The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [116]
Still, I’m worried about Mo. That view Eileen wanted me to vet—even if Eileen bought my story—means that Mo is here, on the island, and she’s under the gun. The Pale Grace™ surveillance net is tracking her and the stabbing sense of anxiety that doubles as my guilty conscience tells me I need to make sure she’s all right before I start trying to figure out a way to reestablish communications with Control. So I pull up a VNC session, log into one of Eileen’s server blades using a password looted from one of the black berets, and go hunting for a chase cam.
13.
FIDDLER HITS THE ROOF
TEN HOURS ABOARD AN AIRBUS IS NEVER A HAPPY fun experience, even in business class. By the time Mo feels the nose gear touch down on the centerline of the runway, rattling the glasses up front in the galley, she’s tired, with a bone-weary exhaustion that is only going to go away if she can find the time to crash for twelve straight hours on an oversprung hotel mattress.
But. But. Mo hums tunelessly to herself as the airbus taxis towards the terminal. What’s he gotten himself into this time? she asks herself, a bright point of worry burning through the blanket of fatigue. Angleton wasn’t remotely reassuring, and after that disturbing interview with Alan she went and did some digging. Asked Milton, actually, the one-armed, old security sergeant with the keys to the conservatory and the instrument store. “What’s a big white one?” she repeated, refusing to take the first answer he offered—or to notice the prickling in her ears and the flush of blood to her cheeks until he set her straight.
Fuck. Nukes? What the wily old bastard had been offering Alan—right under her nose!—was a kamikaze insurance policy. The realization fills her with even more apprehension. Bob’s got himself into something so dicey that Angleton thinks a destroyer full of SAS and SBS special forces isn’t enough, and they may need to call in a Trident D-5 ballistic missile to nail whatever’s been stirred up down there. That kind of overkill isn’t on the menu, outside of a bad spy thriller: that or CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN, anyway, and CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN hasn’t started yet, and even then the real nasties probably won’t arrive until at least ten years after the grand alignment commences.12
As soon as the seatbelt sign blinks off and the cabin crew announces that it’s safe for passengers to leave their seats, Mo is up like a jack-in-the-box to haul down her overnight bag, wide-brimmed hat, and the battered violin case from the overhead locker. She clutches the instrument case protectively all the way to the baggage claim area and immigration queue, as if she’s walking through a dangerous part of town and it’s a gun. But when the customs officer gives her the hairy eyeball and asks her to open it she smiles brightly and clicks back the locks to reveal—a violin.
“See?” she says. “It’s an Erich Zahn special, wired with Hilbert-space pickups. I don’t think there’s another one on this side of the Atlantic.” She’s relying on his ignorance to let her through. Polished to the creamy gleam of old ivory, the electric violin nestles in its case like a Tommy gun, to all outward appearances nothing but a musical instrument. Just don’t ask me to play it, she prays. The custom officer nods, satisfied it’s not an offensive weapon, and waves her on. Mo closes the case with false calm, nods her head, and locks the instrument back in. If only you knew . . .
One airport concourse is much like any other. Mo tows her suitcase over to the exit, where taxis jostle for position opposite the curb. It smells hot and damp with a faint undertone of rotting seaweed. There are people everywhere, tourists in bright clothes, natives, business types. A woman in a suit brandishes a clipboard at her: “Hi! How would you like a free sample of eyeliner, ma’am?”
Why the hell not? Mo nods and accepts the sample, smiles, idly rubs a smear of it on her wrist to check the color, and moves on before the woman