“We shall be fine, Marie,” said Graaf van Suchtlen as the lift doors closed. Marie gave him a cool look, and, for the first time Odette could remember, he seemed a bit nervous. Although she was only twenty-nine, Marie had a strength of will that the entire Broederschap respected and even feared. It was that strength of will, combined with her fierce devotion to her job, her talent for multitasking, and her ability to kick a man’s head clean off his neck, that had led to her assignment with the delegation.
“If something happens to you, Graaf van Suchtlen, do you realize what sorts of questions I will be asked by my superior?” Marie inquired.
“I am your superior,” the graaf pointed out.
“You’re not the chief of security,” said Marie dismissively.
“I’m his superior too,” said the graaf, a trifle plaintively. Marie made a noise that suggested that, even if true, the fact had no bearing on the argument. The lift was silent for a moment. Odette was profoundly relieved when the doors opened on the lobby. They all stepped out, and van Suchtlen turned to Marie.
Before he could speak, she said loudly, “Fine. Go, then. Strive not to get killed. You’ve no idea how much it would inconvenience me!” She patted Odette absently on the shoulder—apparently Odette’s death would not be an inconvenience worth mentioning—and moved back into the lift. Pawn Clovis joined her, looking slightly intimidated. The door shut on them.
6
It dawned on the group that all the occupants of the lobby—receptionists, civilian guests, bellmen, concierge—were staring at them. The four of them proceeded through, ignoring the wary looks of absolutely everyone.
“Ah, good, the car’s already here,” said Mrs. Woodhouse briskly.
They all regarded the car thoughtfully. It was not what any of them had expected. Not only was it minuscule, with only two doors, but it appeared to be quite unwell. The black paint was badly scuffed, and one of the doors was white with a cartoon rabbit wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette drawn on it in marker. The front bumper seemed to have been tied on with twine, and there were the peeling remnants of old bumper stickers on the back. The uniformed driver who got out looked as if he had been cut-and-pasted into the wrong vehicle.
“I don’t mean to sound like a diva here, Ingrid,” said the Rook finally, “but this is a very small car.” Odette thought it was rather charitable of her to comment only on its size rather than its general insalubriousness. “And I know I was distracted on the way here, but I’m fairly certain this is not the car I arrived in.”
“That’s right, Rook Thomas.”
“So . . . were we robbed?”
“No, but the deaths at the site have already caught the attention of the press. They’re hanging around outside, so we’ll have to go in the back. I thought a stretch limousine might draw some attention.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” said Thomas grudgingly. “Good thinking.” She sighed and looked at the diminutive and disreputable vehicle. “Where did we even get this car? Whose is it?”
“Pawn Thistlethwaite’s. He said we could borrow it.”
“Pawn Thistlethwaite came in this?” asked the Rook. “That can’t be right, I know what his salary is. Make a note, Ingrid, we should have him screened for drugs.”
“It’s his son’s car,” said the EA. “I gather his is at the mechanic’s.”
“Oh, all right, then.” The driver opened the passenger door and triggered the little lever that was supposed to hinge the seat forward. The seat did not slide up automatically, and he had to struggle a little with it. The resulting aperture to the backseat was not encouraging, and the four of them looked at one another. The Rook sighed heavily. “I’m the shortest, so I suppose I had better go in the middle.” She glanced down at her dress and bit her lip. “Ingrid, can you help me here?” The executive assistant stepped forward and gripped the points on Thomas’s dress’s shoulders to help her get into the car without crumpling the couture.
It took the Rook some undignified wriggling and a strategic shimmy, which elicited an appreciative whistle from a passing pedestrian (who promptly and mysteriously tripped over nothing at all), but she managed to slide awkwardly to the center of the backseat. “Well, come on!”
“Graaf van Suchtlen, you’re the tallest, so you can take the front passenger seat,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. The graaf offered his hand to help the older lady in, while Odette hurried around to the other side. As the driver opened the door for her and attempted to move the driver’s seat forward, Odette noticed a young man across the street. He was looking on with amusement as the people in expensive clothes squeezed themselves into the dilapidated little car. He was a young man, about her age, and the sight of him made her breath catch in her chest.
Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not him. And yet she could not drag her eyes away from the boy. Maybe it was something about the way he stood, so casual and at ease. He was not worried about the supernatural. He was not worried about the intricacies of diplomacy and negotiations. He was not worried about anything but the pleasure of an evening in the city. And he was not her boy.
It will never be him, she told herself mercilessly. No boy will ever be Pim. Pim is gone. Forever.
“Miss?” the driver asked hesitantly.
And besides, that guy doesn’t look anything like him. So just stop being silly.
With an effort, she tore her eyes away from the boy and everything he was and wasn’t. She eased herself into the backseat, which seemed to be completely full of Rook, executive assistant, and other detritus.
The driver shut the door firmly, and Odette was crushed against the Rook. She felt her hip bones accordioning together. Matters were made worse when Graaf van Suchtlen began moving his seat back.
“Ernst, if you keep doing that, I will call off the whole merger,” said the Rook tightly. Her feet were up on the hump of the transmission, and Mrs. Woodhouse’s knees were already crushed against the back of the seat.
“Maybe we could make some legroom by moving some of the rubbish from the foot wells,” suggested Mrs. Woodhouse. With difficulty, she retrieved a discarded fast-food bag from the floor. Cold, dead french fries showered from a tear in it onto the Rook and Odette.
“So, here’s the plan,” said the Rook conversationally. “After we’ve attended the site, we’ll track down and kill Pawn Thistlethwaite’s son for being a complete slob, and then we’ll head back to the party. Pawn Wheatley, let’s go.” The driver pulled away into London traffic, the car’s engine making a protesting noise that sounded like a walrus asked to do improvisational theater. “Ladies, do put on your seat belts.”
“I can’t find the seat belt,” said Mrs. Woodhouse.
“Me neither,” ventured Odette.
“Try not to crash, then, Wheatley,” the Rook said to the driver.
“Especially since I have just found the marijuana of Pawn Thistlethwaite’s son in the glove compartment,” remarked the graaf.
“I would have thought—” Odette began, then stopped herself.
“Go ahead,” said the Rook cheerfully. “My elbow is lodged in your rib cage, so there’s no point in being shy.”
“I just thought that the police wouldn’t be a problem for the Checquy,” said Odette.
“The difficulty with being a secret organization is that no one has ever heard of us,” said the Rook. “The cops would have to go pretty far up the ladder before it all got sorted out, and in the meantime, we’d be held up. And people remember that sort of thing. Questions would be asked. If we weren’t on official business, we’d get the tickets and have to lump them, I’m afraid. Just because we’re in the Checquy doesn’t mean we’re outside the law.”
Their destination was not very far, and the traffic obliged them by clipping along at a reasonable pace. Eventually, they turned into a narrow lane lined with restaurants.
“There’s the place, Rook Thomas,” said the driver, and they all peered out as the car cruised by. It did not look like the site of supe
rnatural malevolence. A cheerful Italian restaurant with red, white, and green awnings, it had a warm glow coming from the windows. It looked like a very nice place to dine, apart from the flashing lights of the police cars outside and the solemn constables standing guard at the door. There was a small crowd gathered, and Odette supposed that at least some of them were from the press. A woman in a serious suit and a serious hairstyle declaimed in front of a television camera, and a couple of men with large zoom lenses took pictures from across the street.
“Oh, bugger,” said the Rook. “The Liars at the Rookery are going to have a hell of a time with this.” The car swept them past without pausing, and Pawn Wheatley smoothly took them around a corner to the service alley behind all the restaurants, where two more policemen were standing as sentries by a temporary barrier. They eyed the car suspiciously as it approached. Rook Thomas hurriedly dug into her purse and took out an extremely thick wallet. She flipped through the various card sheaths until she found what she was looking for and handed it to the driver.
“Evening, lads,” said Pawn Wheatley as he rolled down the window (which stuck halfway).
“Road’s closed, sir,” said one of the constables. “There’s a crime scene back there.”
“We know, Constable,” said the Rook. “We’re here with the investigation.” Thomas didn’t acknowledge the unprofessional mien of the car. “Wheatley, give him the card.” The policeman examined it briefly and looked at her.
“You’re a colonel in the British army,” he said dubiously. The Rook made a small sound that suggested to Odette that she had produced the wrong identification card. The officer’s gaze swept over the car, lingering on the Rook in her cocktail dress of sexy evil, which, Odette noticed, still had a couple of french fries on it. The suspicion lay heavy in the air, but Thomas rallied.
“Yes . . . I am a colonel. There are concerns that this may have military implications. Concerns at the highest levels.” The policeman glanced at the other occupants of the car. “These are my staff,” Thomas said haughtily. Odette prayed that he wouldn’t ask their ranks. “Look, use your little radio and call through to the officer in charge of the crime scene. Tell him that I’m here. We’ll wait.”
She sat back, folding her arms imperiously—a process that, because of the cramped environment, involved her inadvertently elbowing both Odette and Mrs. Woodhouse painfully in their breasts. The constable exchanged a long look with his colleague but apparently decided it would be more difficult to argue with them than to call his superior, and he turned away. There was some electronic chatter on the radio, and then he turned back.
To Odette’s disappointment, he was not profusely apologetic. But he did let them through. Down the service alley, two large police vans were lined up behind the Italian restaurant. Pawn Wheatley parked, and the passengers in the rear set about prying themselves out of the backseat.
As they all stretched the kinks out of their spines, they were approached by a pudgy man in Wellingtons and a rustling white hooded coverall that Odette recognized as made of Tyvek. The only visible part of him was his round face with its astonishingly luxuriant ginger mustache.
“Colonel Thomas, I presume?”
“Don’t even think about saluting, Gadenne,” said the Rook. “I managed to give them the wrong identification, and I thought that it would be even more ridiculous if I then found the card identifying me as a scene-of-crime officer.” She introduced Odette and the graaf, and Pawn Gadenne greeted them with the very particular British demeanor that translates as I am absolutely appalled to have you here, but I am also extremely well mannered and so I shall conceal that fact from you. After the courtesies were exchanged, he described the incident.
“It’s rather nasty, this one,” he said. “Sixteen people were in the upstairs dining room of the restaurant. Normal evening, lots of chatter. The waitress went downstairs to pick up a tray of drinks, came back two minutes later, and found all of them dead.”
“Hell,” said Rook Thomas. Odette was inclined to agree with her.
Pawn Gadenne continued, “They were all lying about with expressions and postures of agony. No one on the floor below had heard a single sound. No screams. No voices. Not even thuds of them hitting the ground.”
Odette felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising up. A real supernatural event had happened a few meters from where she stood. She looked up at the second floor of the restaurant. Floodlights were visible through the windows. Set up by the forensic team, I suppose.
“Was it one big party?” Rook Thomas was asking.
“No. Four groups, unrelated. Two couples out for romantic dinners. A gathering of five students, and a birthday group of seven. Some of them were already eating, some hadn’t even ordered yet.”
“All right, so the waitress found a roomful of abrupt corpses,” said Rook Thomas. “What did she do then?”
“Dropped the drinks, screamed, and almost fell down the stairs,” said Gadenne. “People rushed up to see what had happened, and the police were called.”
“Did they try to offer any medical attention? Did they touch the corpses?”
“Rook Thomas, when you see these bodies, you’ll understand why no one wanted to go near them,” said Pawn Gadenne. “The manager put his hand on one of them to feel for a pulse, and he said the skin was like leather.”
“Did anyone take pictures?”
“I gather some piece-of-shit student tried but a waiter punched him and smashed his phone.”
“Good,” said the Rook. “Well, that restores a bit of my faith in humankind.”
“We’re quite fortunate, really. Only six civilians and eight police officers saw the scene before we took over,” said Pawn Gadenne. “Of course, with this happening in the middle of London, it was inevitable that the press would materialize.”
“And what have you told them?”
“Nothing, yet,” said Gadenne. “The Liars are trying to invent something that won’t panic the populace or destroy the reputation of the restaurant.”
“Let me know what they come up with,” said the Rook. “Now, let’s go take a look at this.” Pawn Gadenne ushered them up into one of the vans where several people in coveralls were talking into headsets or bustling about with stainless-steel cases. When they noticed the Rook, they nodded to her respectfully but didn’t break off from what they were doing.
“We’ve swept for radiation and gas, of course,” said Gadenne. “Nothing. But you’ll have to wear Tyvek suits when you go in.” Coveralls were found for three of the party, Mrs. Woodhouse having decided that visiting roomfuls of corpses was not part of her duty statement. She did, however, produce from her voluminous handbag a pair of trainers for the Rook.
“Do you always carry running shoes around for her?” asked Odette in low tones.
“Her job requires her to dress like a professional,” said the EA quietly. “It also tends to abruptly require her to move around frantically. I’ve found that it’s best always to be prepared.” Her preparation, however, did not extend to carrying around a spare outfit, and so Rook Thomas was obliged to pull her coveralls up over her cocktail dress, which made for an interesting silhouette. Graaf Ernst, once he had taken off his coat and removed his tie, fit comfortably into one of the larger suits, but in order for Odette to put on the suit, her hideous dress of frumpitude had to be bunched up to the tops of her thighs, which left her with a gargantuan bulge around her hips.
“We haven’t detected any foreign materials in the air,” said Pawn Gadenne, “but we still insist on goggles and filter masks.” These were handed out, along with latex gloves. Well, now I’m actually starting to feel at home, thought Odette as she snapped the gloves on. She pulled the hood up over her hair, stood a little straighter, and waited as Pawn Gadenne crammed his voluminous mustache into a dust mask.
They were then led out of the van and in through the back door of the restaurant. The kitchen contained several white-suited people bustling around, taking samples from al
l the cooking pots and industriously sealing vegetables and plates in evidence bags. There were also two white-suited people standing in unoccupied corners. Odette eyed them warily. They didn’t appear to be doing anything but staying very still and being very large.
In the main dining room, the tables were still laid with plates of food and half-drunk glasses of wine. Even more Checquy techs were doing their thing. As Odette watched, one of them chiseled paint off the walls while another appeared to be laboriously jarring samples of the air. Again, some figures stood around, not doing anything. It was hard to tell with their bulky suits, but they had an air of extreme alertness.
“I’m sorry, may I ask who the people standing still are?” Odette inquired timidly.
“They’re security,” said Gadenne after a pointed pause that implied she was wasting his valuable time. “Manifestation sites are not always safe. Even if an event seems to be over, there may be residual threats. Our scientists cannot do their work while worrying that eels are suddenly going to come squirming out of the ceiling or that the furniture is going to come alive and try to trample them to death.”
“I see,” said Odette. “And does that sort of thing happen often?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“You—Garden—where are the civilians?” asked Graaf Ernst abruptly. “The ones who were present when the event occurred?”
“Erm, well, everyone, of course, gets questioned,” said Pawn Gadenne. His tone was less snooty than it had been with Odette. There was something about Graaf Ernst that made people more polite. Possibly it was his air of authority or the undeniable weight of centuries that hung around him. Or it might have been his rudeness—he was in the habit of barking out commands and questions. “We have commandeered rooms at the local hospital and kept those who saw the bodies separate from those who were simply present in the building at the time. We’ll take statements and blood samples. Those who saw the bodies are being x-rayed. They’ll all be advised to contact us if they feel odd or if any symptoms appear. In six months, unless we have definitively identified the problem, we will reinterview them and take more blood.”