Stiletto (22 page)

“I broached the subject with the Court,” said the Rook. “They didn’t go for it. I suppose it’s easier to forgive an enemy than a traitor. Those people bound themselves by oath. If they were willing to break it before, there is no way to be certain they will not break it again. And nobody leaves the Checquy. Not alive, anyway.”

“You know, we are able to remove people’s memories,” said Marcel. “Do you think that might be a way to a compromise? You don’t look enthusiastic.”

In fact the Rook looked like she might be ill. Odette couldn’t blame her. She’d seen footage of the Grafter operatives who could steal people’s memories. They were very rare and represented a tremendous investment of time, labor, training, immunosuppressant drugs, and flunitrazepam. They were among those highly specialized constructs that required the investment of an infant. In order to produce one, a Grafter had to look at a baby and say, “I will perform a lot of surgeries on this small person, for years and years, and eventually it will be a tool that I can use to affect other people’s minds.” Odette was not at all sure that she was the sort of person who could do that.

“I’ll think about it,” Rook Thomas said finally. “But Ernst, if any of those turncoats should disappear before the list is delivered, or if any Checquy operative is later discovered to have undeclared augmentations, all bets are off. Do you understand?”

The graaf nodded.

“Excuse me, Rook Thomas,” said Odette. She was again looking at the portrait of Grantchester. “May I ask why his picture is still up on the wall even though he was a traitor?”

“Everyone in the Court gets a portrait,” said Rook Thomas sourly. “It doesn’t matter what atrocities you’ve committed. We’ve had incompetents, murderers, and rapists. Rook Hal Carpenter” — and she pointed to a picture of a man in a large red wig — “incinerated an entire village because he thought a boy there was making the soil infertile. It wasn’t the boy. And it turned out to be the wrong village.
His
portrait is still up on the wall.

“We’ve had plenty of skeletons in our closets,” continued Thomas. “Hell, one of our Rooks
was
a skeleton. And he was in the closet as well, come to think of it. But we don’t hide our history. At least,” she amended, “we don’t hide it from ourselves. As a result, I still get to look at Conrad Grantchester’s smug face every day.” Odette nodded meekly. “And I get to look at
them
as well,” the Rook added, gesturing to another picture.

It was a group portrait, three blond men (two of them identical twins) standing around a chair on which sat a blond woman. All of them were extremely attractive, and all of them were wearing the same stern expression.

“The Rooks Gestalt,” said Thomas. “Hive-minded siblings, a brilliant collective warrior, and a complete pain in the arse to work with. Honestly, of all the members of the Court, Gestalt may have been the easiest for you to buy, but you got yourselves a poisoned chalice. Or possibly a poisoned tea set.”

“Where are they now?” asked Odette.

“Theodore, Robert, and Alex are in separate maximum-security prisons, and Eliza fell out of a window on the top story of the Apex,” said Rook Thomas. It might have been Odette’s imagination, but the petite woman appeared to be a trifle cheered by the thought.

“Is that why you held this meeting here, so you could use these portraits as visual aids?” asked Odette.

“No, that’s just a bonus,” said Rook Thomas. “We had it here because it’s one of the few interesting places in this building that we could justify going on a tour to see and that no one would walk by. But we should be moving along.” She began to lead them away.

“So, wait, how did Eliza Gestalt fall out of the window?” asked Odette curiously.

“Hmm? Oh, a small girl shot her in the head,” said the Rook. “Anyway, now that the issue of the traitors is being addressed, we have important work to do.”

*

As the car drew near the Rookery, Felicity’s reluctant driver spoke. “What in the name of God?”

“They’re the protesters,” said Felicity tiredly. “They’ve been there for ages.” A tribe of activists had been bivouacked on the footpath outside the building for several months now, attempting to enlighten the pedestrians of the City of London about the secret government conspiracy that lurked within. The secret government conspiracy that lurked within was appalled but was doing its best to ignore them.

“Outrageous,” snorted the driver. “Such a thing would never have been permitted when I was in the Rookery. I’m astounded that the Pawns haven’t done something.”

Felicity opened her mouth to tell him that Checquy operatives were strictly forbidden to interfere with the protesters, no matter how much they shouted or how many eggs they threw at operatives’ cars. Then she shrugged and closed her mouth.

The injunction had been laid down after a certain Pawn Willet, who worked in the Governance section of the Rookery, had been deliberately jostled one morning by several of the demonstrators, causing her to spill coffee all over her suit. She retaliated that lunch hour by strolling through the middle of the Occupy Sir Rupert Faunce Lane encampment humming at a pitch that induced severe digestive problems in those around her. The results had been frightful, especially since the protesters had refused to leave their camp, even in the face (as it were) of dire intestinal distress. Pawn Willet had been suspended from work for a month and had also been billed for the power-washing of the pavement.

Since then, the staff members of the Checquy had restrained themselves, gritted their teeth, and submitted their dry-cleaning receipts to Accounts for reimbursement. Also, a car-washing station had been added to the underground parking lot.

When he pulled up at the Rookery, the driver was unwilling to brave the gauntlet of protesters. “I’m not getting any eggs on this paintwork.” To Felicity’s horror, he insisted on depositing her at the front of the building. He barely even brought the car to a complete stop, and upon alighting, Felicity promptly stepped in a puddle.
Marvelous. That’s just marvelous.
Her socks soaking, she sloshed through the protesters, accepting pamphlets and bumper stickers, and arrived in the foyer only to realize that she had lost her security pass during the trip through the void between the OOM and the hospital.

Fortunately, the security guards in the lobby recognized her, and once they’d run her fingerprints, they issued her a temporary pass. She ignored the lifts and walked through the small, unassuming door beside them and then through various security measures before coming into the real lobby of the Rookery.

Felicity suddenly found that she did not know what to do or where to go. She had walked through that lobby a thousand times, but now everything felt alien.
Should I just go to my desk in my pod and sit?
she wondered. Her team leader was gone.
Do I report to the general manager? Is — is there a form to fill out? “Death of Team — Application for Replacement.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her and she fought it down. Standing by the entrance in her hospital scrubs and socks, she felt completely at a loss.

Odette discovered that she had no important work to do. All the Grafter representatives had splintered off into their various sessions, and she had found herself without a session into which to splinter off. Originally, she had planned to sit in as Graaf Ernst was briefed on some aspects of Checquy operations, but Bishop Attariwala had delicately pointed out that her security clearance was not yet processed. So instead she was being guided around the offices by a bored-looking Pawn Bannister.
I’ve gone from the most high-level secret meeting possible to the diplomatic children’s table,
she thought glumly.

To make matters worse, all the people they passed looked at her warily and then hastily averted their gaze. It was evident that her photo had been shared around the building. Occasionally, Pawn Bannister would make a point of introducing her to someone, usually someone much older in an extremely nice suit. Apparently he had decided to make career lemonade out of the lemon that was Odette.

“May I introduce Miss Odette Leliefeld, one of our
guests
today,” he would say, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “I’m just escorting her around the facilities.” Odette would smile and automatically offer her hand and would then be treated to a brief look of horror and a reluctant handshake. Some meaningless chitchat would ensue, Odette trying to be reassuringly normal and polite, and finally they would move on. She very deliberately did not look behind her, but she was certain that if she had, she would have seen her new acquaintance wiping his hands on his trousers. After each introduction, Pawn Bannister smirked for a little while in a self-satisfied way.

I’m being used to build his damn CV,
she thought resentfully.
He just wants everyone to know that he’s been entrusted with the Grafter chick.
She kept a pleasant expression on her face and looked around curiously at the offices. Most of what she saw was disappointingly normal, with people working in cubicles. She could actually track the spread of the e-mail alerting people to her presence as heads popped up, looked around, and then ducked down again. One thing that caught her eye was that each cubicle was equipped with large cupboards that ran the length of the dividing walls.

“What are those for?” she asked. “They’re not filing cabinets?”

“No, those contain go-kits,” said Bannister airily. “Every member of the Checquy has a kit. They include clothes for different environments and conditions, survival gear — sleeping bag and so on — and tools. Also a laptop. Satellite phone. Emergency beacon. And, of course, body armor, in case they’re called to a combat situation.”

“You said this was the Payroll section,” objected Odette.

“It is,” said Bannister. “But every Checquy member, Pawn and Retainer alike, must be ready for the call to duty. We are all weapons, and at any time we may be summoned forth to stand between the people of these islands and the threats that rear up against them.”

This was delivered in a tone of the utmost pomposity, and it washed over Odette unpleasantly, like an upended bathtub of dog slobber. She had to lock her facial muscles in an expression of polite awe.

“And besides,” continued Bannister, “many of us possess a specific ability that may prove useful in a specific scenario. There’s a man who works in the mail room who is always getting called out because he can deflect lightning back into the sky. And Rochelle, who works down in the motor pool — her presence increases people’s fertility, so she’s often brought in to attend, um, events.”

“Oh, we can probably help with the fertility thing as well,” said Odette brightly. “I’m very good at in vitro fertilization — you can even pick the gender of the baby if you want to.” She had to give Bannister credit — he managed to conceal
almost
all of his revulsion at the thought of the dreaded Grafters tinkering around with Checquy genetic material.

“Yes, that does sound very helpful,” he said, his mouth twisting a bit over the words. “Speaking of medical affairs, here is the medical center.” He guided her through a pair of double doors, and she breathed in the familiar antiseptic smell of a hospital. “I expect your people will be doing most of their work either here or in the Comb.” Behind her, there were carpets and walls with pictures; before her, there were gleaming tiles and people in white coats moving about purposefully. She immediately felt more comfortable and relaxed a little.

“What’s the Comb?” she asked absently.

“The Comb is our major research center,” said Bannister. “It’s out in Oxfordshire; lots of labs and technical facilities.”

“Sounds nice,” said Odette. “So why do you have a medical center in a government office?”

“A number of reasons,” said Bannister. “All the Pawns have to have regular checkups in case our powers change. Many of us have entirely unique physiology, so we can’t just go to the local hospital if we get hurt or sick. One of the boys who used to be at the Estate didn’t bleed blood if he got cut. Instead, a sort of sentient arsenic mist would come out and chase people around the cricket pitch.”

“Gosh.”

“And if they identify a civilian woman who’s pregnant with a Checquy-style baby, they’ll usually try to pull some strings and have her give birth here,” Bannister went on airily. “They tell her it’s a private hospital and that it’s a high-risk pregnancy that only the experts can deal with. Which is true.”

“And then they take the baby?” said Odette.

“It depends.” Bannister shrugged. “They have many different ways of getting kids. And then, of course, there’s trauma.”

“I bet,” said Odette. “Losing a child would be hard.”

“No, the combat-trauma department. If any of our troops get injured, they try to transport them here or to the Comb.”

“I thought the Hammerstrom Building was the place for domestic operations.”

“I think the traffic isn’t as bad around here,” said Bannister. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “There’s Dr. Crisp.” He pointed down the hallway at a gaunt-looking man. “He’s usually at the Rookery, but he’s very important in the Medical section, and I
know
he’ll want to meet you.”

“I don’t know, he’s probably awfully busy,” said Odette. “And, look, he’s just going.” The doctor had vanished around a corner. “Oh, well, perhaps next time.”
Thank God; I can’t take another point-scoring exhibition.

“No, no, I’ll just get him,” said Bannister, trotting off. “Wait there, we’ll be right back.” Odette gave a little sigh and looked about. Standing in a hallway, with her large visitor’s pass dangling around her neck, she felt extremely conspicuous. Across from her was a break room with a little kitchen, some chairs, and a table. When Bannister failed to return after a couple of minutes, she moseyed in casually to have a little snoop.
I wonder if they have supernatural coffee,
she mused.

As it turned out, they had disappointingly mundane coffee, and there were no miniature cafeteria workers toiling in the fridge or cupboards. A notice board hung on the wall, and Odette recoiled when she saw that, between a flyer warning about flu and an advertisement for a set of bunk beds, there were pictures of several of the Broederschap delegation (including herself) with a note explaining that they would be visiting and should be afforded every courtesy. This charming and hospitable sentiment was spoiled by the fact that someone had modified the portraits with a pen, providing them with hats, horns, and a selection of unlikely dental abnormalities. Odette’s own picture had been augmented with goat eyes and a long mustache in the style of Fu Manchu.