A Cat at Bay Page 8

  “Not for the moment, ma’am, thank you. There’s a doctor on his way, and the Secretary seems to be responding well.”

  “Very well, carry on.” Jones returned to her breakfast, as did the three other officers. Ten minutes later the Secretary sat up, grey but otherwise looking fine, as far as Jones could tell. Cdr. Na Gael and the North Americans’ medical officer exchanged a few words before she returned to her seat as well, a small smile on her face as she slid a now empty glass tube into her belt-bag. “Well, that was interesting. More tea please?” she requested in a light tone.

  “Problem solved?” Khan inquired, matching her tone as he filled her cup.

  “For the moment, sir, thank you. The doctor has a much more complete emergency kit than I do and there are also two other medics over there, so the Secretary is in better hands than mine.” Rachel attacked breakfast with her customary enthusiasm.

  As usual, Jones finished eating first and laid down her napkin. “You finish eating. I want to do some reading before the first session.” She began walking away, then paused and turned back. “Ah, Commander, do you have your multi-tool with you?”

  A bit puzzled, Rachel fished the requested item out of her bag. “What do you need it for, ma’am,” she inquired, holding the black and green device just out of sight.

  “I need to unlock my briefcase, if you must know. The key is in it,” the officer replied with great dignity.

  Rachel twisted something on the device’s top before handing it over. “Press the brown button down. That releases the working bit.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel managed to contain her snicker until the Welshwoman was well out of earshot. Heh. That’s why you have a checklist.

  Captain Ngobo looked sternly at her. “Really ma’am, that was unprofessional.”

  “Yes, but so is carefully locking one’s keys inside one’s briefcase. If you will excuse me? I’m scheduled to introduce the speakers at the panel session.”

  Rachel departed and the captain turned to his superior. “Is she?”

  Khan thumbed through his papers. “Yes. Which is odd, I agree.”

  After the morning session on xenobotany, Khan stole a moment to chat up a distant and very attractive cousin currently with the Australian Branch. She caught him up on family matters as they walked to lunch together. Captain Sindha pointed to an empty table for two “Will that work, sir?”

  “Perfect! I’ll just put my things here to hold the table and we can queue up,” the Brit said.

  When they returned with their food, they found someone waiting for them. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch Major Khan,” Rachel apologized, “but could you let General Jones know that General von Hohen-Drachenburg, ahem, ‘requested my presence’ this evening? I’ve left her a message in our quarters but you will probably see her first.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you get back to more important matters.”

  “Was that your xenology specialist, sir?” the petite captain asked.

  He nodded, “Yes, that’s Commander Rachel Na Gael.”

  His companion craned her head around to follow the civilian’s progress through the room and out the door. “She’s not what I thought she’d be.”

  Rahoul took a bite of chicken. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Aside from the eye patch, she seems quite normal.”

  Khan chuckled, “She does, until she starts talking. Typical science type, can barely communicate with us poor military sorts.”

  The captain rolled her eyes. “Yours too? I still can’t make sense of Dr. Pattricco’s pronouncements most days.”

  Because of the memorial service planned for that evening, Rachel and General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg ate an early supper, at least early by Continental standards. Adele had decided to attend a Bach concert in the Freiburg Munster, so Rachel and Joschka dined together in a semi-private parlor normally reserved for members of the Prince of Württemberg’s immediate family. Thick stone walls and ancient wooden paneling muffled sound and voices, something for which Rachel was very grateful. “Ich danke Ihnen herzlich, my Lord General.”

  Joschka looked up from his chamois filet and half-smiled. “You are welcome. Alas, I must confess that the invitation is not solely from the kindness of my heart.”

  “Oh?” She sipped her water.

  “Yes. I have a favor to ask.”

  “And that is?”

  “Can you sing something at the Memorial Service?” Joschka sighed, “I only ask because someone has at last objected to our traditional hymn.”

  His look suggested that she knew exactly who had objected and she rolled her eye. “Hmmm. Let me think on this for a moment please, my lord.” Has to be from Ter Tri, secular but not ribald since we are using a chapel this year. So no “Bells of Hell” or “Stand to Your Glasses Steady” or “Warriors All.” What about “The Parting Glass?” No, not quite right.

  A title emerged just before she finished her lamb. “My Lord, are you familiar with Love Farewell?” Joschka shook his head and sipped his wine. “It dates to the Napoleonic wars,” and she recited the verses.

  He looked thoughtful. “What is the melody?”

  After the waiter removed their plates and set down the salad course, she replied, “I prefer not to sing at the table, sir. But it’s a slow air in a minor key.”

  Joschka leaned forward, saying quietly, “Then give it to me, Rada.”

  She met his gaze, opened a mental link as he thinned his shields, and sent the tune. He “listened” for about a minute. “Ah! I remember it now. Will you need to warm up?”

  “No, sir. It’s well within my range.”

  They talked about business matters until the sweet course arrived: crème brulé. “Another month until asparagus and strawberry season, do you think, my lord?” Rachel inquired.

  “Coffee, and the lady will have tea. Thank you,” he ordered, then returned to the question. “No, I’d have to say six weeks at least. Winter is not going to let go very easily this year, I believe.”

  “Hmmmm. Interesting.”

  “The air feels too much like the winters of 1956 and 1944 for me to think that spring will come on time.”

  Rachel studied the inside of her teacup. He’s never talked about what he did between 1900 and 1955. I wonder . . . no. I don’t need to know. “I will take your word on that, my lord General. I’ve tried to avoid that time period on the Continent if at all possible. I’m a coward.”

  “I would say, rather, that you have a healthy sense of self-preservation.” His blue eyes turned grim, “Except that as I understand, you nearly earned a rather different place in tonight’s service this past year.”

  “Yes, well, over-confidence and curiosity killed the cat, as they say,” she shrugged. Don’t push, please, Joschka. Not now.

  No one recalled who had started the tradition of a general memorial service for the military personnel who had fallen in the line of duty. Each branch held its own private commemorations, of course, but at some point it had become customary to have an unofficial, military-only gathering to remember the ones who had died since the last major meeting. It was never fancy, or long, but simply a sincere tribute to fallen warriors.

  This year the Russian delegation led the service. At the appointed time the doors to the private chapel in the schloss were closed, with a guard on the outside. General Andreavitch welcomed the soldiers and said a few appropriate words. After some minutes of quiet thought and private prayers, the Russians took turns calling out the names of the fallen and of the branches that they had served with. Rachel reflected that Great Britain had been very, very fortunate this year, losing only twelve killed, and three of those in an actual training accident. As discussed, after the moment of silence following the last name, she began singing. Her clear voice soared up to fill the chapel with words of regret and fondness written hundreds of years before that night. For seconds after the last note died away no one moved.

  Then the Russian genera
l called “Dis-missed!” and the gathering broke into small knots and clusters of khaki-clad warriors. Rachel kept her shields as thick and tight as she could. If there was any suspicion and hostility, she didn’t want to know about it, and she did not need anyone else’s sorrow darkening her mood.

  Before she could slip out, Lieutenant General Martin Heath waved her over to where he and the other North Americans were gathered. “Thank you, Commander Na Gael. That was well done.”

  “You are welcome sir. I am glad I could be of service.” As soon as he turned his attention elsewhere, Rachel found “her” officers and waited quietly as they finished exchanging memories and stories with some of the others that they knew. Jones stopped to speak with someone from China, so Rachel followed behind the other British officers as they returned to the public section of the castle.

  Jones had started making her own way back when General von Hohen-Drachenburg caught her. “Excuse me, Brigadier Jones. Do you have a moment?”

  She stepped out of the thinning flow of traffic. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  The Graf-General stroked his beard. “Is something wrong with your xenology specialist?”

  “Ah, in what way, sir?”

  “Pardon me for being blunt, but do you have an idea what might be making her so depressed? I have known Commander Na Gael for, well, let me simply say for quite a while, and I have not seen her so subdued for many years.”

  So you’re her patron. That explains so much, and none of it especially good. Jones sighed and raised one hand in a halfway helpless gesture. “I have no idea, sir. It began a few weeks ago and she seemed to be improving until just after the meeting started. If you have any suggestions I would be happy to hear them.”

  Hohen-Drachenburg thought for a while then sighed, “I cannot think of anything. If I do I will let you know. Good night, and thank you.”

  She backed up a step, “You are welcome, my lord General,” and let him precede her away from the chapel.

  By the time Evelyn Jones woke up the next morning and finished getting dressed, Rachel had returned from wherever it was she usually went off to and had brought a large pot of tea with her. “Black?” she inquired, holding up a cup.

  “With sugar. Why the room service?”

  Rachel looked embarrassed. “Oh, partly as an apology for being such a moping mum recently. And partly because you will want to be completely awake before I tell you what I’ve found.”

  Forewarned, Jones waited until after finishing her second cup before saying, “Right then. What have you turned up?”

  Rachel leaned against the wall. “There are two other non-humans attending this meeting. One is friendly. Very friendly in fact, and I’m not the least bit concerned about that person, especially since ‘it’ is a naturalized citizen. However, the other one concerns me greatly. He, she, or it is always around the group from Vienna. And I wonder if that has something to do with the hostile tone and quantity of anti-alien sessions.”

  Jones started pacing back and forth across the room, thinking hard. “You are making a very serious accusation, if I understand you correctly. At the worst, you’re suggesting that something may have infiltrated our highest levels of civilian control and be manipulating us through Vienna!” I don’t even want to think about this.

  “I know, ma’am. That’s why I’ve not said anything to anybody else, nor am I going to unless I can get some form of concrete evidence that everyone else will believe. The creature is not a mammal, and not from Earth, but unless I can get close enough to run scans, that’s all I can tell, given the equipment with me at the moment.”

  “You know that this puts me in a delicate position.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, I know. And I seriously thought about not saying anything to you, except that there is a rumor floating around that someone will be proposing a test of that ‘alien-detector’ thing before the meeting ends. Yes, I could be completely wrong, the second party could also be friendly, and I’m jumping at shadows and worrying you for nothing. But if the device does start pointing to ‘aliens,’ given the tone of this year’s gathering . . .” Rachel’s voice trailed off. “That’s something else I’ve been puzzling over. Why bring all of us together for so long? That’s never happened before, because it’s so dangerous. Small batches and shorter meetings are the rule.” She shrugged uncomfortably under Jones’s gaze.

  Jones ran a hand through her short, sandy hair. “First, more tea.” She drank slowly for a minute as Rachel stared off at something, a grim expression on her scarred face. “All right. Best-case scenario: you are wrong as to the creature’s intent, its position, or both. I’m the only other person who knows anything and we both forget this conversation. Worst-case scenario: the intruder is hostile, has access to the leadership, and acts on that some way. Physical attack, or more subtle?”

  “Subtle, but physical follows. Use suspicion to turn the GDF against itself, exacerbate hostilities it knows are present because of the position and information the intruder has gained. Start by going after the most likely ‘alien infiltrators’ currently at the meeting, and potentially anyone who might try and defend those ‘aliens’.” Jones stared, and Rachel reminded her, “You said worst case. Once the Defense Force is shattered, Earth becomes easier to crack. Again, absolute worst, most paranoid case.”

  Jones looked very hard at her xenologist. “That’s an exceedingly bleak picture. Are you certain you’re not letting the last month affect your judgment?”

  “No, ma’am. Unfortunately, the pattern we’ve both noted this week is very close to something I—” Rachel hesitated—“I heard about back in my former career. I hope I’m wrong. I truly hope I am very wrong on this. Because in the worst case, it puts you, the rest of the Regiment, and at least one other person at great risk.”

  Jones finished belting her tunic and collected her briefcase. “Very well. We’re going to breakfast, unless you’ve already eaten? No? Good. And we are going to act as if you have said none of this. However,” she pointed at the door. Rachel opened it and followed her into the hall. “Since you are not on my Christmas list at the moment, it would be well for you to stay out of my sight for the rest of the day. Am I clear?” She winked.

  Trailing her usual pace behind the general officer, an apparently chastened xenology specialist murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rachel opted for a traditional German breakfast of tea, cold cuts, cheese, and more cold cuts in place of bread. She looked longingly at the mounds of smoked fish and other treats. As much as I want to overindulge, I think I need to be lean and lively. Alas. After the alien finished eating she coughed discreetly, causing the general to look up from her paper.

  “Scat,” the older woman said with a glare, and her advisor did as ordered. Jones watched Rachel disappear before reaching for more tea.

  “Tell me, Brigadier Jones, how do you get her to obey orders?” The woman looked up at the North American general.

  “Sir?” she blinked.

  “I was just wondering how you managed to get your xenologist to do what you told her to, on the first try, without a complaint, and how much you charge to teach people that trick.”

  A wide, slightly malevolent smile spread slowly across Jones’s face and Heath recoiled a little. Then she relaxed and chuckled. “I have teenaged nieces and nephews, sir. That, and since she was in the service before joining us, she tends to be a bit more receptive to military discipline, sir. Only a small bit more, mind.”

  “Ah.” The big man looked vaguely disappointed as he went on his way.

  As ordered, Rachel stayed away from Jones for the rest of the day. She nibbled at lunch, listening to two scientists and one of the civilian staff discussing the situation with the Saudis’ only-episodic assistance and participation. After twenty minutes or so, the Undersecretary turned to her. “Do I remember right that the British Branch took the initial action there last year?”

  Wary, Rachel swallowed her sausage and agreed. “Yes, Secretary LePlace.
We did.”

  A xenologist from South America pointed out, “That’s strange. I’d have thought that North Africa would have been faster responding, or even Austria’s Branch.”

  “I just go where I’m sent, Doctor. I leave the wherefore and why to the soldiers.”

  After more discussion, the Chilean scientist turned back to his unusual dining companion. “Tell me, Miss Na Gael, were you injured recently?” He gestured toward her face.

  The other two men tutted a bit and Rachel frowned. “With all due respect, sir, that is none of your business. But if you must know, no. I lost my eye many years before I joined the Regiment, while I was still on active duty.”

  All three shook their heads in sympathy and the Undersecretary said smoothly, “You must excuse the question, Miss Na Gael. Its just that you British Specialists have a bit of a reputation for being closer to the front lines than some would consider prudent.”

  She crossed her fingers out of sight. “I certainly understand that impression, Secretary! And believe me, I would be quite happy if I never got dragged into the field again. A warm, well-lit, dry laboratory is preferable to the moors of Scotland any day, in my opinion.” Knowing nods met her declaration and the other two scientists began comparing bad experiences with mud, sand, and weather.

  The Undersecretary finished his meal, then leaned towards her, his round, forgettable face very intent. “Before I forget, Miss Na Gael, Secretary Nguen asked me to express his thanks for your speedy action the other morning. It seems that what looked like whole-wheat bread actually had been made with nut flour.”

  “Please tell the Secretary that he is most welcome, and that I am just glad I could be of service. I trust he has recovered?”

  The official nodded briskly. “Oh yes. However, I must say that I’m curious about something. Why did you have emergency medical equipment with you, especially something as specific as that?”

  Rachel pointed to her belt bag, then raised her voice slightly as she noticed the two scientists avidly listening in. “Well sir, as I said the other morning, I am a certified paramedic. And as to the epinephrine pen,” she pulled another one out of her bag, “one of the British officers has a similar allergy. Standard procedure is for him to carry one and for either the medical officer, a medic, or I to carry at least one spare, in case he can’t get to his quickly. A form of insurance, you might say sir.” Not that Lieutenant MacFerson is here, but you don’t know that. Something about the man’s expression bothered her, and she lowered her shields a hair. He wasn’t pleased with her answer but did not want to challenge her, yet. The truth bothers you, Undersecretary? I wonder why. And why do you smell of ozone?