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.”
Baker nodded again. “I am unaware of any singular vices attached to the man, sir, but I’m sure something can be arranged. Not certain it’ll split him from her—they’ve been thick as thieves since before I met them—but it ought to be possible to isolate him otherwise.”
“Good man.” Holmes’s smile faded. “You’ve both got work to do; don’t let me keep you from it.”
“And a good day to you, sir,” murmured Pierrepoint as he accepted his dismissal and turned to leave. He might as well not have bothered. The Secretary’s nose was already buried in the next of his briefings. Pierrepoint took a deep breath and released it as he and Baker left the claustrophobic inner study behind, passing the vigilant eyes of the outer office staff. An unaccountable sense of relief seized him: unaccountable, for he knew how little it meant to be out from under the direct gaze of the Secretary. Holmes had eyes everywhere.
If the Burgesons and other Party Commissioners were rats, scurrying about their urgent business with vibrating whiskers and beady eyes, lining their nests and tending their pups, Holmes was something cold-eyed and reptilian. A new ruler in waiting, coiled vigilantly in the cloaking shadows. And when the First Man finally departed, Holmes would ensure that there were fewer rodents in the palace.
PHILADELPHIA, TIME LINE TWO; IRONGATE, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020
The four-thirty wake-up alarm buzzed. Rita surfaced dozily from a melatonin-assisted warm bath of dreamless sleep to find herself in a bunk bed in a compact trailer. Stumbling and red-eyed, she worked her way through morning ablutions in the cramped bathroom, then dressed in the alien-hippie drag Gladys had set her up with. The camera and inertial mapper were fully charged: she stowed them carefully in her concealed pockets before opening the door. It was cold outside, with a predawn chill that hinted at autumnal weather to come. Beyond the security wall, agents in windbreakers moved around, prepping the convoy of vehicles that would escort her to the insertion site.
“You look like you need this.” Patrick thrust an insulated mug of coffee into her hands. She nodded her sleepy gratitude. “Ivan’s waiting. You’ve got about twenty minutes.”