They all halted under the streetlight at the T-shaped intersection. The two men waiting there both threw their cigarettes into the center of the road. Seconds later a quiet hum of rubber tires sounded as a steamcar came down the road and halted-a big Santander-made four-door Wilkens in plain blue paint, with wire-spoke wheels and two sofa-style seats facing each other in the rear compartment. The head of the snatch team signaled John to enter.
There was a woman sitting in the front seat, with her back to the driver's compartment. The interior of the Wilkens was fairly dark, only the reflected light of the streetlamps. That was enough to show the oily blued sheen of a weapon in her hand; it gestured him back to the rear of the vehicle. He obeyed silently. Two of the Protege gunmen sat on either side of him, wedging him into position. The front door chunked closed. Just for insurance, the Protege beside John had a short double-edged blade in his hand, under the limp hat. That put the point not more than a couple of millimeters from his short ribs. John's lips quirked. They certainly weren't taking any chances with him; but then, the preferred Chosen method of dealing with ants was to drop an anvil on them.
The woman leaned out the window and spoke to the other members of the team. "Report to the safe house," she said. Gray uniform tunic, Captain's rank-tabs, red General Staff flashes, Military Intelligence insignia.
The motion left the light on her face for a second. She was in her late twenties, not much older than he; a dark brunette, black hair cropped to a plush sable cap, black eyes, high cheekbones, and a rather full mouth. An Imperial face or Sierran, except for the hardness to it, the body beneath close-coupled and muscular but full-bosomed. He blinked, surprise tugging at his mind.
"Gerta!" he blurted.
probability subject identity not gerta hosten is too low to be meaningfully calculated, Center noted, overlaying the woman's face with a series of regressions that took it back to the teenager who'd said good-bye to him on the docks of Oathtaking twelve years ago.
She sat back and let the pistol rest on her knee; it was a massive, chunky, squared-off thing, not a revolver.
recoil-operated automatic, magazine in the grip, Center said. 11mm caliber, six to eight rounds.
"Hi, Johnnie," she said in Landisch. "Nice to see you again."
John took a deep breath. "If you wanted to talk, you could have invited me more politely," he said in a neutral tone.
"Behfel ist behfel, Johnnie."
"I'm not under Chosen orders."
She smiled and waggled the automatic.
"All right, I grant that. I presume you're not going to kill me?"
"I'd really regret having to do that, John," she said.
veracity 95 % ±3, Center observed. A brief flash showed pupil dilation and heat patterns on Gerta's face.
Of course, the way she phrased it implied that she might have to kill him anyway. Looking at her, he didn't have the least doubt she'd do it-regrets or no.
"How're the children?" he asked after a moment.
"Erika's just starting school, and Johan's at the stage where his favorite word is no," she said. "We've adopted two more, as well. Protege kids, a boy and a girl. The boy's a byblow, probably one of Heinrich's."
"Two?" John said, raising his eyebrows.
"Policy."
Which was information, of a sort. The Chosen Council must be anticipating casualties. . and not just in the upcoming war with the Empire, either.
He didn't try to look out the windows as the wheels hammered over the cobblestones, then hummed on smoother main street pavement of asphalt or stone blocks. Gerta uncorked a silver flask. John took it and sipped: banana brandy, something he hadn't tasted in a long time.
"Danke," he said. "Anything you can tell me?"
"The colonel will brief you, Johnnie. Just. . be reasonable, eh?"
"Reasonable depends on where you're sitting," he said, returning the flask.
"No it doesn't. When someone else holds all the cards, reasonable is whatever they say it is."
He looked at the pistol. She shook her head.
"Not just this. The Chosen hold all the cards on Visager; it'd be smart to keep that in mind."
He was almost relieved when they pulled into a side entrance to the Chosen embassy compound. The Wilkens was as inconspicuous as a steamcar in Ciano could be-powered vehicles weren't all that common here, even now-and the rear windows were tinted. The embassy itself was fairly large, a severe block of dark granite from the outside, the only ornamentation a gilded-bronze sunburst above the ironwork gates. The area within was larger than the Santander legation, mainly because all the Land's diplomatic personnel lived on the delegation's own extraterritorial ground. It might have been something out of Copernik or Oathtaking inside, boxlike buildings with tall windows and smooth columns, low-relief caryatids beside the doors. Fires were burning in iron drums in the open spaces between, while clerks dumped in more documents and stirred the ashes with pokers and broomsticks.
Christ, he thought. The sight hit him in the belly like a fist, more than the danger to himself had. War was close if the embassy was torching their classified papers.
He was hustled through a doorway, down corridors, finally into a windowless room with a single overhead light. It shone into his eyes as he sat in the steel-frame chair beneath it, obscuring the two figures at a table in front of him. One of them spoke in Landisch:
"Let's dispose with the tricks, shall we, Colonel?" Gerta said. "This isn't an interrogation."
The overhead light dimmed. He blinked and looked at the two Chosen officers. Both women-nothing unusual with that, in the Land's forces-in gray Army uniforms. Intelligence Section badges. A middle-aged colonel with gray in her blond brushcut and a face like a starved hound.
"Johan Hosten," the senior officer said. "We have arranged to speak with you on a matter of some importance."
John nodded. He could guess what was coming.
"The Land of the Chosen has need of your services, Johan Hosten."
"The Land of the Chosen rejected me rather thoroughly when I was twelve," he pointed out. "I'm a citizen of the Republic of Santander."
"The Republic is a democracy with universal suffrage," the colonel said. "Hence, weak and corrupt, with no real claim on your allegiance." She spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if commenting on the law of gravity. "Your father is second assistant of the general staff of the Land and a member of the Council. The implications are, I think, plain."
They certainly were. "I'm not Chosen and not qualified to be so," he said. Think, think. If he rolled over too quickly, they'd be suspicious.
"The regulations governing admittance have been waived or modified before," the intelligence officer said. "I am authorized to inform you that they will be again, in your case. Full Chosen status, and appropriate rank."
"You want me to defect?" he said slowly.
"Of course not. You will remain as an agent in place within the Santander intelligence apparat-of course, we know that your diplomatic status is a cover-and provide us with information, and your nominal superiors with disinformation which will be furnished. We can feed you genuine data of sufficient importance so that you will rise rapidly in rank. At the appropriate moment, we will bring you in from the cold."
She nodded towards Gerta. Ah. They sent Gerta along as an earnest of good faith. The offer probably was genuine. And to the Chosen's way of looking at it, perfectly natural. Perhaps if he'd never been contacted by Center, it might even have been tempting.