"Bub he'd be aboard the yacht! He'b geb you!"
Mo smiles a curious, tight smile. "I don't think so." She keeps the fiddle pointed at Griffin as he splutters at her.
"Billington is all about money. He doesn't do love, or hate.
So I'm going to hit him where he doesn't expect to be hit.
Now get moving. I expect you back here inside an hour," she adds coolly. "You really don't want to be late."
I'm punch-drunk from surprises — the sight of Mo strongarming Griffin into hiring her a helicopter is shocking enough, and the idea that she's willing to jump in on the Billingtons without a second thought just because of me is enough to turn my world upside down — but then I realize: If/ can see her, what about the bad guys?
I may not be able to send her a message — the surveillance feed is strictly one-way — but I can try to cover her ass on this side of the firewall. I rummage around for what's left of the Pale Grace(TM) sample, then draw some more patterns on the side of the PC and trace them with the 'toothpen. They're interference patterns, stuff to break up the contagious spread of the information on my screen. Then I go back to watching.
There's not a lot I can do right now, not until we dock with the Explorer, but if Mo makes it out there I can make damn sure that, geas or no geas, whatever she's planning takes the Billingtons by surprise.
Griffin has barely closed the door when Mo's energy gives out and she slumps in on herself with a tiny whimper. She puts the violin down, then pulls a black nylon tactical strap from a side pocket in its case — her hands shaking so badly it takes her three attempts to fasten it — then slings the instrument from her shoulder like a gun. She walks over to the desk, wobbling almost drunkenly with fatigue or the relief of tension, and flops down in the chair. The message light on the phone is blinking. She picks up the handset and speed-dials.
"Angleton"
"Dr. O'Brien."
"Your station chief. Griffin. Is he meant to be in on this side of the operation?" Angleton is silent for three or four seconds. "No. He wasn't on my list."
Mo stares at the door, bleakly. "I sent him on a wild goose chase. I may have up to an hour until he gets back.
Penetration confirmed he's your pigeon. At a guess, Billington got to him via his wallet. Got any suggestions?"
"Yes. Leave the room. Take hand luggage only. Where did you tell him you were going"
"I sent him to hire a chopper. For the Mabuse."
"Then you should go somewhere else, by any means necessary.
I'm opening your expense line: unlimited fund. I'll have local assets take Griffin out of the picture."
"I can live with that." Mo's shoulders are shaking with barely repressed fury. "I could kill him. Do you want me to do that?" Angleton falls silent again. "I don't think that would be useful at this point," he says finally. "Do you have your primary documents with you"
"I'm not stupid," she snaps.
"I didn't say you were." Angleton's tone is unusually mild.
"Go to ground then call me with a sanitized contact number.
Stay there and don't go anywhere. I'll have Alan make contact and pick you up when it's safe to proceed."
"Got it," she says tensely, and hangs up. Then she stands up and collects her violin case. "Right," she mutters under her breath. "Go to ground."
Mo packs methodically and rapidly. The instrument goes back in its carrier. Then she opens her hand luggage — a black airline bag — and tips the contents out on the bed. She squeezes the violin case inside, adds a document wallet and a toilet bag from the pile on the quilt, then zips it up and heads for the door. Rather than using the elevator she takes the emergency stairs, two steps at a time. At the ground floor, there's a fire exit. She pushes the crash bar open — it squeals slightly, a residue of rust on the mechanism — and slips out into the crowd along the promenade at the back of the hotel. Over the next hour Mo puts her tradecraft to work. She doubles back around her route, checking her trail in window reflections in shop fronts: changes course erratically, acts like a tourist, dives into souvenir markets and cafes to make a show of looking at the menu while keeping an eye open for tails. Once she's sure she's clean she walks the block to the main drag and goes into the first clothes shop she passes, and then the second. Each time, she comes out looking progressively different: a tee shirt under her sundress, then a pair of leggings and an open shirt. The dress has vanished. With the addition of a new pair of sunglasses and a colorful scarf to keep the sun off her head, there's no sign of Mrs. Hudson.
She finishes up at a cafe: diving into its coolly air-conditioned interior she orders two double espressos and drinks them straight down, shuddering slightly as the caffeine hits her. What next? Mo is clearly fighting off the effects of jet lag.
She stands up tiredly and steps outside again, shouldering the heat like a heavy burden. Then she heads directly away from the row of nearby hotels, towards the marina on the edge of the harbor and the row of motorboats for hire.
I am just beginning to get my head around the fact that Mo is not only out here, but she's a player — and she isn't going to follow Angleton's instructions — when there's a pounding on my door. I hammer the boss key and spin round in my chair, slamming one leather-padded arm into my right kidney as I try to stand up; then the door opens and the black beret is pointing his mirrorshades at me, lips set in a disapproving scowl. "Mr. Howard, you're wanted on deck."
I scramble to my feet dizzily, wincing and rubbing my side. It's probably a good thing I whacked it — I don't think I could avoid looking disturbed or guilty if I wasn't actually in physical pain. I don't know what the hell Mo thinks she's doing, but it doesn't look like she's planning on following orders and going to the mattresses until Alan calls for her.
And what's Alan doing here anyway? I wonder as I follow the two guards up the stairs to the deck. Angleton only calls Alan in when there's some serious head-breaking to be done.
He's OIC for the Territorial SAS squadron tasked with supporting Occult Operations in the field — some of the scariest — not to mention most eccentric — special forces soldiers in the British Army. I've been along for the ride when they went right through a rip in space-time to head-butt an ancient evil that was threatening to squirm through, I've seen them secure an industrial estate in Milton Keynes with a suspected basilisk on the loose; and I've had the dubious pleasure of being rescued by them on exercise at Dunwich.
Maybe Angleton's sent the heavy cavalry, I decide, hopefully: it's easier to swallow than the alternative, which is that Angleton's written me off as beyond hope and has called them in for Plan B.
The guard up front surprises me when we get to deck level, by turning away from the door to the conservatory and instead opening a hatch onto a narrow green-painted corridor leading aft. "This way," he tells me, while his backup guy hangs behind.
"Okay, I'm going," I say, as agreeably as I can manage.
"But where are we going to"
Mirrorshades man opens a door at the far end of the tunnel and steps through. "HQ," he says over his shoulder.
I emerge, blinking, onto a stretch of deck I hadn't seen before, sandwiched between a big outboard motorboat and a whole bunch of gray cylinders sticking out of the superstructure beneath a rack of masts and antennae. The motorboat hangs from some sort of crane affair. It's getting crowded here: the space is already occupied by Ramona, in company with McMurray, his designer-clad thugette Miss Todt, and a couple more black berets. "Ah, Mr. Howard."
McMurray nods at me. "Feel up to a little cruise"
"Where are you — "
My guard pokes me in the back with a finger. "Jump in."
The black berets on deck are setting up a control station for the crane. McMurray gestures at the boat: "This won't take long. We're nearly there."