Mhari puts her can down and stands up. “Let’s see how thoroughly he did his job.”
Gary—the bugging tech—is working at the desk with the rack of recording gear; Roz the pen tester is getting ready to leave, leaving Mhari and Johnny to take care of the evening handoff. Mhari goes over to the other desk, where there’s a PC running case management software developed for the police, who do a lot more covert surveillance operations than an agency usually more busy suppressing things with the wrong number of dimensions, never mind limbs. “Let’s see.” She logs on and pokes around for a bit. “Okay, user SteveG reports from today, 1124 hours, two POI entered target lobby. Hmm. Okay, that gives us a time window to pull the CCTV and the front desk register.” Mhari pokes around some more. “Yes, they look like contract cleaning staff.” She glances at Johnny. “Can you nip down to the front desk and ask who they are?”
Johnny raises an eyebrow. “You want me to flash it around…?”
“You’ve got a warrant card for now, use it while it’s fresh.”
Johnny raises a lazy finger to his forehead. “On it.” The source of occult authority that binds the Continuity Ops warrant cards gives them some of the mind-warping mojo of the dissolved agency’s ID, and Johnny is on the inside. He heads for the door as Mhari sits down to trawl through the past day’s event log.
She’s just reached the record of the cleaners leaving—they took just under two hours—when Gary clears his throat. “Ms. Murphy?” he calls, half-turning in his chair. “Got something.”
“What—” Mhari is across the room so fast he barely has time to flinch. The spare pair of headphones he’s offering her falls from his fingers; she catches them. “Yes?”
“I’m putting this on a sixty-second delay.” Gary recovers and scrubs back through the digital recording. “I think you’ll find this interesting.”
Mhari listens. The sound from the omnidirectional passive mike is muffled to begin with, and it picks up every sound in the room, from the white noise of the air conditioning to the thud of the bedroom door and the shuffle of feet on carpet. Furthermore, people in conversation use their bodies and their faces as much as their words. Gradually she begins to decode the discourse. “Hosts will be ready—two days—next party primary—yes, Grove and the, the Prime—induction. I’ll supervise—Back here. Invite them—”
Gary is tormenting the speech transcription software on the laptop next to the desktop with the audio capture card. “That’s Schiller,” he says quietly. “What are hosts?”
Mhari has read the GOD GAME BLACK report. “Keyword clearance. Keep listening for more, it’s important. Also names and dates.”
She stands up, elated. Not that she expects Schiller to be so indiscreet as to twirl his nonexistent mustache and tell one of his minions, we shall enact our dastardly scheme to take over the Prime Minister’s brain upon the hour of midnight, hah hah!—But just picking up the terms host and next party in the same conversation is a big win. It’s something concrete, and she already knows from other sources that Schiller’s next big knees-up at Nether Stowe House is due this Saturday night.
If Johnny can unearth the personal details of the cleaners who are servicing Schiller’s apartment, and Mhari can confirm that Schiller will be running the party in person, then the outline of a plan for Target Three is beginning to come into focus.
*
They meet back in the same bar on Euston Road at three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s midway between the lunchtime rush and the afterwork crush; this time Iris has no problem finding a padded bench seat with a view of the doorways via the big mirrors behind the bar. She orders a pot of tea and a burger. It’s not exactly a gastronomic extravaganza but it’s available and she’s hungry and it gives her an excuse for occupying a booth by herself. And the tea keeps her from drinking anything stronger, because she has a twitchy feeling that if she gets started now she won’t stop until the world goes away.
She’s drunk most of her tea and is working unenthusiastically on the burger when a presence appears on the seat opposite her. Irritated, she keeps on masticating regardless until he has finished shedding his overcoat and clears his throat. “Yes?” she says.
“How did it go?”
“You know how it went or you wouldn’t be here.” She puts her fork down. (Iris is too jealous of her remaining dignity to eat with her fingers if she can avoid it.) “He accepted your offer.”
“Good, I think.” To his credit, Dr. Armstrong looks slightly queasy.
“It’s too late to back out now.” Iris picks up her fork again and goes to work on her chips. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Riding a tiger.” Dr. Armstrong has brought a pint of beer to the table; now he takes a mouthful. “Mmm. The question is whether the tiger prefers to eat the monkey on his back or the juicy, fat buffalo in front of him. Better eating on the buffalo. I think.”
Iris finishes her burger in silence before moving on to the next question. “So what do you have for me to do now?”
“Liaison work: consider yourself his personal assistant for the time being. It’s not as if we have a management role for you right now anyway. Just be on hand in case he wants something arranged; call on me if you need agency resources for it, but bear in mind we’re extremely limited right now.” Reaching under his overcoat, the SA pulls out a travel document organizer that bulges slightly. “We have an unallocated safe house—it’s out in SW17, I’m afraid—and I took the liberty of having it set up for you. Because you aren’t anywhere on our org chart you’re safe from the current adversarial situation, and we’ve taken steps to ensure that you won’t be reported as an absconder. Six months private lease, furnished, security system certificated to level three, no strings attached. Council tax paid up until November, utility bills chargeable to an offshore account where the paper trail vanishes. Here are the particulars and the front door keys. The rest of the paperwork is on the kitchen table.” He pauses.
“What paperwork?” Her expression is stony.
“I took some liberties. Some of us remember the good work you’ve done: funds equivalent to your payroll continued to be deposited while you were away and you have, hmm, a not inconsiderable bank balance awaiting you. Once the agency is reconstituted—if we are successful—I checked your personal progression profile and, if you choose to take the requisite courses, we can bump you four grades up from where you left off within a year. Assuming you wish to resume your employment.”
“Assuming I don’t choose permanent deactivation. And assuming there’s an agency to come back to.”
“If there isn’t, we’ll all be dead. Or worse.” They sit in silence for a couple of minutes.
“There will be obstacles to me returning,” she says at last.