The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [91]
While I’m having these grim thoughts, I notice that my martini glass is nearly empty. It’s not a terribly endearing drink—it tastes like something that got hosed off a runway, then diluted with antifreeze—but it does what it says on the label. I’ve got a nasty feeling I’m going to need plenty of Dutch courage to get through this evening. What that horrible lawyer-creature Sloat was saying is sinking in: This is either a cover or a warm-up for some sort of auction, isn’t it? Maybe Billington is planning on selling whatever he dredges up from JENNIFER MORGUE Site Two to the highest bidder. That would make plenty of sense and it’d explain why the Black Chamber and the Laundry are both riled up about it, but I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the whole story: What was the business with Marc all about? Assuming it’s connected. Maybe Ramona knows something she’d be willing to share with me.
I shake my head and look around. I don’t see her among the glitterati at the gaming tables, but there are enough people here that she could have wandered off. ★★You there?★★ I ask silently, but she isn’t answering and I can’t sense what she’s doing. It’s as if she’s figured out how to draw a thick blackout curtain around her mind, keeping me out when she doesn’t want me around. That’d be a neat skill to have, I think, then mentally kick myself. What one of us can do the other can learn really fast. I’ll just have to ask her how she does it whenever she comes out of hiding. At least she’s not in trouble, I guess; given the nature of our link, I’m certain I’d know if she was.
I circulate back towards the bar in the other room and plant my glass on it, then turn round to see if I can spot either of the Billingtons among the happy-clappy flock of saleswomen: Ellis may be delayed but I can’t see his wife throwing a revival-style party for her faithful without circulating to stroke her flock. “Another of the same?” murmurs the barman, and before I can make up my mind to say no he’s fished out a glass and is pouring gin with a soup ladle. I nod at him and take it, then head back towards the gaming tables in the back room. I’m not going to drink it, I decide, but maybe if I keep it in my hand it’ll stop anyone from trying to refill the bloody glass again.
The crowd near the tables is noisy and they’re smoking and drinking like there’s no tomorrow. I strain to see what’s going on over a gaggle of sericulture-vultures with big hair. It’s a baccarat table and from the disorganization there it looks like a game’s just ended. Half a dozen of Billington’s crowd are moving in while an old fart who looks like a merchant banker leans back in his chair, sipping a glass of port.
“Ah, Mr. Howard I believe.” I nearly jump out of my skin before I recall that I’m supposed to be suave and sophisticated, or at least gin-pickled to the point of insensibility. “Care for a game?”
I glance round. I vaguely recognize the guy who knows my name. He’s in early middle age, crew cut, solidly built, and he fills his tuxedo with an avuncular bonhomie that I instinctively mistrust; he reminds me of the sort of executive who can fire six thousand people before lunch and go to a charity fundraiser the same evening with his sense of self-righteous entitlement undented. “I’m not much of a gambler,” I murmur.
“That’s okay, all I ask is that you’re a good loser.” He grins, baring a perfect row of teeth at me. “I’m Pat, by the way. Pat McMurray. I consult on security issues for Mr. Billington. That’s how I know about you.”
“Right.” I nod as I give him the hairy eyeball. He winks at me slowly, then tugs his left earlobe. He’s wearing an earring that looks a lot like a symbol I see most days at the office on my way past the secure documents store in Dansey House. This isn’t in the script: Security consultants who’ve been briefed on me? Gulp. I try to feel what Ramona’s doing again, but no luck. She’s still got that blackout curtain up. “What kind of security issues do you consult on?” I ask.
“Well, you know, that’s a good question.” He points at my