She looked like the old, unassertive Rook Myfanwy Thomas. In her early thirties, she was shorter than Felicity and had an unremarkable face and shoulder-length brown hair. But something had changed.
Interesting, thought Felicity. She holds herself differently. She’s no longer trying to make herself smaller. I wonder what happened to pull her out of her shell.
“Pawn Clements, thank you for coming,” said the Rook.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“You have my sincerest sympathies for the loss of your comrades. This is a horrendous tragedy.” To give the Rook credit, she looked Felicity in the eye and sounded really sympathetic. None of that stuff where they claim they know how you feel.
“Thank you. I actually haven’t been told anything yet, Rook Thomas. Is it—are they all gone?”
The other woman pressed her lips together for a moment and took a breath. “Our investigators are still examining the wreckage. However, they have found ID tags from six Checquy people, and some remains have already been identified. We have confirmation that Pawns Gardiner, Buchanan, and Cheng are dead. For the others, it may be some time before we can say for certain.”
“Oh,” said Felicity. She felt empty. All the tears inside her had been shed, and the last little flame of hope had just been extinguished. Gardiner and Buchanan had been two of the soldiers who’d stood guard at the entrance to the cube. They had been intended to carry word back to the Checquy if no one emerged from the OOM, but apparently they had never made it. And Andrea Cheng. Her powers had not been enough to save her. “I can confirm that Pawns Odgers and Jennings are also dead,” she said, her voice wavering a little.
“I am very sorry,” said the Rook. “I’d better let the appropriate people know.” She made a quick, quiet phone call and then turned back to Felicity. “You will, of course, be required to undergo an official debriefing from the head of your division and give a formal statement for the record.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But first I want you to tell me about it. And then we will decide just how comprehensive your official debriefing and formal statement will be,” said the Rook.
“I—okay,” said Felicity warily. Suddenly, this sounds complicated. The Rook gestured, not to the chairs in front of her desk but to the couch off to the side.
“Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?” The Rook put a call through to her EA, who brought in two pots of tea (Earl Grey for Felicity, peppermint for the Rook), a selection of biscuits, and a large fluffy towel for Felicity’s feet. “Thank you, Ingrid. I won’t be meeting with anyone for the rest of the day, and I would prefer not to take any calls.”
“I’ll push anything nonapocalyptic to tomorrow,” promised the EA, and she closed the door as she left.
“Now, Pawn Clements, I need you to tell me everything that happened. I will be recording our conversation and taking notes. We will each retain a copy of the recording and the notes, but I want your word that you will not share that material with anyone unless I instruct you to do so or unless you are called before an internal tribunal.”
“Rook Thomas, what is going on?” asked Felicity.
“We are still gathering information, but it is possible that what happened to you and your comrades has political implications. If so, the details must be kept off the official files. I may need to act on that information in a manner that . . . is not within normal parameters, which may expose me to formal disapproval. I do not want you left without any protection. This material will demonstrate that whatever action is taken as a result of your testimony, it is my responsibility and done on my orders.”
“Very well . . .” said Felicity cautiously. This was beginning to sound like the kind of political shenanigans she’d always tried to avoid. I’m just a soldier, she thought. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. But her general was there, right in front of her, asking for her trust. “I give you my word.”
The Rook sat down on the couch, set her tablet computer to record, and spoke clearly. She noted the time, date, and location and stated that she, Rook Myfanwy Alice Thomas, was interviewing Pawn Felicity Jane Clements. She asked Felicity if she would confirm those facts.
“Yes, that is the . . . situation?” she said uncertainly, looking to the Rook. The other woman nodded and smiled.
“Then let us proceed,” said the Rook. “Oh, but look, for God’s sake, take off those socks and dry your feet.”
It was a very odd debriefing, really, not at all like the clinical process that had always followed Felicity’s deployments. Rook Thomas held her teacup in both hands, and kept her notepad on her lap. After a while, she kicked off her shoes and nestled back in the corner of the couch with her feet up. Sometimes Thomas would interrupt to ask questions, and she scribbled notes, but mainly she just listened, nodding occasionally. She was a very good listener. At one point, when Felicity found herself getting a little teary, the Rook provided her with tissues.
As she recounted the events of the day before, Felicity forgot who she was talking to. Unconsciously, she brought her legs up and sat Indian-style on the couch, hugging a cushion.
“So, the uh, Oblong of Mystery—it was a room?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah.”
“And your team just walked into it.”
“Yes,” said Felicity. “Why?”
The Rook leaned back, frowning. “This is not to be shared with anyone,” she said finally. “But in the months leading up to the negotiations, the Grafters deployed several weapons throughout the country. One of them was a gigantic cube of living matter. A flesh cube.”
“And it summoned recipients of organ transplants?” said Felicity, mildly confused.
“No,” said Thomas grimly. “It consumed people—tentacles came out and pulled them in.”
“Well, there were no tentacles, but I think Pawn Odgers had concerns,” said Felicity. “She ordered the team to report to the Rooks—and only the Rooks—everything that happened. But they died.”
Thomas nodded, and Felicity continued with her story.
Hours passed as the Rook took her over every detail, again and again. At one point, Mrs. Woodhouse brought in two delivery pizzas, one vegetarian and one that was the antithesis of vegetarian.
“What time is it?” asked the Rook, looking startled.
“Six o’clock,” said the EA.
“All right,” said Thomas. “Thanks, Ingrid, it’s fine for you to go home. We’ll be finishing up soon.”
“I can stay if you need me.”
“No, we’re almost done, but thank you. Give my best to Gary.” The EA nodded and left. As they ate the pizza, the Rook continued to ask questions, and then she drew a firm line in her notebook. “Okay, I think that’s it, unless you have anything to add?” Felicity shook her head. “Then thank you. I’ll make a copy of the recording and my notes and give them to you before you go home.”
“What should I say in my debriefing with the division head?” asked Felicity.
“Tell him everything,” said Thomas. “It will all come out in the investigation of the ruins, or it might prove important for him to know. I just ask you not to mention the possibility of the Grafters being involved. If he figures it out, he’ll come to me, and if he doesn’t, well, even better.” She got up, picked up the tablet computer, and padded over to her desk.
“Do you think Pawn Odgers was right?” asked Felicity. “Do you think it was the Grafters, that they’re betraying us?”
Thomas’s shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t know,” said the Rook. “Maybe.” She sounded tired. “But maybe it was something else, completely unrelated.”
“You need more information,” said Felicity.
“Yes,” said Thomas, plugging the tablet into her desktop computer. For all her authority and confidence, at that moment, the Rook seemed very unsure, almost lost.
“But you can’t tell anyone else your suspicions,” said Felicity. She felt a growing sense of certainty. “Not even the
rest of the Court. That’s why you’ve just gone through all this to get my story. If word were to get out about even the possibility of the Grafters leading us up the garden path, everything would fall apart. People here will jump at any excuse to stop the negotiations, and dead Checquy agents would just make it worse.”
The woman watched her with no expression on her face, and suddenly Felicity made a decision. “Let me help you.” For a split second, she had the satisfaction of seeing the Rook look completely flabbergasted before she mastered her features.
“Help me? Why?” asked Thomas, her eyes narrowed. “For vengeance? To punish the killers of your team?” Under that intent gaze, Felicity felt a shiver go through her, as if a hand had closed gently around her entire body.
“We don’t know that they’re the killers of my team, not for certain,” said Felicity. “And I won’t be a party to injustice. I hate the Grafters, but I won’t hold them responsible for something they didn’t do.” The other woman was still looking at her suspiciously. “Rook Thomas, you need help. You are a Rook of the Checquy, and I am your soldier. Let me be of service.”
The Rook regarded her for another long moment.
“Normally, after this sort of event and this sort of trauma, you would be removed from combat service to receive counseling,” she said finally.
“I don’t want that,” said Felicity. “I can’t sit at my old desk and look at all the empty chairs where my people used to sit. Or go on anguish leave, where I’m paid not to come in to work. I’ll wander around my flat and watch television and go mad.” The Rook sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. Her eyes were distant, and Felicity could almost hear her future being decided.
“All right, then,” said Thomas. “I accept. Thank you.” Felicity felt a rush of relief.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I already have an idea. Do you know Pawn Oliver Bannister?”
“In the Diplomatic section? Yes, he was in my year at the Estate,” said Felicity. “He’s a wanker—pardon my language.”
“No, it’s fine, that’s the impression I’ve gotten as well,” said the Rook. “He was assigned as minder to one of the Grafter delegation—Odette Leliefeld. Today he managed to lose track of her, and she wandered into the Apex medical wing, where she stirred up some trouble and freaked everyone out. The whole organization is buzzing about it. Apparently, she has abruptly become the poster girl for anti-Grafter sentiment. You’ll be replacing Bannister as her minder.”
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“You’re going to be accompanying her, keeping her out of harm’s way, and observing her. You will report regularly to me.”
“How are you going to explain my replacing him?”
“I don’t have to explain anything. I’m the Rook,” said Thomas comfortably. “But the official reason will be that, because of Miss Leliefeld’s newfound unpopularity, she needs to be accompanied by someone who is more equipped to protect her. I know you don’t have any bodyguard experience, but you have greater combat training than Bannister does. Plus, you’re a woman, so you can keep a close eye on her even in more . . . sensitive settings. The unofficial reason, which I will allow to percolate through the Checquy, is that Bannister’s incompetence put his charge, and therefore the negotiations, at risk. It will be believed because it happens to be true and because he is a dick.”
“So, I’m going to guard her but also spy on her?” said Felicity warily.
“In a sense,” said Thomas. “You look perturbed. You did say you wanted to be of service.”
“Yes, but I didn’t expect—”
“What were you expecting?”
“I was really just thinking that you could use me to beat information out of people. I’m not an espionage kind of girl.”
“You are now. But maybe we can arrange for some beatings later.” The Rook flipped through the pages of a file. “I’ll have a briefing package on Leliefeld put together for you, and you can spend tomorrow reviewing it. I’ll need to make arrangements for your reassignment, so the earliest you’ll be able to start is the day after tomorrow. Will that be enough time for you?”
“I—yes, I can do that,” said Felicity. She was beginning to wonder what she’d gotten herself into.
“You’ll still need to go to counseling,” said Thomas. “That’s non-negotiable, but we’ll schedule the sessions around your duties with Leliefeld.”
“Very well,” said Felicity glumly. The prospect of talking about her feelings filled her with almost as much dread as the idea of hanging around with a Grafter.
“You look a little dazed,” said the Rook kindly. “I know it’s a lot to take in, and the fact that this operation has undercover elements might make you uncomfortable.”
“Maybe a little.”
“I’ve found that in these under-the-table arrangements, there can be a lot of vagueness. People won’t say exactly what they mean, and that can lead to misunderstandings. Someone is ordered to arrange a warm welcome for a delegation, and instead of hiring a chocolate fountain, he sets the guests on fire. But you and I can’t afford any misunderstandings. So I’m going to be very clear.”
“All right,” said Felicity.
“You will be acting as a bodyguard to that girl. It is a real responsibility. You will keep her safe. You will be discreet—people will ask you about her, but you won’t talk about her personal life to anyone . . . except me. And, most important, you do not take any action against any of the Grafter delegation without my word.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you do anything unauthorized, it could mean war.”
“I understand.”
“But if I give the order, you will need to kill Odette Leliefeld.”
That should have been it, but it then transpired that Felicity’s car had been towed from the Rookery parking lot the day before, when they thought she was dead. It was not clear where her wallet with her credit cards, money, and Oyster card was—she had left it with the support team when she entered the row of houses. The Rook did not have any money on her for a cab and was not certain where her EA kept the petty cash.
“Well, we’ll get you home tomorrow,” said Thomas. “For tonight, we’ll just put you up in the Barghest watch barracks.”
At this, Felicity’s heart jumped in her chest, and she made a little gasp. She watched, tense with excitement, as the Rook called the watch manager, Pawn O’Brien, a broad man with a crew cut, who appeared and took custody of Felicity. The two women shook hands, and then Pawn O’Brien guided Felicity through the warren of corridors and to a lift that took them down to the fourth floor.
“Have you ever been to the barracks?” asked O’Brien. The Barghest sections were pretty much off-limits to regular Checquy staff, mainly because the special operations teams were obliged to spend so much time there that it was considered polite to afford them some privacy.
“No,” said Felicity, “but I’ve been working toward joining the Barghests, so I’m very interested.”
“Well, they’re right in the center of the building,” he told her. “Equal distance from the parking garage or the roof if they’re taking a helicopter.” Felicity nodded. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at the thought that she’d be sleeping in the same dormitory as actual Barghests.
The Barghests were the Checquy’s elite soldiers. A combination of SWAT, knights, ninjas, and Swiss army knives, they carried a dizzying array of weaponry (some of it decidedly unorthodox) and were trained in various esoteric martial arts that were tailored to their specific inhuman abilities. These were the warriors called in when something disastrous occurred and when at least one of the regular assault teams (who were themselves no slouches) had been unable to subdue the threat. They were soldiers of mass destruction. They were the best.
Every child on the Estate grew up on stories of the heroism and badassitude of the Barghests. Every child on the Estate wanted to be a Barghest, until
they found out that most of the coffins at Barghest funerals didn’t contain bodies. Instead, they contained parts of bodies, jars of puree, bits of rubble, or, in one memorable and bewildering case, the shattered remnants of a Louis XIV chair.
Felicity was one of the few who wasn’t put off by the stories of proud warriors being dismembered, ground into a pulp, turned to stone, or transmuted into valuable antique furniture by malevolent forces. In fact, ever since she had learned about them, she had desperately wanted to join the Barghests, to be one of the real guardians of last resort. There was a mystique about them; they were defending Britain from the very worst dangers.
There were several Barghest squads scattered around the globe, and they could be activated only by a member of the Court. Nevertheless, there was always a team on call at the Rookery. And I’m going to actually hang out in their actual barracks! thought Felicity. Maybe she’d get to shoot some pool with them, ask questions, and make a good impression.
Instead, it turned out that they were all asleep. Pawn O’Brien led her through their barracks, which were equipped with a weight room, a sprung-floor movement studio, a sprung-ceiling movement studio, an indoor shooting range, a sauna, a steam room, a fog room, a small cinema, a large lounge, and a medium-size woman who stood up from a desk to greet them.
“Major Somerset, this is Pawn Felicity Clements. She’ll be under your care for the night. Someone will collect her in the morning,” said O’Brien, and he departed. Major Somerset was a motherly looking woman, and Felicity knew from her title that she was a Retainer, rather than a Pawn, and that she had been recruited from the military. The attendant guided Felicity through heavy frosted-glass doors to the actual dormitory, which was dimly lit. There were two rows of beds, and slumbering forms were curled up in all but one of them. Wow, she thought in awe. Actual sleeping Barghests. By each bed was a pair of large combat boots, ready to be stepped into.
“No armor?” whispered Felicity. “I always thought they had armor standing ready for them.”
“The suits of armor are in the van downstairs and in the helicopter on the roof,” said Major Somerset. “They get armored up on the way—saves time.” She gestured toward the one empty bed, which was already made. “You’ll be sleeping there.”
Stiletto Page 19
