Chapter #6Prelude to a Stakeout--2 by: Seuzz   "Oh miss. Miss! You can't—!"
You wave gaily at the receptionist trying to stop you. "I know where I'm going, thank you!" You stride down the corridor into another reception area, where a logo and corporate name—GALTON MARKETING—are emblazoned on the wall over an empty reception desk. "Hullo? Hullo!" you call. But no one comes.
Well, not for a minute or so. Then a man in a dark uniform and bullet-proof vest comes in from another corridor. "Beg your pardon, miss," he says in a low, gruff voice. "They need a word with you out front." He puts out a hand to take your elbow.
"Oh, I don't need to talk to them, I need to talk to Michael. D'you know him?" You deftly slide a business card into the guard's grasping hand.
That stops him short, and he frowns down at it. What a beef-wit. All you have to do is surprise him by not panicking at his threatening manner, and his brain seizes up. "There ain't no one 'ere named— Hang on, this is fer a dentist office."
"Yes, he's a hygienist. Said he liked my smile the other night." You giggle.
"You got the wrong place, miss. You want Trevor Street. This is Trevor Place."
"Oh! You know I thought this looked like a funny place for a dentist." You cover your mouth and nose to hide your embarrassment. "But you don't know my hygienist friend, do you?"
"No, miss," he says, and hands the card back to you.
"Well, if he comes asking for me, you'll know who the daffy blonde he's talking about is. Ta-la!" With the same swing in your hip you return the way you came. "You know there's no dentist down there?" you call out to the receptionist. She cocks an eyebrow and doesn't return your smile.
In the car you pause only long enough to confirm that the mind-snap came off: the name JAMES ANDREW CLARKE floats in blue letters above the back of the card. Good enough. There can't be more than a half-dozen guys in all of London with that name, and if you're lucky the card probably also picked up a fuzzy, Clarke's-eye view of his apartment. That should be enough to pin down the guard's identity.
* * * * *
"You joined the team too late, Will," Joe says. He dips the steel-nib pen in the silvery ink and traces another rune on the back of the playing card. "Nash didn't have your sense of mischief when I was studying with him. Though why marking up a magical deck didn't occur to me earlier, I wish I knew."
"Because you had Frank and your Dad looking after you," you say without looking up from your own work. Ten cards done; at least forty to go. With its exactitude, it's grueling work.
"True. But if you'd been around, maybe they'd have let me have a bit more fun."
"No, you'd have just spent even more time with Father Ed. Sitting right next to me while he yelled at us."
Joe snickers. "And how much money could we have won off the padre with a deck like this before he caught on?"
"And then he'd have tattooed these runes to our asses. Oh, speaking of which, think you could make a trip back to the States for me, consult with Nash about those tattoos Diana is using?"
"You're not thinking of going in as one of their operatives, are you?"
"Not on these initial recons, that's what these cards are for. But it's best to be prepared, in case the actual job requires me to go in as one of them."
Joe spills some more peanuts across the table top, and tosses a few in his mouth. "Sure, I'd like to see Nash anyway. But you're going to have to give us some more info on how their tats work. That memo you wrote is just theory, and if you're going to fake them convincingly, Nash will need to know more about their practical structure."
"I'll see what I can do when I swap with that security guard. I figure Thursday's the best day for that, safest day for him to get confused about missing." You lay aside the card you've just finished, stretch and pop your neck, and pick up another one. "I'll look around while I'm in the building, see if there's anything useful I can lift. But I bet Hal's gonna have to drop something into the system for us to get any real technical details."
"Well, see what you can get. And before I head back home, how about you help me mark up another deck, one with some invisible runes I can light up. I could use them to win us some money."
"Your dad wouldn't want you becoming a professional card cheat, Joe."
"It's just to win a few bucks, pay the rent."
"Why don't you just sell your body on the street, like I have to?"
With an embarrassed wince, he lets you have the last word.
* * * * *
"Yo, Husky, what are you doin' up here?"
You turn at the hoarse challenge. A pale red-head in dark jeans and t-shirt swaggers over from the far end of the lounge. His chin is tilted, and his eyes gleam dangerously from under hooded lids.
You brandish the mop in your hand. "Sumfin about the bathroom, sir," you say.
"Was someone sick in it?"
"Don't know, sir. Just told to—"
He pushes you back and looks inside the room with the toilet. "Looks clean to me."
"I just do as I'm told, sir."
"You know you're not supposed to be up here."
"I know that, sir. Confused me too. But I was told to come up here, told there was a problem with the loo on the top floor."
He stares. "Is that what they said, exactly, the loo on the top floor?" You nod. He breaks into a hoarse laugh. "How long you been working here, Husky?"
"Two weeks, sir."
"Ever been on a snipe hunt?"
"Sir?"
"Yeah, we got problems with the Liu on the top floor, but it's nothing to do with the toilet. Take your mop downstairs and tell whoever sent you up that Kips says 'Fuck you'."
"Yes sir. Uh, thank you sir."
You're at the lounge door, and watching him from the corner of your eye, when he glances back at the bathroom, and in that moment when his head is turned you cast your cloak over him. Softly you step back into the lounge and over to the countertop where rests a deck of cards. You swap them for the marked cards in your pocket. When Kips saunters past, you fall into his wake, pausing at the doorway only long enough to see if anyone there needs catching in your cloak. You make it to the stairwell door, and when Kips disappears into an office you slip onto the stairwell. No one catches you as you return the mop to a utility closet, and when Clarke's supervisor asks where you've been, you tell him you were sneaking a smoke outside.
That by itself was a good day's work: the planting of a deck of mind-snap cards you can retrieve later and use to start profiling the Diana operatives. But while patrolling a loading bay you pick up something else.
You're near a corner when one of the doors slides up, and you're able to get your cloak over the driver as a van pulls in. The back of the van opens once it's parked, and the driver—a man with Asian features—and a passenger riding in the back unload a gurney that has a large machine—looking something like a drill press—at one end. A man, unconscious, is lying on it. One of the operatives wheels this gurney to the middle of the bay while the other fetches an ordinary gurney, onto which they transfer the unconscious man. They reload the first gurney into the van, then take their prisoner—if that's what he is—inside the main building. Having noted this, you continue your patrol.
You make a casual search of the back of the Diana building, and find some large dumpsters; there's a space between them and the wall. There's also a private petrol station by the side of the building, away from the surveillance cameras in the bay, and you thoughtfully pull the van around and refuel it for the next set of drivers; while it fills, you pull that strange gurney from the back and hide it behind the dumpster. It's still there when you and Joe drive your own rental van around later that night.
* * * * *
"I love this song!" you shout at your dance partner over the air-shattering beat. He just nods vaguely, and keeps staring hard at your breasts while rocking back and forth on the dance floor.
You're better than him at dancing: Lauren—the name of the form you're wearing—is both an excellent dancer and an excellent gymnast, and your motions are fluid and enticing. You run your hands down your body and pout seductively at your partner. You've no idea what his name is—he's just another clubber who's danced into view.
A hand catches your elbow, and you're pulled close by a man in an expensive suit and equally expensive haircut. "Want to meet the musician?" he asks, shouting in your ear.
"What?"
He points up a staircase to the club's VIP room. "I can get you in there. Introduce you."
"Really?" The man who's accosted you looks to be in his mid-thirties. His hair is raven-dark, and his face is set in a masterful expression. Ignoring your late dance partner, you let your new one lead you up into the exclusive suite.
He pays a lot of attention to you, and after gushing over the musical act he introduces you to, you pay a lot of attention to him. By two in the morning you're at his apartment, moaning ecstatically as he makes hard love to you. And by three in the morning the mind, memories and personality of Julian Dey are part of your repertoire.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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