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.
13
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.