I lick my lips. “Boris, um, applied some sort of destiny-entanglement protocol to us. I didn’t run away fast enough.”
“Destiny—what? Entanglement? What’s that?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure, but I’d appreciate it if you could find out and tell me. Because whatever it is, it’s scaring me.”
IT’S STILL EARLY IN THE EVENING, BUT MY ENCOUNTER with Ramona has shaken me, and I don’t much want to run into Pinky and Brains again (if they haven’t already packed up and left: there’s quite a lot of banging coming from next door). I decide to hole up in my room and lick my wounded dignity, so I order up a cardboard cheeseburger from room service, have a long soak under the shower, watch an infinitely forgettable movie on cable, and turn in for the night.
I don’t usually remember my dreams because they’re mostly surreal and/or incomprehensible—two-headed camels stealing my hovercraft, bat-winged squid gods explaining why I ought to accept job offers from Microsoft, that sort of thing—so what makes this one stand out is its sheer gritty realism. Dreaming that I’m me is fine. So is dreaming that I’m an employee of a vast software multinational, damned and enslaved by an ancient evil. But dreaming that I’m an overweight fifty-something German sales executive from an engineering firm in Düsseldorf is so far off the map that if I wasn’t asleep I’d pinch myself.
I’m at a regional sales convention and I’ve been drinking and living large. I like these conferences: I can get away from Hilda and cut loose, party like a young thing again. The awards dinner is over and I split off with a couple of younger fellows I know vaguely, which is how we end up in the casino. I don’t usually gamble much but I’m on a winning streak at the wheel, and all the ladies love a winning streak; between the brandy, the Cohiba panatelas, and the babe who’s attached herself to my shoulder—a call girl, natürlich, but classy—I’m having the time of my life. She leans against me and suggests I might cash in my winnings, and this strikes me as a good idea. After all, if I keep gambling, my streak will end sooner or later, won’t it? Let it pay for her tonight.
We’re in the lift, heading up to my room on the fourteenth floor, and she’s nuzzling up against me. I haven’t felt smooth flesh like this in . . . too long. Hilda was never like that and since the kids the only side of her body she’s shown me is the sharp edge of her tongue: serves her right if I enjoy myself once in a while. The babe’s got her arms around me inside my jacket and I can feel her body through her dress. Wow. This has been a day to remember! We cuddle some more and I lead her to my room, tiptoeing—she’s giggling quietly, telling me not to make a noise, not to disturb the neighbors—and I get the door open and she tells me to go wait in the bathroom while she gets ready. How much does she want? I ask. She shakes her head and says, Two hundred but only if I’m happy. Well, how can I refuse an offer like that?
In the bathroom I take my shoes off, remove my jacket and tie—enough. She calls to say she’s ready, and I open the door. She’s lying on the bed, in a provocative position that still allows her to see me. She’s taken off her dress: smooth, stocking-clad thighs and a waterfall of pure corn-silk hair, blue eyes like ice diamonds that I can fall into and drown. My heart is pounding as if I’ve run a marathon, or I’m about to have a heart attack. She’s smiling at me, hungry, needy; I take a step forwards. My back is clammy with cold sweat and my crotch feels like a steel bar, painfully erect. I need her like I’ve never needed a woman before. Another step. Another. She smiles and kneels on the carpet in front of me, opening her mouth to take me in. I dread her touch, even though I blindly crave it. Tap-dancing on the third rail, I think fuzzily, trying to force my paralyzed ribs to take a racking breath of air as she reaches out to touch me.
“Uh—uh!”
I open my eyes. It’s dark in the hotel room, my heart’s hammering, and I’m lying in a puddle of cold sweat with an erection like a lump of wood and a ghastly sense of horror squatting on my chest. “Uh!” All I can do is grunt feebly. I flail for a bit, then shove the clammy sheet away from me. I’m erect—and it’s not like waking from an erotic dream, it’s more like someone’s using a farmyard device to milk me. “Ugh.” I begin to sit up, meaning to go to the bathroom and towel my back off, and right then I come.
It’s weird, and wonderful, like no orgasm I’ve ever had before. It seems to go on and on forever, scratching the unscratchable itch inside me with an intensity that rapidly becomes unbearable. There’s something about it that feels terminal—not repeatable, an endpoint in someone’s life. When it begins to subside I whimper slightly and reach for my crotch. Surprise: I’m still erect—and my skin is dry.
That wasn’t me, I realize, disturbed. That was Ramona—I clutch my prick protectively.
Distant laughter. ★★Go on, jerk yourself off.★★ There’s a warm glow of satisfaction in her stomach. ★★You know you really want to, don’t you?★★ she thinks, licking her lips and sending me the taste of semen. Then I feel her reach over and pull the sheets up over the dead businessman’s face.
I manage to reach the bathroom and lift the toilet lid before I throw up. My stomach knots and tries to climb my throat. Every guy I’ve ever slept with died less than twenty-four hours later, she said, and now I know why. She’s right about one thing: despite the sudden gag reflex I’m still sprouting a woody. Despite everything, despite the dread, despite the almost furtive guilt I feel, I really enjoyed whatever it is Ramona just did. And now I feel inexplicably guilty on account of Mo, because I wasn’t looking for an adventure on the side—and I feel really dirty as well, because I found it exciting.
The overspill from what Ramona was doing turned me on in my sleep, but the reason I’m throwing up now is that what she was doing wasn’t sex: she was feeding on the guy’s mind, and he died, and it gave her an orgasm, and I got off on it. I want to scrub my brains out with a wire brush, and I want to crawl into a deep hole in the ground, and I want to do it all over again . . . because I’m entangled with her, I hope, but the alternative is worse: there are some things I don’t want to find out about myself, and a secret taste for hot, kinky demon sex is one of them.
I really hope Mo finds out that this entanglement thing is reversible. Because if it isn’t, the next time she and I go to bed together—
Let’s not think about that right now.
I SPEND AN UNEASY NIGHT TOSSING AND TURNING between damp sheets despite the dream catcher screensaver I leave running on my tablet PC. By dawn I’ve just about worried myself into a mild nervous breakdown: if it’s not trying to avoid thinking about invisible pink elephants (subtype: man-eaters), it’s what Angleton’s got in mind for me in Saint Martin. I don’t even know where the place is on a map. Meanwhile, the committee meeting is another unwelcome distraction. How am I supposed to represent my organization when I’m terrified of falling asleep?
I somehow manage to fumble my way into my suit—an uncomfortable imposition required for overseas junkets—then shamble downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. Coffee, I need coffee. And a copy of the Independent, imported from London on an overnight flight. The restaurant is a model of German efficiency, and the staff mostly leave me alone, for which I’m grateful.
I’m just about feeling human again by a quarter to nine; the meeting’s optimistically scheduled to start in another fifteen minutes, but at a guess half the delegates will still be working on their breakfasts. So I wander over to the lobby where there’s free WiFi, to see if there are any messages for me, and that’s when I run into Franz.
“Bob? Is that you?”
I blink stupidly. “Franz?”
“Bob!” We do the handshake thing, feinting around our centers of gravity with briefcases held out to either side, like a pair of nervous chickens sizing each other up in a farmyard. I haven’t seen Franz in a suit before, and he hasn’t seen me in one either. I met him on a training seminar about six months ago when he was over from Den Haag. He’s very tall and very Dutch, which means his accent is a lot more BBC-perfect than mine. “Fan
cy meeting you here.”
“I guess you must be on the joint-session list?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he jokes. “I was just looking for a postcard before I go upstairs . . . will you wait?”
“Sure.” I relax slightly. “Have you done one of these before?”
“No.” He spins the rack idly, looking at the picturesque gingerbread castles one by one. “Have you?”
“I’ve done one, period. Shouldn’t talk about it outside class, but what the hell.”
Franz finds a postcard showing a beaming buxom German barmaid clutching a pair of highly suggestive jugs. “I’ll have this one.” He attracts the attention of the nearest sales clerk and rattles something off in what sounds to me like flawless German. My tablet finishes checking for mail, bins the spam, and dings at me to put it away. I rub my head and glance at Franz enviously. I bet he wouldn’t have any problems with Ramona: he’s scarily bright, good-natured, incisive, handsome, cultured, and all-round competent. Not to mention being able to out-drink me and charm the socks off everyone who meets him. He’s clearly on his way up the ladder of the AIVD’s occult counterintelligence division, and he’ll make deputy director while I’m still polishing Angleton’s filing cabinet.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Guess so.”
We head for the lift to the conference room. It’s on the fourth floor. Lest you think this is an altogether too casual approach to confidential business, the hotel is security certified and our hosts have block-booked the adjacent rooms and the suites immediately above and below. It’s not as if we’re going to be discussing matters of national security, either.
Franz and I are early. There’s a coffee urn and cups in place on the sideboard, an LCD projector and screen next to the boardroom table, and comfortable leather-lined swivel chairs to fall asleep in. I claim one corner of the table, opposite the windows with their daydream-friendly view of downtown Darmstadt, and plunk my tablet down on the leather place mat beside the hotel notepad. “Coffee?” asks Franz.
“Yes, please. Milk, no sugar.” I pick up the agenda and carry it over.
“What’s the routine?” he asks. He actually sounds interested.
“Well. We show each other our authorizations first. Then the chair orders the doors sealed.” I wave at the far end of the suite: “Restroom’s through there. Chair this time is—” I riffle the sheets “—Italy, which means Anna, unless she’s ill and they send a replacement. She’ll keep things tight, I think. Then we get down to business.”
“I see. And the minutes . . . ?”
“Everyone who’s got a presentation is supposed to bring copies on CD-ROM. The host organization6 provides a secretarial service, that’s the GSA’s job this time.”
Franz’s brow wrinkles. “Excuse me for saying, but this sounds as if the meeting itself is . . . unnecessary? We could take it to e-mail.”
I shrug. “Yup. But then we wouldn’t get to do the real business, over coffee and biscuits.”
His expression clears. “Ah, now I see—”
The door opens. “Ciao, guys!” It’s Anna, short and bubbly and (I suspect) a little hungover, judging from her eyes. “Oh, my head. Where is everybody? Let us keep this short, shall we?”
She makes a beeline for the coffee pot. “Tell Andrew he is a naughty, naughty man,” she chides me.
“What’s he done now?” I ask, steeling myself.
“He got my birthday wrong!” Flashing eyes, toothy grin. “A, what is it, a fencepost error.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, I’ll do that.” I shrug. I’m still uncomfortable in this type of situation. Most of the people here were grades above me until six months ago, and half of them still are; I’m very much the junior delegate and Andy—who used to be one of my managers—is the guy into whose boots I’ve stepped. “Last time I saw him he was kind of busy. Overworked dealing with fallout from—” I clear my throat.
“Oh, say no more.” She pats me on the arm and moves on to say hello to the other delegates who’re letting themselves in. We ought to have a full house of security management types from Spain, Brussels, and parts east within NATO, but for some reason attendance today looks unusually light.
Delegates are beginning to arrive, so I head back towards my seat. “Who’s that?” Franz asks me quietly, with a nod at the door. I glance round and do a double take: it’s Ramona. She’s almost unrecognizable in a business suit with her hair up, but being this close to her still makes the skin crawl in the small of my back.
“That’s, um, Ms. Random. An observer. We’re privileged to have her here.” My cheek twitches and Franz stares at me from behind his rimless spectacles.
“I see. I was unaware that we had that type of guest present.” I get the feeling he sees a whole lot more than I told him, but there’s not a lot I can say.
★★Hello, darling, slept well?★★ she asks. I start: then I realize she’s still on the other side of the room, coolly pouring herself a cup of coffee and smiling at Anna.
★★No thanks to you,★★ I think at her.
I hear a rude noise. ★★A girl’s got to eat sometime.★★
★★Yes, but midnight snacking—★★ Invisible pink elephants. Think of invisible pink elephants, Bob. Think of invisible pink, throbbing elephants in the night—no, cancel the throbbing—
I sit down, dizzily. “Is something wrong?” asks Franz.
“Supper disagreed with me,” I say weakly. Ramona’s supper, that is: pâté de gros ingénieur. “I’ll be okay if I sit down.” A hot flush is trying to follow the shivers up and down my spine, I glance at her across the room and she looks back at me, blank-faced.
People are heading towards the table, apparently following my lead. To my annoyance Ramona oozes into the chair next to me then stares sharply at Anna’s end of the table.
“Ciao everybody. I see a lot of vacant seats and new faces today! This meeting will now commence. Badges on the table, please.” Anna looks up and down the table pointedly as clusters of conversation die down.
I reach into my pocket and slide my Laundry warrant card onto the table. Everyone else is doing likewise with their own accreditation: the air twists and prickles with the bindings.
“Excuse moi.” François leans across the table towards Ramona: “You have credentials?”
Ramona just looks at him. “No. As a matter of policy my organization does not issue identification papers.” Heads turn and eyes narrow around the table.
I clear my throat. “I can vouch for her,” I hear myself saying. “Ramona Random—” words slide seamlessly into my mind “—Overseas Operations Directorate, based out of Arkham.” ★★Thanks,★★ I tell her silently, ★★now get out of my head.★★ “Here by direct invitation of my own department, full observer status under Clause Four of the Benthic Treaty.”
Ramona smiles thinly. There’s a low buzz of surprised conversation. “Quiet!” calls Anna. “I’d like to welcome our . . . today’s observer here.” She looks slightly flustered. “If you could contrive some form of identification in future, that would be helpful, but—” she looks at me hopefully “—I’m sure Robert’s superiors will cover this time.”
I manage to nod. I can’t cover it on my authority, but this is Angleton’s bloody fault, after all, and he actually gets to talk to Mahogany Row. Let them sort it out.
“Fine!” She claps her hands together. “Then, to business! First item, attendees, I believe we have taken care of. Let the doors be locked. Second item, travel expense claims in pursuit of joint-investigation warrants on overseas territory, at the request of non-issuing governments. Arbitration of expense allocation among participating member states—traditionally this has been carried out on an ad hoc basis, but since the Austrian civil service strike last year the urgency of formalizing arrangements has become apparent . . .”
The next hour passes uneventfully. It’s basically bureaucratic legwork, to ensure that none of the European partner agencies tread on e
ach other’s toes when operating on each other’s soil. Proposals to allow agents of charter countries to claim expenses for mopping up after another member’s business are agreed upon and bounced up to the next level of management for approval. Suggestions for standardizing the various forms of ID we use are proposed, and eventually shot down because they serve very different purposes and some of them come with powers which are considered alarming, illegal, or immoral in different jurisdictions. I take notes on my tablet, briefly consider a game of Minesweeper before deciding it’s not worth the risk of exposure, and finally settle down to the grim business of not falling asleep and embarrassing myself in public.
Glancing around the table I realize things are pretty much the same all round. Anyone who isn’t actively talking or jotting notes is twiddling their thumbs, gazing out the window, staring at the other delegates, or quietly drooling over their complimentary notepad. Ah, the joy of high-level negotiations. I glance at Ramona and see she’s one of the doodlers. She’s inscribing something black and scary on her notepad: geometric lines and arcs, repeated patterns that sink into one another in a self-similar way. Then she glances sidelong at me, and very deliberately slides a blank sheet of paper across her pad.
I shake myself; must stay focused. We’re up to item four on the agenda, drilling down into issues of software resource management and a proposal to jointly license an auditing and license management system being developed by a subsidiary of—TLA Systems GMbH?
I sit bolt upright. Sophie from Berlin is soporifically talking us through the procurement process Faust Force has come up with, a painfully politically correct concoction of open market tenders and sealed bidding processes intended to evaluate competing proposals and then roll out a best-of-breed system for common deployment. “Excuse me,” I say, when she pauses for breath, “this is all very well, but what can you tell us about the winning bid? I assume the process has already been approved,” I add hastily, before she can explain that this is all very important background detail.
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