The Annihilation Score (51 page)

Mhari throws something small and dense at the wall of light. “Down!” she shouts, taking a dive towards the floor at one side. I look away and begin to raise my arms to shield my face, then the high-end banishment ward hits the gate and slices it to shreds, severing my final link with my instrument.

And that's all I remember.

*   *   *

“So,” asks the Senior Auditor, “what happened next?”

We're in his office. He's seated behind his desk, chair reclined, a half-full crystal tumbler of smoky amber anesthesia sitting to hand. I'm standing with my back to him, in front of the curtained window, inspecting the weave of the fabric: an expensive, heavy brocade, quite capable of blacking out whatever lies beyond. I'm wearing a cardigan over a baggy dress I can put on and take off without using my fingertips—I'm still on sick leave.

“I woke up in hospital. Unlike many others.” I shove my gloved hands deeper into my dress's pockets. “Slept again. Woke up once for Bob, told him to take the damned cat. Another time, Jim was there. He wanted to apologize. Said he didn't know about the Freudstein conspiracy. Did you know about him?”

“Let's keep to your story for now.” He's gentle but ruthless. “What else?”

“Well. After three days they let Mhari in to brief me. Or maybe she just walked past the nursing station: it's hard to keep her out of somewhere. She told me about Jim's call. She told me what Jim told her, about Assistant Commissioner Stanwick's operation—”

“
Ex
–Assistant Commissioner Stanwick,” he interrupts. “I'm sorry, please continue.”

“Operation Freudstein was the Met's official undercover operation to justify their acquisition of unlimited powers under the Civil Contingencies Act for policing supernormal powers. Coordinating with like-minded chief constables in other forces, with a nod and a wink from the Home Office, although I think the HomeSec was careful to ensure that she wasn't personally briefed on exactly what they were doing.
We
were set up to fail, thereby demonstrating that an agency with
our
background couldn't possibly do the job. Incidentally, if I were you, I'd be really worried about that. Someone in HMG really doesn't love us and want us to be happy—”

I take a deep breath, then turn round and stare at Dr. Armstrong. He nods mildly, looking utterly unperturbed.

“I lost an irreplaceable asset—the violin,” I remind him. I wish he'd be angry, so I could be angry right back at him. “I trusted a man who was planted on me as a spy.” And I nearly allowed it to become a personal betrayal: but the SA doesn't need to know about that side of things. “I failed to stop Stanwick subverting the geas in my oath of office, and as a result, I failed to prevent a horrific civilian mass fatality—” The death toll at the Royal Albert Hall was lower than I feared at the time, but still well over two thousand. It made news headlines around the world: blaming it on a deranged supervillain seems somehow inadequate. National trauma ensued: there's popular support for Parliament banning all superpowers, and who could blame them? Even if we know it's really not possible, any more than a law banning drowning would prevent riptides. “The spin-out organization I set up is almost certainly going to be wound up, or in-sourced within the Met as part of the Specialist Operations
Directorate, once they finish cleaning house. Oh, and if I'm really lucky, I may regain enough sensation in my fingertips to play the violin again some day.” I allow some tension to creep into my voice as I get to that part. My fingers still ache dully, four weeks later: my pain control consultant is gradually tapering off the opiates.

“Sit down, please, Dr. O'Brien.” He gestures at the padded armchair alongside the desk. “What do you expect me to say?”

“I expect you to say you're sorry,” I say coldly.

“Well, yes, and you may take that as a given.” He glances away, as if embarrassed. I take
that
as my cue to sit down. “Do you understand why—”

“Yes.”

“But you—”

“You knew what it would do to me.” He knows about my trust issues. He knows what happened last time someone used me as bait in a trap. Chewed up and spat out, damaged goods. “I know you thought the ends justified the means in this case, Michael. And I can't refute your case. That a major ministry was trying to colonize our turf, using recklessly inappropriate methods. That a very senior police officer was, with approval from the top table, running a rogue paranormal operation. That they'd gotten delusions of omniscience and decided that
their
ends justified
their
chosen means, regardless of collateral damage, including nearly summoning the King in Yellow. Oh, and they were working with a senior police liaison organization known for having employed covert intelligence assets to infiltrate other groups—admittedly this was at a rather higher level than the usual run of the mill Forward Intelligence Team asset. And Jim wasn't exactly
hiding
the fact that he was a cop, was he? Nevertheless.”

I chew my lower lip as he looks at me. The next sentence will be the hardest.

“I want to tender my resignation,” I say, very careful to keep my voice as even as possible. “Effective immediately.” Then I cross my arms and wait.

“Um.” Dr. Armstrong slides his half-moon glasses off and fumbles on his desk for a cloth. “Excuse me?”

“I want to quit,” I explain. “It's too much. I can't. Can't do it. Anymore.” My throat doesn't want to obey me. “Every time I go back and try harder it gets worse. It's eaten my life and my friends and my marriage and my hands. And I'm not making things any better.” I sniff. I am determined not to cry, but my control is wearing thin.

The SA finishes polishing his glasses and puts them back on, then peers at me over their rims. “Have you ever had a nervous breakdown before, Mo?”

“I have never—!”

“No? I should think not.” He glances at a paper file on his blotter, then reaches into a recess in his desk and pulls out a bottle and an empty glass. “Will you at least join me in a glass?”

“I—I—” I stare at the bottle. I don't know what to say, but I shudder violently, and he seems to mistake it for a nod.

“You've been driving towards the precipice for the past eighteen months,” he says as matter-of-factly as if he's discussing the weather, while he pours me a glass of Laphroaig. “To be honest I wasn't sure you'd make it this far: you've been burning the candle at both ends for too long.” He nudges the tumbler towards me. It's so full it nearly slops over. “Cheers.”

“Cheers—” The whisky is a decent enough single malt, but my sinuses are so clogged with unshed tears that all I can taste is fire water and wood smoke. “What?”

“Nervous breakdowns,” he says, very seriously, “have a lot in common with acute PTSD. You've been courting it for a while: relationship trouble, overwork, burn-out, sleep deprivation, acute stress, and the added burden of”—he swallows—“carrying the white instrument. That's how almost all of us get out of it, incidentally: the violin bleeds you until you can't handle it anymore. Got out of it, I should say.”

“But it's gone!” I raise my voice. “I lost it!”

“No, Dr. O'Brien,
your team
made a joint determination that it had become dangerously unstable and decommissioned it before it
could kill any more civilians. It nearly killed you, in case you've forgotten? It overpowered
you
, the second-longest standing bearer, the only one to have custody of it during the active conjunction of CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN.”

“Who was the longest-standing bearer?” I ask before I can stifle my morbid curiosity. “And what happened to him or her?”

“Judy Carroll carried the violin for nine years, back in the 1980s and early 1990s.” I nearly spit single malt across the room: Grandmotherly Dr. Carroll, in her twinset and pearls? “Back before the unfortunate incident at Dansey House she and I were discussing what to do with the instrument when you could no longer carry it. We had already determined that there were no suitable candidate successors; I believe our biggest dilemma was how to decommission it safely, without provoking an incident along the lines that eventuated at the Albert Hall.”

“Well.” I swallow. “I still want to resign.”

“I know you do.” Dr. Armstrong sips his whisky and frowns at some passing thought as he watches me. “Naturally enough: you feel betrayed and let down right now. And I can't say you're unjustified. You're right about your organization, by the way: I gather they're already opening up a slot on the org chart at the Yard, tentatively labelled SCO20—serious paranormal crime. They'll purge the management team except for Jim Grey, and keep the rank and file on as cadre for the new unit. But that need not concern you.”

“The HomeSec probably wants my head on a plate,” I mumble.

“She's not getting it.” He leans forward. “Oh, she may have to receive your written pro forma resignation, but that's not the same
at all
.”

“I told you, I want to quit.”

“Yes well, we can't always get what we want, can we, Mo?”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“It's supposed to mean that we owe you a lengthy stretch of sick leave while you get your head back together. We also owe you a promotion and a performance bonus, or as much of one as we can scrape together—this isn't the private sector, alas, or you'd be down at Earl's
Court pricing up your next luxury yacht. And if it will set your mind at ease, we
won't
be putting you back into field operations as Agent CANDID, or anything remotely similar. There's a statute of limitations on field ops, and eight years of carrying the bone violin means you're fully paid up: after you come back, you won't be punching tentacle monsters anymore.

“But that doesn't mean the organization is through with you. Quite the contrary, in fact.” His smile is avuncular, warm, friendly, and utterly terrifying. “Your attempt to resign while in the grip of an acute stress reaction is noted and declined. Go home, Mo. Play with the cat, write up your report, take a break. Now that the white violin is out of the picture, why don't you see if you can sort things out with your husband? Take a month; take two.

“But sooner or later you'll feel better, and when that happens, you should drop in and see me. There are a lot of things we need to talk about, once you've calmed down and regained your center. For one thing, Judith's seat on the Board of Auditors is waiting for you. And for another, you know what they say about the traditional reward for a job well done . . .”

*
Lecter is not my violin's true name. I am not going to tell you its true name, because the aphorism “true names have power,” while technically correct, is wildly misleading, and not in a good way. In the case of my violin, Lecter becomes aware of everyone who knows its true name, and sometimes takes an interest. And you
really
do not want Lecter to take an interest in you.

*
Yes, there
will
be an exam afterwards.

*
The UK rates a BLUE HADES embassy by virtue of historic precedent; having once been the world's pre-eminent naval power, we are now the subject of their ongoing interest. And wish we weren't.

*
Not that I'm wearing one. Little Ms. Dowdy, like I said.

*
Laundry warrant cards have this power: in addition to identifying the holder, they carry a powerful geas that enables the holder—as long as they're on official business—to convince any other servant of Her Majesty's Government that you're a superior.
^†

^†
Don't try this on the Prime Minister. Or the Queen.

*
Actually, such tabloid caricatures are rather poor representations of the reality; they're all charming, personable, extremely sharp individuals who are terrifyingly well-informed about the workings of their departments. You don't get to the top table of a government—any government—without being an overachiever. This doesn't mean I'd vote (or not vote) for them; as ministers it's their duty to toe the line with respect to the governing party's policy platform, and I'm not the kind of girl who'll vote for a friendly dude I'd like to share a beer with if I happen to suspect that he'd quite like to invade Poland. But I find it faintly reassuring to confirm that, however misguided I might privately think some of our government's policies might be, at least they are being executed with enthusiasm and zeal by first-class overachievers. Because it beats the alternative.

*
The next stop out from Barking on the District Line: as in, Barking Mad.

*
Named for Sir Robert Peel, who laid down the principles of modern policing by consent and founded the Metropolitan Police.

*
The Laundry operates in a gray area, but some parts of the regular government machinery have to be directly aware of us—bits of the Ministry of Defense, some police officers, units within the Home Office. And others have to be pre-vetted so that in event of a crisis they can be briefed immediately. Normally, anyone who doesn't have need to know is kept in the dark, unless and until their NTK status changes. We do
not
, for example, generally stand up and give briefings in front of Commons Select Committees or the assembled Home Office Ministers. But any politician who makes it to the rank of Secretary of State for the Home Department is cleared before they get there, because they may suddenly develop need to know at very short notice. As Jessica Greene is about to learn . . .

*
We're British, dammit, we have an ISO-standard national sense of humor. Some jobsworth will doubtless change the organization's title when it goes before a Home Office subcommittee for approval, but in the meantime, we brew up strong.