couple, for example, started out hating each other. If you were to destroy this generator, they'd be in divorce court — or one of them would be in a shallow grave — within weeks. Now bear in mind that Billington's cruising around the Caribbean in a huge yacht, plotting some kind of scheme. He isn't stupid.
We figure that about six months ago he created a similar hardware-backed geas engine aboard his yacht, the Mabuse.
The precise nature of the geas is not entirely clear to us, but it has been extremely detrimental to our counterforce operations — in particular, attempts to act against him through normal channels fail. Telex requests dispatched to the Cayman police force via INTERPOL get unaccountably lost FBI agents develop random brain tumors, associates who might plea-bargain their way to giving evidence wake up embedded in concrete foundations, that sort of thing.
CenCom's not convinced, but Sensor Ops believes that Billington has used the geas engine to create a Hero trap — only a single agent conforming to the right archetype can actually approach him; and even then, the geas will screw with their ability to take correct action. And because Billington figured he's got the most reason to be afraid of us, he picked a goddamn limey as the Hero archetype.'
Ramona shakes her head. 'We can't get to him ourselves'
'I didn't say that.' McMurray walks toward 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 wellgroomed 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 torn.
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 sectet 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 i t ...'
Three people sit in a conference room with bricked-up windows in London. The slide projector clunks to an empty slide and Angieton leans over to switch it off. For a minute there's silence, broken only by the emphysemic rasp of Angieton'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.'
Angieton 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 mouth of the receptionist, he nods politely and pulls the door shut.
'Do you think she'll take the assignment?' he asks Angleton.
'Oh yes.' Angleton stares bleakly at the door for a few seconds. 'She'll hate us, but she'll do it. She's operating inside the paradigm. In the groove, as Bob would say.'
'I was afraid for a minute that I was going to have to take her down. If she lost it completely.'
'No.' Angleton gathers himself with a visible effort and shakes his head. 'She's too smart. She's a lot tougher than you think, otherwise I wouldn't have put her on the spot like that. But don't sit with your back to any doors until this is all over and we've got her calmed down.'
Barnes stares at the pitted green desktop. 'I could almost pity that Black Chamber agent you've hitched Bob to.'
'Those are the rules of the game.' Angleton shrugs heavily.
'I didn't write them. You can blame Billington, or you can blame the man with the typewriter, but he's been dead for more than forty years. O'Brien's not made of sugar and spice and all things nice. She'll cope.' He stares at Barnes bleakly. 'She'll have to. Because if she doesn't, we're all in deep shit.'
9: SKIN DIVING
'THAT' S INTERESTING,** RAMONA SAYS TO THE pitch darkness as I choke on a throatful of stinging cold saltwater, **I didn't know you could do that.** My chest is burning and it feels like ice picks are shoving at my eardrums as I begin to thrash around. I can feel my heart pounding like a trip hammer as the fear grips me like a straitjacket. I manage to bang one elbow on the side of the tunnel, a sharp stab of pain amidst the black pressure. **Stop struggling.** Slim arms slide around my chest; her heart is hammering as she hugs me to her, pulling my face between her breasts.
She drags me down like a mermaid engulfing a drowning sailor and I stiffen, panicking as I begin to exhale. Then we're in a bigger space — I can feel it opening up around me — and suddenly I don't need to breathe anymore. I can feel her/our gills soaking in the cool refreshing water, like air off a spring meadow, and I can feel her borrowed underwater freedom again.
**Where are we?** I ask, shuddering. **What the hell was that?**
**We're right under the platform's central deflection circuit.
I figure it throttled our link while we were passing through.** My eyes are starting to adjust and I can see a diffuse green twilight. A black ceiling squats above us, rough and pitted as I run my fingertips across it: the tunnel
