flytrap, and O'Brien is trying to keep her grip on a scuffed black violin case. The receptionist watches her, bored as she shrugs her khaki linen jacket into place, pats down a straying lock of reddish-brown hair, and walks over towards the closed briefing-room door with the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign above it. She pauses with one hand on the doorknob. 'By the way, it's Professor O'Brien,' she says, smiling to take the sting out of the words. ''Miss' sounds like something you'd call a naughty schoolgirl, don't you think'
The receptionist is still nodding wordlessly and trying to think of a comeback when O'Brien closes the door and the red light comes on over the lintel.
The briefing room contains a boardroom table, six chairs, a jug of tap water, some paper cups, and an ancient Agfa slide projector. All the fittings look to be at least a third of a century old: some of them might even have seen service during the Second World War. There used to be windows in two of the wails, but they were bricked up and covered over with institutional magnolia paint some years ago. The lighting tubes above the table shed a ghastly glare that gives everybody in the room the skin tint of a corpse — except for Angleton, who looks mummified at the best of times.
'Professor O'Brien.' Angleton actually smiles, revealing teeth like tombstones. 'Do have a seat.'
'Of course.' O'Brien pulls one of the battered wooden chairs out from the table and sits down carefully. She nods at Angleton, polite control personified. The violin case she places on the tabletop.
'As a matter of curiosity, how are your studies proceeding'
'Everything's going smoothly.' She carefully aligns the case's neck in accordance with the direction of the wards on Angleton's door. 'You needn't worry on that account.' Then she exhausts her patiently husbanded patience. 'Where's Andy Newstrom'
Angleton makes a steeple of his fingers. 'Andrew was unable to attend the meeting you called at short notice. I believe he has been unexpectedly detained in Germany.'
O'Brien opens her mouth to say something, but Angleton raises a bony finger in warning: 'I have arranged an appropriate substitute to deputize for him.'
O'Brien swallows. 'I see.' Fingers drum on the body of the violin case. Angleton tracks them with his eyes. 'You know this isn't about my research,' she begins, elliptically.
'Of course not.' Angleton falls silent for a few seconds.
'Feel free to tell me exactly what you think of me, Dominique.'
Dominique — Mo — sends him a withering stare. 'No thank you. If I get started you'll be late for your next meeting.'
She pauses for a moment. Then she asks, with the deceptive mildness of a police interrogator zeroing in on a confession: 'Why did you do it'
'Because it was necessary. Or did you think I would send him into the field on a whim'
Mo's control slips for a second: her glare is hot enough to ignite paper.
'I'm sorry,' he adds heavily. 'But this was an unscheduled emergency, and Bob was the only suitable agent who was available at short notice.'
'Really?' She glances at the black velvet cloth covering the files on his desk. 'I know all about your little tricks,' she warns. 'In case you'd forgotten.'
Angleton shrugs uncomfortably. 'How could I? You're perfectly right, and we owe you a considerable debt of gratitude for your cooperation in that particular incident. But nevertheless — ' he stares at the wall beside her chair, a whitepainted rectangle that doubles as a projector screen ' — we are confronted with AZORIAN BLUE HADES, and Bob is the only field-certified executive who is both competent to deal with the matter and sufficiently ignorant to be able to, ah, play the role with conviction. You, my dear, couldn't do this particular job, you're too well-informed, leaving aside all the other aspects of the affair. The same goes for myself, or for Andrew, or for Davidson, or Fawcett, or any of a number of other assets Human Resources identified as preliminary candidates during the search phase of the operation. And while we have plenty of other staff who are not cleared for AZORIAN BLUE HADES, most of them are insufficiently prepared to meet its challenges.'
'Nevertheless.' Mo's hand closes on the neck of her case 'I'm warning you, Angleton. I know you entangled Bob with a Black Chamber assassin and I know what the consequences are. I know that unless someone collapses their superposition within about half a million seconds, he's not coming back, at least not as himself. And I'm not putting up with the usual excuses — 'he was the only round peg we had that fit that particular hole, it was in the interests of national security' — you'd better see he comes back alive and in one body. Or I am going to the Auditors.'
Angleton eyes her warily. O'Brien is one of very few people in the organization who would make such a threat, and one of even fewer who might actually follow through on it. 'I do not believe that will be necessary,' he says slowly.
'As it happens, I agreed to your request for a meeting because I intended to tap you for the next phase. Contrary to the impression you may have received, I don't consider Bob to be an expendable asset. But I believe you're allowing your relationship with him to color your perceptions of the risk inherent in the situation. I assume you'd be willing to help bring him back safe and sound'
Mo nods sharply. 'You know I would.'
'Good.' Angleton glances at the door, then frowns. 'I do believe Alan's late. That's not like him.'
'Alan? Alan Barnes'
'Yes.'
'What do you want him for'
Angleton snorts. 'A moment ago you were getting uptight about your boyfriend's security. Now you're asking why I asked Captain Barnes — '
The door bursts open, admitting a wiry pint-sized tornado.
'Ah the fragrant Professor O'Brien! How you doing, Mo? And you, you old bat. What do you want now?' The force of nature grins widely With his owlishly large glasses, leather-patched tweed jacket, and expanding bald spot he could pass for a schoolteacher — if schoolteachers habitually wore shoulder holsters. Angleton pushes his spectacles up on his nose. 'I was explaining to Professor O'Brien that I've got a little job for you. Bob's accepted the starring role in the approach plan for AZORIAN BLUE HADES and now it's time to set up the payoff. Not unnaturally, Mo has expressed certain reservations about the way the project has been conducted to date.
I believe that, in view of her special skills, she can make a valuable contribution to the operation. What do you think'
While Barnes is considering the question, Mo glances between the two of them. 'This is a setup!'
Barnes grins at her: 'Of course it is!'
She looks at Angleton. 'What do you want me to do'
She grips the neck of her violin case tensely.
Barnes sniggers quietly, then pulls out a chair. Angleton doesn't deign to notice. Instead, he reaches across the table and switches on the projector.
'You're going on vacation. Officially you're on leave, flagged as a home visit to your elderly mother. That's because we can't rule out the possibility of an internal security leak,'
he adds.
Mo whistles tunelessly between her teeth. 'Like that, is it'
'Oh yes.' A thin blade appears silently between Alan's fingers, as if it congealed out of thin air. He begins to probe a cuticle on his other hand. 'It's very like that indeed. And we want you to look into it on your way to the main performance.'
'You'll be on board tomorrow's flight from Charles de Gaulle to Saint Martin. Your cover identity is Mrs. Angela Hudson, the wife of a tire-and-exhaust magnate from Dorking.' Angleton slides a document wallet across the table towards Mo, who handles it as if it's about to explode. 'This is a weak cover. It's been cleared with Customs and Immigration at both ends but it won't hold up to scrutiny.
On the other hand you won't have to use it for more than about forty-eight hours. After this briefing, take yourself down to Wardrobe Department and they'll set you up with suitable clothing and support equipment for Mrs. Hudson.
You may take — ' he points at the violin case ' — your instrument, and any other equipment you deem necessary. You'll be staying at a hotel in Grand Case. You should be aware that our local station chief, Jack Griffin, or someone working for him, has been compromised. We want to keep you out of Billington's sights for as long as
