Rule 34

Snug as a sphex wasp larva in the belly of a paralysed katydid, you bed down in the Peter Manuel identity. You rent a room in a West End hotel to shower and change your clothes. One brief online session later, you’ve ordered a couple of shirts, a week’s supply of socks and underwear, and a new shaver. Delivery post restante. Over in the Hilton, John Christie’s room lies hollow and empty as a condemned cell. It may already be under active monitoring by the police, but you doubt they’ll put a human-surveillance team on the case—human eye-balls are expensive—and if you don’t interact with the hotel’s digital nervous system they’ll have no way of telling you’re around. But they’re not yet looking for Peter Manuel, and the cost of ambient DNA sequencers is high enough that they’re not yet deployed outside of airports and other class-one security hot spots, and reliable automatic face recognition is right around the corner next week, next year, next decade, just like it’s always been.

Standing under the monsoon shower, you review the afternoon’s work. Parking your luggage with the dithering Indian guy was a bythe-book move, but maybe not such a bright one. It’s always good practice to have a secondary safe house prepped and ready when things turn to shit, and you needed to get your commercial sample out of your immediate proximity lest the police decide to pull in “John Christie” for a grilling, but you can’t count on him for more than documents and a mattress, and even that may be pushing a bit too far. He’s a classic mark, easy to dominate but too fragile for heavy-duty work.

Something about his face brought out the long-forgotten old school bully in you: You wonder what it would be like to punch him until he pleads for mercy, then keep going. Battered, blood dripping down her nose . . . You’re sprouting wood, you realize, but you’ve got a date for the evening and judging by this morning’s chat-up, she’s aiming for the same goal, so instead of reaching for the soap, you step out of the cubicle and towel yourself dry, then pad through into the bedroom and inspect your clothing options.

Building the new start-up can wait—anything you arrange in the current circumstances will just give the enemy a target. (You pick up a clean pair of boxers, hold them at arm’s length.) On second thoughts, wouldn’t it be a good idea? Draw out the bad guys by giving them a target? (The Straight woman’s a hot dresser. You want to be clubbable, smart casual at least. Flash a bit of class along with the cash.)

Maybe you should set up a front, let the adversaries home in on it, then capture their assassin and pump them for information. (Suit and tee shirt? Or jeans and a jacket? The former. Armani tee. The Fabrice Gonet watch and the Edwardian silver snuff-box.) Set up a target, to draw their fire. (Hit the drug store for some meow-meow. Or better make that premium coke: She looks old-school.) Who could possibly fill those scapegoat shoes for you?

Hmm. Maybe you will move in with Mr. Hussein and his family tomorrow. See if he makes a suitable target: If not, that can be fixed.

(But first, you’re going to make friends with Dorothy.)

DOROTHY: Safeword

As you spot him from across the bar, you’ve got to admit John Christie cleans up well.

One good thing about these on-site assignments with the bank is that nobody’s ever sorry to see you leave on the dot. Nobody likes the inquisition. So as soon as it hits five, you make your brief apologies—little white lies, special pleading about having a life, they love these signs of human frailty—and catch the rush-hour tram back into town. There’s still no word on the other, mystery job—the no-knock ethics audit you’re meant to do on some NDA’d client’s local management sometime next week—but that’s no bad thing. You’ve got enough on your plate right now.

There’s safety in numbers, up to a point. Liz has got your name on some kind of watch list, bless her, but that’s a fat lot of use if your mystery stalker decides to jump you in the bushes while you’re stranded between half-hour buses on a deserted industrial estate due to working late. Or if they decide to have a little tete-a-tete in your hotel room, just them and you and Mister Rubber Hose. But you’re damned if you’re going to turn up on her door-step, shivering and small. Liz is desperately, blatantly monogamous, and if she clocks that Julian isn’t your primary anymore . . . let’s just say you need a wife like a fish needs a bicycle.

Speaking of bicycles, since you and he decided to plough your different respective fields, you’ve not dated a man. Much less ridden one. It’s turning into a still, small irritant at the back of your head: Am I losing it? Turning into a hairy-legged man-hater . . . Well no: But there’s been a distinct shortage of cock- meat on the buffet lately, and it’s leaving you feeling a bit unbalanced. If nothing else, dinner with John should beat room service for amusement value. And if he’s thinking along the lines you think he’s thinking along, maybe he’s good for dessert, too. Subject to certain reservations—

“Hi.”

“Hi yourself. Can I buy you a drink?”

He offers you a chair.

“Sure. White wine spritzer. How about you?”

“I’ve already ordered. I wasn’t sure you were going to show,” he says disarmingly, tapping on the menu. “Agree on impulse, regret at leisure.”

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. “You’re absolutely right: I nearly didn’t. On the other hand, mysterious strangers have a draw of their own. How does it work for you?”

He’s stealthed, and you’re letting him know you know. He doesn’t have a Facebook page. He’s not on LinkedIn, or Netwerked, or any of the others. The only match your agents could find was a local listing on DoggerBank, but it didn’t come with a headshot. On the other hand, he’s not in the public sex-offenders register either.

“Sometimes well, sometimes badly,” he admits. “I value my privacy, but sometimes it gets a bit lonely.” He looks at you, and you think, My, what big eyes you have, Mister Wolf.

“So tell me, Mr. Christie, where do I go to find out more about you?” you ask teasingly. “Besides the personals on DoggerBank? Wikipedia?”

He flushes slightly but doesn’t deny anything. “I got a lot of shit about my name in high school. When they found out about him.” He means the other John Christie, the one they hanged seventy years ago.

“No relative, I assume.”

“None whatsoever.” He waves a hand dismissively. One of the waiters is coming, starched apron and silver tray loaded with a tulipshaped glass and a whisky tumbler. You wait for them to depart.

You lick your lips from behind the cover of your glass. “So, do you post to DoggerBank often?”

“I wouldn’t know. Do you often read personals on DoggerBank?” He’s echoing your posture, you think. To test it you rub one finger on the side of your nose. Sure enough, five seconds later he raises a hand. “I might,” he says coyly. “If you want me to.”

Well, it wasn’t an off-puttingly bad ad. (SWM seeks SWF for edge- play, penetration-OK, RF, safeword-OK.) You sip your spritzer and breathe in, pushing your breasts up a little. “Do you want to fuck me, Mr. Christie?” His pupils dilate. Clearly, the answer is yes. But he’s well-trained enough to say nothing, waiting: like a wolf, intent but distant. You feel a wave of heat, nipples tightening. “The safeword is fish, Mr. Christie. Can you live with that?”

“Fish.” He nods. “Yeah.” His close-cropped scalp shines slightly under the overhead spotlights. There’s a moment of glassy-eyed focus, then he blinks, breaking the slightly creepy stare. “Sorry.” He smiles shyly, losing ten years of age, suddenly cute. “I wasn’t—I really was inviting you to dinner. The invitation stands, by the way. Do you always do a background check on dates?”

You smile and nod, let him see your teeth, let him know who’s in control here. It took you a long time to train yourself to be this assertive, but it pays dividends. “Goes with the job.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m an auditor. Ethics compliance. It’s not just a country next door to Sussex.” You pull a self-deprecating face, but it’s okay, he’s nodding sympathetically. “I’m in town to check a bank—” You natter for a while, reassuring him you’re a normal person when you’re not answering DoggerBank personals, then he natters for a bit, ditto. He’s in intellectual property, 3D extrusions, rapid manufacturing franchisees, and neighbourhood workshops making bespoke toys. It sounds pretty tedious, a needle-stick puncture to your fantasy of a dangerous but controllable