The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [119]
GRIFFIN HAS BARELY CLOSED THE DOOR WHEN Mo’s energy gives out and she slumps in on herself with a tiny whimper. She puts the violin down, then pulls a black nylon tactical strap from a side pocket in its case—her hands shaking so badly it takes her three attempts to fasten it—then slings the instrument from her shoulder like a gun. She walks over to the desk, wobbling almost drunkenly with fatigue or the relief of tension, and flops down in the chair. The message light on the phone is blinking. She picks up the handset and speed-dials.
“Angleton?”
“Dr. O’Brien.”
“Your station chief. Griffin. Is he meant to be in on this side of the operation?”
Angleton is silent for three or four seconds. “No. He wasn’t on my list.”
Mo stares at the door, bleakly. “I sent him on a wild goose chase. I may have up to an hour until he gets back. Penetration confirmed, he’s your pigeon. At a guess, Billington got to him via his wallet. Got any suggestions?”
“Yes. Leave the room. Take hand luggage only. Where did you tell him you were going?”
“I sent him to hire a chopper. For the Mabuse.”
“Then you should go somewhere else, by any means necessary. I’m opening your expense line: unlimited fund. I’ll have local assets take Griffin out of the picture.”
“I can live with that.” Mo’s shoulders are shaking with barely repressed fury. “I could kill him. Do you want me to do that?”
Angleton falls silent again. “I don’t think that would be useful at this point,” he says finally. “Do you have your primary documents with you?”
“I’m not stupid,” she snaps.
“I didn’t say you were.” Angleton’s tone is unusually mild. “Go to ground then call me with a sanitized contact number. Stay there and don’t go anywhere. I’ll have Alan make contact and pick you up when it’s safe to proceed.”
“Got it,” she says tensely, and hangs up. Then she stands up and collects her violin case. “Right,” she mutters under her breath. “Go to ground.”
Mo packs methodically and rapidly. The instrument goes back in its carrier. Then she opens her hand luggage—a black airline bag—and tips the contents out on the bed. She squeezes the violin case inside, adds a document wallet and a toilet bag from the pile on the quilt, then zips it up and heads for the door. Rather than using the elevator she takes the emergency stairs, two steps at a time. At the ground floor, there’s a fire exit. She pushes the crash bar open—it squeals slightly, a residue of rust on the mechanism—and slips out into the crowd along the promenade at the back of the hotel.
Over the next hour Mo puts her tradecraft to work. She doubles back around her route, checking her trail in window reflections in shop fronts: changes course erratically, acts like a tourist, dives into souvenir markets and cafés to make a show of looking at the menu while keeping an eye open for tails. Once she’s sure she’s clean she walks the block to the main drag and goes into the first clothes shop she passes, and then the second. Each time, she comes out looking progressively different: a tee shirt under her sundress, then a pair of leggings and an open shirt. The dress has vanished. With the addition of a new pair of sunglasses and a colorful scarf to keep the sun off her head, there’s no sign of Mrs. Hudson. She finishes up at a café: diving into its coolly air-conditioned interior she orders two double espressos and drinks them straight down, shuddering slightly as the caffeine hits her.
What next? Mo is clearly fighting off the effects of jet lag. She stands up tiredly and