The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [18]
I know when I’m defeated, but I’m not completely stupid: it’s time to change the subject. “What’s Judith got you working on, anyway?” I ask. “I didn’t think she had any call for your approach to, well . . . whatever.” (It’s best not to mention specifics: the house we share is subsidized accommodation, provided by the Laundry for employees like us—otherwise there’s no way we could honestly afford to live in Central London on two civil service salaries—and the flip-side of this arrangement is that if we start discussing state secrets the walls grow ears.)
“Judith’s got problems you aren’t briefed on.” She picks up her coffee mug, peers into it, and pulls a face. “I’m beginning to find out about them and I don’t like them.”
“You are?”
“I’m going down to Dunwich next week,” she says suddenly. “I’ll be there quite some time.”
“You’re what?”
I must sound shocked because she puts the mug down, stands up, and holds out her arms: “Oh, Bob!”
I stand up, too. We hug. “What’s going on?”
“Training course,” she says tightly.
“Another bloody training course? What are they doing, putting you through a postgraduate degree in Cloak and Dagger Studies?” I ask. The only training course I did at Dunwich was in field operations technique. Dunwich is where the Laundry keeps a lot of its secrets, hidden behind diverted roads and forbidding hedges, in a village evacuated by the War Department back during the 1940s and never returned to its civilian owners. Unlike Rome, no roads lead to Dunwich: to get there you need a GPS receiver, four-wheel drive, and a security talisman.
“Something like that. Angleton’s asked me to take on some additional duties, but I don’t think I can talk about them just yet. Let’s say, it’s at least as interesting as the more obscure branches of music theory I’ve been working on.” She tenses against me, then hugs me tighter. “Listen, nobody can complain about me telling you I’m going, so . . . ask Judith, okay? If you really think you need to know. It’s just a compartmentalization thing. I’ll have my mobile and my violin, we can talk evenings. I’ll try to make it back home for weekends.”
“Weekends plural? Just how long is this course supposed to take?” I’m curious, as well as a bit annoyed. “When did they tell you about it?”
“They told me about this particular one yesterday. And I don’t know how long it runs for—Judith says it comes up irregularly, they’re at the mercy of certain specialist staff. At least four weeks, possibly more.”
“Specialist staff. Would this specialist staff happen to have, say, pallid skin? And gill slits?”
“Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.” She relaxes and takes a step back. “You’ve met them.”
“Sort of.” I shiver.
“I’m not happy about this,” she says. “I told them I needed more notice. I mean, before they spring things like this special training regime on me.”
I figure it’s time to change the subject. “Crete. You figure you’ll be out of the course by then?”
“Yes, for sure.” She nods. “That’s why I’ll need to get away from it all, with you.”
“So that’s what this Crete thing is all about. Judith wants to drop you headfirst into Dunwich for three months and you need somewhere to go to decompress afterwards.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Ah, shit.” I pick up my book again, then my coffee cup. “Hey, this coffee’s cold.”
“I’ll fix a fresh jug.” Mo carries the cafetière over to the sink and starts rinsing the grounds out. “Sometimes I hate this job,” she adds in a singsong, “and sometimes this job hates me . . .”
THE NAME OF THE JOB IS MATHEMATICS. OR MAYBE metamathematics. Or occult physics. And she wouldn’t be in this job if she hadn’t met me (although, on second thoughts, if she hadn’t met me she’d be dead, so I think we’ll call it even on that score and move swiftly on).
Look,