“Oh rrrrrreally.” Jasmine rolls the word around her tongue like hard candy.
And oh crap, maybe my imagination wasn’t running away with me. At least Jasmine thinks it wasn’t. And this is the last thing I need. I don’t even—
And then the doorbell rings.
Everyone freezes.
I close my eyes. That didn’t take long. Still… “There isn’t—” I look at all three of them, “—a fourth Weekender I don’t know about, is there?”
In answer, Malcolm reaches to his waistband, beneath the back of his shirt. He produces a large, matte black pistol. “You all get in the kitchen.”
I look at the kitchen. That place is tiny. It’s a totally impractical plan. And… Jesus. No. I am not having Malcolm shooting any of my former co-workers. Not today. Not ever.
I put my hand on his gun. “If it’s MI37 I’ll go quietly,” I say. “You all just get to Chernobyl. Get this done.”
I step towards the doorway.
“Arthur.” Aiko catches my arm. But she doesn’t go any further than that. There’s nothing much else to be said. I pull away.
It’s almost a relief to be out in the corridor. Heading out of the fire back to the familiarity of the frying pan. Still, I pause in the hallway, take a few deep breaths. It was fun while it lasted. And hopefully the Weekenders will prove more effective than I have. Hopefully they can finish what I’ve failed to start.
I close my eyes, swallow hard, and open the door.
FORTY-EIGHT
“Devon?”
She stands in Aiko’s doorway, sheltered beneath a large, floral umbrella. My mouth opens. I have no other words.
“Ah,” she booms. “There you are. Marvelous.”
They sent Devon? To bring me in? I mean… I like her, but that’s kind of insulting.
“Well come on.” She looks at me expectantly. “Invite me in. It’s raining cats and dogs out here. Well, not real cats and dogs. Terrible, bloody mess that would be. Pet bits everywhere. Hazardous to one’s health. At least—”
“Come in,” I say, regaining some control over my jaw. I move out of the way of the door. I’m still trying to put everything together in a pattern that makes sense.
“This isn’t my…” I wave a hand at the hallway.
“Well obviously it’s not your place,” Devon says. “You don’t even live in this city. I mean, you could have some love nest secreted away, but even so this apartment is owned by Evan Walter Young—who isn’t young as it turns out—and rented to Aiko Maria Futsawa, neither of whom are you.” She pauses. “Unless you live a much different life than the one I imagine you to have. Which, given my history with that sort of thing may actually be more likely than I’d thought.” She pauses again. “You don’t dress up as an Asian woman on the weekends, do you, Arthur?”
I work my jaw a little bit more, still trying to catch up with events so far.
“Not that there would be anything wrong with that if you did.” Devon misreads my silence. “I’d just be surprised Shaw would go with that is all. She doesn’t seem like the type.”
“No,” I finally manage. “No, I do not cross-dress on the weekends.” Not something I expected to have to explain today of all days.
And this is, of course, the moment Aiko pokes her head around the door.
“I’ll leave you two to it then,” she says and ducks away.
I try to find steady ground. “Devon,” I say, “what are you doing here? How did you even find me?”
“I may be new, Arthur,” Devon puts her hands on her hips, “but it’s not the hardest thing in the world to find out someone’s address. I can use a computer. Sort of have a doctorate from Cambridge on the very subject. Not that I like to parp on my own trumpet.” She stops, looks left. “That sounds terribly dirty doesn’t it?”
“Devon,” I implore her, praying for sanity, for a short swift answer, “please, what are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Devon looks momentarily, and uncharacteristically, nonplussed. “Did I not say that?
“No!” I regret the way I say it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Jasmine’s head appears. “You sure you’re all right?”
I whirl on her, catch myself in time. I breathe. “One minute, please.”
Jasmine’s head disappears. I look back to Devon. “Please?” I say.
“Oh right, yes, well.”
And then Devon lapses into silence.
I’m on the verge of pulling my gun on her just to get an answer when she says, “Sort of inspired by your lead today. Might have followed it a bit.”
“Wait.” That sounds like… “What?”
“Sort of quit MI37 today.” She nods to herself.
Oh holy crap. I try to sort through that in my head. Not a good day for the home team. “How did Felicity take it?” I ask. It surprises me that that’s still my first thought.
“Well,” Devon keeps nodding, “sort of haven’t told her yet.”
“What?” Devon is apparently a master of postmodern, non-linear storytelling.
“Well,” Devon says, “I’m not very into the whole confrontation thing. Makes me very uncomfortable. Like tights. Never liked the things. I mean what’s the point? Isn’t that why God invented pants and socks? Tights are just a useless version of long johns as far as I can tell. And long johns are quite possibly the work of the devil. But, anyway, yes, quitting is always a bit of a silent affair for me. A sort of not showing up until they catch on. Which I’m sure they haven’t at MI37 yet, given as it’s only been about an hour or so, and I technically quit at the end of the work day. But that doesn’t make it less so, Arthur. My commitment to quitting is absolute. Like when I gave up herbal teas. Except that was for Lent. Funny name for something. Sounds like I lent all my herbal teas to someone else. But I didn’t. I just stockpiled them and went hog crazy on Easter. Drank so much I nearly ended up in hospital. Had to pee for twenty minutes straight at one point. Not my finest hour. Or third of an hour, I suppose. So maybe not exactly like when I gave up herbal teas. But hopefully you get the analogy.”
She breaks for breath. Or for confirmation. I just sort of whirl about in the verbal stew, until I find some meaning to grab onto.
“So, you’re not going back to work tomorrow,” I say. I think that’s what it all boils down to, but I’m not sure because so many words were used.
“Not on your nelly,” Devon confirms.
“But…” and maybe I missed this, “what are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Devon slaps palm to forehead. “Did I miss that bit again?”
“I did.” That’s about as certain as I can be.
“Probably me,” she says. “Well, you know, your lead, I mentioned that. I thought it was marvelous. Didn’t want to limit myself to just quitting. Not that I want to bill myself as some sort of strange Arthur Wallace groupie or anything. Always put stock in the idea of being a strong independent woman. Except, as it turns out, that woman was rather more co-dependent on her utter shit of a boyfriend than she liked to think, but that’s neither here nor there, though if you ever feel the urge to remove Clyde’s spine and beat him to death with it, I will again be happy to follow your lead.”
A momentary breath. I’m still none the wiser.
“But,” she says, “I mean, I’m not totally convinced by a theory that’s twenty-five years old myself. Theoretically impossible, my Aunt Fanny, I say.”
Wait… Wait… She’s talking about…
“This whole space-time magic thing. Makes a lot of sense to me. Just sort of wanted to be in on that action. And that action seemed to be with you. So I figured you’d be with the Weekenders after what Felicity said. Did a little bit of messing around in the records, found an address, and skedaddled over here. Simple really.”
God I… I… I hug her. Big, and fierce, and maybe, though I will deny it later, with a tear in the corner of one eye. Faith, belief, whatever Aiko wants to disparage it as, som
eone else has it in me, and it’s quite brilliant.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
Devon looks rather nonplussed. “Oh. Well. You know.”
Malcolm’s head appears. He looks tired and put-upon. I hold up a finger. His head retreats.
“Erm,” I say, and realize that just because it’s selfish to ask something that’s not going to stop me, “what exactly did Felicity say about me quitting?”
“Oh.” Devon examines her feet. “Not some of the nicest things. There may have been use of the phrase ‘rogue agent’—”
—which actually sounds kind of cool and I like—
“—and slightly more of the phrase ‘selfish shit’—”
—which I don’t—
“—and some instructions to arrest you on sight, and some threats that the same would happen to us if we tried to help you. And then Coleman was terribly unpleasant about it all, saying things like, and remember I’m only quoting, but things like, ‘good riddance,’ and ‘nice pick, Felicity,’ and stuff about how you were both, well he used the f-word, which I personally don’t like to use. Unless I’m watching my college play University Challenge. Which, well, let’s say they’re effing bad at it. So that’s acceptable. But he said you were both a bit effed. And then he was about to make some horrible innuendo joke, but Felicity punched him in the chest and he needed to go and lie down.”
It’s probably wrong that my first thought is that I wish I hadn’t quit today just so I could have seen that. Still, it’s good to hear that MI37 hasn’t become any more functional in my absence. It makes it easier to think I made the right decision.
“So,” I say, “you’re in with us then.”
“Rather looks that way.” She gives me an almost shy smile.
Both Jasmine and Aiko appear at the doorway. “Has she arrested you yet?” Aiko asks.
Devon looks shocked at the very thought.
“Not exactly.”
FORTY-NINE
Domodedovo Airport, Moscow, October 13th
Despite the fact that I am producing enough sweat to drown an African bull elephant, Moscow passport control gives the passport of Mr. Henry Jarvis Junior nothing more than the most cursory of inspections. Devon, now traveling as Mrs. Wilhilmena “Hillie” Jarvis, receives a similar level of scrutiny. I’m not sure if I’m more troubled by the ease with which we can violate international borders, or by the horrendous names Malcolm’s forger came up with.
Aiko, Malcolm, and Jasmine are waiting for us after we push through the final set of doors and into the arrivals lounge. I try to lead us to a quiet spot, but I find the crowds hard to navigate. I always imagine airports to be soulless places, but there’s something distinctly foreign about this one. It’s as if someone made a copy of a copy of Heathrow and something was lost in the process. I know rationally that it’s just a cultural reference issue, but that doesn’t help me feel any less lost.
Lost and so far I’ve managed to penetrate about twenty yards into Russia. My comfort zone is several thousand miles and three days behind me. I keep hoping Clyde will come round the corner and say something that makes me smile and lets this tension out of my shoulders.
Except it feels like a long time since Clyde said anything like that. These days, he’s more likely to try and hack the security system and set off every alarm in the place. So maybe it’s a good thing he’s not here.
“Who’s this contact we’re meeting again?” I ask Malcolm. It turns out he has some sort of global network of men of ill repute. I’m not sure if I’m reassured by that or not.
“Nicky should be here.” Malcolm doesn’t look at me when he replies, just keeps scanning the crowd. “He’s reliable.”
“It should be noted,” Aiko says, “that Malcolm’s definition of reliable is a little looser than most people’s.”
“Still alive, aren’t you?” Malcolm says without looking around.
Aiko shrugs and doesn’t elaborate further. Still I am not reassured. This is the man we’re relying on for transport and weaponry. It’s tricky to wear a shoulder holster while traveling coach on a false passport. Plus, personally, I like to leave talk of our drastically shortened lifespans until after the first day of a new mission.
“I don’t, you know,” Devon starts, “want to be a Debbie Downer on everything. Or a Devon Downer. That’d be more appropriate in this case. And I’ve no desire to malign all the Deborahs of the world. I’ve known two Deborahs and both were very cheerful women. Except one of them when I ran over her cat. But that was very much a one off. For both of us. Don’t make a habit of vehicular pet maiming. That’d be a terrible thing. But what I meant to say is, do we have a plan B should this chap, Nicky, decide he’d rather not turn up and help us?”
“He’s reliable,” Malcolm repeats.
Devon looks at me. “No then,” she mouths at me. I nod.
I’m not sure MI37 missions ever went smoother than this. Still, Felicity valiantly tried to give the impression that they did.
But I’m trying not to think about Felicity. What she’s doing. What she’s thinking.
I mean, I know the relationship is over. You don’t throw your badge at someone, and quit on them, and expect to then go home with them and enjoy a cup of tea while you both watch the sitcoms. I get that.
I just wish we could. When this is all over.
Assuming, of course, that when this is all over the world still exists.
“There he is.” Malcolm interrupts my mental muddling. His meaty finger points to a hunched figure in the crowd. The figure has a grease-stained New York Yankees cap pulled down over his eyes and he’s wearing enormous aviator sunglasses that almost entirely cover his pockmarked cheeks. He sees Malcolm pointing at him, and ducks back into the crowd, head low.
“Not,” Devon says, “exactly how I’d define reliable-looking.”
“Reliable,” Malcolm rumbles. “Not respectable.”
Which is about as much as I suppose we can hope for. We cross over the room, tailing Nicky’s greasy wake through the crowd. His appearance doesn’t seem to have affected Jasmine in the slightest. She is practically skipping.
Nicky is waiting outside standing next to… well, I suppose it’s a minivan, but it looks closer to a pile of sculpted scrap metal painted lime green by a lackluster monkey. The sort of thing Fred Flintstone would have had to upgrade to if he and Wilma had decided to have more kids.
“You come now,” Nicky says. “Nikolai take you to private airport now. Very hush-hush. Very good. You like it there. Very nice.”
He smiles and I kind of wish he hadn’t. I haven’t seen that shade of yellow since I helped my dad take up the linoleum in my grandmother’s basement.
Nikolai opens the minivan door. “Very good ride,” he tells us. “You like very much. Like Cadillac.”
I’m reasonably sure Cadillac could sue for slander over that one, but someone has to bite the bullet. “Shotgun,” I say.
Vnukovo Airport, Moscow, one hellish hour later
I spill out of Nikolai’s car about two seconds before the contents of my stomach do.
“You like very much!” His smile is very wide. Like a shark’s, I imagine.
Aiko clambers shakily out of the back seat and helps me to my feet.
“Not exactly a TV-style secret agent, are you?” she says.
“I’m better when my stunt man stands in for me.” I almost manage a smile, but I can still taste my airplane food and I decide against it.
“Plane this way!” Nikolai shouts with far more enthusiasm than seems required. “You like very much! Cadillac of planes!”
My stomach lurches again.
We’ve parked a fair distance from the terminal and Nikolai leads us away. Mist makes everything seem loose and unreal. I still lean on Aiko for support. Devon stays close, unsteady on her feet. Jasmine and Malcolm weave after us. Parked planes hulk to our left and right. They all look far too heavy to ever lift off the ground.
All
except one.
“Tell me,” I say to Aiko, “please, that that’s not our plane.”
“Oh no.” Jasmine shakes her head. “That’s so not cool.”
It is as if rust has accreted over the years, flaked off some great iron behemoth in the sky and happened to collect, through a freak geological event, into the shape of a plane. Seeing it, I can kind of see why Nikolai called his minivan a Cadillac. It’s all about frames of reference.
“Come on!” Nikolai shouts. “All fuel and ready to go. Like Icarus we go!”
“No.” Aiko shakes her head. “He did not say that.”
Jasmine turns to Malcolm. “M,” she says, “I love you, but I’m going to kill you.”
“No,” Devon says, “this flight is going to kill us all.”
“Very nice,” Nikolai purrs. “You like very much.”
FIFTY
Several thousand feet too far off the ground
I’ve always been a big public transport fan. Buses and trains make a great deal of sense to me. The maximum number of people in the minimum number of vehicles. Reduced emissions, a protected planet. Everyone’s happy.
Planes and I have always had a more tenuous relationship. It’s the whole turbulence thing. If there were trains that thrashed up and down like moshers at a Metallica concert there would be a public outcry. But apparently when you’re thousands of feet up in the air with nothing below you but a fatal landing, we as a society are OK with it.
And, in my defense, when the turbulence is causing the plane wings to flex up and down like a bird’s, I think the terror might be justified.
It doesn’t really help that every time we survive a particularly bad bout, Nikolai releases the flight stick to give us a thumbs-up while the nose of the plane dips towards oblivion.
At least Aiko, Jasmine, and Devon all seem equally disconcerted so I don’t feel like a total coward. Devon is being particularly vocal about it, with her usual eloquence and volume. It turns out that when it comes to epithets, she is more creative than Shakespeare. “Invertebrate, neck-breathing, fecal-festering, bile-soaked, intestinal parasite,” is not an insult one forgets quickly, even if you are fearing for your life. Malcolm watches us with something between bemusement and disdain. There again, he’s been overly cheerful since we got on board and Nikolai showed him a giant sack of budget-priced Russian firearms.
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