“Check.” He sighed. “It’s a WhiteStar ship, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Why, is that good or bad?”

“Commercial, very commercial. I hope you guys have got something on the bottom line to offer the Captain, or he’s not going to be too keen on wasting time on someone like me.”

“She, Captain Nazma Hussein. And she’s not going to yelp too loudly. Why do you think George put you on the payroll? She doesn’t need to know you’re down as an unpaid intern; just turn up and wave your diplomatic passport at her and act polite but firm. If you get any shit, pass it on to George.” She grinned. “It’s about the only perk of the job.”

“You’re going to take care, aren’t you?” He stared at her.

“You bet.”

“Okay.” He closed the gap between them, and she wrapped her arms around him. He leaned close to kiss her forehead. “Let’s hope you can get this nailed down so we can go home soon.”

“Oh, I’m sure we will.” She held him tight. “And I’m not going to take any risks, Martin. I want to live long enough to see that child of ours decanted.”

Three days of frenetic preparation passed like quicksilver running down a rainy gutter, until:

“Four hours ago? First passengers should have hit the terminal when? Very good. Thanks, I’ll be ready.” Rachel flipped her phone shut and tried to get her racing pulse back under control. “It’s started,” she called through the open door.

“Come over here. I want to give this a last run-through,” said Tranh.

Rachel walked across the hand-woven rug and paused in the open doorway. “What kind of way is that to talk to a foreign ambassador?” she asked, forcing herself to stand with her legs slightly apart, the way Elspeth did. Tranh was waiting in the Ambassador’s bedroom with Gail and a worried-looking Jane, still busy setting up the mobile communications switch on Morrow’s desk. Like Rachel, Gail was dressed for a formal diplomatic reception: unlike Rachel, she wore her own face along with the dark suit and gown of office of a dignitary.

Tranh peered at her intently. “Hair,” he said.

“Let me look.” Gail approached Rachel, holding a brush as if it were a handgun. “No, looks all right to me. Hmm.” She reached out and adjusted a stray wisp. “How does it feel?”

Rachel grimaced. “Like wearing a rubber mask, how do you think it feels?”

“As long as you can wear it comfortably. No slipping?”

“No. Membrane pumps seem to be fine.” The layered gunk was threaded with osmotic pumps, able to suck up sweat from down below and exude it through realistic-looking pores.

“Other stuff?”

“Fine.” Rachel turned round slowly. “Can’t bend over too easily. Wish the armor could sweat, too.”

“Your gun’s showing,” Tranh said critically. “When you let the robe fall open — that’s better.” Rachel hitched it into place. “Hmm. Looks okay to me. Wire test.” There were no wires, but an elaborate mix of military-grade intelligent comms to tie the ambush team together.

“Testing, testing.”

Tranh held up a hand. “Tests out okay. Can you hear me?” She winced, and he hastily hit a slider on the communications panel. “That better?” She nodded.

Glued into a skin-tight mask, wearing somebody else’s clothes over body armor and trying to conceal a handgun, Rachel felt anything except better. But at least Martin was out of the picture for the moment — on his way up the planetary beanstalk to poke around the liner docked in geosynchronous orbit. “Gail, remind me of the order of battle?”

“The order — oh.” She cleared her throat. “It’s 1730. Doors open, 1800. We’re expecting Subminister for Cultural Affairs Ivan Hasek, the usual dozen or so cultural attaches, deputy ambassadors, sixteen assorted business dignitaries, including six locals anxious to resolve reparations lawsuits, three from Septagon, who’re concerned about commodity futures in event of a rather unpleasant future shortage of Dresdeners to trade with them, and seven export agents for defunct Muscovite firms. There’s Colonel Ghove of the Ministry of Education, Professor-Doctor Franck from the Ministry of Internal Enlightenment, the diva Rhona Geiss, who is apparently due to sing for us, about a billion journalists — four, actually — and a few dozen refugees who live here or are passing through and took up the invitation. Plus the caterers, a quartet of musicians, eight dancers, three entertainers, eleven waiters, a bunch of students on a cultural exchange trip, a video crew making a documentary about what happens to nations after their planet dies, and a partridge in a pear tree. I double-checked the list with Pritkin and the ambassador, and you’ve got a clear field — no existing acquaintances according to your service log.”

“Delightful.” Rachel winced. “Horizon is five hours off. Got any rat’s liver pills for me?”

Gail produced a strip of tablets with a flourish and a small grin. “Have one on me.”

“Uck.” Rachel popped the first pill, resigning herself to an evening of sobriety. “Toilet?”

“Along the hall, door under the main stairs on the left. Cubicles all wired, of course.”

“Guards?”

“Two on the front, two on the back, and two on each landing. They’ve been briefed. Safeword is—”

“ ‘Ghosts.’ I got it. And ‘dogs’ for an intruder.”

“Right.” Tranh stood up. “You happy?”

“As happy as…” Rachel gave it some thought: “…anyone would be in my shoes. How’s Elspeth taking it?”

“I could phone her if you want?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Rachel could see it all in her mind’s eye. A drably boring safe house on the other side of town, discreetly ringed by a prince’s escort of secret policemen. Ambassador Morrow would be trying to relax, with George Cho to keep her company, along with a subminister from the Ministry of External Affairs and her secretary, whatshisname. There was growing tension over Earth’s diplomatic corps muscling in on the mess: Earth was a third party with only a vague claim to involvement, thanks to the assassin’s choice of transport. The only reason Dresdener spooks weren’t handling this was the likely response of the Muscovite diplomatic corps if they dropped the ball. The ticking clock, the slowly rising tension as they waited for the call from the embassy. Anxiety: What if they’re right? And uncertainty: What if they’re wrong? And paranoia: What if these people from Earth are behind it all? It was enough to sour Rachel’s stomach, not a good way to start a long and stressful evening.

She concentrated on her autonomic implants for a while. The Dresdener authorities had a serious bias against personal augmentation and the unregulated use of smart matter: Rachel’s ability to override her thalamus, accelerate her reflexes, and see in the dark would go down like a lead balloon if they came to light. But they wouldn’t, not unless someone came out of the darkness and tried to kill her. That was only too possible, now they were into the eighty-hour frame between the Romanov’s arrival and its clearance for departure from the beanstalk’s orbital dock. And she had reason to be nervous. Someone had managed to infiltrate three diplomatic residences, one of them under a state of heightened security, carry out three kills, and get away clean. That implied very good intelligence, or inside help, or both. And if the inside help knew about the substitution …

“Time check,” said Tranh. “The first guests should be” — he glanced at the switch — “are arriving now.”

There was a discreet knock at the main door to the outer room. “I’ll check it,” said Gail, walking over. Rachel slid out of sight behind the inner door as Gail held a brief whispered conversation. “It’s Chrystoff,” she said, and Rachel relaxed slightly. Morrow’s bodyguard was one of the few people on the whitelist — if he was an assassin, they’d lost before they even got started.

“Good,” she said, walking back into the middle of the room. She caught the bodyguard’s eye: “You happy with this?”