After hearing Norman Pacey’s account of the events at Bruno, Jerol Packard lodged a confidential request with an office of the CIA for a compendium of everything that had accumulated in its files over the years concerning Sverenssen and, for good measure, the other members of the UN Farside delegation as well. Clifford Benson, the CIA official who had dealt with the request, summarized the findings a day later at a closed-door session in Packard’s State Department office.
"Sverenssen reappeared in Western Europe in 2009 with a circle of social and financial contacts already established. How that happened is not clear. We can’t find any authenticated traces of him for about ten years before then—in fact from the time he was supposed to have been killed in Ethiopia." Benson gestured at a section of the summary charts of names, photographs, organizations, and interconnecting arrows pinned to a wallboard. "His closest ties were with a French-British-Swiss investment-banking consortium, a big part of which is still run by the same families that set up a network of financial operations around Southeast Asia in the nineteenth century to launder the revenues from the Chinese opium trade. Now here’s an interesting thing—one of the biggest names on the French side of that consortium is a blood relative of Daldanier. In fact the two names have been connected for three generations."
"Those people are pretty tightly knit," Caldwell commented. "I don’t know if I’d attach a lot of significance to something like that."
"If it were an isolated case, I wouldn’t, either," Benson agreed. "But look at the rest of the story." He indicated another part of the chart. "The British and Swiss sides control a sizable part of the world’s bullion business and are connected through the London gold market and its mining affiliations to South Africa. And look what name we find prominent among the ones at the end of that line."
"Is that Van Geelink of the same family as Sverenssen’s cohort?" Lyn asked dubiously.
"It’s the same," Benson said. "There are a number of them, all connected with different parts of the same business. It’s a complicated setup." He paused for a moment, then resumed, "Up until around the first few years of this century, a lot of Van Geelink-controlled money went into preserving white dominance in the area by undermining the stability of black Africa politically and economically, which is one reason why nobody seemed interested in backing resistance to the Cuban and Communist subversions that were going on from the ’70s through ’90s. To maintain their own position militarily in the face of trade embargoes, the family organized arms deals through intermediaries, frequently South American regimes."
"Is this where the Brazilian guy fits in?" Caldwell asked, raising an eyebrow.
Benson nodded. "Among others. Saraquez’s father and grandfather were both big in commodity financing, especially to do with oil. There are links from them as well as from the Van Geelinks to the prime movers behind the destabilization of the Middle East in the late twentieth century. The main reason for that was to maximize short-term oil profits before the world went nuclear, which also accounts for the orchestrated sabotage of public opinion against nuclear power at around the same time. A side effect that worked in the Saraquezes’ interests was that it boosted the demand for Central American oil." Benson shrugged and tossed out his hands. "There’s more, but you can see the gist of it. The same kind of thing shows up with a few more who were on that delegation. It’s one happy family, in a lot of cases literally."
Caldwell studied the charts with a new interest once Benson had finished. After a while he sat back and asked, "So what does it tell us? What’s the connection with what went on at Farside? Figured that out yet?"
"I just collect facts," Benson replied. "I leave the rest to you people."
Packard moved to the center of the room. "There is another interesting side to the pattern," he said. "The whole network represents a common ideology—feudalism." The others looked at him curiously. He explained, "Cliff’s already mentioned their involvement in the antinuclear hysteria of thirty or forty years ago, but there’s more to it than that." He waved a hand at the charts that Benson had been using. "Take the banking consortium that gave Sverenssen his start as an example. Throughout the last quarter of the 1900s they provided a lot of behind-the-scenes backing for moves to fob the Third World off with ‘appropriate technologies,’ for various antiprogress, antiscience lobbies, and that kind of thing. In South Africa we had another branch of the same net pushing racism and preventing progressive government, industrialization, and comprehensive education for blacks. And across the ocean we had a series of right-wing fascist regimes protecting minority interests by military takeovers and at the same time obstructing general advancement. You see, it all adds up to the same basic ideology—preserving the feudal privileges and interests of the power structure of the time. What it says, I guess, is that nothing’s changed all that much."
Lyn appeared puzzled. "But it has, hasn’t it?" she said. "That’s not the way the world is these days. I thought this guy Sverenssen and the rest were committed to just the opposite—advancing the whole world all over."
"What I meant was that the same people are still there," Packard replied. "But you’re right—their underlying policy seems to have shifted in the last thirty years or so. Sverenssen’s bankers provided easy credit for Nigerian fusion and steel under a gold-backed standard that couldn’t have worked without the cooperation of people like the Van Geelinks. South American oil helped defuse the Middle East by leading the changeover to hydrogen-based substitutes, which was one of the things that made disarmament possible." He shrugged. "Suddenly everything changed. The backing was there for things that could have been done fifty years earlier."
"So what about their line at Bruno?" Caldwell asked again, looking mystified. "It doesn’t fit."
There was a short silence before Packard proceeded. "How’s this for a theory? Controlling minorities never have anything to gain from change. That explains their traditional opposition to technology all through history, unless it offered something to advance their interests. That meant it was okay as long as they controlled it. Hence we get the traditional stance of their kind through to the end of the last century. But by that time it was becoming obvious from the way the world was going that if something didn’t change soon, somebody was going to start pressing buttons, and then there wouldn’t be any kind of pond left to be a fish in. The only choice was nuclear reactors or nuclear bombs. So this revolution they made happen, and they managed to maintain control in the process—which was neat.
"But Thurien and everything it could mean was something else. This group would have been swept away by the time the dust from that kind of revolution finally settled. So they cornered the UN handling of the matter and put up a wall until they got some ideas about where to go next." He threw out his hands and looked around the room to invite comment.
"How did they find out about the relay?" Norman Pacey asked from a corner. "We know from what Gregg and Lyn said that the coded signals had nothing to do with it. And we know Sobroskin wasn’t mixed up with it."
"They must have been involved with getting rid of it," Packard replied. "I don’t know how, but I can’t think of anything else. They could have used some personnel of UNSA who they knew wouldn’t talk, or maybe a government or commercial outfit that operates independently to send a bomb or something out there, probably as soon as the first signal from Gistar came in months ago. So what they’ve been doing is stalling things until it got there."
Caldwell nodded. "It makes sense. You’ve got to hand it to them—they almost had it tied up. If it wasn’t for McClusky—who knows?"
A solemn silence descended and persisted for a while. Eventually Lyn looked inquiringly from one man to another. "So what happens now?" she asked.
"I’m not sure," Packard replied. "It’s a complicated situation all around,"
She looked at him uncertainly for a second. "You’re not saying they might get away with it?"
"It’s a possibility."
Lyn stared as if she couldn’t believe her ears. "But that’s ridiculous! You’re telling us that for. . . I don’t know how many years, people like this have been keeping whole nations backward, sabotaging education, and supporting all kinds of idiot cults and propaganda to stay on top of the pile, and there’s nothing anybody can do? That’s crazy!"
"I didn’t put the situation as definitely as that," Packard said. "I said it’s complicated. Being pretty sure of something and being able to prove it are two different things. We’re going to have to do a lot more work to make a case out of it."
"But, but . . ." Lyn searched for words. "What else do you need? It’s all wrapped up. Bombing that relay outside Pluto has to be enough on its own. They weren’t acting for the whole planet when they did that, and certainly not in its interests. There has to be enough in that to nail them."
"We don’t have any way of knowing for sure that they did it," Packard pointed out. "It’s pure speculation. Maybe the relay just broke down. Maybe Calazar’s organization did it. You couldn’t pin anything on Sverenssen that’d stick."
"He knew it was going to happen," Lyn objected. "Of course he was mixed up in it."
"Knew on whose say-so?" Packard countered. "One little girl at Bruno who thinks she might have overheard something that she didn’t understand, anyway." He shook his head. "You heard Norman’s story. Sverenssen could produce witnesses lined up all down the hall to state that he never had anything to do with her. She became infatuated, then went running to Norman with a silly story to get even when Sverenssen wasn’t interested. Such things happen all the time."
"What about the fake signals he got her to send?" Lyn persisted.
"What fake signals?" Packard shrugged. "All part of the same game. She made up that story. They never existed."
"But the Thurien records say they did," Lyn said. "You don’t have to tell the whole world about Alaska right now, but when the time’s right you can wheel in a whole planet of Ganymeans to back you up."
"True, but all they confirm is that some strange signals came in that weren’t sent officially. They don’t confirm where they came from or who sent them. The header formats could have been faked to resemble Farside’s." Packard shook his head again. "When you think it through, the evidence is not anywhere near conclusive."
Lyn turned an imploring face toward Caldwell. He shook his head regretfully. "He’s got some good points. I’d like to see them all go down just as much as you would, but it doesn’t look as if the case to do it is there yet."
"The problem is you can never get near them," Benson said, coming back into the conversation. "They don’t make many slips, and when they do you’re never around. Now and again you get something leaking out like what happened at Bruno, but it’s never enough to be a clincher. That’s what we need—something to clinch it. We need to put somebody on the inside, close to Sverenssen." He shook his head dubiously. "But something like that needs a lot of research and planning, and it takes a long time to select the right person for the job. We’ll start working on it, but don’t hold your breath waiting for results."
Lyn, Caldwell, and Pacey were all staying at the Washington Central Hilton. They ate dinner together that evening, and over coffee Pacey talked more about what they had learned in Packard’s office.
"You can trace the same basic struggle right down through history," he told them. "Two opposed ideologies—the feudalism of the aristocracies on one side, and the republicanism of the artisans, scientists, and city-builders on the other. You had it with the slave economies of the ancient world, the intellectual oppressions of the Church in Europe in the Middle Ages, the colonialism of the British Empire, and, later on, Eastern Communism and Western consumerism."
"Keep ’em working hard, give ’em a cause to believe in, and don’t teach ’em to think too hard, huh?" Caldwell commented.
"Exactly." Pacey nodded. "The last thing you want is an educated, affluent, and emancipated population. Power hinges on the restriction and control of wealth. Science and technology offer unlimited wealth. Therefore science and technology have to be controlled. Knowledge and reason are enemies; myth and unreason are the weapons you fight them with."
Lyn was still thinking about the conversation an hour later when the three of them were sitting around a small table in a quiet alcove that opened off one end of the lobby. They had opted for a last drink before calling it a night, but the bar had seemed too crowded and noisy. It was the same war that Vic, consciously or not, had been fighting all his life, she realized. The Sverenssens who had almost shut down Thurien stood side by side with the Inquisition that had forced Galileo to recant, the bishops who had opposed Darwin, the English nobility who would have ruled the Americas as a captive market for home industry, and the politicians on both sides of the Iron Curtain who had seized the atom to hold a world to ransom with bombs. She wanted to contribute something to his war, even if only a token gesture to show that she was on his side. But what? She had never felt so restless and so helpless at the same time.
Eventually Caldwell remembered an urgent call that he needed to make to Houston. He excused himself and stood up, saying he would be back in a few minutes, then disappeared into the arcade of souvenir and menswear shops that led to the elevators. Pacey lounged back in his seat, put his glass down on the table, and looked across at Lyn. "You’re being very quiet," he said. "Eat too much steak?"
She smiled. "Oh . . . just thinking. Don’t ask what about. We’ve talked too much shop today already."
Pacey stretched out an arm to pick up a cracker from the dish in the center of the table and popped it into his mouth. "Do you get up to D.C. much?" he asked.
"Quite a bit. I don’t stay here very often, though. I usually put up at the Hyatt or the Constitution."
"Most UNSA people do. I guess this is one of the two or three favorite places for political people. It’s almost like an after-hours diplomatic club at times."
"The Hyatt’s pretty much like that for UNSA."
"Uh huh." Pause. "You’re from the East Coast, aren’t you?"
"New York originally—upper East Side. I moved south after college to join UNSA. I thought I was going to be an astronaut, but I ended up flying a desk." She sighed. "Not complaining though. Working with Gregg has its moments."
"He seems quite a guy. I imagine he’d be an easy boss to get along with."
"He does what he says he’s going to do, and he doesn’t say he’s going to do what he can’t. Most of the people in Navcomms respect him a lot, even if they don’t always agree with him. But it’s mutual. You know, one of the things he always—"
A call from the paging system interrupted. "Calling Mr. Norman Pacey. Would Norman Pacey come to the front desk, please. There is an urgent message waiting. Urgent message for Norman Pacey at the front desk. Thank you."
Pacey rose from his chair. "I wonder what the hell that is. Excuse me."
"Sure."
"Want me to order you another drink?"
"I’ll do it. You go ahead."
Pacey made his way across the lobby, which was fairly busy with people coming and going and parties assembling for late dinner. One of the clerks at the desk raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he approached. "My name is Pacey. You paged me just now. There should be a message here somewhere."
"One moment, sir." The clerk turned to check the pigeonholes behind him, and after a few seconds turned back again holding a white envelope. "Mr. Norman Pacey, Room 3527?" Pacey showed the clerk his key. The clerk passed over the envelope.
"Thanks." Pacey moved a short distance away to open the envelope in a corner by the Eastern Airlines booth. Inside was a single sheet of paper on which was handwritten:
Important that I talk to you immediately. Am across lobby. Suggest we use your room for privacy.
Pacey frowned, then looked up and from side to side to scan the lobby. After a few seconds he picked out a tall, swarthy man in a dark suit watching him from the far side. The man was standing near a group of half a dozen noisily chattering men and women, but he appeared to be alone. He gave a slight nod. Pacey hesitated for a moment, then returned it. The man glanced casually at his watch, looked around, and sauntered toward the arcade that led through to the elevators. Pacey watched him disappear, and then walked back to where Lyn was sitting.
"Something just came up," he told her. "Look, I’m sorry about this, but I have to meet somebody right away. Give Gregg my apologies, would you?"
"Want me to tell him what it’s about?" Lyn asked.
"I don’t know myself yet. I’m not sure how long it’ll take."
"Okay. I’ll be fine just watching the world go by. See you later."
Pacey walked back across the lobby and entered the arcade just in time to miss a tall, lean, silver-haired and immaculately dressed figure turning away from the reception desk after collecting a room key. The man moved unhurriedly to the center of the lobby and stopped to survey the surroundings.
The swarthy man was waiting a short distance from the elevators when Pacey emerged a minute or so later on the thirty-fifth floor. As Pacey approached him, he turned silently and led the way to 3527, then stood aside while Pacey unlocked the door. Pacey allowed him to enter first, then followed and closed the door behind them as the other turned on the light. "Well?" he demanded.
"You may call me Ivan," the swarthy man said. He spoke in a heavy European accent. "I am from the Soviet Embassy here in Washington. I have a message that I have been instructed to deliver to you in person: Mikolai Sobroskin wishes to meet with you urgently concerning matters of some considerable importance which, I understand, you are aware of. He suggests that you meet in London. I have the details. You may convey your response back to him through me." He watched for a few seconds while Pacey stared back uncertainly, not knowing what to make of the message, then reached inside his jacket and drew out what looked like a folded sheet of stiffened paper. "I was told that if I gave you this, you would be satisfied that the message is genuine."
Pacey took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a blank sample of the pink, red-bordered document wallet used by the UN for confidential information. Pacey stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up and nodded. "I can’t give you an answer on my own authority right at this moment," he said. "I’ll have to get in touch with you again later tonight. Could we do that?"
"I had expected as much," Ivan said. "There is a coffee shop one block from here called the Half Moon. I will wait there."
"I may have to take a trip somewhere," Pacey warned. "It could take awhile."
Ivan nodded. "I will be waiting," he said, and with that, he left.
Pacey closed the door behind him and spent a few minutes walking thoughtfully back and forth across the room. Then he sat down in front of the datagrid terminal, activated it, and called Jerol Packard’s private home number.
Downstairs in the alcove to one side of the lobby, Lyn was thinking about Egyptian pyramids, medieval cathedrals, British dreadnoughts, and the late-twentieth-century arms race. Were they all parts of the same pattern too? she wondered. No matter how much more wealth per capita improving technology made possible, always there had been something to soak up the surplus and condemn ordinary people to a lifetime of labor. No matter how much productivity increased, people never seemed to work less, only differently. So if they didn’t reap the fruits, who did? She was beginning to see lots of things in ways she hadn’t before.
She didn’t really notice the man in the seat that Pacey had vacated a few minutes earlier until he started speaking. "May I sit with you? It is so relaxing to do nothing for a few minutes at the end of a hectic day and just watch the human race going about its business. I do hope you don’t mind. The world is so full of lonely people who insist on making islands of themselves and a tragedy of life. It always strikes me as such a shame, and so unnecessary."
Lyn’s glass nearly dropped from her hand as she found herself looking at a face that she had seen only hours before on one of the charts that Clifford Benson had hung on the wall in Packard’s office. It was Niels Sverenssen.
She downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, almost choking herself in the process, and managed, "Yes. . . it is, isn’t it."
"Are you staying here, if you don’t mind my asking?" Sverenssen inquired. She nodded. Sverenssen smiled. There was something about his aristocratic bearing and calculated aloofness that set him apart from the greater part of the male half of the race in a way that many women would find alluring, she admitted to herself. With his elegant crown of silver hair and well-tanned noble features, he was . . . well, not exactly handsome by Playgirl standards, but intriguing in some undeniable way. And the distant look in his eyes made them almost hypnotic. "On your own?" he asked.
She nodded again. "Sort of."
Sverenssen raised his eyebrows and motioned his head in the direction of her glass. "I see you are empty. I was on my way to have an unwinder myself in the bar. It seems that, temporarily at least, we are both islands in a world of nine billion people—a most unfortunate situation, and one which I am sure we could do something to correct. Would you consider it an impertinence if I invited you to join me?"
Pacey stepped into the elevator and found Caldwell there, evidently on his way back down to the lobby.
"It took longer than I thought," Caldwell said. "There’s a lot of hassle going on at Houston about budget allocations. I’m going to have to get back there pretty soon. I’ve been away too long as it is." He looked at Pacey curiously. "Where’s Lyn?"
"She’s downstairs. I got called away." Pacey stared at the inside of the doors for a second. "Sobroskin’s been in touch via the Soviet Embassy here. He wants me to meet him in London to talk about something."
Caldwell raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You’re going?"
"I’ll know later. I just called Packard, and I’m going to take a cab over to his place right now to tell him about it. I’ve arranged to meet somebody later tonight to let them know." He shook his head. "And I thought this would be a quiet night."
They came out of the elevator and walked through the arcade to where Pacey had left Lyn. The alcove was empty. They looked around, but she was nowhere in sight.
"Maybe she went to the little girls’ room," Caldwell suggested.
"Probably."
They stood for a while talking and waiting, but there was no sign of Lyn. Eventually Pacey said, "Maybe she wanted another drink, couldn’t get served out here, and went into the bar. She might still be in there."
"I’ll check it out," Caldwell said. He about-faced and stumped away across the lobby.
A minute later he returned, wearing the expression of somebody who had been hit from behind by a tramcar while minding his own business in the middle of the Hilton. "She’s in there," he announced in a dull voice, slumping down into one of the empty seats. "She’s got company. Go see for yourself, but stay back from the door. Then come back and tell me if it’s who I think it is."
A minute later Pacey thudded down into the chair opposite. He looked as if he had been hit by the same tram on its return trip. "It’s him," he said numbly. A long time seemed to pass. Then Pacey murmured, "He’s got a place up in Connecticut somewhere. He must have stopped off in D.C. for a few days on his way back from Bruno. We should have picked some other place."
"How’d she look?" Caldwell asked.
Pacey shrugged. "Fine. She seemed to be doing most of the talking, and looked quite at home. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said it was some guy swallowing a line and well on his way to ending up a few hundred poorer. She looks as if she can take care of herself okay."
"But what the hell does she think she’s trying to do?"
"You tell me. You’re her boss. I hardly know her."
"But Christ, we can’t just leave her there."
"What can we do? She walked in there, and she’s old enough to drink. Anyhow, I can’t go in there because he knows me, and there’s no point in making problems. That leaves you. What are you going to do—make like the boss who can’t see when he’s being a wet blanket, or what?" Caldwell scowled irritably at the table but seemed stuck for a reply. After a short silence Pacey stood up and spread his hands apologetically. "Look, Gregg, I know this sounds kind of bad, but I’m going to have to leave you to handle it in whatever way you want. Packard’s waiting for me right now, and it’s important. I have to go."
"Yeah, okay, okay." Caldwell waved a hand vaguely. "Call me when you get back and let me know what’s happening."
Pacey left, using a side entrance to avoid crossing the lobby in front of the bar. Caldwell sat brooding for a while, then shrugged, shook his head perplexedly, and went back up to his room to catch up on some reading while he waited for a call from Pacey.