow. “I gather the nuptials are to be delayed until the princess turns eighteen. Rather a late ripening if you ask me.”
Holmes shook his head. “Big picture, man, follow the big picture.” His tone of mild disappointment made Pierrepoint nervous, with good reason. “She is going to finishing school, Pierrepoint. Can you guess where?”
Pierrepoint’s mouth made an O. He closed it silently, and nodded. “It falls somewhat outside my remit, sir, but I take your point.”
“Berlin, Harry,” Holmes said, looking now at the older man. “Commissioner Burgeson has suddenly developed an appetite for meddling in foreign affairs, just as we are called upon to confront the First Man’s unfortunate decline. I do not believe this is a coincidence. I want Keith to find out more about Mrs. Burgeson’s plans for the Pretender’s daughter. I’m afraid we shall find evidence of treason: if not, look harder.” His cheeks tensed in an expression that might have been mistaken for a smile by an excessively naive onlooker. “As for her plan, whatever it is I trust Keith to disrupt it as embarrassingly as possible. If nothing else, she needs to learn to stick to her brief. I’m sure there are channels by which the French might accidentally learn of the presence of an agent in Berlin? But you, Harry, have the bigger job. I’m sure you can read my mind.”
Harrison Baker, chief of staff to the Party Secretary, nodded lugubriously. “Leverage.”
“Exactly.” Now Holmes smiled. “A live boy or a dead girl in the minister of sanctimony’s bed should be sufficient. Let Mr. Burgeson bluster his way out of that. Or something of equivalent magnitude. Something to sow distrust between the two of them. Something sufficient that any judge would grant a divorce on the spot. Or some other soot to spill across his spotless reputation. At a minimum, find enough to make his faction question his discretion and his fitness to lead in the months ahead.”