expense accounts don't usually run that high. Alan Barnes? Or ...? .
Mo pauses outside the door to room 412. She sets down her overnight bag on top of her suitcase, takes off her sunglasses and hat, and opens the violin case. She slides the card key into the lock with the same hand that grips the end of her bow, then nudges the door handle: by the time it's halfopen she has the violin raised to her chin and the bow poised above a string that seems to haze the air around it in a blue glow of Cerenkov radiation.
'Come on out where I can see you,' she calls quietly, then kicks the ungainly train of bags forwards through the door, steps forwards after it, and lets the door shut itself behind her.
'I'm over here.' The middle-aged white guy in the tropical suit isn't Alan. He's sitting in the office chair behind the — hotel room desk, nursing a glass of something that probably isn't water, he's got a twelve-hour beard and he looks haggard.
'You're all that Angleton sent? Jesus.'
'What are you doing here?' Mo takes another step into the room, glancing sidelong through the doorways into the two bedrooms and the bathroom. 'You're not part of my cover.'
'Last minute change of plan.' He smiles lopsidedly. 'You can put the violin down — what were you planning to do with it, make me dance'
'Who are you?' Mo keeps the violin at the ready, its neck aimed at the interloper.
'Jack Griffin, P Division.' The station chief, she remembers.
He waves at the room. 'It's all yours. Bit of a mess really.'
Mo's left earring tingles. It's a ward, attuned to warn her when someone's being truthful. In her experience, the average human being tells a little white lie once every three minutes. Knowing when they're telling the truth is much more useful than knowing when they aren't. 'So what are you doing here?' she asks tensely.
'There's been a problem.' Griffin's accent is clipped, very old-school-tie, and he sounds rueful. 'Your predecessor ran into a spot of bother and Angleton asked me to take you in hand and make sure you didn't follow his example.'
'A spot of bother, you say.' Mo has half-closed the gap separating them before she realizes what she's doing. The violin string hums alarmingly, feeding off her anxiety. 'What happened'
'He was working with a bint from the opposition.'
Griffin puts his glass down and stares at her. 'Billington lifted them both about, oh, twelve hours ago. Invited them to some sort of private party at the casino and the next thing you know they were over the horizon on a chopper bound for his yacht: the coastal defenses are compromised, you know.'
Griffin shrugs. 'I told him not to trust the woman, she's obviously working for Billington by way of a cut- out...'
Her earring is itching, throbbing in Morse: Griffin is mixing truth and falsehood to concoct a whirlpool of misdirection.
Mo sees red. 'You listen to me — '
'No, I don't think I will.' Griffin reaches into his pocket for something that looks like a metal cigarette case. 'You folks from head office have fucked up, pardon my French, all the way down the line, sending lightweights to do a professional's job. So you're going to do things my way — '
Mo takes a deep breath and draws the bow lightly across one string. It makes a noise like a small predator screaming in mortal agony and terror, and that's just the auditory backwash.
A drop of blood oozes from each fingertip where she grips the neck of the instrument. Griffin's gin and tonic spreads in a puddle across the carpet from where he dropped it. She walks over to him, rolls his twitching body into the recovery position, and squats beside him. When the convulsions cease, she touches the end of the instrument to the back of his head.
'Listen to me. This is an Erich Zahn, with electroacoustic boost and a Dee-Hamilton circuit wired into the soundboard.
I can use it to hurt you, or I can use it to kill you. If I want it to, it won't just stop your heart, it'll slice your soul to shreds and eat your memories. Do you understand? Don't nod, your nose is bleeding. Do you understand?' she repeats sharply.
Griffin shudders and exhales, spraying tiny drops of blood across the floor. 'What's — '
'Listen closely. Your life may depend on whether you understand what I'm about to tell you. My predecessor, who is missing, means rather a lot to me. I intend to get him back.
He's entangled with a Black Chamber agent: fine, I need to get her back, too, so I can disentangle them. You can help me, or you can get in my way. But if you obstruct me and Bob dies as a result, I'll play a tune for you that'll be the last thing you ever hear. Do you understand'
Griffin tries to nod again. 'Beed. A. T'shoo.'
Mo stands up gracefully and takes a step back. 'Get one, then.' She tracks him with the neck of the violin as he pushes himself upright slowly then shuffles towards the bathroom.
'You're a bard. Woban,' he says aggrievedly, standing in the doorway clutching a tissue to his nose. It's rapidly turning red. 'I'b on you're sibe.'
'You'd better be.' Mo leans against the sideboard and raises her bow to a safe distance above the fiddle. 'Here's what we're going to do: You're going to go downstairs and hire a helicopter. I'm going to phone home and find out where my backup's gotten to, and then we're going to go for a little run out to visit Billington's yacht, the Mabuse. Got that'
'Bub he'd be aboard the yacht! He'b geb you!'
Mo smiles a curious, tight smile. 'I don't think so.' She keeps the fiddle pointed at Griffin as he splutters at her.
'Billington is all about money. He doesn't do love, or hate.
So I'm going to hit him where he doesn't expect to be hit.
Now get moving. I expect you back here inside an hour,' she adds coolly. 'You really don't want to be late.'
I'm punch-drunk from surprises — the sight of Mo strongarming Griffin into hiring her a helicopter is shocking enough, and the idea that she's willing to jump in on the Billingtons without a second thought just because of me is enough to turn my world upside down — but then I realize: If/ can see her, what about the bad guys?
I may not be able to send her a message — the surveillance feed is strictly one-way — but I can try to cover her ass on this side of the firewall. I rummage around for what's left of the Pale Grace(TM) sample, then draw some more patterns on the side of the PC and trace them with the 'toothpen. They're interference patterns, stuff to break up the contagious spread of the information on my screen. Then I go back to watching.
There's not a lot I can do right now, not until we dock with the Explorer, but if Mo makes it out there I can make damn sure that, geas or no geas, whatever she's planning takes the Billingtons by surprise.
Griffin has barely closed the door when Mo's energy gives out and she slumps in on herself with a tiny whimper. She puts the violin down, then pulls a black nylon tactical strap from a side pocket in its case — her hands shaking so badly it takes her three attempts to fasten it — then slings the instrument from her shoulder like a gun. She walks over to the desk, wobbling almost drunkenly with fatigue or the relief of tension, and flops down in the chair. The message light on the phone is blinking. She picks up the handset and speed-dials.
'Angleton'
'Dr. O'Brien.'
'Your station chief. Griffin. Is he meant to be in on this side of the operation?' Angleton is silent for three or four seconds. 'No. He wasn't on my list.'
Mo stares at the door, bleakly. 'I sent him on a wild goose chase. I may have up to an hour until he gets back.
Penetration confirmed he's your pigeon. At a guess, Billington got to him via his wallet. Got any suggestions?'
'Yes. Leave the room. Take hand luggage only. Where did you tell him you were going'
'I sent him to hire a chopper. For the Mabuse.'
'Then you should go somewhere else, by any means necessary.
I'm opening your expense line: unlimited fund. I'll have local assets take Griffin out of the picture.'
'I can live with that.' Mo's shoulders are shaking with barely repressed fury. 'I could kill him. Do you want me to do that?' Angleton falls silent again. 'I don't think that would be useful at this point,' he says finally. 'Do you
