Chapter 22
“This is Jhon Bonga.”
“Director, this is Tom Farland. Listen, I know this is short notice, but as one whiskey lover to another you owe it to yourself to join me and a handful of the boys this afternoon at Rowanhold.”
Jhon held the handset out and frowned at it before continuing. “That’s very kind, Tom. What time?”
“We thought we would knock off a little early and meet at four.”
“Thank you. I’ll be on time.”
Click.
Jhon went to his office door and opened it. “Did anything about that call seem strange to you, Greg?”
Greg smiled. “Do you mean the part where General Farland is pretending you are friends? Or perhaps the part where he’s invited you to Rowanhold, despite not being a member himself? Or perhaps the part where he thinks a black man can get into Rowanhold at all?”
Jhon frowned. “I’m not even sure that’s the entire list. Get my shock mail out of the vault and have Abraham put together an antidote kit for me. And tell Annabeth I need her.”
Greg whistled. “You hate the shock mail, sir. And if they won’t let a black man in Rowanhold, how do you expect to get a woman in there?”
“If they want me badly enough, they’ll let her in.”
“Do you really think it’s a trap, sir? General Farland has been professional and honorable in his dealings with you so far.”
Jhon shook his head. “No, I don’t. But if something is sufficiently strange, you go prepared.”
* * *
Farland, dressed in a suit and tie instead of his uniform, waved to them from the corner of the parking lot when they pulled into Rowanhold. Annabeth drove to him, head on a swivel. Jhon tried to watch everywhere as well, but he was grateful she was there.
Rowanhold was an old stone building with high ceilings made of elaborate, individually carved wooden tiles. The club boasted one of the finest rose gardens in the world, and an elite clientele of old aristocracy, who had recently deigned to include a handful of excessively wealthy millionaires.
Farland met them as soon as they exited the car. “Thank you for coming, Jhon. I suppose it won’t do any good to ask Agent Toy to wait in the car?”
“No good at all,” Jhon said.
“This way.” Farland led them to a side entrance and down into a basement room that smelled of dust and stale smoke. A small circle of men waited around the huge old fireplace at the far end of the room.
“Gentlemen, this is Jhon Bonga, Director of the Bureau of Antiquities--”
A couple of them snickered.
“--and Agent Annabeth Toy, Director Bonga’s driver and field assistant. Jhon, Annabeth, this is Lord Birchway, Odell Lythe, Minister of Justice, Timothy Stanton, Director of the Bureau of Investigation, and Winston Obre, contractor.”
Lord Birchway was every inch a gentleman, fifty, fit, and immaculately dressed in a tailored gray suit. Lythe was Jhon’s boss, though they had only met twice before. He was tall, thin, and dressed in a dark blue suit that was flamboyant by Rowanhold’s deeply conservative sensibilities. Stanton was Jhon’s counterpart at the much larger Bureau of Investigation. He was average height, with brown hair, and a conservative gray suit. Obre surprised Jhon. He was tall--taller than anyone else in the room--with dark black skin and close-cropped hair, graying at the temples.
Jhon glanced at Annabeth.
“They’re here to talk, not fight,” she said. “Obre is dangerous, though.”
“Touché,” Obre said, nodding to Annabeth.
“Why does your driver need to be here for this?” Lord Birchway harrumphed as he spoke.
“Because she is his sword, not his driver,” Obre said.
“Women should not be trusted with secrets,” Birchway said.
“Have you spoken to your brother about me?” Jhon ignored his comment.
“Yes. He has a very high opinion of you.”
“Annabeth worked that case with me. Heard every word, saw every piece of evidence, and ultimately captured Lord Bannister and dragged him back to headquarters. I trust her. If you want my help, you will trust her too,” Jhon said.
Farland went to a table at the side of the room and picked up a tray of glasses, then brought them back.
“Please, sit.”
Jhon sat at the end of a long couch. His shock mail crunched around him as he settled. Annabeth stood behind him. The others sat on the couch facing theirs, on the other side of the fireplace. Farland passed out drinks, then stared them down as he sat next to Jhon.
“I told you he would insist,” Farland said. “And I told you to accept.”
Birchway opened his mouth, then sipped his glass instead of saying anything.
“I apologize for Lord Birchway’s cautious behavior,” Lythe said. “Does everyone in the room understand that we are technically involved in treason?”
Jhon shook his head. “What have you dragged me into? Why would you ask me to go along without feeling me out first?”
“First, because we want to save the country, not harm it,” Lythe said. “We are not seeking any more power than we already have. We only seek to ensure that our nation’s leadership is of sufficient quality to lead us.”
Farland cleared his throat. “The break between Samuel Archibald and Central Command is due to a similar argument. Archibald claims that Aikles joined a Corinan conspiracy over a year ago. He believes that war between Solomon and Corina is inevitable, and that we should be building our forces to that end.
“Two days ago, Aikles called me to his office, where he laid out a plan for long-term peace with Corina. The first big piece of that plan is a joint wargame between us and Corina.”
Jhon frowned. “A joint wargame? I’ve never heard of a peace plan like that before.”
“That is because it is sheer lunacy,” Stanton said. “The best-case scenario is that we give a strategic enemy an up-close view of our training, procedures, and equipment. The worst-case view is that it sets us up for the biggest ambush in history.”
“I quashed it. Decisively,” Farland said. “Aikles is now seeking to have me replaced.”
“We are used to him changing his mind, failing to grasp the important details, letting things slip that should have remained private--generally speaking we are used to Aikles being incompetent and stupid. This is a step from stupidity into sabotage,” Lord Birchway said.
Jhon glanced over his shoulder at Annabeth. Her glass was half empty, which meant she thought it was safe, so he sipped his too. The whiskey was magnificent. Oak, cherry, a hint of smoke, with a transition to notes of vanilla and apple.
“This is very good,” Jhon said, raising the glass.
“Thank you,” Lord Birchway said. “It is a family recipe.”
Jhon sat forward. “How can I help?”
“We are worried that Archibald may be right, or at least partly right,” Farland said. “He claims Corina is hoarding magical items and bringing in wizards from around the world. If they have made any of the progress he claims they have, then we could find ourselves in a conflict without any effective means of resistance.”
“May I?” Annabeth swished the liquid in her glass.
“Please do,” Farland said.
“Samuel Archibald was an outcast. You belittled his paranoia. Why are you considering his ideas now?” she took another sip.
Lythe sighed. “We have evidence we cannot explain. Aikles’ behavior is just the newest wrinkle, but there are things moving out there, in the mists, and we can’t come to grips with them. We have leaks we cannot source, bits of information we cannot connect to anything meaningful. The breach at Halfhall suggests there may be other such breaches. What if they have a device like that in one of our headquarters buildings?”
“So far I don’t hear anything that sounds like treason,” Jhon said.
“We need Aikles out of the prime minister’s residence,” Farland said.
Jhon looked at the others, one at a time. “Are you suggesting we assassinate him?”
“No,” Lord Birchway said. “But he cannot get control of Central Command. We must limit his reach. If he outmaneuvers us, then we may have to consider more drastic action.”
“We have an unconfirmed report that Eadwin’s Crown is in the country,” Jhon said.
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“You mean the crown Eadwin made his subjects wear when they swore oaths to him?” Obre shifted his weight in his chair.
Jhon nodded. “It’s rumored to be in the hands of Torman Buchanan. We’re concerned that he’s using it to subvert people that would ordinarily be out of his reach. Police, agents, politicians.”
“How good is your intelligence?” Stanton frowned.
“Preliminary, but the source has been reliable in the past.”
Obre stood and walked to the fire. “If Eadwin’s Crown is real, then we need to put it in a deep, dark vault, and we need to weld the door shut.”
Jhon looked over his shoulder at Annabeth. “Roll the dice?”
She tipped her head. “I’m not sure what you mean, but this does seem like a good time to take intelligent risks.”
Jhon turned to Farland. “I need Chun. You have the most powerful wizard in the world running around in basic training, and we need him in the field telling us which of these threats are credible, and which aren’t.”
Farland turned around to face him. “If war is coming, I need him accompanying my special forces.”
“What do you mean, most powerful?” Obre clasped his hands together, and thought danced in the lines on his forehead.
“Archibald acquired a sarcophagus with a live wizard in it,” Farland said. “Right now, Chun is at Fort Vodun going through basic training.”
Obre frowned. “That seems like a colossal misallocation of personnel.”
“I would be willing to loan him to you,” Farland said.
Jhon shook his head. “A loan won’t do. I need him released from military service, so I can sign him up at the bureau. He belongs with us. Our charter almost gives me the authority to take him from you. Almost.”
Obre stood. “General Farland, let me speak plainly to you. What does the wizard want to do?”
Farland straightened and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“How did he get into the army to begin with? Did he volunteer? Bonga says Archibald acquired him—exactly what does that mean?”
Farland looked at Jhon. “No, I suppose he did not volunteer for anything. He was basically a prisoner at Fort Battering.”
“Then why do you own him?” Obre pulled the cuffs of his sleeves up to show shackle scars on his wrists.
Farland inhaled sharply. “You’re right. I’ll call him this afternoon and apologize. We’ll find out what he wants to do, or at least is willing to do.”
“He’s willing to work with me,” Jhon said. “I’ve already had this conversation with him. I told him to hold steady while I worked things out with you.”
* * *
“Private Kang, come with me,” Aindry said.
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.” Chun left the game he was playing with Wrongway and followed Aindry. They left the barracks and set out toward the headquarters building. “Do you know what this is about, Drill Sergeant?”
“I do not, Private Kang. General Park asked me to fetch you. That’s what I know.”
“Maybe General Park wishes to retire, and they need me to step in,” Chun said.
Aindry shot him an irritated frown. “Maybe they’re convening a firing squad, and I get to call the orders.”
Chun laughed. “In that case, I’ll give you a month’s pay to order them to miss.”
Aindry smirked. “My honor isn’t for sale, Private.”
“Two months’ pay?”
“Make it three, and I’ll think about it.”
When they reached the general’s office Park motioned for them to sit down.
“I’ve just had a rather fascinating conversation with General Farland. Private Kang, have you ever signed a contract with the army?”
Chun shrugged. “I’m not certain, General. I signed some things in reception, and Captain Adams signed some things for me.”
Park nodded. “I have an offer from Jhon Bonga to take you off of my hands. Unfortunately, General Farland says I have to ask you what you want to do, instead of just punting you off of my base.”
Chun weighed Park’s words. Finally, someone was asking him what he wanted to do. He’d discussed it with Bonga, but perhaps it would pay to ask a question or two before deciding. “What would working for Jhon Bonga be like?”
Park held his hands up. “No idea. Some sort of agent business. The Bureau of Antiquities is responsible for locating and containing dangerous artifacts.”
“How long would I be in service there?” Chun narrowed his eyes.
Park frowned and cocked his head to the side. “I don’t understand the question.”
“I have a term of service here. How long is the term of service there?”
Park smiled. “I see. Soldiers are contract employees. You serve for the length of your contract. Agents are at-will employees. You serve until you’re ready to leave, or until your agency fires you.”
Chun sat up straight. “If I do not like it at the Bureau of Antiquities, I can simply leave?”
“That’s right. You go to your manager, turn in your badge and your gun, and tell them you won’t be coming back.”
Chun felt his face split into a wide grin. “In that case, I would like to accept this offer.”
“Are you sure?” Aindry smirked. “You won’t be able to shower with a bunch of reeking privates anymore.”
“Perhaps there will be a public bath I can visit to make up for that,” Chun said.
* * *
Chun had twelve half-gallon bottles of stout under the washing machines. He got them out and distributed them to his platoon. He made certain to pull Wrongway and Talent aside and give them some final advice and assure them they would be just fine without him.
He had five bottles of whiskey left, which he distributed to his Drill Sergeants. Haggle and Turley thanked him, then went about their duties.
Sand looked at the bottle. “This is pretty good stuff, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
“Huh. Well, Private, I feel I should tell you that I never liked you.” He turned and walked away.
Chun found Sergeant Major Calibre on the range.
“Private Pissant.” he grinned.
“I am leaving this evening,” Chun said. He held the last bottle out to the old man. Chun understood that it was worth a thousand dollars.
Calibre’s great white eyebrows climbed. “Where the hell did you get this, Private?”
“I go into town and rob the pimps when my Drill Sergeants aren’t looking,” Chun said.
“The hell you say?” Calibre laughed.
“Pimps are nothing more than slavers. There is no sin in robbing them,” Chun said.
Calibre shook with laughter once more. “Why are you leaving, Private?”
“I was not asked if I wished to be in the army, Range Master. They simply brought me here and told me where to stand. Now I have a chance to go work for the Bureau of Antiquities, where I will have more freedom.”
“Well, Private, you’re a hell of a soldier. I’m sorry to see you go. Thank you for the bottle.”
“Thank you, Range Master.”
Chun met Sergeant Aindry in front of the barracks. His ruck sack was in the back of the scar. He waved to his platoon, then sat down in the passenger seat, and Aindry started the engine.
They idled down the housing row, passing picket fences and the occasional child in a yard. Chun spotted the name Sand on one of the buildings.
“Stop, Drill Sergeant. I need to do something.”
“What the hell?” Aindry growled, but he stopped the scar.
Chun trotted into Drill Sergeant Sand’s driveway and squatted to grab the rear of a big, old station wagon, then lifted and shuffled sideways, dragging the car around. He went around to the other end and repeated the process, and after four lifts he had the car sideways between the fence posts, with scant inches to spare at each end.
He trotted back to the scar and climbed in. “Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”
Aindry smiled. “That was worth stopping for.”
They drove the rest of the way to the airfield in silence, but once they arrived Aindry surprised Chun by walking him to his plane.
Chun smiled. “General Park did well selecting you to lead my platoon, Drill Sergeant.” He extended his hand.
“And he did well getting rid of you, Private.” Aindry smiled and shook Chun’s hand, then walked back toward the scar.