Jennifer Morgue (26 page)

"My shoes?" I bend down and rummage for them in my luggage. They're horrible things, shiny patent leather with soles that feel like lumps of wood. "What do you want them for"

Pinky is doing something to the PlayStation. "This." He flourishes another smartcard, which Brains takes and slides into a hitherto invisible seam in the leather tongue of my right shoe.

"And this," Brains says, holding up a shoelace. "That's a — "

"Miniature 100BaseT cable. Pay attention, Bob, you don't want to lose your network connectivity, do you? It goes in like this and to activate it you twist and pull like that; it uncoils to three meters and the plastic caps expand to fit any standard network socket. It doubles as a field-expedient grounding strap, too. That's right. No, you don't want to tie your shoelaces too tight."

I try to stifle a groan. "Guys, is this really necessary? Does it help me do the job"

Pinky cocks his head to one side. "Predictive Branch says there's a ten percent chance of you failing on the job and dying horribly if you don't take it." He giggles. "Feeling lucky, punk?"

"Bah. What do I really need to know"

"Here." Brains tosses a stainless steel Zippo lighter to me: "It's an antique, don't lose it. Predictive Branch said it would come in handy."

"I don't smoke. What else"

"The usual stuff: There's a USB memory drive preloaded with a forensic intrusion kit hidden in each end of your dickey-bow, a WiFi-finder on your key ring, a roll-up keyboard in your cummerbund, the pen's got Bluetooth and doubles as a mouse, and there's a miniaturized Tillinghast resonator in your left heel. You turn it on by twisting the heel through one-eighty degrees; turn it off the same way.

Your other heel is just a heel: We were going to hide a Basilisk gun in it but some ass-hat in Export Controls vetoed our requisition because it was going overseas. Oh, and there's this." Brains reaches over to a briefcase on the bed and pulls out a businesslike nylon shoulder holster and a black automatic pistol. "Walther P99, 9mm caliber, fifteen-round magazine, silvercap hollow-points engraved with a demicyclic banishment circuit in ninety-nanometer Enochian."

"Banishment rounds?" I ask hesitantly, then: "Hang on."

"We figured the exorcism payload means it's covered by your occult weapons certification. If anyone asks, it's just a gadget for installing exorcism glyphs at high speed." Brains sits down on the bed, ejects the magazine, works the action to make sure there's no round in the chamber, then starts stripping it down. "Word from Angleton is the bad guys are likely to get heavy and he wants you carrying."

"Oh my." I blank for a moment. It's only about an hour since I sliced some poor bastard's air hose in half, and having to deal with this so soon afterwards is doing my head in.

"Did he really say that"

"Yes. We don't want to end up losing you by accident because someone starts shooting and you're unarmed, do we"

"I guess not." He passes the shoulder holster to me and I try to figure out how it goes on. "Well, if you're all done now, maybe you could leave so I can phone home"

After Pinky and Brains leave, I call down to room service for a light lunch, put the door chain on, then go run a bath.

There's a wet suit hanging over the shower rail and an oxygen tank leaning up against the toilet. While the bath's filling I try phoning home, but get the answering machine. I try Mo's mobile, but that's switched off, too. She must still be in Dunwich under lockdown. Feeling sorry for myself, I go and rinse the salt off my skin: but I can't hang around in the bath without thinking of Ramona, and that's not a healthy sign either. I'm confused about her, I feel guilty whenever I think about Mo, and the smell of saltwater brings back that frightening slow-motion underwater tumble, knife in hand. This isn't me: I'm just not the cold-blooded killer type. When shit needs kicking and throats need slitting we send in Alan's goon squad. I'm supposed to be the quiet geek who sits at the back of the computer lab, right?

Except I signed my name on the line a few years ago, right ..below the paragraph that said I accepted the Crown's commission to go forth and perpetrate mayhem in the defense of the realm, as lawfully directed and commanded by my designated superiors. And while most of the time it's trivial shit — like breaking into an office and leaving evidence to shitcan some poor bastard who's stumbled too close to the truth — there's nothing there that says I'm not required to wrestle killers in wet suits or molest alien monsters. Quite the contrary, in fact. I don't have a license to kill, but I don't have orders not to kill in the course of my duties, either. Which realization I find extremely disturbing; its like the sensation in your stomach the first time you get into a car after getting your driving license, when you suddenly realize there's no instructor in the seat next to you and this is not a test. I wrap myself in a bath sheet and go back out into the bedroom. It's about one in the afternoon and I've got a few hours to kill before Ramona is due back. Lunch shows up and is as blandly tasteless as usual — I swear that there's a force field in the hotel dimensions that sucks the flavor out of food. I badly want something that'll distract me from pursuing this morbid introspection. Pinky left the PlayStation behind, so I plop myself down in front of the TV, pick up the controller, and poke at it in a desultory sort of way. Candy-bright graphics and a splash screen flicker by as the machine clunks and whirs, loading; then it launches a road race game, in which I'm driving a variety of cars along winding roads around a jungle-covered island while zombies shoot at me. "Arse," I mutter, and switch off in disgust.

I check that my tablet PC is plugged into all the wards correctly, then draw the curtains and He down on the bed for a short nap.

I'm awakened what feels like a split second later by a banging on the door. "Hey, monkey-boy! Rise and shine!"

thighs and forearms ache as if I've been beaten — must be the swimming. I draw the chain and open the door.

"Had a good nap?" She raises an eyebrow at me.

"Got to get — " I pause. "Dressed." Damn, I haven't phoned Mo, I realize. Ramona is looking like about a million dollars, in a blue evening dress that clings to her improbably well — it seems to be held on with double-sided sticky tape. There's several meters of pearl rope wound into her hair: she must have found a handy time warp for the make-up crew to have had time to get her ready for the fashion photo-shoot.

Meanwhile, I'm wearing yesterday's underpants and I feel like I've been run over by a train.

"You're running late," she says, pushing past me; one nostril wrinkles aristocratically as she surveys the wreckage. She bends over a large carrier bag with the logo of that goddamned tailor on it: "Here, catch."

I find myself clutching a pair of boxer shorts. "Okay, I get the message. Give me a minute"

"Take ten," she says, "I'll go powder my nose." Then she disappears into the bathroom.

I groan and retrieve my tuxedo from the leg-well of the desk. There's a fresh shirt in the bag, and I manage to install myself in it without too much trouble. I leave the goddamn squeaky shoes for last. Then I have a mild anxiety attack when I realize I've forgotten the shoulder holster. Should I or shouldn't I? I'll probably end up shooting myself in the foot.

In the end I compromise — I've still got Ramona's phonegun, so I'll carry that in one pocket. "I'm ready," I call.

"I'll bet." She comes out of the bathroom, adjusting her evening bag, and smiles brilliantly. Her smile fades.

"Where's your gun"

I pat my jacket pocket.

"No, no, not that one." She reaches in and removes the phonegun, then gestures at the shoulder holster: "That one."

"Must I?" I try not to whine.

"Yes, you must." I shrug out of my jacket and Ramona helps me into the shoulder rig. Then she straightens my bow tie. "That's more like it. We'll have you attending diplomatic cocktail parties in no time!"

"That's what I'm afraid of," I grumble. "Okay, where now"

"Back to the casino. Eileen's throwing a little party in the petit salle, and I've got us tickets. Seafood canapes and crappy lounge music with a little gambling thrown in. Plus the usual sex and drugs rich people indulge in when they get bored with throwing their money away. She's using the party to reward some of her best sales agents and do a little quiet negotiating on the side. I gather she's got a new supplier to talk to. Ellis won't be there at first, but I figure if we can get you an invitation onto the ship ..."

"Okay," I agree. "Anything else"

I keep hold of her hand. She tries to pull away. "I don't believe you," I say. My heart is beating very hard. "You do, don't you"

She looks me in the eye. "Yes," she admits. Her eyes are glistening, and in this light I can't tell whether it's cosmetics or tears. "But we mustn't."

I manage to nod. "You're right." The words feel very heavy to me, to both of us. I can feel her need, a physical hunger for an intimacy she hasn't allowed herself to indulge in years. It's not sex, it's something more. Oh what a lovely mess! She's been a solitary predator for so long that she doesn't know what to do with somebody she doesn't want to kill and eat. I feel ill with emotional indigestion: I don't think I've ever felt for Mo the kind of raw, priapic lust I feel for Ramona, but Ramona is a poisonous bloom — off-limits if I value my life.

She closes the gap between us, wraps her arms around me, and pulls me against her. She kisses me on the mouth so hard that it makes my hair stand on end. Then she lets go of me, steps back, and smoothes her dress down. "I'd better not do that ever again," she says thoughtfully. "For both our sakes: it's too risky." Then she takes a deep breath and offers me her arm. "Shall we go to the casino"

The night is young. It's just beginning to get dark, and some time while I was sleeping there was a brief deluge of rain. It's cut the baking daytime heat down a few notches, but steam is rising from the sidewalk in thin wisps and the humidity setting is somewhere between "Amazonian" and "crash dive with the torpedo tubes open." We stroll past a few street vendors and a bunch of good-time folks, under awnings with bright lights and loud noises. The brightly painted gazebos in front of the restaurants are all full, drowning out the creaking insect life with loud chatter.

We arrive at the casino entrance and I nod at the unfamiliar doorman. "Private party," I say.

"Ah. If monsieur et madame would come this way ...'" He backs into the foyer and directs us towards a nondescript staircase. "Your card, sir?" Ramona nudges me discreetly and I feel her slide something into my hand. I flip it round and pass it to the doorman. "Here." He scrutinizes it briefly, then nods and waves us upstairs. "What was that?" I ask Ramona as we climb. "Invitation to Eileen's little recreation." It's all polished brass and rich, dark mahogany here. Deeply tedious landscape paintings in antique frames dot the walls, and the lights are dim. Ramona frowns minutely as we reach the landing: "Under our own names, of course."

"Right. Do the names signify"

She shrugs. "Probably, on some database somewhere. They're not stupid, Bob."

''I'm going to go say 'hi' to our hostess,'' Ramona tells me. ''See you in a couple of minutes?'' I can tell when I'm not needed. ''Sure,'' I say. ''Want me to get you a drink?''

''I'll handle it from here.'' She smiles at me then opens her mouth and gushes, "Isn't this wonderful, Bob? Be a dear and circulate while I go powder my nose. I'll just be a sec!"

Then she's off, carving a groove through the little black dresses and plastic smiles.

I shrug philosophically, spot the bar, and go over to it.

The bartender is busily pouring glass after glass of cheap, fizzy white plonk, and it takes me a while to catch his eye.

"Service over here"

"Sure. What do you want"

"I'll — " a thousand fragments of half-grasped TV movies take control of my larynx " — can you make it a dry martini?

Shaken, not stirred."

"Heh." He looks amused. "You're not the first guy who's asked me that." He grabs a cocktail shaker and reaches for the gin, and in just a matter of seconds he's handing me a conical glass full of clear, oily liquid with a pickled sheep's eyeball at the bottom. I sniff it cautiously. It smells of jet fuel.

"Thanks, I think." Holding it at arm's length I turn away from the bar and nearly dump it all over a woman in a severe black suit and heavy-framed spectacles. "Oops, I'm sorry."