She nodded. “The mint, and the ability to debase the currency, has always been the criminal-in-chief’s best weapon, Erasmus. He could buy out the bourgeoisie from under our banner in a split second, did he but recognize their importance. It’s time we recognized that, and acted accordingly.”
“Well.” Erasmus took a sip of brandy. It was fine stuff, liquid fire that warmed his old bag of bones from the inside out. “Judging from what your ‘intimate source’ told me, even if he recognized its importance he probably wouldn’t act on it until it was too late. Indecisive doesn’t begin to describe this one, milady. Stranded in a well-stocked kitchen John Frederick could starve himself to death between two cookbooks. He looks solid with the machinery of state behind him, but if he’s forced to make tough choices he’ll dither and haver until he’s half past hanging.”
“Well, that’s his look out,” she said tartly. “Was there anything else we can use?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind risking the source—at least, this week. It’s so big that it will leak sooner rather than later; the French have exploded a corpuscular petard. Caught the navy napping, too; they weren’t supposed to have that high a command of the new physics. The flash was visible from Blackpool, apparently, and the toadstool cloud from Lancaster.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “And with wars, and rumors of wars—”
“Yes, milady. I think something is going to have to happen, sooner or later. The situation in Persia if nothing else is a source of friction, and the temptation to send a message to the court of the Sun King—I wouldn’t place money on it starting this year, but I can’t see him lasting out the decade without strife. John Frederick wants to leave his mark on the history books, lest his son is followed rapidly by a nephew or cousin in the line of succession.”
“Then let’s start making plans, shall we?” She smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “If the leviathan is determined to drink the blood of the people, there’s going to be plenty to spare for the ticks.”
Erasmus shivered. “Indeed, milady.”
“Well then.” She put her glass down. “Which brings me to another matter I have in mind.” Her smile vanished. “I think it’s past time you arranged for me to meet this Miss Beckstein, who you say is so like me. I have many questions for her; I’m sure we can trade more than toys once we understand each other better.”
SPOOK SUMMIT
Twelve weeks earlier:
Mike Fleming was on his way home from his office at the DEA branch, completely exhausted.
Sometimes, when he was extremely tired, he’d lose his sense of smell. It was as if the part of his brain that dealt with scents and stinks and stuff gave up trying to make sense of the world and went to sleep without him. At other times it would come back extra strong, and any passing scent might dredge up a slew of distracting memories. It was a weird kind of borderline synaesthesia, and it reminded him uncomfortably of a time a couple of years ago when he’d been on assignment in some scummy mosquito-ridden swamp down in Florida. The hippie asshole he was staking out had made the tail, and instead of doing the usual number with a Mac-10 or running, had spiked his drink with acid. He’d spent a quarter of an hour in the bathroom of his hotel room staring at the amazing colors in the handle of his toothbrush, marveling at the texture of his spearmint dental gel, until he’d thrown up. And now he was so tired it was all coming back to him in unwelcome hallucinatory detail.
Mike worked in Cambridge, but he lived out in the sticks. The T only took him part of the way, and as he stumbled onto the platform he realized fuzzily that he was far too tired to drive. Did I really just pull a fifty-hour shift in the office? he wondered. Or am I imagining an extra day? Whatever the facts, he was beyond tired. He was at the point where his eyelids were closing on him, randomly trying to fool him into falling asleep on his feet. So he phoned for a taxi, nearly zoning out against a concrete pillar just inside the station lobby while he waited. The cab was stuffy and hot and smelled of anonymous cheap sex and furtive medicinal transactions. It was probably his imagination but he could almost feel the driver watching him in the mirror, the itchy, prickly touch of the guy’s eyeballs on his face. It was a relief to get out and slowly climb the steps to his apartment. “Hello, strange place,” he muttered to himself as he unlocked the door. “When was I last here?”
Mike knew he was tired, but it was only when he misentered the code to switch off his intruder alarm twice in a row that he got a visceral sense of how totally out of it he was. Whoa, hold on! He leaned against the wall and yawned, forced himself to focus, and deliberately held off from fumbling at the manically bleeping control panel until he’d blinked back the fuzz enough to see the numbers. Two days? he wondered vaguely as he slouched upstairs, the door banging shut behind him. Yeah, two days. A night and most of a day with the SOC team picking over the bones of the buried fortress, then a night and most of the next morning debriefing the paranoid defector in a safe house. Then more meetings all afternoon, trying to get it through Tony Vecchio’s head that yes, the source was crazy—in fact, the source was bug-fuck crazy with brass knobs on—but he was an interesting crazy, whose every lead had turned over a stone with something nasty scuttling for cover from underneath it, and even the crazy bits were internally consistent.
Mike stumbled past the coat rail and shed his jacket and tie, then fumbled with his shoelaces for a minute. While he was busy unraveling the sacred mysteries of knot theory, Oscar slid out of the living room door, stretching stiffly and casting him a where-have-you-been glare. “I’ll get to you in a minute,” Mike mumbled. He was used to working irregular hours; Helen the cleaner had instructions for keeping the cat fed and watered when he wasn’t about, though she drew the line at the litter tray. It turned out that unlacing the shoes took the last of his energy. He meant to check Oscar’s food and water, but instead he staggered into the bedroom and collapsed on the unmade bed. Sleep came slamming down like a guillotine blade.
A couple of hours later, Oscar dragged Mike back to semiwakefulness. “Aagh.” Mike opened his eyes. “Damn. What time is it?” The elderly tom lowered his head and butted his shoulder for attention, purring quietly. I was dreaming, wasn’t I? Mike remembered. Something about being in a fancy restaurant with—her. The ex-girlfriend, the journalist. Miriam. She’d dumped him when he’d explained about The Job. It’d been back during one of his self-hating patches, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have been that brutal with the truth, but experience had taught him—“Damn.” Oscar purred louder and leaned against his stomach. Why was I naked from the waist down? What the hell is my subconscious trying to tell me?