national. I understand you’re not actually from Issyk-Kulistan yourself?”
“No.” You glance from side to side. Here you are, trapped with a glass of single malt and a red-headed stick insect—what can you say? “That is to say, there aren’t any natives of Issyk-Kulistan in Scotland, as far as the Foreign Ministry was able to determine, so they put the job out to tender and ended up hiring me.”
“Ah.” She nods slowly. “One of
You suck in your lower lip and clutch your tumbler close. “No, not really.”
She nods again. “You’re the sixth, you know.”
“The sixth? Sixth what?”
“Sixth pseudo.” She peers at you over the rim of her glasses, which are recording everything and projecting a head-up display on her retinas. “They offered you a steady job in return for processing forms, notarizing documents, sorting out accommodation for distressed natives, and so on. Didn’t they?”
“I don’t see what business of yours my employment is,” you say, perhaps a trifle more waspishly than is tactful.
She blinks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” She nods sidelong at a fellow with a face like the north end of a southbound freight locomotive. “That’s Gerald Williams. He’s the honorary consul for the Popular Democratic Republic of Saint Lucia. You might want to look up the, ah, constitutional crisis there seven years ago. They were the first pseudo—in their case, they used to be a real country, albeit a wee one. But after the big hurricane, a consortium of developers literally bought the place—made the population an offer they couldn’t refuse, relocate somewhere with better weather and about ten thousand euros a head. Now it’s a shell country, specializing in banking and carboncredit exports—they’re still signatory to the climate protocols.”
She knocks back her OJ like she’s trying to wash away the taste of a dead slug. “They’re legit, if shady. I shouldn’t really say this, but I hope you double-checked who you were doing business with. One of these days, we’re going to see a really nasty pseudo, and the consequences are going to be unpleasant all round.” She smiles tightly. “Georgia’s celebrating it’s thirtieth anniversary later this year, and we’re throwing a party. Perhaps you’d like to come?”
“I’d—love to,” you manage. “What did you do”—
“A doctorate in international relations, specializing in the history of the Transcaucasus in the latter half of the twentieth century. I did my field work in Tbilisi.” She reaches for the mixers and tops up her OJ, then adds a splash of vodka. “It was this, or move to Brussels. I can do simultaneous translation between English and Kartuli, you know.” Her smile broadens. “And yourself?”
“So your republic exists primarily to export bread mix to the EU?” She sniffs, evidently amused. “Wait here, Mr. Hussein, I’ll be right back.” And with that she disappears into the front parlour of the Georgian consulate.
You amble around the room for a while. The background chatter is getting louder, and more visitors are arriving—to your untrained eye it’s impossible to tell whether they’re diplomats or art-school drop-outs, but they seem to know what they’re doing, and a high proportion of them look even less Scottish than you. You find yourself chatting to a poet who lives in Pilton—apparently an emigre from Tashkent, if you understand his rapid-fire Turkish-accented Scots dialect correctly. You smile and nod politely and work your way towards the bottom of your tumbler.
The world is taking on a rosy glow of bonhomie when Fi—or should that be Dr. Macintosh?—returns to the party. As it happens, you’ve just turned away from your poet to refill your glass, so she heads straight towards you. She’s got a small, dog-eared paperback in one hand. “Sorry, ran into a spot of bother in the kitchen,” she says unapologetically. “Listen, you’re obviously new to all this, and I suddenly remembered I had a book that came in handy when I was getting started. An introductory text.” She pushes it at you with a slightly furtive expression: The penny drops, and you slide it into your jacket pocket and thank her effusively. “No, really, it’s the least I could do. Don’t take it too seriously, but you’d be surprised how far it’ll take you. It does what it says on the can.” She smiles. “I’d better circulate now—we’re beginning to fill up. See you around . . .”
As she turns away, you risk a quick scooby at the book’s cover. On the rebound from the double-take you glare at her receding back—then remember where you are and whose whisky you’re drinking, and force yourself to calm down.
What kind of amateur does she take you for?
TOYMAKER: Hostile Takeover
It’s like the punch-line to a knock-knock joke gone wrong:
(Knock-knock)
“Who’s there?”
“I was looking for Mike? Is he in?”
“Please step inside, sir. Do you have some form of ID?”
You are not stupid: You aren’t carrying anything illegal on your person—it’s all in your head. Even your fall- guy phone is only guilty of behaving in a shifty manner. So you do not attempt to flee. Instead, you do as the uniformed gentleman requests and meekly step into the front hall to help him with his enquiries, whereupon you realize that something is very wrong indeed because the walls and ceiling and floor are covered in clear plastic anticontamination sheets, and there’s a scene of crime officer in a bunny suit coming down the stairs. “Will a driving license do?” you ask the cop.
You can see him giving you the quick up and down with his glasses, which is an oh-shit moment. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“John, John Christie,” you volunteer, reaching for your wallet. “Is Mike here? Is there some kind of problem?” You force an expression of worried concern, a little apprehension. Under the circumstances, it comes easily enough.
“A driving license will do. Pass it here, please.” You fumble the card and slide it towards him. Most of the John Christie ID is loaded in your phone, from microcredits to bank accounts—it’s very solid. “Why are you here?”
“I was hoping to see . . . Mike . . .” You slow your spiel as if uncertain, even though any fool can tell that something has gone seriously non-linear here. You make an effort to memorize the dibble’s name-plate: PC BROWN, presumably working for INSPECTOR SCARLET of Rainbow Division. Just your luck you aren’t wearing a lifelogger, or you could stand on your rights a little harder—but no, that might not be a good idea. Every instinct is telling you to disengage. Mike’s obviously in big trouble, which means you won’t be hiring him—that’s for sure. You need to get clear before the cops start focussing on you. A factoid pops out of the Mike Blair file and screams for your attention, and you instantly realize it’s a good one. “He said to drop by if I was ever in Edinburgh.”
PC Brown turns your driving license over in his hand, and you can see some flickering in his glasses. He’s got a contactless reader, online to the DVLA database and then back to CopSpace once they’ve authenticated it. The photograph matches, and the license is genuine. He glances back at you and twitches his head, superimposing a head-up ghost image beside your face. Then he hands the card back. “Where did you meet Mr. . . . ?”
“Mike? It was at the Admiral Duncan, in London, about six months ago. Or maybe eight? Or was it after Pride? Anyway, we, er . . . got to know each other quite well.” You clear your throat. “It’s personal. He invited me to drop round if I was ever in Edinburgh, and I’m here for the next week on business, and I was hoping he didn’t have anything else on for the weekend. Is something wrong?”
Brown’s expression morphs through a whole sequence of emotions as you give him the Big Lie, backed up by some telegraphic wiggling of eyebrows and seasoned with just the tiniest bit of camp. You have not, in fact, ever
