Read The Trade of Queens for Free Online

do you call them, corpuscular petards?—corpses, an ominous name for an ominous weapon—by the end of this year. Sixteen by the end of next year, thirty-four by the end of the year after, and hundreds the year after that. Is that a fair summary?” Daly nodded. “Then our medium-term goal is clear: We need to get the bloody French off our backs for at least three and a half years, strengthen our homeland air defenses against their aerodynes, and work out some way of deterring the imperialists. In which case”—Sir Adam gestured irritably at the diplomatic communiqué—“we need to give them enough to shut them up for a while, but not so easily that they smell a rat or are tempted to press for more.” He looked pointedly at Erasmus. “Finesse and propaganda are the order of the day.”
    â€œYes. This will require care and delicacy.” Erasmus continued reading. “And the most intricate maintenance of their misconceptions. When do you intend to commence direct talks with the enemy ambassador?”
    â€œTomorrow.” Sir Adam’s tone was decisive. “The sooner we bury the hatchet the faster we can set about rebuilding that which is broken and reasserting the control that we have lost. And only when we are secure on three continents can we look to the task of liberating the other four.”
    *   *   *
    An editor’s life is frequently predictable, but seldom boring.
    At eleven that morning, Steve Schroeder was settling down in his cubicle with his third mug of coffee, to work over a feature he’d commissioned for the next day’s issue.
    In his early forties, Steve wasn’t a big wheel on the Herald ; but he’d been a tech journalist since the early eighties, and he had a weekly section to fill, features to buy from freelance stringers, and in-depth editorial pieces to write. He rated an office, or a cubicle, or at least space to think without interruption when he wasn’t attending editorial committee meetings and discussing clients to target with Joan in advertising sales, or any of the hundred and one things other than editing that went with wearing the hat. Reading the articles he’d asked for and editing them sometimes seemed like a luxury; so he frowned instinctively at the stranger standing in the entrance to his cubicle. “Yes?”
    The stranger wore a visitor’s badge, and there was something odd about him. Not the casual Friday clothes; it took Steve a moment to spot the cast on his leg. “You’re Steve Schroeder?”
    â€œWho wants to know?”
    The stranger shrugged. “You don’t know me.” He produced a police ID card. Steve sat up, squinting at the badge. Drug Enforcement Agency ? Mike Fleming ?
    â€œNot my department; Crime’s upstairs on—”
    â€œNo, I think I need to talk to you. You commissioned a bunch of articles by Miriam Beckstein a couple of years ago, didn’t you?”
    Huh? “What’s this about?” Steve asked cautiously.
    â€œHaven’t heard from her for a while, have you?”
    Alarm bells were going off in his head. “Has she been arrested? I don’t know anything; we had a strictly business relationship—”
    â€œShe hasn’t been arrested.” Fleming’s gaze flickered sidelong; if Steve hadn’t been staring at him he might not have noticed. “She mentioned you, actually, a couple of years ago. Listen, I don’t know anyone here, and I’ve got very limited time, so I thought I’d try you and see if you could direct me to the right people.” He swallowed. “She pointed me at a story, kind of, before she disappeared. I need to see it breaks, and breaks publicly, or I’m going to disappear too. I’m sorry if that sounds overdramatic—”
    â€œNo, that’s all right.” Jesus, why me? Why now? Steve glanced at his workstation for long enough to save