NO MORE CONSPIRACIES! blared a sign held by a man with a lot of beard. THE TRUTH IS IN HERE!
WE KNOW THE TRUTH! proclaimed several placards clutched by small children. The protesters were chanting some sort of rhyme that failed to scan but did manage to establish that the Hammerstrom Building was the secret headquarters of the government’s department of the supernatural.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered to herself, watching bemusedly as the denizens of the business district walked past the protesters with averted eyes. Looking up at the building, she had to sympathize with both parties. It was the last building in the world one would expect to contain anything interesting. About nine stories tall and constructed of an unprepossessing gray stone, the Hammerstrom Building looked like the kind of place in which the most tedious of businesses conducted their most tedious endeavors. There were no sculptures or decorations, no clue as to what might be inside. You would never just wander in to see what was in there. You’d have better things to do.
The driver had the door open, and she realized with a jolt that she should probably get out of the car. Thanking him, she accepted his hand and took a few hesitant steps toward the front door. The protesters, seeing a short woman looking around uncertainly with wide eyes, thought she was a possible convert and converged upon her.
“Miss! Miss!” There was a cacophony of voices, but finally the man with the beard established himself as their ambassador.
“Miss, it might shock you to know that this building is home to one of the greatest conspiracies in history!” he declared.
“Oh?” she said weakly.
“In this building the government keeps its secrets about the truth!” he explained.
“The truth?”
“Yes!” he said, and he paused impressively.
“About what?” she finally asked.
“Excuse me?”
“The truth about what?” she prompted him patiently.
“Everything they’ve been concealing! Are you aware that the British government has been hiding evidence of alien landings for the past twenty years?”
“They have?” We have? She resolved to look up aliens in the files Thomas had left for her.
“Yes! And that’s not all! They have teams engaged in secret operations all over the countryside. We’re not sure what it is they’re doing, but we demand to know! Would you like to sign our petition and be put on our mailing list?” With one hand he thrust a clipboard under her nose, and with the other he fanned several pamphlets.
In the end, she signed the petition. She declined the mailing-list offer but did accept some of their home-cranked pamphlets, slipping them into her briefcase before, to the horror of the protesters, walking straight into the building through its rather shabby-looking revolving doors.
Inside there was a small, bland lobby with a large, bland security guard behind a desk. There were three lifts, and a building directory listed an assortment of businesses that she knew were fictitious. She looked around and saw that the guard was hurriedly standing and straightening his tie.
“Good morning, Rook Thomas,” he said, dragging his gaze away from her bruises and black eyes and looking her square in the shoes. “How was your weekend?”
“It was nice,” she said, caught slightly off guard. “Yes, very, very… nice,” she added, failing to provide any details. There was an awkward pause, but to her secret delight, the large security officer seemed much more ill at ease than she was.
“Yes, well, if you’d just like to step on through then,” he said as he reached under his desk and pressed a button, which buzzed her through a discreet frosted-glass door. She stepped forward, thanking him, and found herself in a painfully bright corridor that took her (unless she was mistaken) around behind the lifts, through a metal-detector archway, and into a lobby that was slightly larger and more nicely appointed than the one she’d just come from. A slightly larger and more nicely appointed security guard was getting up from his desk.
“Morning, Rook Thomas,” he began
“Morning. I had a shit weekend, longest I can remember,” she said with perfect honesty.
“Uh, yes, they look nasty,” he said awkwardly, presumably referring to her bruises. “Well, if you’d like to swipe your pass and go on through,” he said, gesturing toward the four revolving doors set into the wall. The partitions were made of heavy steel bars and intricately pierced metal plates. She carefully ran her pass over a small black panel and heard a series of beeps and heavy clunks. The metal doors began to rotate, and she stepped through smartly.
Here was the real lobby, obviously. A high ceiling arched gracefully. Elevator doors lined the walls, and she recalled from her reading that some led to the underground garage and some to the upper levels—a deliberate move to ensure that everyone entering the building had to go through multiple layers of security and pass the exceptionally large and prominently armed guards who sat at the ring of desks in the center. It was a beautiful room, and it was filled with people bustling about.
Her heels clicked on the marble floor, and she caught her breath as all the people stopped talking and parted in front of her, opening the way to a specific lift. All eyes were fixed on her and she was very aware of her mud-spattered shoes and her black eyes. She straightened her spine and walked carefully to the doors. Was it her imagination, or had that woman started to curtsy? She nodded carefully and kept walking. One man gave a small bow, and an older gentleman in tweeds gave a brief, flickering salute. What was she supposed to do? Seized by a sudden impulse, she paused before the man who’d saluted and smiled. His eyes were fixed firmly ahead.
“Yes, Rook Thomas?” She was surprised by the deference that this man, who was at least twenty years her senior, showed her.
“Oh, um. Are you busy?” she asked awkwardly, without any idea of what to say.
“Not if you need me, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes ahead.
“Please, come with me to my office. I would like to hear your thoughts on the project you are working on.” And with that, she began walking to the lift. The only way to do this thing, she decided, was to be brazen about it. Until this man had answered her with fear and respect, she hadn’t appreciated the power that came with being Myfanwy Thomas. It wasn’t just the fear of what she could do to him should she touch him; it was also the authority of her position.
As the doors snapped shut, she could sense how uncomfortable her escort was. She’d made certain to stand at the back so that he was obliged to push the button for the floor, since she’d forgotten which one her office was on. He stood ramrod straight and very carefully avoided eye contact with her.
“So—” she began, but he cut her off immediately.
“Yes, Rook Thomas?”
“Ye-es,” she said slowly. “What is it you are working on right now?”
“My section is concerned with tidying up after that outbreak of plague in the Elephant and Castle. All the bodies are being dissected more thoroughly, and the witnesses coached.”
“Oh, good,” she said weakly. “And everything is proceeding well?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Excellent; that is very… satisfying.” And then there was a long pause. “Do you have any… observations? Or… suggestions?” What had started as a brief test of her authority was now turning into a humiliating interview in which neither person knew what to say.
“No, no, we are following standard procedure,” he said hurriedly.
“Hmm,” she said, as an ingenious way of not having to say anything. Another nightmarish pause ensued.
“However—” he began.
“Yes?” She pounced on the opening like it was a welcome mint.
“I must confess, and please don’t take this as a criticism of the group, that the process is not as effective as it might be.”
“Really?” she said, as breathless as if he had just come down from Mount Sinai with a few footnotes. “Let’s make an appointment so you can expand on your
ideas. We’ll go to my office, and you can set a time with my assistant.” At that, the lift doors opened on her floor, and she very carefully let him go first, since she had no idea where her office was.
Her executive assistant, whom the binder had identified as Ingrid Woodhouse, looked exactly like her photo. A distinguished woman in purple, Ingrid rose and greeted her politely.
“Good morning, Rook Thomas,” her secretary said. “How are you?”
“Great, thanks. Now, this gentleman has a few ideas that I’m quite keen to hear about, so if you could find a mutual opening in our schedules, that would be grand.” She looked around curiously while Ingrid and the man, whose name she hadn’t managed to pick up, made an appointment for him to tell her all about something to do with a plague. Eh, it was probably worth it, she thought. I was never going to find my office otherwise. Plus, the poor man actually seemed to think he had some interesting ideas. She smiled an absent good-bye at the perspiring man (whom Ingrid addressed as Colonel). He left, visibly relieved, and Myfanwy turned her attention to her executive assistant.
“How was your weekend?” she asked, purposely heading off any questions about her own experiences.
“Oh, it was nice,” said Ingrid. “You remember I told you my daughter Amy was coming home from York for the weekend?”
“Oh, right. And you had a good time?”
“Yes, very pleasant,” said Ingrid. “Here’s the current situation précis,” she said, handing Myfanwy a leather folder. “Now, can I fetch you some coffee?”
“Yes, coffee would be wonderful. Please,” Myfanwy said as she walked hesitantly into her office. For a moment, she paused there and looked around, trying to drink in the lingering traces of her predecessor. It was a large room, and beautifully furnished. Two of the walls were massive sheets of glass looking out on the city. A collection of portraits hung on the other two walls. In one corner of the room, a vase holding an arrangement of roses stood on a heavy table. There was a large antique desk before her, and off to the side was a sitting area with couches and a coffee table. She gingerly sat down behind the desk and eyed the many piles of paper stacked on it with a certain amount of trepidation. They all looked official and important. She carefully cleared a space on the desk and cracked open the folder Ingrid had given her.
There was mention of the plague in the Elephant and Castle and the wrap-up details related to that. There had been three incidents over the weekend, none of which had required the presence of Barghest commandos (whatever they were), and there was a scheduled assault on an antler cult that morning, with E. Gestalt attending. Seven people were under surveillance in the greater London area, and thirty-four overall in the British Isles. Preliminary preparations had begun for the annual review.
Well, that’s all very nice, she thought. If I knew what it meant, I’m sure I’d be thrilled. Anyway, it seems to be under control, so back to my scheduled programming.
Myfanwy was looking through the desk drawers curiously when Ingrid came in with a cup of coffee and an appointment book so thick it could be used to bludgeon a cow. Myfanwy took a long contemplative sip as her secretary began to describe her schedule.
“Ingrid?” she said.
“Yes, Rook Thomas?”
“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I get some cream and sugar in this coffee, please?” Her secretary looked at her blankly. “I’ve decided to change the way I take it.” Myfanwy felt the need to explain the abrupt change in a habit that (for all she knew) had been established for years. “I’m doing that because…” Why? Because I want to put on weight? Because I’ve been told I need more sugar in my diet? “… because I’ve been sleeping badly. And so I wish to dilute the caffeine. But not to cut it out entirely. Because of the headaches.” Ingrid looked at her a little strangely, for which Myfanwy couldn’t blame her at all, but took the coffee and went to modify it. God, who knew it would be so horrendously complicated impersonating oneself? she thought, and opened up Myfanwy’s folder.
Assassination of Court Members
One of the reasons this whole plot has been so difficult for me to suss out is that there has been relatively little internal assassination of Court members in the history of the Checquy. Given that it’s a centuries-old militant organization that operates under a shroud of secrecy with a plethora of baroque (and sometimes rococo) traditions and bureaucracy, and that most members are trained to kill and equipped with supernatural capabilities, and that members of the Court wield authority with a terrifyingly free hand, you might expect there’d be more internal violence.
But no.
Oh, there’s been some assassination by outside organizations (supernatural and otherwise—Lord Palmerston had a Bishop shot), and plenty of deaths in the field, but as far as I can tell, there have been only four illegal deaths of Court members that were the work of other Court members. There have been a few legal executions, of course, including a monumental slaughter in 1788 that was only later declared legal, but the big four illegal ones are notorious:
In 1678 Lord Charles Huxley was thrown down a well on the orders of his wife, Lady Adelia Huxley.
In 1679, Lady Adelia Huxley was beaten to death with a kettle by her husband’s lover, Bishop Roger Torville.
In 1845, Rook Angelina Corfax was run over by a barouche. It was eventually discovered that this was done at the command of her counterpart, Rook Cassandra Bartlett.
In 1951, Bishop Donald Montgomery was strangled with his own tie by Rook Juniper Constable.
Naturally, it is illegal for one member of the Checquy to kill another—not just because it’s murder, but because it strips the British Isles of part of their defense. In the cases above, all but one of the murderers were briskly tracked down, briskly tried, and then executed with a conspicuous lack of briskness. The exception was Rook Cassandra Bartlett, who successfully concealed her part in Corfax’s death; it was discovered in her journals years after she’d died. She must have been a fucking genius to avoid the tracking abilities of the Checquy.
My point is, it isn’t done.
And it certainly isn’t done to me.
Whoever tries to have me killed, whoever succeeds in destroying my memory, well, they’re placing themselves in an awful lot of danger to do so. I can’t imagine their risking doing it in the Rookery.
Now, one of my initial thoughts was that you could request a full-time bodyguard, but you’d have to explain why, and that would lead to all sorts of speculation about you. You’d then have someone with you all the time, and, frankly, we don’t want to draw that much attention to you. The reason I didn’t get a bodyguard was I knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“Rook Thomas, I just got a call from your counterpart’s assistant—all of the bodies were out of town on different assignments over the weekend, and none of them will be back for a few hours, so your Monday-morning meeting is going to be pushed back,” said Ingrid, coming in with the renovated coffee.
“My counterpart? Yes…” replied Myfanwy, beginning with a question but frantically shifting it into a musing declarative sentence. She now scrabbled for some sort of comment to make and settled for stating the obvious. “So, the meeting is being pushed back.”
“Yes,” said Ingrid. “All of Rook Gestalt should be back after your meeting with the headmistress from the Estate, except possibly Eliza, depending on how the antler-cult assault goes.”
“Oh, okay,” said Myfanwy, trying to work out what had just been said.
I think I get it, she thought. One of the two Rooks. There are two Rooks. Like chess. I am one, and the other is my counterpart. Rook Gestalt. It was making a modicum of sense. She had a vague idea about what to do, but now something else was bothering her. What does she mean by all of Rook Gestalt?
“At nine thirty, you will be meeting with the accountants from Apex House to go over the budget for the Elephant and Castle operation,” continued Ingrid, apparently having decided to overlook her boss’s problems understanding the English language.
“The plague one?” Myfanwy asked brightly, pleased that she’d remembered.
“Yes. At ten fifteen you have a half-hour meeting with the head of the Estate, and then at eleven, you have your meeting with Rook Gestalt. I will cancel your appointment with the Minister of Defense.”
“And that’s okay?” she asked, thrown by the ease with which her secretary dismissed the Minister of Defense.
“Of course.”
“Well, okay,” said Myfanwy dubiously. “Now, I was hoping to have some time today to review some figures.” And acquaint myself with the organization that I appear to be running.
“If there is any spare time, I shall endeavor not to fill it,” Ingrid said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes,” her secretary agreed. “Now, you have nothing booked for lunch—shall I order something in so you can eat in the office?”
“No, I want to go somewhere nice for lunch,” Myfanwy said. “See if you can’t book me a reservation at a place with very good food.”
“All right,” said Ingrid, looking a little surprised. “Christifaro’s?” Myfanwy nodded. “I’ll arrange for your car to be ready. And after lunch, Security Chief Clovis is coming over from Apex House, and then you’re having dinner with Lady Farrier.”
“Okay. So, what are these meetings about?” she asked, getting out a pen and preparing to take some notes.
“The head of the Estate wishes to go over a list of potential acquisitions, and you made the appointment with the head of security. I’m afraid I don’t know why.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure it will come back to me,” Myfanwy said.
“For dinner you are booked in at Simpson’s,” said Ingrid. “I’ll let you know when your car is ready.” Myfanwy agreed and Ingrid sailed out of the office like a clipper under full, tailored sails.
The Rook: A Novel Page 5
