All of which happened tonight.
I then had details flung at me. Four civilian deaths. Thousands of pounds’ worth of property damage. The Argentine woman seemed to be having a nervous breakdown, and no one could get near her because there was a herd of ghostly green tarucas, jaguars, and llamas surrounding her.
At that point, my palms became soaking wet, but my mind was absolutely dry. I’m good in a crisis, but it’s not because I’m not afraid. I’m always afraid. I’m so stressed I want to throw up. But I am good in a crisis because I am very, very good at making preparations. I try to cover every angle, to plan for every eventuality.
As you’ve probably figured out.
But back to the newly spawned luminous fauna of Liverpool. The man on the other end of the phone was the shift commander for the Crisis Office, which was located in London.
“Our troops have been mobilized?” I asked.
“Liverpool teams are either out there or on their way, but this is looking to be major,” he said, and I could hear concern in his voice, which was very worrying. Crisis officers tend to be the calmest people in the entire organization. Possibly the calmest people on earth. If this one sounded worried, then I could almost believe there wasn’t going to be a city of Liverpool the next morning. “I’m not certain that they will be able to handle this,” he continued.
I opened a spreadsheet and scanned down until I found what I wanted.
“There’s a team of final-years from the Estate doing covert maneuvers half an hour away from the city limits,” I offered. “We’ll dispatch them for initial assistance.”
“Is that legal?”
“Yes. According to the charter of the school. One sec.” I held the phone away and called for Ingrid to inform Frau Blümen. Then I returned to the call. “What’s the situation with the press?” I asked.
“None so far” came the tense answer over the phone. I could hear people in the background being frantically busy. “There’s been some chatter, but we got this very quickly.”
I weighed the situation and took a deep breath.
“Cut the city’s communications,” I said.
“Excuse me?” came the startled response.
“Do it, and call me back when it’s done—wait, Lewis! Are you there?”
“Yes, Rook Thomas.”
“How dark is it there now?” I asked.
“What?”
“How dark is it there? It’s ten past six in the evening here, and it’s dark. Liverpool is farther to the west than us, so the sun will have set later there. How dark is it?” There was an indistinct voice behind Lewis. “What did he say?”
“He said it’s dark there. As dark as here.”
“Okay then… we’ll have to cut the entire power supply. We need a blackout,” I said, wincing at the problems this was going to cause. “Now.”
“We can do that?” he asked.
“Rookery techs have placed backdoor computer entry into the power facilities of the sixteen biggest cities in the UK,” I said, revealing the existence of a project I’d initiated nine months ago.
“I never heard about that,” he said.
“It’s… restricted.” In fact, knowledge of it was restricted to the Court and the techs who had accomplished it. “I’ll put the order through, and we’ll turn it off.”
“The whole city?” he said weakly.
“Relevant area if possible, whole place if necessary. But communications need to be down. I want it difficult for the press to find out the details, and I want it very difficult, if not impossible, for them to record anything.”
“Okay, well, I’ll let the teams know.” And we simultaneously hung up. Then I made a call down to the IT section and plunged the city of Liverpool into darkness.
“Ingrid, the subject’s from Argentina?” I called through the doors.
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to speak to one of the Chevs then. Get me a line to whoever’s there. And why hasn’t Gestalt called me?”
“Eckhart’s in Paris, Gubbins is on line one, and Gestalt is on line two” came the composed answer. I snatched up the phone and stabbed at line one.
“Harry?”
“One sec, Myfanwy.” I heard him putting the phone down and speaking to someone else. “Yes, Minister, it turns out that there was a mysterious force that caused that plane crash. Yes. Yes. What was it? We call it gravity.” He sighed as he picked up the phone connected to me. “You know, Rook Thomas, this is why we keep ourselves secret. People look for the most ridiculous excuses. No wonder the age of reason was so welcome. It finally allowed the supernatural to take a break.”
“Mm-hm, that’s fascinating,” I said, scanning the details that had been e-mailed to me. “Look, an Argentine government official has spontaneously gone critical in Liverpool. We may have to take her out—read the e-mail I’m forwarding to you, figure out the implications if we kill her, and be ready.”
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, and hung up. I hit the button for line two.
“Gestalt? Where are your bodies?”
“One in is Wolverhampton, one in Nottingham, both are on their way to Liverpool. I’m also in the Rookery in my office.”
“All right. We’ve cut the power in the city. You’ll be able to handle crowd control as well as tactics?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to end this ASAP,” I said, and hung up.
“Lewis is on line one,” Ingrid called.
“Lewis? Is the power off?” I asked him.
“Yes, but—” He broke off.
“But what?”
“But there’s a TV crew out there, and we can’t find them.”
“Oh. Shit.” I ended the connection and dialed the extension for Media Cover. “It’s Rook Thomas here. I hear there’s a TV crew wandering around in downtown Liverpool—why is that?”
“They have a television station in downtown Liverpool” came the dry voice of Caspar Dragoslevic, the head of Media Cover.
“We permitted that?”
“Remarkably, I do not have the supernatural ability to influence the placement of media outlets’ facilities. We have someone in the station who will let us know what kind of footage they have once they have it, and we may be able to do something to it.”
“Good luck.” I snorted. “If it’s the kind of footage I think it is, they’ll guard it with their lives. What do your Liars have?”
“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.” Dragoslevic sighed. “They’re the Tactical Deception Communications Section.”
“Caspar, we will need something to tell people, and an Argentine woman who coughs up ectoplasm that turns into animals that chase people—well, that falls into the category of things that we are very specifically supposed to prevent people from finding out about.”
“You know, Rook Thomas, with language skills like that, it’s amazing you weren’t placed in my department.”
“Give me something, please,” I said, and hung up. Almost immediately the phone rang again. “Yes?”
“Lewis here—we’ve had three more deaths, and there are two more news crews out there.”
“What’s the situation with the troops? Do I need to send the Barghests?”
“I don’t think so; they’re closing in on the target. Hold on—she’s down,” said Lewis.
“Dead?” I asked intently.
“Yes, it’s confirmed.”
“And the animal constructs?”
“They’re evaporating,” he said, the relief in his voice mirroring my own emotions.
“Okay, remove the woman and try to sweep up any incriminating stuff. We’re turning the lights on and giving the phones back in ten minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I gave the orders for the services to be returned to the city, looked at the clock, and saw with bemusement that only thirty-one minutes had passed. I smiled. We really are very good. But then Ingrid buzzed through and told me that we were getting frantic calls from people
high up in the Home Office; the Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs; the Liverpool City Council; the Liverpool Police Department; the power company; and the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
“Okay, put them through one at a time.” I then had to endure a series of irate ministers (Prime and otherwise) and members of my own organization. Though the whole incident had taken only half an hour and the lights had been cut off for just fifteen minutes, cleaning up the aftermath took more than an hour and a half. Even as I mouthed platitudes, I was watching three television sets, waiting anxiously for footage.
“Ingrid,” I said, after putting the phone down on Bishop Grantchester, one of my immediate superiors, “call Caspar Dragoslevic and find out what the hell we’re going to tell the public.” I opened a drawer in my desk and took out some aspirin. The phone buzzed, and I flinched away from the sound.
“Rook Thomas here.”
“It’s Caspar.”
“And where are we?” I asked wearily.
“I have exceptionally good news, Rook Thomas,” said Dragoslevic. “Thanks to the lack of electricity and the number of people trying to get out of the city, the media crews weren’t able to get to the epicenter of the event. They were only on the outskirts, and it turns out that cameras couldn’t record the constructs—the ectoplasm didn’t register on film or digital.”
“Thank God.” I sighed. “Have you come up with a plausible story?”
“We have some very nice things that aren’t particularly specific having to do with escaped animals from a cargo ship and the power outage and resultant looting,” he said.
“Sounds convoluted. How much do I need to worry about people reporting herds of ghost animals?” I asked.
“It’s the business district at six in the evening in the middle of the week, so nowhere near as bad as it could have been. But there were still quite a few. They’ll accept the news stories’ explanation, especially once we release a few animals out there and have them caught on television,” said Caspar. He’d worked in television for twenty-three years before I’d headhunted him, and I had confidence in his ability to gauge what humanity would accept. I wanted to ask what kind of animals and where he was going to get them, but I decided my life would be easier without that knowledge.
“Great, well… just try not to go overboard,” I said. “It’s not going to look good to my bosses if we kill more members of the public by releasing water buffalo among them,” I told him, and I hung up on the evening.
Now I am exhausted, but the necessity of being prepared for you combined with the work habits instilled in me at school mean that I am still in the office at eleven at night. The Liars’ explanation went out hours ago and has been broadcast, and though there will inevitably be questions and a difficult cleanup, disaster has largely been averted yet again. But still I sit at my desk, doing research into the past to prepare for your future.
I am combing through old files, looking for something—the merest hint of impropriety—to help me figure out who is trying to destroy me, but so far, I haven’t had much luck. The one good thing is that when people are brought up within the Checquy, pretty much everything they’ve ever done is written down in their files. This is going to call for old-fashioned detective work, for which I have neither the time nor the inclination. It’s not like I can just drop everything and tail these people around, and I worry that I’m running out of time.
I keep having these embarrassing little episodes where I break down crying. Being a Rook is an exhausting job as it is, and this threat has not made my life any easier. Fortunately, these crying jags usually happen in the office, and I can just go up to the residence and have a little bawl. Then I wash my face and go back to the desk. My secretary comes in with another appointment or a stack of files, and I wonder if she’s noticed.
I’m glad I have these letters to write. At least I can confess my fears to somebody, even if we will never meet and you won’t find out what I’ve been through until after the fact.
Exhaustedly yours,
Me
6
The room before Myfanwy and Ingrid was large and surprisingly luxurious. There was a thick carpet on the floor, and pictures hung on the walls. A sideboard along the left held a selection of cheeses and fruit, and on the right an ornate bar was stocked with an array of decanters and bottles. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and curlicues traced their way along the plaster. At the far end of the room, facing a wall covered in heavy red drapes, were a number of chairs. A few men in suits were milling about by the buffet.
“Rook Thomas?” A man dressed as a butler was at Myfanwy’s elbow. She turned to him, startled.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Can I fetch you a beverage?” He gestured toward the bar.
“Oh, that would be lovely. Could you please get me a coffee? Ingrid, what would you like?” Both her secretary and the butler looked nonplussed, but eventually an arrangement was entered into whereby Ingrid also would receive a cup of coffee. Judging from the frozen expressions, Myfanwy realized that in the Checquy the people in purple were there to do the waiting, not to be waited on. Shrugging, she went to the sideboard and loaded up a plate with strawberries and cheese.
“Ah, Rook Thomas!” exclaimed one of the men there. He was heavyset and loud and had very large teeth and a red face, and he bore down upon her like a truck. Myfanwy stared at him, smiling politely, and stood her ground, popping a strawberry into her mouth. He paused and looked a little puzzled, as if he had expected her to step back or cringe, but then he gamely continued on until he was standing uncomfortably close and she was obliged to tip her head back to look at him.
“Good afternoon,” she said coolly. Who is this guy, and am I supposed to curtsy or is he supposed to bow? It seemed as if he anticipated some hesitance or deferral on her part, but when he didn’t receive it, he did not give the impression of being insulted, only surprised. Perhaps he’s accustomed to the painfully shy Thomas, she thought. The Rook who doesn’t dare to speak loudly.
“Quite inconvenient, having to clear our schedule for this procedure, eh?” he said, although there was less gusto in his voice now than there had been. Under her fixed stare, he actually seemed to be wilting. Still, he tried to make up for it with volume and, apparently, flow.
“You’re spitting on me,” Myfanwy said coldly. He stammered something as she wiped her face with a napkin. She continued to look him in the eyes and saw his gaze dart nervously behind her. He stepped back and gave a polite nod to whoever had just arrived.
“Rook Gestalt,” he said in a respectful voice. “Good afternoon.” Ah, so that’s the way it is, Myfanwy thought. Gestalt gets the deference, and Thomas does the bookkeeping. She swung around and then stepped back in confusion. It was not the twins who were emerging from the lift but a much taller and more powerfully built man. She realized this must be the third of Gestalt’s bodies, and she looked at it with interest. Oh, Thomas. You had good taste, she thought. Robert Gestalt was handsome and strong. Dressed casually in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, he moved forward with a palpable air of confidence.
“Good afternoon, Perry,” Gestalt said smoothly, and then he turned his attention to her. “Myfanwy, you are looking well,” he said with an extra dose of charm. Only the eyes gave him away. Don’t forget, she reminded herself, you just finished a meeting with this man and heard him kill a bunch of people. He may have been wearing different skin, but it was still him. “I’m dreadfully sorry this has come up,” he said to her. “I know how these questionings upset you. We shall simply have to endeavor to endure it.” He offered Myfanwy his arm to escort her over to the chairs, and she hesitantly took it.
As their skin made contact, she felt a shock.
It was as if she had been plunged into a pool of water whose currents were winding their way around her. Each stream was distinct, separate from the others. She felt as if she could reach out and disrupt the course of that movement—re-channe
l it, warp it, or stop it entirely. The ribbons were complex, horrendously complex, but she could tell that the system encompassed the physical being of Gestalt.
Oh my God! Myfanwy thought. Suddenly, she had control over this man—not through violence but with all the force and power of her own mind. She was no longer defenseless; she was dangerous. Thomas, I can see why you were hesitant, but you never needed to be afraid of it!
Bemused, she allowed herself to be ushered into one of the chairs in the center, and she received her cup of coffee. She looked at Gestalt in wonder and saw smug satisfaction on his handsome face. You think I’m in a daze because you’re handsome? I’m in a daze because I could crush you. She looked around and saw other people settling themselves in the chairs. Two rows of comfortable chairs, in a horseshoe pattern, the inner row sunken slightly so as not to obstruct the view of those behind them. It was like being in a very expensive private box at a very small, underground soccer game. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a suit stood before the curtains. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
“My Rooks, lady, and gentlemen,” he began, “we have had this individual under surveillance since he entered the country three days ago. His passport is for a Peter Van Syoc of Holland, and his cover was a business trip for his employer, the Zeekoning Fishing Company. Upon his arrival at Heathrow from Amsterdam, certain factors caught the attention of our agents, and in accordance with the procedures codified by Rook Thomas, he was placed under discreet observation. His room in a bed-and-breakfast was entered, and subtle listening devices and cameras were placed there by our people.
“The Checquy agents observing Mr. Van Syoc noted that in the course of his movements about the city, he passed by the Rookery several times and devoted some attention to the building. Yesterday evening he engaged the services of a prostitute and paid her to remain in his accommodations for the entire night. This morning, the subject activated inhuman abilities and began the murder and, we believe, consumption of the prostitute.
“At this, the Pawns moved. When they appeared, the subject demonstrated further abilities, demolishing part of the architecture of the bed-and-breakfast before he could be restrained.” The man’s voice was carefully dry, giving away no emotion. His subdued tone made the entire recitation ridiculous. “He was then transported immediately to the Rookery.”
The Rook: A Novel Page 8
