The Clan Corporate

"I'm not-I wasn't-" For a moment Smith looked embarrassed. "Carry on. Tell me in your own words."

"It didn't work out," Mike said slowly. "We were talking about taking a vacation together. Maybe even moving in. But then something spooked her. We had a couple of rows-she's a liberal, we got bickering over some stupid shit. And then-" He shook his head. "It didn't work out."

"How long have you known she was involved with the Clan?" asked Smith.

Mike shook his head. "Not known. Wasn't sure." But Pete was, he realized. And what Matthias said- "Listen, it's over between us. Two, three years ago. I didn't put two and two together about the woman who Source Greensleeves kept ranting about until he waved it in my face, and even then-how many journalists called Miriam are there?"

Smith put the photograph away. Then he nodded at Mike. "How would you characterize your relationship with her?" he asked.

"Turbulent. And over." Mike reached over to the bedside stand and picked up a glass of water. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, it won't work."

"And maybe I'm not thinking what you think I'm thinking." Smith suddenly gri

Mike nodded.

"Well, there's your explanation! Now do you see why you're needed?"

Mike nodded warily. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well, like Dr. James told you two weeks ago, we want you to set up a spy ring in Niejwein. That hasn't changed. What has changed is that we now have a list of starting points for you. It's a very short list, and she's right at the top of it. If we're right-if she's a recent recruit, dragged in by her long-lost family-she may be a potential asset. As long as she's inside the Clan, that is: she's not a lot of use to us over here, except as another mule."

Mike shivered momentarily, visualizing a collar bomb around a throat he'd buried his face in. "When?" he asked.

"We know roughly where the royal palace is, in Niejwein: it overlaps with Queens. Niejwein isn't a big city, it won't be hard for you to get there with the right disguise and cover story. Which, by the way, is that you're a Clan member from the west coast. It won't stand up to scrutiny, but from what we know about Niejwein it won't come in for much unless you try and play it for real. They're pretty primitive over there. And we've got an extra edge I haven't mentioned. We captured a courier last week."

"You did?" Mike sat up.

"And his dispatches." Smith frowned at Mike. "You don't need to know the details. Anyway, it seems your girlfriend is going up in the world. She's due to be the guest of honor at a royal reception in two weeks time, and the document taken from the courier includes what appears to be an invitation to a country cousin." Smith looked smug for a moment. "One of the things the Clan are good at is postal security-which works against them at times like this. As long as they don't know we've got couriers working for us, you're in the clear."

"Hey, are you telling me…"

"Yes. You're going to crash a royal garden party and make her an offer she can't refuse."

A week of twelve-hour days in a training camp on the edge of a sprawling army base couldn't prepare Mike Fleming for the experience of his first world-walk. On the contrary: he'd been led to expect a glossy high-tech send-off, and instead what he was getting looked very much like a ringside seat at an execution.

It was nearly noon. His personal trainer, who he knew only as John, had woken him at six o'clock and rushed him through breakfast. John had a halting grasp of hochsprache, but insisted Mike speak nothing else to him, playing dumb whenever Mike lapsed into English out of frustration or in search of some unmapped concept. Then he'd been taken on a tour of Facilities. A quiet woman who looked like she worked weekends in Macy's kitted him out in what they figured would pass for local costume-no cod-medieval "men in tights" nonsense, but rough woolen fabric, leggings, and an overtunic and leather boots.

Next on his itinerary was the armory. A hatchet-faced warrant officer checked him out and told him what was what in English. "This is your sword. Nearest we've got to it is a cutlass, note the curve in the blade-forget point work. If you ever did any fencing at school, forget that too. This is strictly for edge work, German-style. Oh, and if you have to use it you're probably dead. We don't have a couple of months to work you up to competent. Luckily for you, you're also allowed one of these." He held up a nylon holster, already laden with a black automatic pistol. "Glock 20C, fifteen-round magazine, ten mill." Just like the handguns "James Morgan" had been buying and, presumptively, a standard Clan issue. "You have two spare magazines. I take it you've checked out on one." In answer to Mike's mute head shake, he swore and glared at John: "What is it with you folks? Are you trying to get him killed?"

Half an hour on the range upstairs from the armory reassured Mike marginally and seemed to mollify the armorer. He could hit things with it, strip it down, and could reload and clean it. "Next trip," said John. "We have a, a thing that flies-"

Thing that flies turned out to be John's best attempt at saying helicopter in hochsprache. It gave Mike a splitting headache as it thudded along in the direction of Long Island. When it landed at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, John handed him a trenchcoat and a broad-brimmed hat. "Very fu

"Wear it." A minivan with blacked-out windows was waiting the parking lot: fu

"Huh." Mike clambered down from the chopper and trudged across the barge to the minivan. The side door opened. Inside it, Colonel Smith was waiting for him.

"Sorry 'bout the cloak-and-dagger nonsense," Smith said unapologetically as their driver pulled out into the approach road behind another minivan. Mike glanced over his shoulder as a third van discreetly joined the convoy. "Can't take any chances."

"What? Where are we going?"

"Nearest geographical cognate we could figure." Smith pulled back his sleeve. He was wearing something that looked like a digital watch that had swallowed a mobile phone-after a moment Mike recognized it as a GPS receiver. Smith frowned. "Doesn't work too well-too many skyscrapers."

The minivan slid through the New York traffic in fits and starts, bumper to bumper with a yellow cab that had somehow intercalated itself in the convoy. Mike lost track of where they were going after a couple of minutes and a baroque detour around some roadwork. "What's the setup?"

Smith opened a folder with red and yellow stripes along its cover. "Pay attention, you don't get to take this with you. A courier is ready to take you across to Zone Blue. You go over piggyback. In Zone Blue, we currently have a forward support team of three-Sergeant Hastert, PFC O'Neil, and PFC Icke. They'll look after you, also give the courier a bunch of crap to bring back over to us. You do exactly what the sergeant tells you. After you leave Zone Blue, they'll exfiltrate. Let me emphasize, there won't be anybody there. What there will be is a buried radio transmitter, like this." Smith pulled an egg-shaped device with a stubby aerial out of his pocket. "You dig it up, push the button, and the backup team will be alerted to come check you out for shadows. If you've got unwelcome company, they will kill it or take it prisoner-at their discretion-or leave you the fuck alone. They will not be more than an hour away from you at any time, so if they don't show up within an hour, someone's in trouble. Procedure is to revisit the zone at daily intervals for one week, then back off to once a week for a month. You also need to memorize this. Directions to Zone Green, which is your fallback site. There's no equipment or perso