The Family Trade

On the other hand, the thought of voluntarily going back to the drafty castle and the insane family politics was depressing. So she picked up the phone and dialled Roland’s number instead.

“Hello?” He answered on the first ring and she cheered up instantly.

“It’s me,” she said quietly. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.” A pause. “He’s not around right now, but he’s never far away.”

“Are they still watching my house?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Where are you?”

“On a train halfway between New York and Boston.”

“Don’t tell me you’re ru

“No,” she said too hastily, “but I’ve got unfinished business. Not just you—other stuff too. I want to see my mother, and I want to see some other people. Okay? Better not ask too many questions. I’m not going to do anything rash, but I have a feeling I don’t want to draw any attention to people I know. But look, are you able to get away for a day? Say, to New York?”

“They’ve got you in that stone pile?” he asked.

“Yeah. Do you know what it’s like?”

“You survived three days with Olga?” His tone was one of hopeful disbelief.

“The facilities are, uh, open plan, and I get to sit cheek by jowl with two of Olga’s less enlightened co-workers,” she said, eyes swivelling to track down the nearest passengers. She was clear—nobody within two seats of her. Quietly she added, “The ladies-in-waiting are like jail guards, only prettier, if you follow me. They stick like glue. I woke up and they were in my goddamn bed with me. You’d think Angbard had set them on me as minders. Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end. I’m going to go back this evening, but if you don’t come and rescue me soon, I swear I’ll kill someone. And I still haven’t filed copy on that dot-com busted flush feature I’m supposed to be writing for Andy.”

“My poor sweetheart.” He laughed, a little sadly. “You’re not having a good time. Maybe we should form a club?”

“Culture-shocked and brain-damaged?”

“That’s right.” A pause. “Going back after eight years away, that was the hardest thing. Miriam. You will go back to them?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “If I don’t, I’ll never see you again, will I?”

“Not today. I’ll be over again the day after tomorrow,” he said. “New York, is it?”

“Yes.” She thought for a moment. “Rent a double room at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. It’s anonymous and bland, but I think you’ve got more travel time than I have. Leave voice mail with the room number and the name you’re using and I’ll show up as early as possible.” She shivered at the thought, shuffling uncomfortably in her seat.

“I’ll be there. Promise.”

“Bring a couple of new prepaid phones, bought for cash, as anonymous as you can. We’ll need them. I miss you,” she added very quietly and hung up.

Forty-eight hours to go. It had already been four days since she’d last seen him.

The conductor came around, and she glanced around again to confirm how much space she had. The carriage was half-empty, she’d missed the rush hour crush. Now she dialled another number, one she’d committed to memory because she was afraid to program it into the phone.

“Hi, you’ve reached the answering machine of Paulette Milan. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but—”

“Paulie, cut the crap and pick up the phone right now.”

The line clicked. “Miriam! What the fuck are you playing at, sweetie?”

“ ‘Playing at’? What do you mean?”

“Skipping out like that! Jesus, I’ve been so worried!”

“You think you’ve been worried? You haven’t phoned my house, have you?” Miriam interrupted hastily.

“Oh yeah, but when you didn’t answer I left a message about the bridge club. Something I made up on the spur of the moment. I’ve been so worried—”

“Paulie, you didn’t mention the other stuff, did you? Or go around in person?”

“I’m not stupid,” Paulette said quietly, all ebullience gone.

“Good—uh, I’m sorry. Let me try again.” Miriam closed her eyes. “Hi, I’m Miriam Beckstein, and I have just discovered the hard way that my long-lost family have got very long memories and longer arms, and they invited me to spend some time with them. It turns out that they’re in the importIexport trade, and they’re so big that the story we were working on probably covers some of their turf. Hopefully they don’t think you’re anything other than a ditzy broad who plays bridge with me, because if they did you might not enjoy their company. Capisce?”

“Oh, oh shit! Miriam, I am so sorry! Listen, are you all right?”

“Yeah. Not only am I all right, I’m on a train that gets into Back Bay Station in—” she checked her watch—“about an hour and a half. I don’t have long, this is a day trip, and I have to be on the four o’clock return train. But if you can meet me at the station I’ll drag you out to lunch and fill you in on everything, and I mean everything. Okay?” “Okay.” Paulette sounded a little less upset. “Miriam?” “Yes?”

“What are they like? What are they doing to you?” Miriam closed her eyes. “Did you ever see the movie Married to the Mob?”

“No way! What about your locket? You mean they’re—” “Lets just say, it would be a bad idea for you to phone my house, visit it in person, talk to or visit my mother, or do anything that is in any way out of character for a dumb out-of-work research geek who vaguely knows me from work. At least, where they can see you. Which is why I’m phoning on a number you’ve never seen and probably won’t ever see again. Meet me at noon inside the station, near the south entrance?” “Okay, I’ll be there. Better have a good story!” Paulette hung up, and Miriam settled back to watch the countryside roll by.

When she hit the station, Miriam immediately left it. There was an ATM in the mall across the street, and she pulled another two thousand in cash out of it. There seemed to be no end to the amount she could draw, as long as she didn’t mind leaving an audit trail. This time she wanted to. Putting a time stamp on Boston would tell Duke Angbard where she’d been. She pla

She headed back into the station in the same state she’d been in in the taxi. This was home, a place she’d been before, intimately familiar at the same time that it was anonymous and impersonal. She was shaken by how relieved she was to be back. Suddenly being jobless in a recession with her former employer threatening to blacken her name didn’t seem so bad, all things considered. She almost walked right past Paulette, as u

“Paulie!”

“Miriam!” Paulette grabbed her in a hug, then held her at arm’s length, inspecting her face anxiously. “You look thi

“Was it bad?” Miriam shook her head, unsure where to begin. “Jesus, it was weird, and bits of it were very bad and bits of it were, um, less bad. Not bad at all. But it’s not over. Listen, let’s go find something to eat—I haven’t had any breakfast—and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They found a booth in a not unbearable pizza joint in the mall, where the background noise loaned them a veneer of privacy, and Miriam wolfed down a weird Californian pizza with a topping of chicken tikka on a honeyed sourdough base. Between bites, she gave Paulette a brief run-down. “They kidnapped me right out of my house after you left, a whole damn SWAT team. But then they put me up in this stately house, a palace really, and introduced me to a real honest-to-god duke. You know the medieval shit I came back with? It’s real. What I didn’t figure on was that my family, my real family, I mean, are, like, the aristocracy who run it.”

“They rule it.” Paulette’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You’re not shitting me. I mean, they’re kings and stuff?”