The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  Ingrid, do I have any meetings scheduled for tonight?” Myfanwy asked over the intercom.

  “You know, Rook Thomas, all appointments are supposed to be made through me” came the tart reply.

  “I am making an appointment through you,” said Myfanwy.

  “Well, you are supposed to call Bishop Petoskey of the Croatoan this evening.”

  “I’ll e-mail Shantay and let her know that I’ll call tomorrow,” decided Myfanwy. She would kill me if she knew I blew off an actual social opportunity in order to talk business on a Friday night. “And please let Security Chief Clovis know that I’ll be staying in the residence tonight, so he won’t need to prepare any bodyguards for me. Oh, and see if you can get me a flashlight and a gun.”

  “Security Chief Clovis is already on his way up to discuss internal security with you.”

  Ingrid shifted into hyperefficient mode. By the time Clovis arrived, the desk and chairs were stacked high with a bizarre array of firearms. Myfanwy was peering intently at her computer, a tower of files on her lap.

  “Good afternoon, Rook Thomas,” Clovis said. Standing among the teetering stacks of paper, he was a figure of exquisite stillness.

  “Good afternoon. Could you please shut the door so that Ingrid doesn’t burst an eardrum trying to hear everything?” There came an irritated snort from the antechamber. “How are you, Clovis?”

  “Busy, Myfanwy. We have just finished designing the new security protocol. We’ll be examining every member of the Checquy Group for Grafter implants.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good,” said Myfanwy.

  “Yes, except that it means subjecting every member of the organization to unpleasant, time-consuming, and highly intrusive physical examinations. This has to be done in-house, and our medical staff is going to be heavily overworked for the next several months. You see, until we have examined all the doctors, we will have to place random groups of three observers in the examination rooms to ensure that the examiners aren’t doing any tampering. And every doctor in the organization, plus a randomly selected civilian medical practitioner, has to concur on the verdict of every test. As a result, we are going to be sending results to thirty-five doctors located around the world. We think it’s highly unlikely that every doctor in the Checquy is a Grafter mole. And if all of them are, well, then we have the civilian doctor.”

  “Hell,” said Myfanwy dubiously, “it sounds like a huge amount of work.”

  Clovis nodded curtly. “We’re trying to be as thorough as possible. Of course there’s no guarantee that every Grafter agent is going to have Grafter implants, but all of the traitors at the reception did have them, so that’s where we’re starting. And before we check all the doctors, we’ll be screening the members of the Court. Starting tomorrow. So please prepare yourself.”

  “Great,” said Myfanwy with a profound lack of enthusiasm. “Nothing says Saturday like unpleasant, time-consuming, and highly intrusive physical examinations. Schedule mine in the afternoon, because I want to catch up on some sleep.”

  “Very well. There will, of course, still be guards on the doors to your office until then.”

  “I feel safer already,” said Myfanwy wryly. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, but I have to get back to work. Everyone has been on edge for the past week, and I have to supervise the examinations of your doctors. Now, do you mind telling me why you have all these guns lying around? Are you afraid the paperwork will rise up against you?”

  “Oh, no. I’m going to use the guns as paperweights.”

  After Clovis left her alone in a roomful of weapons, it was time to take the plunge. Carefully, she set the huge pile of folders down on her desk and belted an Ingrid-supplied holster around her waist. She dubiously picked up her selected gun and, after hastily reviewing a firearms instruction booklet (also Ingrid-supplied), crept over to the corner of her office that Ingrid had pointed out to her earlier that week.

  A quick scan of the directory of secret passages in the purple binder had confirmed that there was a passage, and a little cautious poking around had revealed how the corner of the carpet peeled back. But Myfanwy had been so busy researching treacherous Retainers she hadn’t had a chance to explore Thomas’s escape route. Now she peered dubiously at the intricate-looking hatch in the floor. She noticed, with a little thrill of dismay, that there were drops of blood on the keypad.

  She typed in 230500, and the door swung up, revealing a very narrow spiraling staircase, like the sort one would find in a church tower. Myfanwy looked carefully, hoping for some sort of light switch. Nothing. Well, it figured. That was why she had gotten the flashlight. Still, the prospect of climbing down into a deep dark hole was not particularly enticing. Myfanwy couldn’t help but remember that the last time anyone saw Thomas, she had been vanishing down this same deep dark hole.

  Between the moment Thomas pulled the hatch closed behind her and the moment Myfanwy opened her eyes in the park, Thomas had left the building, fled halfway across London, and been attacked by highly trained operatives. Myfanwy thought of the bruises she’d found when she inspected her body in the hotel room that first day. Thomas had been savagely beaten. Had it happened in this passage, down in the darkness?

  I have to go down there, she thought. I have to see. If there’s anything left, any clues, they may give me an answer as to who attacked Thomas.

  Plus, this might enable me to go out and play with Bronwyn tonight.

  Once again she checked the pistol holstered at her hip and the flashlight dangling by a strap from her wrist. Myfanwy steeled herself, then clambered down into the narrow stairwell. It was clear that the shaft had been added to the building well after its construction, and there was barely enough room for her to stand straight. Anyone less slight would have had to turn sideways to descend. She took a breath, willing herself not to develop sudden claustrophobia, and then started down into the darkness.

  What wanker designed this?” Myfanwy wondered aloud as she climbed carefully down the staircase. She was uncertain how many stories she had gone down, but she had to be running out of Hammerstrom Building to descend through. Her legs were killing her, and she had scraped her back several times as the shaft narrowed. It was obvious that it had been made to accommodate the vagaries of the building rather than the comfort of the person using it. By the time she reached the bottom, Myfanwy was dusty, abraded, and deeply annoyed. She was partially mollified, however, by the discovery of a light switch to the side of the stairs.

  “Lovely decor,” she said as fluorescent lights hesitantly flickered on. The corridor was perfectly square and led away in both directions. The walls were cinder block, and the floor, under a covering of dust, was unfinished concrete. Myfanwy saw with a little thrill of dread that there were scuffed footprints in the dust leading away from the base of the stairs. She drew the gun. Then she set off down the passageway, following in her own footsteps.

  It was clear that, despite her self-performed brain surgery, Thomas had been deteriorating as she stumbled down this corridor. Here she had fallen to her knees and had to put her hands down to push herself up. Myfanwy paused and put her hand down in the print contemplatively. Farther along, there were small patches of blood on the floor, and Myfanwy lightly touched her own knees, recalling how they had been skinned when she first saw herself in the mirror. She searched her mind, looking for some feeling of déjà vu. Nothing.

  As she walked along cautiously, the silence bothered her. How deep had she gone? It felt like she had climbed down the stairs forever, but without any indicators it was impossible to know. Still, according to Ingrid, this bizarre passageway led to a garage. So she moved forward.

  Aside from the mustiness, there was something unpleasant in the air. What is that smell? wondered Myfanwy. It tickled a place in the back of her head—not a memory, but something instinctive. The tunnel ahead bent at a sharp right angle, and she slowed cautiously. The smell grew stronger, and she felt her throat tighten in a manner that suggested
vomiting was a distinct possibility.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it was cute? I don’t need this thing. She threw it contemptuously over her shoulder. Damn right! I took out a house of weird fungal cultists that had devoured three teams of supernatural SWAT teams. I am a badass. She paused and expanded her senses outward, searching for any kind of life. Okay, nothing. At least, she thought uneasily, nothing that I can detect. But then why does it smell so bad down here? There’s something foul wandering the underground tunnels beneath my office, something that’s invisible to my vaunted powers.

  Crap.

  Where’s my gun?

  After backtracking, Myfanwy picked up her gun from the dust and listened carefully. Deathly silence. Feeling slightly absurd but still scared, she held her gun in two hands and jumped smoothly around the corner, landing in a position that implied she was prepared to open fire on whatever she saw.

  “Oh, thank God.” Not to worry, it’s not a weird monster. It’s just three rotting dead people, she thought as she threw up on her cute little gun. After wiping her mouth and then shaking the pistol to clear some vomit off it, she approached the corpses cautiously. All of them were dressed in purple garments, though they were now sodden in body fluids. Nasty.

  One of the bodies lay a little way off from the other two, and Myfanwy could see from the two large holes in his chest that he had been shot. I guess he was shot by the other guy. The one who appears to have—yes, he seems to have shot himself, she thought. Judging by the massive handgun he is holding against the side of his head. The half of the head that is remaining.

  Oh-kay, so let me think this through. Thomas is trying to get away through this corridor. Then these guys appear, coming from the other direction. They think she’s going to be completely out of it, all drugged up or whatever. Plus, she’s notoriously powerless. So they grab her, and she makes one of them shoot the other two and then shoot himself. Thomas continues on to the garage, leaving those footprints leading on down the corridor.

  Gosh. Well, good work, Thomas. And with that mental tip of the hat to her predecessor, Myfanwy stepped gingerly over the corpses and set off along the tunnel.

  Despite the rotting bodies, Myfanwy was feeling markedly more cheerful as she went. The air was getting fresher, and if Thomas’s footprints still skidded awkwardly, and if there was a dropped hair clip lying on the ground, well, Myfanwy already knew how Thomas’s story ended. Right now she was interested in the details. I really should see if any of those Retainers were carrying ID. Though I’m definitely not touching them without gloves.

  Finally she came to a metal door with a keypad, and she punched in the code again. The door swung open, and she entered the garage and looked around with interest. Like the tunnel, it was well lit, but there was no dust on the ground here. An automatic door took up most of one wall and beyond it, the binder had told her, was a public parking garage, from which she could drive out easily and without attracting notice.

  She turned her attention to the contents of the garage. There were five cars, draped meticulously with dustcovers. That’s Thomas’s work all right, Myfanwy thought, remembering the dust sheets that had covered the furniture in the safe house she’d gone to. Always taking care of the details. Myfanwy smiled ruefully, thinking of her own work as a Rook. Ingrid had confirmed that she had the same talents as Thomas—the same eye for minutiae and the same ability to immerse herself in information.

  She peeled back one of the sheets and caught her breath. It doesn’t matter what kind of outfit I pick for this evening, this car would be enough to get me laid. It was red and had all the curves she herself lacked. Who would have thought that under Thomas’s flower-embroidered cardigan there beat the heart of a car freak? I wonder if they’re all in this vein? In fact, they weren’t, but they were all quite clean and nice. A sedan. A Mini. A Land Rover. A truck. A motorcycle. I see, a vehicle for every situation. So I guess this means I don’t need to get a cab, Myfanwy thought as she opened the red car’s door and saw that the keys were in the ignition. Let’s see if I can still drive a manual. She pushed the button on the remote, and the automatic door to the private garage rolled itself up.

  Just before she drove out into the public area of the parking garage, her eye was caught by an open space and a discarded dustcover—the place where a car had been until it was driven away by another woman in her body.

  28

  Hey, babe!” Bronwyn said enthusiastically when she opened her apartment door to find Myfanwy. “You look great! Except for what you’re wearing.” The sisters hugged, a little awkwardly.

  “What can I say? I came straight from the office, and this outfit is only this good because it was a casual Friday.” In fact, Myfanwy had been dressed in a suit, but she’d dug up a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a black T-shirt in the residence wardrobe.

  “Your office must be really dusty. I suppose the jeans will cut it, but we’re going to have to find you a better top. Come in.” Bronwyn ushered Myfanwy into the flat, which proved to be fairly untidy and was obviously a place where two very different people lived together. “Sorry about the mess. With Jonathan away, I’ve been free to throw my stuff around.” Myfanwy noticed some bolts of fabric on the couch, and a sewing machine on the kitchen counter.

  “I’m just going to finish getting changed,” said Bronwyn as she disappeared down a hallway. “And I’ll find something for you.” Myfanwy looked around curiously. If not for her being drafted into the Checquy, this might have been her life. She wandered across the room, absentmindedly trampling her sister’s creations underfoot, and peered at the photos on the mantel. There were several pictures of a couple who were obviously their parents, and others of Bronwyn and a guy who must be their brother, Jonathan.

  “Okay,” said Bronwyn, “I’ve got some stuff for you.” Myfanwy looked over at her and cocked an eyebrow. Bronwyn was dressed in the kind of outfit that heiresses wear to clubs in order to get their pictures in the tabloids. It actually pushed attention away from itself and onto all the skin it wasn’t covering. Myfanwy opened her mouth to object, various genetically built-in big-sisterly protests arising. But, thought Myfanwy, I wore the crimson dress, so who am I to judge? Plus, if anyone tries to molest my little sister, I’ll make them kick their own ass.

  “All righty,” Myfanwy said, “what are you suggesting I wear, because—oh, hell no. That is not going on my body.” I’m only willing to wear something as risqué as the crimson dress once a season.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” asked Bronwyn in an amused tone. Compared to Bronwyn’s outfit, it was quite modest, but compared to Bronwyn’s outfit, outright nudity was quite modest.

  “Because it suggests that I’d gladly trade sex for a cocktail. In fact, it suggests that I might even trade sex for eye contact,” said Myfanwy. “Plus, won’t we freeze to death when we go outside?”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” said Bronwyn. “Now, how about this?” Myfanwy rejected several options before Bronwyn declared that she was the one studying fashion, the one who knew where they were going, and the one who would decide what Myfanwy would wear. Accordingly, several minutes later they strolled down to the place where Myfanwy had parked the car, Myfanwy clad in something a friend of Bronwyn’s had made at school.

  “Holy shit,” said Bronwyn. “This is what you drive when you’re not being ferried about in a government car?” They both looked at the red sports car, which had attracted a few awestruck admirers. “Maybe I should go into the civil service.”

  Myfanwy, who was beginning to worry that taking the hot rod out for a spin had been a mistake, muttered something about leasing and performed the complicated maneuver of getting into the car, which was so low-slung she was practically sitting on the street.

  “We’re not going to be able to park this car near the club,” warned Bronwyn. “It’ll get scratched or stolen or something
.”

  They maneuvered through the traffic, Bronwyn chatting away on her mobile phone, making arrangements with her friends, and giving directions to a secure garage for the car. Eventually, with the vehicle guarded by the good people at a familiar-looking five-star hotel, the sisters joined the queue for a club that Bronwyn assured her was the place to be seen getting drunk and dancing.

  When they were finally admitted, Myfanwy looked around with interest. Inside, the club was far less impressive and louder than she’d expected. Bronwyn took her by the hand, led her to the bar, and yelled over the music to ask what she wanted to drink. Whatever! Myfanwy mouthed to her sister and slid a banknote into the girl’s hand. Bronwyn winked and then squirmed her way through the press to the bar. Myfanwy wondered briefly how Bronwyn was going to get a drink in that crowd but then remembered the top she was wearing. If it’s a male bartender, he’ll probably give her a keg. She tried standing on her tiptoes to see if she could catch a glimpse of her sister, but the rest of the people in the crowd were of a normal height.

  When Bronwyn finally emerged from the mass, she held two large glasses filled with an ominous amount of liquid. They moved cautiously with their beverages to a grouping of chairs where Bronwyn’s friends were seated, looking tall, pretty, and normal. Myfanwy smiled politely, listened to them gossip, and amused herself by surveying the crowd. All these people, and none of them know the secrets I know. She took a cautious sip of her cocktail, followed by a long drink, then settled back into the cozy chair and looked at the dance floor through the filter of her powers. Sensory patterns of the crowd rippled before her. Hearts beat in rhythm with the music. Lungs gasped in the air, and sweat shimmered on skin.

  I need to clear my head, she thought. “I’m going to get some water,” she told Bronwyn. As Myfanwy walked across the club, she tensed her mind and subtly directed the movement of the dancers. The crowd opened up in front of her and closed behind her. She walked up to the bar and people moved aside, not even realizing they were doing it. Damn, but I’m good, she thought. She ordered a glass of water, and as she tilted her head back, her control slipped. A big-arsed guy jostled her, and she stumbled awkwardly into someone. “I’m very sorry,” she apologized as she turned around and came face-to-face with Bishop Alrich.