The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [59]
“The Mabuse,” Griffin repeats. His cheek twitches. “And Charlie Victor is in town. You ought to take precautions.”
“Sure.” If the bastard thinks he can spook me that easily he’s got another thing coming. “Boris, any immediate updates?”
Boris shakes his head: “Not yet.”
“Okay, then I’ll be going.” And before Griffin can object I’m out the door.
I NEED TO GET MY HEAD TOGETHER, SO I START BY heading for the tailor’s shop they pointed me at back in Darmstadt. After half an hour of wandering among fast-food concessions, tourist traps, and free cosmetic sample stands I find it, and half an hour later I’m back in my room unwrapping—“What is this shit?” I ask myself, bemused. Whoever ordered it either didn’t have a clue what I normally wear, or didn’t care. There’s a lightweight suit, a bunch of shirts, a choice of ties—I corral them in the wardrobe and lock it carefully, in case they sneak out and try to strangle me in the night—and the nearest thing to wearable clothing is a polo shirt and a pair of chinos. Which are not only totally un-me, they’re not even black. “Shit!” I blew out of Darmstadt with nothing but the business suit and a borrowed toilet bag: it’s this or nothing. I make the best of a bad job, and end up looking like a second-rate parody of my father. I give up. I’ll just have to go shopping, once I can find some cheap broadband access. Maybe Think Geek can ship me a care package by express airmail?
I pick up my Treo—not the crazy mechanical phonegun but real, reliable, understandable electronics—and head down to the car park. I hunt among the pickups and sports cars until I find the Smart Fortwo. I stare at it and it stares right back at me, mockingly. It’s not even a convertible. “Someone’s going to regret this,” I mutter as I strap it on. Then it’s the moment of truth: time for me to go check out a dream of a ghost of a memory, to see if someone’s waiting for Marc the doorman to deliver a body to North Bay.
It’s already getting hot, the sun burning through the deep blue vault of sky that arches overhead. I fumble my way out of Maho Bay and onto the road that winds towards the northern end of the island. Motoring here is just about as different from the autobahn experience as it’s possible to get and still be on wheels, for which I’m fervently grateful. The road is narrow, barely graded and marked, and winds around the landscape as it climbs the picturesque but steep slopes of Mount Paradis. I pass numerous signs for tourist beaches, brightly painted shop fronts and restaurants . . . it’s resort central. I crawl along behind a gaggle of taxis and a tourist 4×4 for about half an hour, then we’re over the top of the island. The road more or less comes to a dead end in a depression between two hills, and I pull over beside a road sign to take a look.
The sign says: ANSE MARCEL. There’s a scattering of shops and hotels alongside the road, shaded by palm trees. On the downhill slope, I can see the sea in the distance, out across a brilliant white expanse of beach dotted with sunbathing tourists. Off to one side a hundred meters away, a clump of masts huddle together in a small marina. Looks like it’s time to get out and walk.
I get out, feeling horribly overdressed: most of the punters hereabouts are wearing clothes that go well with thongs and sandals. Idyllic tropical beach paradise, with added ultraviolet burns and sand itch. And they’re all so buff! I’m your typical pallid cube-maggot, and the six-pack is a high-cost luxury extra on that model. I shuffle down the street towards the marina, feeling about six centimeters tall, hoping that I’m wrong: that nobody’s there, and I can go back to the hotel and write it all off as a bad dream brought on by vodka and