Charles Stross - Halting State

Margaret is studying Jack as if he’s your pet sheep-dog and she’s just caught him reciting Shakespearean sonnets. At least you’re off the hook. “No, no questions,” she says thoughtfully. She looks at Brendan. “When can we get access?”

“I’ve asked London to try to get someone to talk to the police.” He drives a piece of bruschetta around his plate in pursuit of a puddle of olive oil. “Hopefully, tomorrow morning if we can just get through to this Inspector Kavanaugh’s boss.”

“Right.” Chris leans back in his chair and smiles lopsidedly. “We’ll have to wait on it, then. Meanwhile, here’s something for you all to bear in mind. If it turns out that Nigel MacDonald was working on his own, or with an external partner, but essentially trying to rip his employer—then we’re off the hook. The HA business plan is exonerated, our remit doesn’t include criminal background checks on junior employees, and we’re out of here. On the other hand, if there’s evidence pointing to a member of the board, we’re still potentially in trouble. So we have a good idea what we’re looking for, don’t we?”

You nod, even though you’ve got a nagging feeling that this doesn’t entirely add up. Does Chris have some kind of hidden agenda here? But then he takes a sip of water and continues.

“Whatever the cause, though, we need to know enough about what happened, and how, to ensure it doesn’t bite us again. So, Elaine, finding out what actually happened is still your absolute priority, while the rest of us make sure it was just a rogue employee.”

Oh, now you get it. Chris is setting up to pull everyone else out, just as soon as he’s confirmed that none of Hayek Associates’ board were in on the robbery. You’re going to get left with the clean-up, and doubtless he’ll cut a deal to subcontract your services out to Hayek’s insurers, or maybe even the local cops, for a tidy sum. Stitch-up. You’re going to be stuck up here in Edinburgh hunting needles in virtual haystacks while Chris and Margaret go home, announce the job’s all done, and move on to the next project. Lovely!

After the meal, there’s a general drift towards the hotel bar, where Chris has announced his intention of buying a round. It’s the usual team-building thing, and it’s the last thing you feel like taking part in, constructive attitude or no. But Margaret corners you in the lobby, all the same. “I hope you don’t think you’re being singled out for something bad,” she says, a calculating light in her eyes. “It’s not like that at all. Chris got word from above that he’s wanted down south, and I agreed that we need someone with a steady hand to tidy this up, and we really need to get back to London before Avixa or GenState notice we’re gone. Chris trusts you; otherwise, he wouldn’t have put it in your hands.”

You manage to force yourself to smile. Okay, so it is a stitch-up. You don’t score points inside DBA for being the lone gun on a trouble-shooting mission, out in the cold where nobody can see you. “That’s perfectly alright, Margaret. Chris was completely clear on what he wanted. I’ll see it gets done.”

“Good. Between you and me, Chris misread this situation, and he knows it. Unless it turns out that we’re all in the shit together, Chris overreacted massively. I think the stress of juggling six cat-A clients simultaneously may be getting to him.” That’s enough to make you raise an eyebrow, and you file it away for future reference: Normally even full partners don’t handle more than two or three cat-A’s at once, plus a handful of smaller jobs.

Margaret glances across the lobby. “That native guide of yours. Doesn’t look like much, but that was a very slick line of bullshit he sold us.”

“It wasn’t bullshit,” you say defensively. “He’s from the games industry. He probably bought that suit this morning, but he knows his own field like the back of his hand—what did you expect?”

“Not that.” She smiles unexpectedly. “Good luck with your insider hunt. And don’t let the natives pull any wool over your eyes.” She turns and stalks off in search of other minions to intimidate, leaving you flexing your fingers and trying to decide whether you want to strangle her or go down on your knees and beg for lessons.

Right now, you don’t much feel like going along with Chris and the gang and making nicey-nicey. Then you spot Jack across the lobby. He’s dithering around the doorway. You move to intercept him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He looks uncertain. “I was just heading off.” He looks like an overgrown kid who’s been caught not doing his homework.

For a split second you teeter on the cusp of a choice. You have two options: Do you tell him “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and go back to your hotel bedroom to watch downloads and brood? Or do you take him in hand, and say, “The evening’s young, and I need to get out of here for a bit. Fancy a glass of wine?”

Mm, decisions.

“I need to get away from work for a bit. Do you know any good wine bars at this end of town?” A moment later you kick yourself: What if he thinks it’s a come-on? But Jack is timid, and well trained or sufficiently domesticated to simply nod.

“Beats doing the ironing.” He smiles to show he’s just kidding about comparing you to a pile of rumpled shirts.

“Well, cool.” He holds the door open, then heads off down the street. It’s late enough that the sun’s low and dazzling, forcing you to keep your eyes down rather than goggling at the insane architecture.

“Have you been to Edinburgh before?”

“No. This is my first time in Scotland.” There’s a shop window full of garish tartans and a discount book-shop with a window full of those blue-on-white Scottish flags. They’re big on flags here, almost as big as the Americans: something to do with their new franchise independence, probably. As long as they keep voting the British federal line in Brussels, that’s all the English establishment want: But perhaps things look different from this side of the frontier. “Where are we?”

“This is the West End of the New Town, so-called because they only built it about two hundred and fifty years ago. It’s a world heritage site, hence the manky stonework that keeps falling off the buildings and crushing tourists.” He glances at you swiftly. “Not often, you’ll be pleased to know.” He’s got his glasses on, and they’re lit up, washing the whites of his eyes in kaleidoscope colours.

“I’m reassured. Hey, we’re out of the office. This isn’t billable, you don’t have to keep working.”

He looks startled. “What, my glasses? No, I was just checking the eating-out guide.”

“I thought you lived here?”

“Yeah, but.” You come to a corner and he pauses, waiting for the traffic lights to change. “Wine bars aren’t my usual scene.”

“Oh, it doesn’t need to be a posh wine bar. Anywhere that’s not the hotel bar will do right now—I just wanted to get away.”

He brightens, visibly. “I’m better at pubs.” He pauses as the traffic stops, and the green man lights up. “Um, you seem a little tense.”

“You could say that.” You hurry across the road and realize the house-front you’re walking past is actually a branch of Boots. “I hate that kind of scene. When they break the bad news to you while you’ve got your mouth full, so you can’t tell them exactly what you think.”

“Hmm. It was a stitch-up, then? I’m not used to your kind of work, it sounded like one but I wasn’t sure…”

“Oh, it’s a stitch-up alright.” You take a deep breath. “Nothing to be done about it, I guess. Chris and Margaret are going to take the kiddies home and leave me to sort out everything while they take the credit for it. At least, I think that’s what’s going on—assuming Chris doesn’t have some kind of covert agenda—” You realize you’re babbling at a near stranger and shut up. That’s a bad sign. And your feet are putting you on notice that wearing five-centimetre heels on the Edinburgh streets is probably not a good idea—everywhere seems to be uphill. “Where’s this pub?”