The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [118]
“A spot of bother, you say.” Mo has half-closed the gap separating them before she realizes what she’s doing. The violin string hums alarmingly, feeding off her anxiety. “What happened?”
“He was working with a bint from the opposition.” Griffin puts his glass down and stares at her. “Billington lifted them both about, oh, twelve hours ago. Invited them to some sort of private party at the casino and the next thing you know they were over the horizon on a chopper bound for his yacht: the coastal defenses are compromised, you know.” Griffin shrugs. “I told him not to trust the woman, she’s obviously working for Billington by way of a cutout . . .”
Her earring is itching, throbbing in Morse: Griffin is mixing truth and falsehood to concoct a whirlpool of misdirection. Mo sees red. “You listen to me—”
“No, I don’t think I will.” Griffin reaches into his pocket for something that looks like a metal cigarette case. “You folks from head office have fucked up, pardon my French, all the way down the line, sending lightweights to do a professional’s job. So you’re going to do things my way—”
Mo takes a deep breath and draws the bow lightly across one string. It makes a noise like a small predator screaming in mortal agony and terror, and that’s just the auditory backwash. A drop of blood oozes from each fingertip where she grips the neck of the instrument. Griffin’s gin and tonic spreads in a puddle across the carpet from where he dropped it. She walks over to him, rolls his twitching body into the recovery position, and squats beside him. When the convulsions cease, she touches the end of the instrument to the back of his head.
“Listen to me. This is an Erich Zahn, with electroacoustic boost and a Dee-Hamilton circuit wired into the sound-board. I can use it to hurt you, or I can use it to kill you. If I want it to, it won’t just stop your heart, it’ll slice your soul to shreds and eat your memories. Do you understand? Don’t nod, your nose is bleeding. Do you understand?” she repeats sharply.
Griffin shudders and exhales, spraying tiny drops of blood across the floor. “What’s—”
“Listen closely. Your life may depend on whether you understand what I’m about to tell you. My predecessor, who is missing, means rather a lot to me. I intend to get him back. He’s entangled with a Black Chamber agent: fine, I need to get her back, too, so I can disentangle them. You can help me, or you can get in my way. But if you obstruct me and Bob dies as a result, I’ll play a tune for you that’ll be the last thing you ever hear. Do you understand?”
Griffin tries to nod again. “Beed. A. T’shoo.”
Mo stands up gracefully and takes a step back. “Get one, then.” She tracks him with the neck of the violin as he pushes himself upright slowly then shuffles towards the bathroom.
“You’re a bard. Woban,” he says aggrievedly, standing in the doorway clutching a tissue to his nose. It’s rapidly turning red. “I’b on your sibe.”
“You’d better be.” Mo leans against the sideboard and raises her bow to a safe distance above the fiddle. “Here’s what we’re going to do: You’re going to go downstairs and hire a helicopter. I’m going to phone home and find out where my backup’s gotten to, and then we’re going to go for a little run out to visit Billington’s yacht, the Mabuse. Got that?”
“Bub he’d be aboard the yacht! He’b geb you!”
Mo smiles a curious, tight smile. “I don’t think so.” She keeps the fiddle pointed at Griffin as he splutters at her. “Billington is all about money. He doesn’t do love, or hate. So I’m going to hit him where he doesn’t expect to be hit. Now get moving. I expect you back here inside an hour,” she adds coolly. “You really don’t want to be late.”
I’M PUNCH-DRUNK FROM SURPRISES—THE SIGHT of Mo strong-arming Griffin into hiring her a helicopter is shocking enough, and the idea that she’s willing to jump in on the Billingtons without a second thought just because of me is enough to turn my world upside down—but then I realize: If I can see her, what about the bad guys?
I may not be able to send her a message—the surveillance feed is