The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [103]
My head’s spinning. What the hell is he on about? And where am I going to find a virtuous woman on board a mad billionaire’s yacht at three in the morning as we steam towards the Bermuda Triangle? “What about the auction?” I ask plaintively.
Billington laughs raucously. “Oh, Mr. Howard! The auction was only ever a blind, to make your superiors believe I could be bought and sold!” He leans forwards across the Desk, and his eyebrows furrow like thunderclouds: “What use do you think I have for mere gigabucks? This is the high-stakes table.” He looks past my shoulder, towards the gorilla. “Take him back to his room and lock him in until morning. We’ll continue this conversation over breakfast.” The gorilla stomps over and lays a beefy hand on my shoulder. “When I have JENNIFER MORGUE they’ll do anything I want,” he mutters, and my skin crawls because I don’t think he’s talking to me anymore. “Anything at all. They’ll have to listen to me once I own the planet.”
THE GORILLA HERDS ME BACK DOWN A SHORT flight of steps and onto a passage that sports a row of mahogany-paneled doors like a very exclusive hotel. He opens one of them and gestures me inside. I briefly consider trying to take him, but realize it won’t work: they’ve got Ramona and they’ve got the surveillance network from Hell and I’m on a ship that’s already out of sight of land. I’ll only get one chance, at most, and I’d better make sure I don’t blow it. So I go inside without a struggle, and look around tiredly as he turns the key in the lock.
Being locked in one of Billington’s guest rooms is a comfortable step up from a police cell. It’s aboard ship so it’s smaller than a five-star hotel suite, but that’s about the only way it suffers by comparison. The bed’s a double, the carpet is luxuriously thick, there’s a porthole (non-opening), a wet bar, and a big flat-screen TV; a shelf next to it holds a handful of paperbacks and a row of DVDs. I assume I’m supposed to drink myself comatose while watching cheesy spy thrillers. The desk (small, guest-room-sized) opposite the bed shows raw patches where they must have yanked out a PC earlier—it’s a damn shame, but Billington’s people are smart enough not to leave a computer where I can get my hands on it.
“Shit,” I mutter, then sit down in the sinfully padded leather recliner next to the wet bar. Surrender has seldom been such an attractive prospect. I massage my head. Looking out the porthole there’s nothing but an expanse of night-black sea, overlooked by stars. I yawn. Whatever that bitch Johanna used to put my lights out was fast-acting; it can’t be much past three in the morning. And I’m still tired, now that I think about it. I look around the room and there’s nothing particularly obvious in the way of escape routes. Plus, they’re probably watching me, via a peephole in the door if they’ve got any sense. “What a mess.”
★★You can say that again, monkey-boy.★★
I flinch, then force myself to relax. Trying to show no sign of anything in particular, I open my inner ear again. ★★Ramona?★★
★★No, I’m the fucking tooth fairy. Have you seen my pliers lying around? There’s a couple of folks here in line for some root-canal surgery when I get free.★★
The wash of relief is visceral; if I was standing I’d probably collapse on the spot. It’s a good thing I found the recliner first. ★★You’re all right?★★
She snorts. ★★For what it’s worth.★★ I can feel something itchy where my eyes can’t see. Focusing on it, I see the inside of another room, much like this one. She’s kicked off her heels and is pacing the floor restlessly, examining everything, looking for an exit. ★★They’ve wired the walls. There’s a shielding graph in the floor but they must have switched it off for the time being to let us talk. I don’t think they can overhear us,