The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [46]
An indeterminate time later I’m summoned back to wakefulness by a persistent banging on my door, and a warmly sarcastic voice at the back of my head: ★★Get up, monkey-boy!★★
“Go ’way,” I moan, clutching the pillow like a life preserver. I want to sleep so badly I can taste it, but Ramona’s not leaving me alone.
“Open the door or I’ll start singing, monkey-boy. You wouldn’t like that.”
“Singing?” I roll over. I’m still wearing my shoes, I realize. And I’m still wearing this fucking suit. I didn’t even take it off for the flight—I must be turning into a manager or something. I have a sudden urge to wash compulsively. At least the tie’s snaked off to wherever the horrid things live when they’re not throttling their victims.
“I’ll start with D:Ream. ‘Things can only get better’—”
“Aaaugh!” I flail around for a moment and manage to fall off the bed. That wakes me up enough to sit up. “Okay, just hold it right there . . .”
I stumble over to the entrance and open the door. It’s Ramona, and for the second time since I arrived here I experience the sense of existential angst that afflicts chewing gum cling-ons on the shoe sole of a higher order. Her supermodel-perfect brow wrinkles as she looks me up and down. “You need a shower.”
“Tell me about it.” I yawn hugely. She’s dressed up to the nines in a slinky, black strapless gown, with a fortune in diamonds plugged into her earlobes and wrapped around her throat. Her hairdo looks like it cost more than my last month’s salary. “What’s up? Planning on dining out?”
“Reconnaissance in force.” She steps into the room, shoves the door shut behind her, and locks it. “Tell me about Griffin. What did he say?” she demands.
I yawn again. “Let me freshen up while we talk.” Pinky said something about a toilet kit in my briefcase, didn’t he? I rummage around in it until I come up with a black Yves Saint Laurent bag, then wander through into the bathroom.
The dream was overspill, I realize unhappily. This is going to get even more embarrassing before it’s over. I hope like hell Angleton’s planning on disentangling me from her as soon as possible—otherwise I’m in danger of turning into a huge unintentional security leak. Nastier possibilities nag at the back of my mind, but I’m determined to ignore them. In this line of work, too much paranoia can be worse than too little.
I open the toilet bag and poke around until I come up with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. ★★Griffin’s nuts,★★ I send to her while I’m scrubbing away at the inside of my lower jaw. ★★He’s completely paranoid about you guys. He also insists that he gets a veto over my actions, which is more than somewhat inconvenient.★★ I switch to my upper front teeth. ★★Have you been fucking with his head?★★
★★You wish.★★ I can almost feel her disdainful sniff. ★★We’ve got him pegged as a loose cannon who’s been put out to pasture to keep him out of your agency’s internal politics. He’s stuck in the 1960s, and not the good bits.★★
★★Well.★★ I carefully probe my molars, just in case Angleton’s planted a microdot briefing among them to tell me how to handle situations like this. ★★I can’t comment on Laundry operational doctrine and overseas deployments in the Caribbean—★★ (because I don’t know anything about them: Could that be why they picked me for this op? Because I’m a designated mushroom, kept in the dark and fed shit?) ★★—but I would agree with your assessment of Griffin. He’s a swivel-eyed nutter.★★ I step into the shower and dial it all the way up to Niagara. I’m supposed to report to Angleton while letting Griffin think he’s in my chain of command: What should this tell me about the home game Angleton’s playing here? I shake my head. I’m not up to playing Laundry politics right now. I focus on showering, then get out and dry myself. ★★One question deserves another. Why did you get me out of bed?★★
★★Because I wanted to fuck with your head, not Griffin’s. ★★ She sends me a visual of herself pouting, which is a bloody distracting thing to see in the