“Makes me think of the Raj,” the one-armed man said, as if he hadn’t heard Biryar. “That was a weird thing, wasn’t it? Dinky-ass little Britain using maybe a hundred thousand people to keep their boots on three hundred million necks? You can have the best guns ever, and those odds still suck. No, I do not envy you. Not even a little bit.”
Biryar’s smile went slightly tighter. Something about the moment felt off. “I think your understanding of history leaves something to be desired.”
The man turned, pale eyebrows lifted. He shrugged his real shoulder. “Maybe that part. There’s other bits of history I know better. You ever hear the question ‘Silver or lead?’”
Biryar shook his head. “I don’t believe so. What’s your name? Who are you with?”
“My friends call me Erich,” the one-armed man said, grinning. His teeth were the color of old ivory. “So anyway, there was this thing way back when. They used to have these huge recreational drug companies. Totally illegal. And when someone new would come into town or get elected or whatever, the question was: silver or lead? Plata o plomo. Does the new sheriff in town take a bribe or a bullet? Hell of a slogan. It’s simple, you know? Boils everything down. You have to admire that.”
Biryar’s exhaustion fell away. His heart began to tap at his ribs, but he didn’t feel panicked. His mind was cold and sharp, and he was suddenly very present. “Are you threatening me?”
“What? Jesus, no. We’re just a couple guys talking history.” The old man took something from his pocket. At first Biryar thought he was going to light his cigar, but instead the old man placed the little device on the windowsill with a percussive tap. He stepped back from it. A small black shape, curved along one side.
Biryar gestured to it with his chin, asking the question without speaking.
“It’s a token for the local exchange network,” the one-armed man said. “It’s tied to a private, anonymized account with about fifteen thousand new-francs in it. That’s enough to buy even someone like you a little privacy.”
“For what?”
The man spread his hands. “Whatever. I don’t judge.”
Biryar stepped carefully to the window and picked up the token. The resin looked like smoky glass. Obsidian. The old man smiled until Biryar dropped it to the floor, put his heel on it, and ground it against the brick. The one-armed man’s eyes narrowed. The facade of good humor was gone, and Biryar knew he was facing a predator.
“Are you sure about that?” the old man asked.
“Don’t make me raise my voice. This is my house. And there are a lot of armed people in the compound right now,” Biryar said.
The man smiled. “There are. And some of them are probably pretty loyal to you. Others, maybe not as much. You a gambling man?”
In the window, the night’s single, swift dawn was already breaking. Blue sky and high, scudding clouds. The two men stood still as stone for three long breaths, then the old man turned to the door and walked out. Biryar felt the shout swelling in his chest. He didn’t let it out.
He was shaking. Trembling. He picked up the token. The resin was cloudy with scratches now, but he didn’t know whether he’d managed to break whatever mechanism it contained. He told himself that he would not leave the room until he could gather himself again into the man he was supposed to be. He wouldn’t rush out into the reception looking panicked. But then he thought of Mona earlier in the night, listening intently to the one-armed man, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
The one-armed man had vanished. Mona, sitting on a wide sofa with a gin and tonic in her hand, saw him and put her drink down. He hoped it was only the intimacy of their marriage that let her see his distress. When she came to him, he kissed her ear and whispered.
“Find our guards. The ones from the Notus, not the locals. Stay with them.”
She pulled back, smiling like a mask. She spoke without moving her lips. “Are we in danger?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll find out.”
With Mona warned, he could move to offense. He summoned Major Overstreet to his private office. Sitting at the wide wo
oden table where he’d never sat before felt like being in a mousetrap.
Overstreet stepped into the room and stood at attention. The only sign of fatigue was a slight darkness in the skin under his eyes. “Sir?”
Biryar kept himself calm, or as calm as he could. When he got to the old man’s threat, Overstreet became almost eerily still. When the full report was given, he put the token on the desk. Overstreet picked it up, considered it, and placed it back down. Biryar leaned forward in his chair. He hadn’t said anything yet that the old man wouldn’t have known from being present when it happened. That was about to change.
“How certain are you that our conversation here is private?” Biryar asked.
Overstreet hesitated. Then, “An hour ago, I would have said I was certain, sir.”
“Now?”
“I’m less certain.”
The silence had weight. “I think it would be very unfortunate to leave the compound so soon after arriving. I will visit the Notus in the morning to finish clearing the diplomatic documents. We can have a conversation there.”