The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [77]
Ramona shakes her head. “We can’t get to him ourselves?”
“I didn’t say that.” McMurray walks towards the door, then pauses in front of a picture on the wall. “Look.”
Ramona stares at the picture. It’s a photograph of an oriental longhair cat, reposing on a sofa. The cat is well-groomed and white, but lacks the distinctive pinkish eyes characteristic of albinism. It stares at the camera with haughty disdain.
“I’ve seen that cat before,” she murmurs, chewing her lip. She glances at McMurray: “Is this what I think it is?”
McMurray nods. “It’s a show-grade Persian cat, a tom. D’Urbeville Marmeduke the Fourth. Billington acquired this—pet is perhaps too loose a word, perhaps familiar is closer to the truth—some time ago. Probably when he began planning his current venture. He keeps him aboard the Mabuse. Fluffy white cat, yacht cruising around the Caribbean, huge mother ship with a secret undersea module—this geas isn’t powered by some goddamn dolls and a wedding ring, agent Random, it’s got legs. It’d take a miracle for anyone except the Brits to get close to him. One Brit in particular—an agent who doesn’t exist.” Then he stares at Ramona. “Except we’ve figured out a loophole, one that’ll let us reach out and touch Billington where it hurts. You are going to go in through that loophole, you and me. And you will nail Billington’s head to the table to prevent JENNIFER MORGUE Two from falling into the wrong hands.
“Here’s how we’re going to do it . . .”
THREE PEOPLE SIT IN A CONFERENCE ROOM WITH bricked-up windows in London. The slide projector clunks to an empty slide and Angleton leans over to switch it off. For a minute there’s silence, broken only by the emphysemic rasp of Angleton’s breathing.
“Bastard.” Mo’s voice is cold and superficially emotionless.
“We’re going to get him back, Mo, I promise you.” Barnes’s voice is flat and assured.
“But damaged.”
Angleton clears his throat.
“I can’t believe you did this,” she says bitterly.
“We didn’t choose to, girl.” His voice is a gravelly rasp, hoarse from too many late-night meetings this past week.
“I can’t believe you let some snake oil defense contractor get the jump on you. Using it as an excuse. Shit, Angleton, what do you expect me to say? The bait-and-switch you’re planning is stupid enough to start with, and you’ve handed my boyfriend over to a sex vampire and I’m supposed to lie back and think of England? You expect me to tamely pick up the pieces when she’s finished banging his brains out and pat him on the head and take him home and patch his ego up? What am I meant to do, turn into some kind of angel-nurse-child-minder figure when all this is over? You’ve got a fucking nerve!” She’s got the violin case by the neck and she’s leaning across the table towards Angleton, throwing the words in his face. She’s too close to see Barnes staring at her fingers on the neck of the instrument case like it’s the barrel of a gun, and he’s trying to judge whether she’s going to reach for the trigger.
“You’re understandably upset—”
“Understandably?” Mo stands up, shifting the case to the crook of her left arm as she toys with the clamp alongside its body. “Fuck you!” she snarls.
Angleton pushes the file across the table at her. “Your tickets.”
“Fuck you and your tickets!” She’s making chicken-choking motions with the fingers of her right hand, the other hand vaguely patting at the body of the violin case. Barnes slides to his feet, backing away, his right hand half-raised to his jacket until he catches Angleton’s minute shake of the head. “And your fucking grade-six geas!” Her voice is firm but congested with emotion. “I’m out of here.”
She freezes in place for a moment as if there’s something more to say, then grabs the file and storms out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her so hard that the latch fails and it bounces open again. Barnes stares after her; then, seeing the wide eyes and open