The lights dimmed, and behind Myfanwy and Alrich a screen descended from the ceiling and then flickered on. Everyone turned to watch.
It was a very nice bed-and-breakfast. Evidently, the Grafters had a good travel agent, because the bed looked comfortable, and the room was tastefully decorated. Certainly, Van Syoc seemed at ease there as he puttered about the room. It was a bit eerie to see the man moving about casually when earlier that day she had seen him bound to a chair and tortured. His body had been smoking then, but now she watched him check out the minibar and eat some peanuts.
Myfanwy felt vaguely ridiculous as the secret powers in the land watched a video of a man sitting on his bed, slowly eating snacks before putting on his socks and shoes. The time seemed to drag on interminably as Van Syoc tied his tie and checked his hair in the mirror. Through it all, Joshua Eckhart smoked his endless cigarettes, and Heretic Gubbins contorted his body into upsettingly intricate shapes. They all shifted in their executive chairs, except for Alrich, who sat as still and perfect as a Donatello sculpture. Myfanwy was beginning to wish she had some popcorn or a novel when on the screen a woman wandered in from the bathroom, doing up the front of her dress.
“Was she there the whole time?” asked Sir Henry. “Is she also a Grafter?” Clearly, he hadn’t read the report.
“That’s the whore,” said Lady Farrier icily, and everyone flinched.
“Well,” said the woman on the video. “If you ever need anything else, you have my number.”
“One thing,” said Van Syoc, and the woman looked surprised. He reached out a hand toward her.
Ooh, don’t take his hand, thought Myfanwy, cringing. But the woman did, with a little smile. Van Syoc was wearing the same little smile, which tightened as he pulled her to him smoothly. Myfanwy watched, transfixed, as the woman twirled into his arms like a dancer. For a moment, they looked like golden-age Hollywood stars, his hand cupping her chin and her eyes turned up to his, and then he tensed and tore her face off.
Myfanwy’s hands had been knotting themselves uneasily in her lap, but they were suddenly pressed against her mouth in horror, clutching back a scream. She was breathing rapidly, and it felt as if her heart were about to punch itself out of her chest.
Oh, my holy fuck, what kind of job have I gotten myself into? As Van Syoc casually broke the woman’s neck, Myfanwy looked at those around her and was slightly relieved to see that all of them were aghast. Even Alrich, who had struck her as a pretty cool customer, had his eyes wide open with surprise.
On-screen, Van Syoc was pursing his lips as if for a kiss when there was a thundering knock at the door, which made everyone watching jump. Van Syoc also jumped and dropped the body and the face on the floor; the squelching thud made the audience wince.
“Just a moment,” Van Syoc said, staring at the door while he stealthily reached into his suitcase, pulling out a pistol.
“Mr. Van Syoc?” came a woman’s voice, hesitant and polite.
“Yes?” he asked, doing whatever intricate mechanical things were needed to get a gun ready to shoot.
“This is Louisa, from the front desk. I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s been a problem with your paperwork.” Van Syoc didn’t put down the gun. Instead, he backed across the room, away from the door. “So,” continued Louisa, “if you could step out, then perhaps we could resolve this.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I was just getting in the shower,” Van Syoc lied as he brought the gun up and pointed it at the door. “Perhaps I could come down to the desk when I am through?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
And the door exploded inward.
Myfanwy jumped in her chair and gave out a little squeak. Fortunately, so did Gubbins, so she didn’t feel too ridiculous. They exchanged a look of embarrassment across the table. All the others kept their gazes fixed on the screen.
Smoke was roiling in through the doorway, and the top of the frame hung crazily, as if it had been punched off the ceiling. Van Syoc hadn’t jumped or squeaked but was standing absolutely still, his gun trained carefully on the door. Nothing could be seen through the clouds of smoke billowing in. Tension built, even among the members of the Court. Then, three men burst out of the smoke, toting large guns. They were dressed in black armor, clunky helmets, and goggles with ominous green lights. They looked, Myfanwy thought, like samurai beetles.
“Freeze, motherfucker!” yelled one of the soldiers. “Drop that g—” He was cut off as Van Syoc shot him through the goggles. There was a deafening roar, hastily muted on the video, as torrents of lead poured out of two extremely large guns and slammed into Van Syoc’s torso. His body shuddered and dropped to the ground.
Wow, thought Myfanwy. That was amazingly brief. I wonder if—her thought was cut off as Van Syoc sat up and, with two casual shots, killed the heavily armored Checquy soldiers.
Myfanwy was proud of herself for not squeaking again, and Gestalt said something in the background about armor-piercing bullets. Her jaw dropped, however, as Van Syoc flipped himself to his feet and bullets began to force themselves out of his flesh. Now a young woman came out of the smoke, and Myfanwy noticed in bemusement that she wasn’t wearing body armor or carrying a gun but was dressed in a tracksuit and had a bandolier of pouches slung across her chest. On her hands, she wore bulky padded gauntlets made of a dull black material.
Van Syoc also appeared slightly taken aback, but Myfanwy had to give him credit—he didn’t hesitate before firing at the woman. Her hands blurred as she reached up and snatched the bullets out of the air. Myfanwy could hear the dull thwaps as the bullets thudded into the gauntlets. Van Syoc looked shocked, but he was a professional and stood up straighter. His body shook for a moment, and then the muscles in his arms began to grow and swell. Like bunches of grapes, nodules of strength popped up along his limbs. Was it Myfanwy’s imagination or did she actually hear Van Syoc’s flesh manipulating itself?
Then his face began to change shape. His forehead swelled, and his brows plumped themselves; the skin around his eyes grew out to protect them. His neck expanded until it was as wide as his head, then wider. It was as if his body simply tapered off at the top. Van Syoc’s nose hinged itself up and shrank back, leaving two small teardrop slits in his face.
Myfanwy was appalled by the transformation; she stared as Van Syoc’s hair retracted back into his scalp. She bit her lower lip hard and looked over at Alrich, whose eyes were fixed on the screen.
“You don’t have a paper bag, do you?” she asked quietly. He looked at her and then gave his head a minute, apologetic shake. Fortunately, by that time the transformation appeared complete. Another Pawn came into the room, a middle-aged man dressed like a history professor, leather-patched elbows and all, and carrying a backpack. Van Syoc launched himself at the woman, who flung off her gauntlets and reached forward with that same dizzying speed. She slapped him around the neck and shoulders, striking at specific pressure points. Her hands bounced off the neck, which seemed to be composed of a springy, spongy material. Van Syoc grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her forcefully against the wall. Her hands blurred about his face, but he continued on stolidly, literally pushing her through the plaster into the hallway.
The professor Pawn was staring, horrified, and obviously wondering what he should do. It was clear that he lacked the strength to take Van Syoc out. He reached into the backpack and, with a brisk movement of his hands, drew out a long, delicate whip. The Pawn snapped it up around Van Syoc’s torso and hauled with all his weight, tugging Van Syoc off balance. The behemoth in the recently created doorway turned awkwardly, and in the deep recesses of his skull, his eyes narrowed. He absently flung the woman down the hall and took a step back into the room, putting his hand firmly on the whip. The Pawn, recognizing that this was a tug-of-war he was unlikely to win, dropped the whip, reached back into the pack with both hands, and drew out two more.
“How many of those things does he feel compelled to carry ab
out?” asked Eckhart around his cigarette. They all watched as the Pawn deftly entangled Van Syoc’s legs and yanked them out from under him. Another brisk snap of his wrists and the whips were stretched up and around the enemy’s neck. The woman Pawn reappeared behind Van Syoc, looking rather the worse for wear after her trip through the wall, and reached down with her quick hands, hog-tying the Grafter so that his head was pulled down between his ankles. Still, his massive arms flailed around, bashing at everything within reach. Two more whips were produced, and the Pawns pinned and immobilized his arms, wrapping him in lengths of thick, braided cable. Then the woman produced an enormous hypodermic from her bandolier and injected him carefully behind the ear. For a little while, Van Syoc continued to struggle, but his thrashings slowed to twitching, and eventually he lay still. His muscles shrank, and the man and woman tightened the knots. Van Syoc’s body slumped into unconsciousness.
“I need a drink,” said the woman tiredly, checking for pulses on the dead soldiers.
“I need a Band-Aid,” said the man, examining his hand. Suddenly, Van Syoc began to writhe against his bonds. “Jesus Christ! I thought that stuff was supposed to be able to knock out an elephant.”
“It is used to knock out elephants. It’s elephant tranquilizer,” snapped the woman, putting a hand to her ear. “We’ve got him secured for now, but send in Pawn Depuy.” She looked down, saw that Van Syoc was straining against the whips, and sighed. “Is he going to break those?” The professor (as Myfanwy had mentally christened him) eyed the writhing killer on the floor and nodded in resignation. He pulled out several more cords from the backpack and began to add more to the web around Van Syoc. “Jesus, he’s going to break those too. Get Depuy up here now!”
An elderly man with a walking stick appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a woman in a nurse’s outfit. He hobbled painfully to the squirming mass of ropes on the floor, leaned over his face, and breathed out a single quick breath. Van Syoc immediately went limp, and Depuy turned around and hobbled out.
“All right,” sighed the female Pawn. “We’d better move him. Drape some sheets over him, get the dollies, and let’s start cleaning up.”
Van Syoc was transported to the Rookery,” said Gestalt, “where he was placed in a system of restraints that could ensure he would not activate his implants. Dr. Crisp then woke him from his sedation and began an interrogation, with the Rooks and some of the section leaders present. We learned that he was an agent of the Grafters and that they have a specific agenda.” He paused, and Myfanwy seized the opportunity to continue the story.
“Van Syoc died during the questioning, under circumstances that are being investigated. It has been put forward that some sort of self-destruct mechanism was activated. But certain details were extracted. It appears that Van Syoc was a scout and that he was there as a precursor to an invasion by the Grafters.” Gestalt was nodding seriously, but all the others looked incredulous. I guess it must be difficult for them. It’s like saying that the Normans are staging a comeback. Finally, Wattleman came out of his trance and addressed the Chevaliers, Eckhart and Gubbins.
“Gentlemen, you are responsible for foreign operations. Have you had even the vaguest idea that this might be on the horizon?” Myfanwy suddenly felt bad for the Chevaliers, one with his cigarettes and the other who appeared to be braiding his arms.
“Well, Sir Henry, you must remember that we do not actually oversee the entire world,” pointed out Eckhart mildly. “If that were so, then we would require a much larger budget.”
“If this country is about to be invaded, then it does not seem unreasonable to expect that you might know about it,” said Lady Farrier.
“I suppose not,” Eckhart replied, “but we are really not an in-depth espionage operation. We are weapons. We are pointed and unleashed. There are other branches of the government that deal with international intelligence gathering. They tell us what poses a threat, and we take care of it.”
“Well, your domestic siblings appear to have identified the problem, and now it falls to you to take care of it,” Wattleman said coldly.
“Forgive me,” said Conrad Grantchester, “but could someone refresh my memory about these Grafters?” Everyone turned expectantly to Myfanwy, and she froze. Ah, looks like I’m the nerd here. Thank heavens I did my homework.
“The Grafters are the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuur-kundigen, which translates roughly as ‘the Scientific Brotherhood of Scientists,’ ” she began.
“Catchy,” said Eckhart.
She gave them a quick rundown, and Farrier gave her an approving (and somewhat surprised) nod.
“Well,” said Grantchester, “whom do we inform?”
“The Palace,” said Farrier.
“The Prime Minister,” said Wattleman.
“The Minister of Defense,” said Eckhart.
“The chiefs of the intelligence agencies?” suggested Gubbins.
“Oh God, must we?” asked Grantchester tiredly. “They’re always so obnoxious if we turn up something they don’t know about, and anything even vaguely unusual makes them nervous. Can you imagine what they’d do if they saw this tape? It’s so embarrassing when spies start crying.”
“How much are we obliged to tell them?” asked Gubbins, who was cracking his neck, having twisted his head to the right substantially more than was normal for a human being.
“You’ll all recall that when the major-incident-response system was installed after the London bombings, special capabilities were put in for the Checquy,” said Eckhart. “We can have the airports and ferries up their security, focusing on new arrivals from the Continent. They needn’t even check luggage.”
“Why bother?” wondered Grantchester. “Apparently they can store all the important stuff inside their bodies anyway. And I’m assuming their enhancements don’t show up on metal detectors.”
“That’s true,” conceded Myfanwy. “But sniffer dogs seem to notice them. They were quite wary of Van Syoc—that was one of the things that drew our attention to him. His possessions were searched at the airport, along with his internal cavities. When airport security couldn’t figure out what was driving the dogs crazy, they notified the Checquy.”
“Did Van Syoc offer any explanations for the dogs’ interest in him?” asked Alrich.
“He said that he’d come from Amsterdam, where he’d enjoyed doing things that were legal there even if they weren’t here,” replied Myfanwy.
“Clever,” said Sir Henry. “And plausible.”
“Except that the dog handler was one of our agents,” said Myfanwy. An idea was forming even as she spoke. “She had enhanced olfactory abilities, and she couldn’t smell any drugs on him. Couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, in fact. So, I’m thinking that we keep an eye on anyone the dogs take an unusual interest in and have them searched. If no drugs turn up, tag the suspects for Checquy attention. That way we can target the Grafters without alerting the rest of the government that we’re facing a serious problem.”
“Very clever, Rook Thomas,” said Wattleman benevolently.
“I know,” she agreed, earning herself a few startled glances.
“But how best to implement all this under the radar?” mused Farrier. “No formal announcements—they’d raise too many questions we don’t want asked.”
“And you realize that not all individuals coming in from the Continent are automatically checked?” asked Alrich.
“Damn that entire EU business!” said Wattleman. “It’s all very well to have nice cheap cheeses, but did no one stop to think that the European continent is connected to ones that aren’t necessarily so… so…”
“Friendly?” offered Myfanwy.
“Secure?” suggested Eckhart.
“Full of nice cheap cheese?” said Gubbins.
Farrier shot Gubbins a dirty look.
“Perhaps if the new procedure was gently put forward to the appropriate people?” suggested Grantchester.
“Yes, capi
tal idea! I could bring it up to the Home Secretary at the club,” agreed Sir Henry enthusiastically. “He’ll know how best to arrange it. That’s settled. Now, what’s our next immediate move?”
“But how do we know they’re not invading tonight?” asked Gubbins. “I mean, there could be some cobbled-together monstrosities parachuting out of the sky somewhere. Some poor prats in some little village could be getting eaten alive right now.”
“I doubt it,” said Eckhart. “You don’t send your preliminary scouts the morning before you invade a country.”
“Yes, good point,” said Grantchester. “That’s only common sense.”
“Can we be certain he was only a preliminary scout?” asked Farrier.
“Absolutely,” said Eckhart firmly. “If three Pawns can subdue him, then he does not represent the height of the Grafters’ powers.”
“Plus,” noted Tidy Twin, “he said so during his interrogation.”
“We don’t have enough information to plan our next move yet,” said Myfanwy. Some of us don’t even know who our enemies are. “We need to learn more.”
“Excellent! Good thinking, Rook Thomas!” said Wattleman happily. “The Rooks and the Chevs will work together and present their conclusions to the Bishops tomorrow evening. Unless, of course, we’re invaded tonight. In which case, you may have us woken up. Ah-ha-ha.” No one else laughed as Wattleman and Farrier rose from their chairs and made their way toward the door. Grantchester nodded and smiled faintly at them all, the smile of someone who has not been obliged to take any responsibility for the problem at hand. Then he left the room also, smoke trailing behind him.
The Rooks and the Chevaliers were left with Alrich, who simply sat there. God, he’s gorgeous, thought Myfanwy. If only he’d blink once in a while. Or move. It’s kind of creepy. In fact, Bishop Alrich seemed to be freaking the others out as well. Gubbins appeared to be dislocating his fingers out of nervousness, and Eckhart was paying his cigarette far more attention than it warranted.