Stiletto (25 page)

“But you can’t tell anyone else your suspicions,” said Felicity. She felt a growing sense of certainty. “Not even the rest of the Court. That’s why you’ve just gone through all this to get my story. If word were to get out about even the
possibility
of the Grafters leading us up the garden path, everything would fall apart. People here will jump at any excuse to stop the negotiations, and dead Checquy agents would just make it worse.”

The woman watched her with no expression on her face, and suddenly Felicity made a decision. “Let me help you.” For a split second, she had the satisfaction of seeing the Rook look completely flabbergasted before she mastered her features.

“Help me? Why?” asked Thomas, her eyes narrowed. “For vengeance? To punish the killers of your team?” Under that intent gaze, Felicity felt a shiver go through her, as if a hand had closed gently around her entire body.

“We don’t know that they’re the killers of my team, not for certain,” said Felicity. “And I won’t be a party to injustice. I hate the Grafters, but I won’t hold them responsible for something they didn’t do.” The other woman was still looking at her suspiciously. “Rook Thomas, you need help. You are a Rook of the Checquy, and I am your soldier. Let me be of service.”

The Rook regarded her for another long moment.

“Normally, after this sort of event and this sort of trauma, you would be removed from combat service to receive counseling,” she said finally.

“I don’t want that,” said Felicity. “I can’t sit at my old desk and look at all the empty chairs where my people used to sit. Or go on anguish leave, where I’m paid not to come in to work. I’ll wander around my flat and watch television and go mad.” The Rook sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers. Her eyes were distant, and Felicity could almost hear her future being decided.

“All right, then,” said Thomas. “I accept. Thank you.” Felicity felt a rush of relief.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I already have an idea. Do you know Pawn Oliver Bannister?”

“In the Diplomatic section? Yes, he was in my year at the Estate,” said Felicity. “He’s a wanker — pardon my language.”

“No, it’s fine, that’s the impression I’ve gotten as well,” said the Rook. “He was assigned as minder to one of the Grafter delegation — Odette Leliefeld. Today he managed to lose track of her, and she wandered into the Apex medical wing, where she stirred up some trouble and freaked everyone out. The whole organization is buzzing about it. Apparently, she has abruptly become the poster girl for anti-Grafter sentiment. You’ll be replacing Bannister as her minder.”

“
What?
I mean, I beg your pardon?”

“You’re going to be accompanying her, keeping her out of harm’s way, and observing her. You will report regularly to me.”

“How are you going to explain my replacing him?”

“I don’t have to explain anything. I’m the Rook,” said Thomas comfortably. “But the official reason will be that, because of Miss Leliefeld’s newfound unpopularity, she needs to be accompanied by someone who is more equipped to protect her. I know you don’t have any bodyguard experience, but you have greater combat training than Bannister does. Plus, you’re a woman, so you can keep a close eye on her even in more... sensitive settings. The unofficial reason, which I will allow to percolate through the Checquy, is that Bannister’s incompetence put his charge, and therefore the negotiations, at risk. It will be believed because it happens to be true and because he is a dick.”

“So, I’m going to guard her but also spy on her?” said Felicity warily.

“In a sense,” said Thomas. “You look perturbed. You did say you wanted to be of service.”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect —”

“What were you expecting?”

“I was really just thinking that you could use me to beat information out of people. I’m not an espionage kind of girl.”

“You are now. But maybe we can arrange for some beatings later.” The Rook flipped through the pages of a file. “I’ll have a briefing package on Leliefeld put together for you, and you can spend tomorrow reviewing it. I’ll need to make arrangements for your reassignment, so the earliest you’ll be able to start is the day after tomorrow. Will that be enough time for you?”

“I — yes, I can do that,” said Felicity. She was beginning to wonder what she’d gotten herself into.

“You’ll still need to go to counseling,” said Thomas. “That’s nonnegotiable, but we’ll schedule the sessions around your duties with Leliefeld.”

“Very well,” said Felicity glumly. The prospect of talking about her feelings filled her with almost as much dread as the idea of hanging around with a Grafter.

“You look a little dazed,” said the Rook kindly. “I know it’s a lot to take in, and the fact that this operation has undercover elements might make you uncomfortable.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I’ve found that in these under-the-table arrangements, there can be a lot of vagueness. People won’t say exactly what they mean, and that can lead to misunderstandings. Someone is ordered to arrange a warm welcome for a delegation, and instead of hiring a chocolate fountain, he sets the guests on fire. But you and I can’t afford any misunderstandings. So I’m going to be very clear.”

“All right,” said Felicity.

“You will be acting as a bodyguard to that girl. It is a real responsibility. You will keep her safe. You will be discreet — people will ask you about her, but you won’t talk about her personal life to anyone... except me. And, most important, you do not take any action against any of the Grafter delegation without my word.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you do anything unauthorized, it could mean war.”

“I understand.”

“But if I give the order, you will need to kill Odette Leliefeld.”

*

That should have been it, but it then transpired that Felicity’s car had been towed from the Rookery parking lot the day before, when they thought she was dead. It was not clear where her wallet with her credit cards, money, and Oyster card was — she had left it with the support team when she entered the row of houses. The Rook did not have any money on her for a cab and was not certain where her EA kept the petty cash.

“Well, we’ll get you home tomorrow,” said Thomas. “For tonight, we’ll just put you up in the Barghest watch barracks.”

At this, Felicity’s heart jumped in her chest, and she made a little gasp. She watched, tense with excitement, as the Rook called the watch manager, Pawn O’Brien, a broad man with a crew cut, who appeared and took custody of Felicity. The two women shook hands, and then Pawn O’Brien guided Felicity through the warren of corridors and to a lift that took them down to the fourth floor.

“Have you ever been to the barracks?” asked O’Brien. The Barghest sections were pretty much off-limits to regular Checquy staff, mainly because the special operations teams were obliged to spend so much time there that it was considered polite to afford them some privacy.

“No,” said Felicity, “but I’ve been working toward joining the Barghests, so I’m very interested.”

“Well, they’re right in the center of the building,” he told her. “Equal distance from the parking garage or the roof if they’re taking a helicopter.” Felicity nodded. Despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at the thought that she’d be sleeping in the same dormitory as actual Barghests.

The Barghests were the Checquy’s elite soldiers. A combination of SWAT, knights, ninjas, and Swiss army knives, they carried a dizzying array of weaponry (some of it decidedly unorthodox) and were trained in various esoteric martial arts that were tailored to their specific inhuman abilities. These were the warriors called in when something disastrous occurred and when at least one of the regular assault teams (who were themselves no slouches) had been unable to subdue the threat. They were soldiers of mass destruction. They were the best.

Every child on the Estate grew up on stories of the heroism and badassitude of the Barghests. Every child on the Estate wanted to
be
a Barghest, until they found out that most of the coffins at Barghest funerals didn’t contain bodies. Instead, they contained parts of bodies, jars of puree, bits of rubble, or, in one memorable and bewildering case, the shattered remnants of a Louis XIV chair.

Felicity was one of the few who wasn’t put off by the stories of proud warriors being dismembered, ground into a pulp, turned to stone, or transmuted into valuable antique furniture by malevolent forces. In fact, ever since she had learned about them, she had desperately wanted to join the Barghests, to be one of the real guardians of last resort. There was a mystique about them; they were defending Britain from the very worst dangers.

There were several Barghest squads scattered around the globe, and they could be activated only by a member of the Court. Nevertheless, there was always a team on call at the Rookery.
And I’m going to actually hang out in their actual barracks!
thought Felicity. Maybe she’d get to shoot some pool with them, ask questions, and make a good impression.

Instead, it turned out that they were all asleep. Pawn O’Brien led her through their barracks, which were equipped with a weight room, a sprung-floor movement studio, a sprung-ceiling movement studio, an indoor shooting range, a sauna, a steam room, a fog room, a small cinema, a large lounge, and a medium-size woman who stood up from a desk to greet them.

“Major Somerset, this is Pawn Felicity Clements. She’ll be under your care for the night. Someone will collect her in the morning,” said O’Brien, and he departed. Major Somerset was a motherly looking woman, and Felicity knew from her title that she was a Retainer, rather than a Pawn, and that she had been recruited from the military. The attendant guided Felicity through heavy frosted-glass doors to the actual dormitory, which was dimly lit. There were two rows of beds, and slumbering forms were curled up in all but one of them.
Wow,
she thought in awe.
Actual sleeping Barghests
. By each bed was a pair of large combat boots, ready to be stepped into.

“No armor?” whispered Felicity. “I always thought they had armor standing ready for them.”

“The suits of armor are in the van downstairs and in the helicopter on the roof,” said Major Somerset. “They get armored up on the way — saves time.” She gestured toward the one empty bed, which was already made. “You’ll be sleeping there.”

“Whose bed is that?”

“Oh,” Somerset said quietly, shaking her head. “That’s Pawn Verrall’s bunk.”

“What happened to Pawn Verrall?” Felicity asked warily.

“Her Labrador started whelping, so she got the night off.”

“Ah,” said Felicity. “Okay.”

“We still have a full complement of troops,” the attendant assured her. “There’s always an understudy on call.” She supplied Felicity with official Barghest pajamas (navy blue, with no emblems whatsoever) and an official Barghest toothbrush (in no way distinguishable from a normal toothbrush). “Would you like a hot-water bottle?” she asked.

“Thank you,” said Felicity gratefully. By the time she fell into bed, the chill had been taken off the sheets, and she nestled down comfortably. As she drifted off, her mind was filled with delight that she was so close to her heroes, mingled with sorrow that her team could not share her excitement.

*

Thirty minutes later, she was jolted out of her sleep by a torrent of noise. It sounded like someone was cramming a metric ton of live weasels into a phone box, and it was coming from a spot only a few centimeters from her face. With no time for thought, she launched herself out of bed before she was even properly awake, flailing away at whatever was attacking her. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere, and shapes were moving about in the dim light. Then the sound cut out, and the lights in the room flared into brilliance, blinding her. She stumbled back with her hands pressed against her eyes and bounced off a Barghest of indeterminate gender who was lacing up its boots.

“Watch out!” said the Barghest. All around them, people were rushing about madly. Bewildered, Felicity fell back on her bed and watched as all of the soldiers ran out of the room. The lights assumed a more normal intensity, and Major Somerset came in, accompanied by two men who began making the beds.

“Oh, darling, I’m very sorry about that,” said the attendant. “They got the call, you see. Had to bolt off to Neath. Something about a computer that’s eating the Internet. Good riddance, I say — it’s all smut and people whining. But we can’t choose our assignments, I suppose.”

“But what in God’s name was that noise?” said Felicity weakly.

“The Rookery has been experimenting with different sounds to rouse the troops,” said Somerset. “I believe that one is a recording of baboons fighting over a Mars bar.” She gestured toward Felicity’s bed. “See the speakers in the headboard? Gets them awake immediately.”

I’ll say,
thought Felicity.

“Course, it’s a problem for some,” mused the attendant. “Pawn Sutton keeps punching them out on instinct. She’s gone through four headboards so far. But it wakes her up sharpish. Anyway, you get yourself back into bed,” she said. “You won’t get woken up again until it’s time to wake up.”

*

Four and a half hours later the Barghests charged back into the barracks, loudly singing some sort of victory song in Latin. Apparently, the computer had been successfully killed or turned off or negotiated with. Felicity buried her head under her pillow.

A chauffeur-driven car, clean and discreet, ferried Felicity through the London traffic to her home. She was dressed in the suit that had been retrieved from her locker and had a stack of files on her lap. Grenadier, her Pomeranian, was seated next to her, gnawing contentedly on a new toy. He was black, with the wide-eyed stare of a lemur or a celebrity caught wearing old holey sweatpants by the paparazzi. She’d had to swing by the home of a Checquy operative to retrieve him.

As soon as Felicity was declared dead, a representative of the Checquy had gone by her town house. He had emptied the fridge of all dairy products, picked up her dog, and re-housed him with a loving family that had happy, laughing children. Said children had been in tears at the loss of their new pet. Grenadier, however, had trotted away from them without a backward glance.