“That iz un private vessel! You do not diplomatic immunity haff!”
John pointed up to the flag. “Leutnant, you may come aboard with no more than one other member of your crew. Otherwise, I must ask you to get out of my way.”
Half-heard orders carried from the gunboat to the yacht. Most of the boarding party who’d been preparing the launch grounded arms and stood easy; the little boat slid down into the water, and several figures in Land uniform slid down ropes from the gunboat’s deck to man it. Smuts of black smoke broke from the slender funnel at its stern, a small steam engine chugged, and the launch angled in towards the Santander ship.
“Captain,” John called over his shoulder. “Party to greet the Leutnant. And a rope ladder, if you please.”
Whistles fluted as the Chosen officer came over the side. The escort for her and the Protégé seaman who followed behind were distantly polite; the rest of the crew glared. Everyone was wearing a cutlass and revolver, and carbines stood ready to hand.
Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick? Jeffrey thought, the familiar mental voice relayed by Center. You’re supposed to be secretly on their side, after all.
That’s exactly it, John replied. A good double agent plays his part well—and my part is a wealthy playboy who dabbles in diplomacy, but who is secretly a Foreign Office spook and violently anti-Chosen.
The irony of it was that the best way to convince his Chosen handlers that he was a competent double agent was to act the way he would if he wasn’t a double agent, except for his reports to them—he was an information conduit, not an agent of influence. Which meant, of course, that they could never be sure he wasn’t a triple agent, but that was par for the course.
Espionage could make your head hurt.
Annika Tirnwitz was a tall lanky woman of about thirty, with a brush of close-cropped brown hair and a face tanned and weatherbeaten to the color of oiled wood. Her blue eyes were like gunsights, tracking methodically across the yacht, missing nothing. John thought he saw a little surprise at the quality of the crew and the arms, but . . .
correct, Center thought. subject tirnwitz is surprised. A holograph appeared over her face, showing temperature patterns and pupil dilation. A sidebar showed pulse rate and blood pressure. subject is also experiencing well-controlled apprehension.
“Leutnant der See Annika Tirnwitz,” the Chosen said, with a slight stiff nod. “Who is in command here?”
John replied in kind. In accentless Landisch he replied: “Johan Hosten, owner-aboard. What can I do for you, Leutnant?”
subject’s apprehension level has increased markedly.
Nice to know that he wasn’t the only one feeling nervous here, and even nicer that he had Center to reveal what was behind that poker face. Of course, only a fool wouldn’t be a little fearful of the possible consequences of a fight here. Not the physical ones—cowards didn’t make it through the Test of Life—but the political repercussions. Relations between the Land and Santander had never been all that good, and since the fall of the Empire they’d gone straight down the toilet. The press back home was having a field day with the atrocity stories the refugees were bringing in; the Chosen were too insular to even try countermeasures, they didn’t understand the impact that sort of thing had on public opinion in the Republic. John’s own papers were leading the charge . . . and the stories were mostly true, at that.
The Chosen did understand status and territory and pissing matches, though. Sinking the yacht of a wealthy, powerful man related to a Santander Navy admiral . . .
“Herr Hosten?” Tirnwitz said. She cleared her throat. “My vessel was pursuing a small boat. Carrying subversive terrorist elements.”
John made a sweeping wave of his hand. “As you can see, Leutnant, there’s no boat here except our ship’s lifeboats, all of which are secured and lashed down . . . and dry.”
His eyes lifted slightly to the dirigible. It was much closer now, but when he’d come aboard it had been too far to the north to see what actually happened.