manner. 'Who do you work for again?' I ask, trying to regain control.
'Ellis Billington.' Her smile vanishes, replaced by casual authority. 'He says I'm to take you aboard the Mabuse. You will do exactly as I say — assuming you ever want to see her again.'
'What?' I ask, feeling sick and sober with the backwash from Ramona's fright. 'But I came here to see him anyway!'
'Perhaps, but you've also acquired adversary status, according to our reading of the main security geas. It's probably a memory leak in the code, but until we've terminated this phase of the operation we're going to treat you as threat number one.' She steps closer to me and before I realize what she's doing she reaches into my jacket and removes the pistol Ramona made me wear. She takes two steps back and I find myself staring up the muzzle of my own gun, feeling stupid.
'Lights out, Mr. Howard.'
I'm opening my mouth to say something when the ward they've trapped Ramona in shuts down and her presence floods into me again. I've got time for a brief moment of relief — time to think we're whole again — then the walking corpse shoots her with a Taser, and while Ramona and I are both flopping around on the floor Johanna steps forwards and sinks a disposable syringe into my neck.
11: DESTINY ENTANGLED
I AM ASLEEP AND DREAMING AND AWARE AT THE same time — I appear to be having a lucid dream. I really wish I wasn't, because that rat-bastard Angleton has taken advantage of my somnambulant state to sneak into my head with his slide projector and install another precanned top secret briefing, using my eyelids as stereoscopic projection screens. And I don't care how bad your nightmares are, they can't possibly be as unpleasant as a mission briefing conducted by old skull-face while you're asleep, unable to wake up, and suffering from an impending hangover. 'Pay attention, Bob,' he admonishes me sternly. 'If you're alive you're getting this briefing because you've penetrated Billington's semiotic firewall. This means you're approaching the most dangerous part of your mission — and you're going to have to play it by ear. On the other hand, you've got an ace up your sleeve in the form of Ms. Random.
She should be secure in the safe house your backup team has organized, and she'll be your conduit back to us for advice and instructions.'
No she bloody isn't! I try to yell at him, but he's playing the usual tricks with my vocal chords and I'm not allowed to say anything that isn't on the menu. Propelled by the usual inexorable dream logic the briefing continues.
'Billington has let it be known that he will be conducting an advance Dutch auction for the specimens he expects to raise from JENNIFER MORGUE Site Two. These are described in vague but exciting terms, as chthonic artifacts and applications. There is of course no mention of his expertise in operating Gravedust-type oneiromantic convolution engines, or of the presence of a deceased DEEP SEVEN in the vicinity.
'He is restricting bidding to authorized representatives of governments with seats at the G8, plus Brazil, China, and India. Sealed bids are solicited in advance of the operation, which will be honored once the retrieval is complete. This indirect pressure makes it difficult for us to stay out of the auction, while simultaneously rendering It nearly impossible for us to take direct action against him — he's very carefully played the bidders off against one another. Of rather more concern is who Billington hasn't invited to bid — namely BLUE HADES. As I mentioned in your earlier briefing, our immediate concern is the response of BLUE HADES to Billington's activities around the site, followed .n turn by what Billington really intends to do with the raised artifacts.
'Regardless, your actual task remains, as briefed, to determine what Billington is planning and to stop him from doing anything that arouses BLUE HADES or DEEP SEVEN — especially, anything likely to convince them that we're in violation of our treaty obligations. To supplement your cover you are officially designated as an authorized representative of Her Majesty's Government, to deliver our bid for the JENNIFER MORGUE Site Two artifacts. This is a genuine bid, although obviously we hope we won't be called upon to make good on it, and the terms are as follows: for an exclusive usage license as designated in schedule one to be appended to this document, hereinafter designated 'the contract' between the seller 'Ellis Billington' and associates, corporations, and other affiliates and the purchaser, the Government of the United Kingdom, the sum of two billion pounds sterling, to be paid ...'
Angleton rattles on in dreary legalese for approximately three lifetimes. It'd be tedious at the best of times, but right now it's positively nightmarish; the plan has already run off the rails, and the worst thing of all is, I can't even yell at him. I'm committing this goddamn contract that we're never going to use to memory, seemingly at Angleton's posthypnotic command, but the shit has hit the fan and Ramona's a prisoner. I'd gnash my teeth if I was allowed to. I've got a feeling that Angleton's sneak strategy — use me to leak disinformation to the Black Chamber via Ramona, of course — is already blown, because I don't think Billington is serious about running an auction. If he was, would he be dicking around risking a murder investigation in order to push a line of cosmetics? And would he be kidnapping negotiators? This is all so out of whack that I can't figure it out. I've got a s k R feeling that Angleton's scheme was toast before I even boarded the airbus in Paris: if nothing else, his bid is implausibly low given what's at stake.
Eventually the briefing lets go of me and I slide gratefully beneath the surface of a dreamless lake. I'm rocking from side to side on it, with the leisurely wobble of a howdah perched on an elephant's back. After a brief infinity of unconsciousness I become aware that my head is throbbing fiercely and my mouth feels like a family of rodents has set up a campsite, complete with latrine, on my tongue. And that I'm awake. Oh no. I twitch, taking stock. I'm lying on my back which is never the right place to be, breathing through my mouth, and — 'He's awake.'
'Good. Howard, stop fooling around.'
This time I groan aloud. My eyes feel like pickled onions and it takes a real effort to force them open. More facts flood in as my brain reboots. I'm lying on my back, fully dressed, on something like a padded bench or sofa. The voice I recognize: it's McMurray. The room's well-lit, and I notice that the padded surface beneath me is covered in beautifully finished fabric. The lights are tasteful and indirect, and the curving walls are paneled in old mahogany: the local police cells, it ain't. 'Give me a second,' I mumble.
'Sit up.' He doesn't sound impatient; just sure of himself.
I force arms and legs that are heavy and warm from toorecent sleep to respond, swinging my legs round and sitting up at the same time. A wave of dizziness nearly pushes me right back down, but I get over it and rub my eyes, blinking.
'What is this place?' I ask shakily. Andivhere's Ramona? Still trapped?
McMurray sits down on the bench opposite me. Actually, it's a continuation of the one I was lying on — it snakes around the exterior of the trapezoid room, past out-tilting walls and a doorway in the middle of the only rectilinear wall in the cabin. It's a nice room except that the doorway is blocked by a gorilla in a uniform-like black jumpsuit and beret, plus mirrorshades. (Which is more than somewhat incongruous, in view of it being well past midnight.) The windows are small and oval with neatly decorated but very functional-looking metal covers hinged back from them, and there are drawers set in the base of the padded bench — obviously storage of some kind. The throbbing isn't in my head; it's coming from under the floor. Which can only mean one thing.
'Welcome aboard the Mabuse,' he says, then shrugs apologetically.
'I'm sorry about the way you were handed your boarding pass: Johanna isn't exactly Little Miss Subtlety, and .I told her to make sure you didn't abscond. That would totally ruin the plot.' I rub my head and groan. 'Did you have to — no, don't answer that, let me guess: it's a tradition or an old charter, something like that.' I continue to rub my head. 'Is there any chance of a glass of water? And a bathroom?' It's not just a barbiturate hangover — the martinis are extracting a vicious revenge. 'If you're going to take me to see the big cheese shouldn't I freshen up a bit first?' Please say yes, I pray to JL, whatever god of whimsy has got me in his grip, being hungover is bad enough without a beating on top of it.
For a moment I wonder if I've gone too far, but he gestures at the gorilla, who turns and opens the door and retreats down the narrow corridor a couple of paces. 'The head's next-door. You have five minutes.'
He watches as I stumble to my feet. He nods, affably enough, and gestures at another door set next to the
