have your primary documents with you'
'I'm not stupid,' she snaps.
'I didn't say you were.' Angleton's tone is unusually mild.
'Go to ground then call me with a sanitized contact number.
Stay there and don't go anywhere. I'll have Alan make contact and pick you up when it's safe to proceed.'
'Got it,' she says tensely, and hangs up. Then she stands up and collects her violin case. 'Right,' she mutters under her breath. 'Go to ground.'
Mo packs methodically and rapidly. The instrument goes back in its carrier. Then she opens her hand luggage — a black airline bag — and tips the contents out on the bed. She squeezes the violin case inside, adds a document wallet and a toilet bag from the pile on the quilt, then zips it up and heads for the door. Rather than using the elevator she takes the emergency stairs, two steps at a time. At the ground floor, there's a fire exit. She pushes the crash bar open — it squeals slightly, a residue of rust on the mechanism — and slips out into the crowd along the promenade at the back of the hotel. Over the next hour Mo puts her tradecraft to work. She doubles back around her route, checking her trail in window reflections in shop fronts: changes course erratically, acts like a tourist, dives into souvenir markets and cafes to make a show of looking at the menu while keeping an eye open for tails. Once she's sure she's clean she walks the block to the main drag and goes into the first clothes shop she passes, and then the second. Each time, she comes out looking progressively different: a tee shirt under her sundress, then a pair of leggings and an open shirt. The dress has vanished. With the addition of a new pair of sunglasses and a colorful scarf to keep the sun off her head, there's no sign of Mrs. Hudson.
She finishes up at a cafe: diving into its coolly air-conditioned interior she orders two double espressos and drinks them straight down, shuddering slightly as the caffeine hits her. What next? Mo is clearly fighting off the effects of jet lag.
She stands up tiredly and steps outside again, shouldering the heat like a heavy burden. Then she heads directly away from the row of nearby hotels, towards the marina on the edge of the harbor and the row of motorboats for hire.
I am just beginning to get my head around the fact that Mo is not only out here, but she's a player — and she isn't going to follow Angleton's instructions — when there's a pounding on my door. I hammer the boss key and spin round in my chair, slamming one leather-padded arm into my right kidney as I try to stand up; then the door opens and the black beret is pointing his mirrorshades at me, lips set in a disapproving scowl. 'Mr. Howard, you're wanted on deck.'
I scramble to my feet dizzily, wincing and rubbing my side. It's probably a good thing I whacked it — I don't think I could avoid looking disturbed or guilty if I wasn't actually in physical pain. I don't know what the hell Mo thinks she's doing, but it doesn't look like she's planning on following orders and going to the mattresses until Alan calls for her.
And what's Alan doing here anyway? I wonder as I follow the two guards up the stairs to the deck. Angleton only calls Alan in when there's some serious head-breaking to be done.
He's OIC for the Territorial SAS squadron tasked with supporting Occult Operations in the field — some of the scariest — not to mention most eccentric — special forces soldiers in the British Army. I've been along for the ride when they went right through a rip in space-time to head-butt an ancient evil that was threatening to squirm through, I've seen them secure an industrial estate in Milton Keynes with a suspected basilisk on the loose; and I've had the dubious pleasure of being rescued by them on exercise at Dunwich.
Maybe Angleton's sent the heavy cavalry, I decide, hopefully: it's easier to swallow than the alternative, which is that Angleton's written me off as beyond hope and has called them in for Plan B.
The guard up front surprises me when we get to deck level, by turning away from the door to the conservatory and instead opening a hatch onto a narrow green-painted corridor leading aft. 'This way,' he tells me, while his backup guy hangs behind.
'Okay, I'm going,' I say, as agreeably as I can manage.
'But where are we going to'
Mirrorshades man opens a door at the far end of the tunnel and steps through. 'HQ,' he says over his shoulder.
I emerge, blinking, onto a stretch of deck I hadn't seen before, sandwiched between a big outboard motorboat and a whole bunch of gray cylinders sticking out of the superstructure beneath a rack of masts and antennae. The motorboat hangs from some sort of crane affair. It's getting crowded here: the space is already occupied by Ramona, in company with McMurray, his designer-clad thugette Miss Todt, and a couple more black berets. 'Ah, Mr. Howard.'
McMurray nods at me. 'Feel up to a little cruise'
'Where are you — '
My guard pokes me in the back with a finger. 'Jump in.'
The black berets on deck are setting up a control station for the crane. McMurray gestures at the boat: 'This won't take long. We're nearly there.'
'Where are we going?
'To the Explorer.' McMurray seems to be in a hurry. 'Go on, it doesn't do to be late.'
'Come on.' That's Todt. She clambers over the motorboat's side and jumps down inside.
Ramona follows her, not without a murderous look at McMurray. **Can you — ?** I begin to think, then I realize I can't hear her inside my head. Shit, I glance round and the guard who led me up here nods significantly at the boat.
Double-shit. They must have come up with a portable version of the jammer they used on me and Ramona last night. I climb over the side of the boat and sit down next to Ramona, at the opposite side from Todt and McMurray.
'Where's the jammer?' I ask quietly.
'I think he's got it.' She doesn't meet my eyes. 'They don't trust us.
'If our positions were reversed, would you?' asks Johanna.
I startle. She smiles: it's not a friendly expression.
'I'd trust you anywhere, darling,' says Ramona: 'I'd trust you to fuck up.'
'You — ' Todt turns a peculiar shade, as if she's getting ready to explode. McMurray puts a hand on her arm before she can stand up.
'You'll both be quiet,' he says in a curiously calm tone, and oddly, they both shut up. I glance sideways and see Ramona's cheek twitching. She rolls her eyes frantically at me, and the penny drops.
I lean over towards McMurray. 'You've made your point.
Let them talk. They won't do it again.'
'You sure of that, boy?' McMurray looks amused. 'I've known these hellcats and their type longer than you've been alive, and they'll — '
'That's not the point!' I stab one finger at him. 'Do you want her willing cooperation, or not'
He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a snigger, just as there's a loud grinding noise from the crane and the boat lurches. 'All right, have it your way,' he says indulgently as we lift off the deck with a bump that throws Ramona against me.
'Bastard,' she says indistinctly. Then the mist clears and I can suddenly feel her presence in my mind again, as warm and vibrant as my own pulse. **Not you, him,** she adds internally. **Thanks. It's not like Pat to make a mistake like that, lifting both blocks at the same time.**
**Think it's intentional?** I ask, wondering how long we've got to talk.
**Not really.** McMurray is saying something to Todt, who's slumped against the railing away from him. I try to make the most of his lapse: **I've noticed them making other mistakes. Listen, I got into Eileen's surveillance network. Mo's arrived, and there's a backup team on the way to rescue us.** The crane swings us over the edge of the Mabuse and the boat drops like a lift towards the sea below, leaving my stomach somewhere above my head. **Griffin's on the spot, looks like he's been playing an inside game. Ramona, if you run into Mo, don't get her pissed-off, she's brought her — ** I suddenly realize that my head's full of cotton-wool and Ramona isn't listening. She looks at me and blinks, then stares at McMurray, who smiles faintly in response. 'What's that about?' she asks, aggrieved.
