The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [133]
Captain Barnes clears his throat. “Yes. Which I’m afraid means you just passed Angleton’s cricket test. But you need this, first.” He hands Mo a red-striped document wallet. “Read it, then sign here.”
“Oh dear,” Mo says mildly, running one finger down a series of closely typed paragraphs of legalese drafted by a bunch of Home Office lawyers with too much time on their hands: “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Barnes says grimly. “You must. That’s also in the rules. They don’t hand these out every day. In fact, they’re so rare I think they probably had to invent it just for you . . .”
“Well, pass me the pen.” Mo scrawls a hasty signature then hands the document back to him. “That all square?”
“Well, there’s one other thing I’d like to add,” Barnes says as he seals the document into a waterproof baggie and passes it to a sailor waiting on the bottom steps of the ladder. “Just between you and me, just because you’ve got the license, it doesn’t mean you’ve got to use it. Remember, you’re going to have to live with yourself afterwards.”
Mo smiles, her lips drawn razor-thin. “It’s not me you should be worrying about.” She picks up a waterproof fiberglass black case and checks the latches on it carefully. “If this goes to pieces, I’m going to have words with Angleton.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed.” Barnes’s tone is withering, but he follows it by sitting down next to Mo and leaning close: “Listen, this is not going to go pear-shaped. One way or another, we’ve got to make it work, even if none of us end up going home. But more importantly—you listen—this isn’t about you, or me, or about Bob, or about Angleton. If the Black Chamber gets their hands on JENNIFER MORGUE it’s going to destabilize everything. But that’s just the start. We don’t know why Billington wants it but the worst-case analyses—well, use your imagination. Watch out for any signs—anything, however small—that suggests Billington isn’t in the driving seat, if you follow my drift. Got that?”
Mo stares at him. “You think he’s possessed?”
“I didn’t say that.” Alan shakes his head. “Once you start asking which captains of industry are being controlled by alien soul-sucking monsters from another dimension, why, anything might happen. That sort of thing leads to godless communism and in any case they’ve got friends in high places like Number Ten, if you know what I mean. No, let’s not go there.” His cheek twitches. “Nevertheless, there is no obvious reason why a multibillionaire needs to acquire alien weapons of mass destruction—it’s not exactly on the list of best business practices—so you be careful in there. As I said, you can call ‘A’ troop in at any time after you make contact, but once you’ve made contact they’re going in ten minutes later whether you ask for them or not. Let’s check your headset—”
THERE’S A KNOCK ON THE DOOR.
I hit the boss key, flip the keyboard upside down, and stand up just as the door begins to open. It’s one of the stewards from upstairs, not a black beret. “Yes?” I demand, slightly breathless.
He holds out a silver tray, half-covered by a crisp white linen cloth. My Treo sits in the middle of it, pristine and untouched. “This is for you,” he says dully. I look at his face and shudder as I reach for the phone—he’s not himself, that’s for sure. Green lights in the back of the eye sockets and a distinct lack of breathing are usually indicators that you’re looking at a nameless horror from outside space-time rather than something really sinister like, say, a marketing executive: but you still wouldn’t want to invite one back to your cabin for a drink and after-dinner conversation.
I take the phone and hit the power button. “Thanks,” I say. “You can go now.”
The dead man turns and leaves the room. I close the door and hit the button to fire up the phone’s radio stage—not much chance of getting a signal this far from land, but you never know. And in the