I tried working from the other direction, getting what information I could about the modern-day organization, and working backwards. But they were discreet to the point of paranoia, running their business through a network of offshore companies registered in places like the Cayman Islands, Jersey, and the Isle of Man. They only allowed the Fugger name to break the surface when it was to their tactical advantage, as when trying to hire employees for one of their humanitarian NGOs.
So my studies into the Fuggers produced very little that Tristan could actually use. Discussing it over an Old Tearsheet Best Bitter in the Apostolic Café—served as usual by the woman with the eyebrow tattoos, Julie Lee (Professional Smart-ass Oboist)—we agreed on a plausible scenario: some of the younger Fuggers, tired of the wars and turmoil in central Europe, had moved to London and put down roots in its banking scene. Athanasius was one of those, and the business had grown since then as a private bank with tentacles all over the place.
Erszebet had told us once that a Fugger branch office was probably nearby, and indeed we were able to find that they had an unobtrusive space in an old building near Boston Common. There was a similar but somewhat larger office in lower Manhattan, and others in different financial centers around the world.
Anyway, the research kept me out of the office, which had become a disagreeable place to work. Tristan was fairly immune to ambience and had a far higher tolerance for annoying personalities than I did, but he was just as happy as I was to avoid Les Holgate.
The advent of Holgate had dramatically increased Erszebet’s regard for Tristan, now that she had another by-the-book thirty-something white American male to compare him to. She became almost pleasant toward him. That said, when he expressed pleasure that the “node” for diachronic transport was developing in London, Erszebet’s immediate response was suspicion.
We were in Oda-sensei’s study on a drizzly afternoon, and Rebecca had just served compote of warm peaches. (At the time it seemed so quaint and tasteful—now my stomach nearly heaves at the thought of adding yet more sugar to my diet.)
“Why do we need a node?” Erszebet asked. “Aren’t we just supposed to make money?”
“Yes,” said Tristan patiently, who had inhaled all of his peaches without tasting them or possibly even chewing them. “But we’re doing that in order to start funding the actual work that is to be done. Having a node—and later, a network of them, in various DTAPs—will help with all that future work.”
She shook her head in an I-don’t-know-about-that way. “I did not promise to do anything beyond helping you make money from the Bay Psalm Book,” she said. “And that is only because I want to go spit on the graves of my enemies.”
“You won’t be allowed back in the ODEC unless you’re doing the magic we need you to do.”
“Cruel,” she hissed under her breath.
“Practical,” said Tristan. She turned her back on him to stare out the window in a sullenly coquettish way (we had become used to that), so he returned his attention to the rest of us sitting around the coffee table, and we continued to discuss strategy: before he returned from the DTAP, Gráinne had demanded more transparency if she were going to continue to abet him.
Frank Oda and Rebecca both sounded cautious approval of this request.
“She sounds like a worthwhile connection,” I agreed. “I think you should open up to her a little more. If she is willing to introduce you to the Court Witches, they could provide another angle of approach with Sir Edward.”
“Good luck with that,” said Erszebet, her back still to us, knees crossed, waggling one high-heeled sandal. “You are not likely to win any witchy friends if the witchy friends knew the whole truth. I certainly would not help you if I had known the whole truth.”
Reader, know this: I still preferred her to Les Holgate.
WE RETURNED TO the office so that Erszebet could Send Tristan back to 1601 London. Les was there, with an expensive-looking coffee-like beverage (which smelled like that awful thing I’d ordered from the Smart-ass Oboist at the Apostolic Café the day Tristan had first approached me. How peculiar, the things that summon nostalgia.). Les seemed even more smug than usual, as if he had a secret he was just bursting to share with us, but did not want to give up his privileged position of being the only one with the secret. As usual, we ignored him.
Erszebet Sent Tristan back to 1601. Although her Sending one of us somewhere was now a fairly regular aspect of our working life, we were still respectful of its significance, and generally made it a practice that whoever was in the office gathered in the control room to watch through the glass and wave to the DOer as they emerged from the sterilizing shower and entered the ODEC. This time, I noticed Les was not present. Some minutes passed while Erszebet performed the Sending. When she had finished and let herself out of the chamber, I noticed Les walking into the control room from the corridor, smiling in a self-congratulatory way as he slipped his phone into his pocket.
Not ten minutes later, the office phone rang: Frink was calling from DC. He demanded to be transferred to a video conference.
Most of the offices in the building had long since been demolished, but in recent weeks a couple of Maxes had built a new one from scratch in an underused corner of the building. Supposedly it had all kinds of anti-surveillance shielding and other top-secret electronic gear built into its walls. On the inside it looked like just another corporate meeting room, dominated at one end by a flat-panel screen without which Les Holgate would have been effectively deaf and mute, since all of his communication took place through PowerPoint decks. It could also be used for secure, encrypted video conferences with the Trapezoid or other nodes in the dot-mil world. We all gathered around the conference table while Les Holgate connected us.
“I especially need to speak to the Asset,” Frink said as soon as he appeared onscreen.
“I have a name,” said Erszebet. She slithered into a slumped position on a rotating office chair and, like a bored, fidgeting schoolgirl, began to push herself back and forth through a wide arc, chin practically resting on her sternum.
“Glad you’re there. And everyone else? Sound off.”
“I’m here—Mel—but Tristan has just gone back to the Tearsheet DTAP,” I said.
“Here,” said Frank and Rebecca at the same moment, since it was already clear Frink hardly registered their presence.
“Here, sir,” said Les Holgate. He remained standing.
“Okay, good, here are your orders,” said Frink’s voice. “Elizabeth, Send Les back to the Tearsheet DTAP.”
“Who is Elizabeth?” asked Erszebet, without interrupting the arc of her fidgets. “How wonderful you have another witch to boss around. I would like a vacation. Elizabeth can fill in for me.”
“Erszebet, please,” I said.
She stopped twisting the chair. “I am Sending him back exactly where Tristan goes?” she said, sounding wary.
“Yes, exactly.”
She sat up a little straighter. “Why do we have two DOers in the same DTAP?” she asked. “This is a complication. It is hard enough to keep one person on the right Strand. Two is very tricky.”
“It’s time to get fresh eyes on the problem. We need to think outside of the box.”