The Jennifer Morgue l-3

by Charles Stross

  The receptionist is still nodding wordlessly and trying to think of a comeback when O'Brien closes the door and the red light comes on over the lintel.

  The briefing room contains a boardroom table, six chairs, a jug of tap water, some paper cups, and an ancient Agfa slide projector. All the fittings look to be at least a third of a century old: some of them might even have seen service during the Second World War. There used to be windows in two of the wails, but they were bricked up and covered over with institutional magnolia paint some years ago. The lighting tubes above the table shed a ghastly glare that gives everybody in the room the skin tint of a corpse — except for Angleton, who looks mummified at the best of times.

  "Professor O'Brien." Angleton actually smiles, revealing teeth like tombstones. "Do have a seat."

  "Of course." O'Brien pulls one of the battered wooden chairs out from the table and sits down carefully. She nods at Angleton, polite control personified. The violin case she places on the tabletop.

  "As a matter of curiosity, how are your studies proceeding"

  "Everything's going smoothly." She carefully aligns the case's neck in accordance with the direction of the wards on Angleton's door. "You needn't worry on that account." Then she exhausts her patiently husbanded patience. "Where's Andy Newstrom"

  Angleton makes a steeple of his fingers. "Andrew was unable to attend the meeting you called at short notice. I believe he has been unexpectedly detained in Germany."

  O'Brien opens her mouth to say something, but Angleton raises a bony finger in warning: "I have arranged an appropriate substitute to deputize for him."

  O'Brien swallows. "I see." Fingers drum on the body of the violin case. Angleton tracks them with his eyes. "You know this isn't about my research," she begins, elliptically.

  "Of course not." Angleton falls silent for a few seconds.

  "Feel free to tell me exactly what you think of me, Dominique."

  Dominique — Mo — sends him a withering stare. "No thank you. If I get started you'll be late for your next meeting."

  She pauses for a moment. Then she asks, with the deceptive mildness of a police interrogator zeroing in on a confession: "Why did you do it"

  "Because it was necessary. Or did you think I would send him into the field on a whim"

  Mo's control slips for a second: her glare is hot enough to ignite paper.

  "I'm sorry," he adds heavily. "But this was an unscheduled emergency, and Bob was the only suitable agent who was available at short notice."

  "Really?" She glances at the black velvet cloth covering the files on his desk. "I know all about your little tricks," she warns. "In case you'd forgotten."

  Angleton shrugs uncomfortably. "How could I? You're perfectly right, and we owe you a considerable debt of gratitude for your cooperation in that particular incident. But nevertheless — " he stares at the wall beside her chair, a whitepainted rectangle that doubles as a projector screen " — we are confronted with AZORIAN BLUE HADES, and Bob is the only field-certified executive who is both competent to deal with the matter and sufficiently ignorant to be able to, ah, play the role with conviction. You, my dear, couldn't do this particular job, you're too well-informed, leaving aside all the other aspects of the affair. The same goes for myself, or for Andrew, or for Davidson, or Fawcett, or any of a number of other assets Human Resources identified as preliminary candidates during the search phase of the operation. And while we have plenty of other staff who are not cleared for AZORIAN BLUE HADES, most of them are insufficiently prepared to meet its challenges."

  "Nevertheless." Mo's hand closes on the neck of her case "I'm warning you, Angleton. I know you entangled Bob with a Black Chamber assassin and I know what the consequences are. I know that unless someone collapses their superposition within about half a million seconds, he's not coming back, at least not as himself. And I'm not putting up with the usual excuses — 'he was the only round peg we had that fit that particular hole, it was in the interests of national security' — you'd better see he comes back alive and in one body. Or I am going to the Auditors."

  Angleton eyes her warily. O'Brien is one of very few people in the organization who would make such a threat, and one of even fewer who might actually follow through on it. "I do not believe that will be necessary," he says slowly.

  "As it happens, I agreed to your request for a meeting because I intended to tap you for the next phase. Contrary to the impression you may have received, I don't consider Bob to be an expendable asset. But I believe you're allowing your relationship with him to color your perceptions of the risk inherent in the situation. I assume you'd be willing to help bring him back safe and sound"

  Mo nods sharply. "You know I would."

  "Good." Angleton glances at the door, then frowns. "I do believe Alan's late. That's not like him."

  "Alan? Alan Barnes"

  "Yes."

  "What do you want him for"

  Angleton snorts. "A moment ago you were getting uptight about your boyfriend's security. Now you're asking why I asked Captain Barnes — "

  The door bursts open, admitting a wiry pint-sized tornado.

  "Ah the fragrant Professor O'Brien! How you doing, Mo? And you, you old bat. What do you want now?" The force of nature grins widely With his owlishly large glasses, leather-patched tweed jacket, and expanding bald spot he could pass for a schoolteacher — if schoolteachers habitually wore shoulder holsters. Angleton pushes his spectacles up on his nose. "I was explaining to Professor O'Brien that I've got a little job for you. Bob's accepted the starring role in the approach plan for AZORIAN BLUE HADES and now it's time to set up the payoff. Not unnaturally, Mo has expressed certain reservations about the way the project has been conducted to date.

  I believe that, in view of her special skills, she can make a valuable contribution to the operation. What do you think"

  While Barnes is considering the question, Mo glances between the two of them. "This is a setup!"

  Barnes grins at her: "Of course it is!"

  She looks at Angleton. "What do you want me to do"

  She grips the neck of her violin case tensely.

  Barnes sniggers quietly, then pulls out a chair. Angleton doesn't deign to notice. Instead, he reaches across the table and switches on the projector.

  "You're going on vacation. Officially you're on leave, flagged as a home visit to your elderly mother. That's because we can't rule out the possibility of an internal security leak,"

  he adds.

  Mo whistles tunelessly between her teeth. "Like that, is it"

  "Oh yes." A thin blade appears silently between Alan's fingers, as if it congealed out of thin air. He begins to probe a cuticle on his other hand. "It's very like that indeed. And we want you to look into it on your way to the main performance."

  "You'll be on board tomorrow's flight from Charles de Gaulle to Saint Martin. Your cover identity is Mrs. Angela Hudson, the wife of a tire-and-exhaust magnate from Dorking." Angleton slides a document wallet across the table towards Mo, who handles it as if it's about to explode. "This is a weak cover. It's been cleared with Customs and Immigration at both ends but it won't hold up to scrutiny.

  On the other hand you won't have to use it for more than about forty-eight hours. After this briefing, take yourself down to Wardrobe Department and they'll set you up with suitable clothing and support equipment for Mrs. Hudson.

  You may take — " he points at the violin case " — your instrument, and any other equipment you deem necessary. You'll be staying at a hotel in Grand Case. You should be aware that our local station chief, Jack Griffin, or someone working for him, has been compromised. We want to keep you out of Billington's sights for as long as possible, so bypassing Griffin's organization is top of your playlist. If you can identify the source of the leak and deal with it, I'd be grateful.

  Once you've settled in, Alan will be your backup. You'll be operating without a field controller; if you need a shoulder to cry on you come straight to me." />
  He turns to face Barnes. "Alan. Pick two of your best bricks. Make sure they're happy working with booties, I don't want any interservice cock-ups. You'll be flying out pronto and will rendezvous with HMS York, which is currently on APT(N). She's hosting a troop from M squadron SBS under Lieutenant Hewitt, who has signed Section Three and is cleared for level two liaison. The booties are available if you need additional muscle. Your job is to provide backup for Professor O'Brien, who is poinr on this mission. In case you were worried about BLUE HADES, Professor O'Brien speaks the language and is qualified to liaise. She's also completed her certification in combat epistemology and can operate as your staff philosopher, should circumstances require it. I have complete faith in her abilities to complete the mission and bring Bob back."

  Angleton pauses for a moment. Then he adds: "In a real emergency — if HADES cooks off — you've got a hot line of credit with HMS Vanguard, although if you have to use a big white one I'm supposed to go to the board and get them to clear it with the Prime Minister first. So let's not go there, shall we"

  Mo looks back and forth between the two spooks. "Would you mind not speaking in slang? I know about Alan's men, but what's a 'big white one'"

  Barnes looks slightly distracted. "It's just a necessary backup precaution — I'll explain later," he assures her. "For now, the main thing is, you'll be operating independently but you'll have backup, starting with my lads and working up through the Royal Navy's North Atlantic Patrol, right to the top if you need it. Unfortunately we're dealing with a really powerful semiotic geas field — Billington's set things up so that we have to play by his rules — and that limits our moves. It would be a really bad mistake for you to come inframe too soon." He raises an eyebrow at Angleton. "Are we definitely moving into the endgame"

  Angleton shrugs. "It's beginning to look that way." He nods at Mo. "We'd prefer not to have to do it this way, but our hands are unfortunately tied."

  Mo frowns. "Wouldn't it make more sense for me to fly out with Alan and his soldiers? I mean, if you're borrowing a warship, why are you bothering with the undercover stuff?

  What exactly do you expect me to do"

  Barnes snorts and raises an eyebrow at Angleton: "Are you going to tell her, or am I"

  "Ill do it." Angleton picks up the control to the slide projector.

  "Would you mind switching off the lights"

  "Why the dog and pony show?" O'Brien demands, her voice rising.

  "Because you need to understand the trick we're trying to play on the opposition before you can deal the cards. And it's best if I illustrate ..."

  Events have echoes, and almost exactly two weeks earlier, a similar meeting took place on another land mass.

  While Bob continues to panic over his impending death by drowning, spare a thought for Ramona. It's not her fault that she's in the fish tank with Bob, quite the opposite.

  Given even the faintest shred of an excuse, she'd have managed to avoid this briefing in Texas. Unfortunately her controllers are not interested in excuses. They want results.

  And that's why we join her in the front seat of a Taurus, driving up a dusty unsurfaced lane toward a sun-blasted ranch house in the middle of nowhere.

  This is so not Ramona's scene. She's too smart to be a Valley Girl, but she grew up in that part of the world. She's happiest when the bright sunlight is moderated by an onshore breeze and the distant roar of the surf is just crowding the edge of the white noise in her ears: ah, the smell of sagebrush. This part of west Texas, between Sonora and San Angelo, is just way too far inland for Ramona's taste. It's also too ... Texan. Ramona doesn't care for good ol' boys. She doesn't much like arid, dusty landscapes with no water. And she especially doesn't like the Ranch, but that's not a matter of prejudice so much as common sense.

  The Ranch scares her more every time she visits it.

  There's a parking lot up front: little more than a patch of packed earth. She pulls up between two unfeasibly large pickups. One of them actually has a cow's skull lashed to the front bumper and a rifle rack in the back. She gets out of the Taurus, collects her shoulder bag and her water bottle — she never comes here without a half-gallon can, minimum — and cringes slightly as the arid heat tries to suck her dry. Walking around the parked vehicles, she doesn't bother to check the cow's skull for the faint matching intaglio of a pentacle: she knows what she'll find. Instead she heads for the porch, and the closed screen door, with a wizened figure rocking in a chair beside it.

  "You're five minutes and twenty-nine seconds late," the figure recites laconically as she climbs the front step.

  "So bite me," Ramona snaps. She hikes her bag up her shoulder and shivers despite the heat. The guardian watches her with dry amusement. Dry. There is no water here, certainly not enough to hydrate the bony nightmare in bib overalls that hangs out next to the door, endlessly rocking its chair.

  "You're expected," it rasps. "Go right in."

  It makes no move toward her, but the skin on the back of her neck prickles. She takes two steps forward and twists the doorknob. At this point, an unexpected visitor can reasonably be expected to die. At this point, expected visitors also die — if Internal Affairs has issued a termination order. Ramona does not die this time. The door latch clicks open and she steps inside the cool air-conditioned vestibule, trying to suppress a shuddery breath as she leaves the watcher on the threshold behind.

  The vestibule is furnished in cheap G-plan kit, with a sofa and chairs, and a desk with a human receptionist sitting behind it who looks up at Ramona and blinks sheep-eyes at her. "Ms. Random, if you'd care to take the second door on the left, go straight ahead, then take the first right at the end of the corridor. Agent McMurray is expecting you."

  Ramona smiles tightly. "Sure thing. Can I use the ladies' room on the way"

  The receptionist makes a show of checking her desk planner.

  "I can confirm that you are authorized to use the ladies' room," she announces after a few seconds.

  "Good." Ramona nods. "See you around." She walks through the second door on the left. It opens onto an anonymous beige-painted corridor, which she walks down for some distance. Partway along, she takes time out to hole up in the toilet. She bends over a wash basin and throws water on her face, her neck, and the base of her throat. She notes that there are no windows in the facility: just ventilation ducts high up in the walls.

  Back in the corridor she continues toward its end where there are three identical doors. She pauses outside the one on the right, and knocks.

  "Come in," a man's gravelly voice calls through the door.

  Ramona opens the door. The room beyond is spacious, floored in rough-cut timber, and walled in glass-fronted cabinets.

  The door at the far end is open, a staircase leading down to what Ramona knows to be another corridor with more display rooms opening off to either side. She's already far enough inside the ranch house that by rights she should be standing with her feet firmly planted in the dirt fifty feet behind it — outside, but that's not how things work here.

  Instead, her controlling agent is waiting for her, a tall, slightly pudgy fellow with wire-rimmed glasses, thinning, close-cropped hair, and a checkered shirt. He smiles, faintly indulgently. "Well, well. If it isn't agent Random." He holds out a hand: "How was your trip out"

  "Dry," she says tersely, allowing her hand to be shaken.

  She squints slightly, sizing McMurray up. He looks human enough, but appearances at the Ranch are always deceptive.

  "I need to find a pool at some point. Apart from that — " she shrugs " — I can't complain ."

  "A pool." McMurray nods thoughtfully. "I think we can arrange something for you." His voice has a faint Irish lilt to it, although Ramona is fairly sure he's as American as she is.

  "It's the least we can do, seeing as how we've dragged you all the way out here. Yes indeed." He gestures at the steps leading down to the passageway. "How well did you understand your briefing"

  Ramona swa
llows. This bit is hard. As her controlling agent McMurray has certain powers. He was the key operative who compelled her to service; as long as he lives, he, or whoever holds his tokens of power, has the power of life and death over her, the ability to bind and release her, to issue orders she cannot refuse. There's stuff she doesn't want to talk about — but if he suspects she's holding out on him it'll be a lot worse for her than confessing to everything. Best to give him something, just hope it's not enough to raise more suspicions than it allays: "Not entirely," she admits. "I don't understand why we're letting TLA's chief executive run riot in the Caribbean. I don't understand why the Brits are involved in this, or what the hell TLA think they're doing. I mean — " she pats her shoulder bag " — I read it all, but I don't understand it. Just what's supposed to be going on"

  This is the point at which McMurray can — if he's suspicious — make her mouth open without her willing it, and spill her deepest secrets and most personal hopes and fears.

  Just considering the possibility makes her feel small and contemptibly weak. But McMurray doesn't seem to notice her discomfort. He nods and looks thoughtful. "I'm not sure anybody knows everything," he says ruefully.

  A rueful apology? From a controlling agent? Stop jerking me around, Ramona prays, a cold knot of fear congealing in her stomach. But McMurray doesn't raise his left hand in a sigil of command; nor does he pronounce any words of dread.

  He just nods in false amity and gestures once again at the stairs.