The Annihilation Score by Charles Stross Read Free Book Online

wardrobe, carefully draw a basic containment ward around the lock using my conductive Sharpie, then take the key downstairs and put it inside the ceramic jar of pre-ground coffee. Bob carefully left an old crowbar under the bed some years ago, just in case, so in event of a
real
emergency I can get to the violin without going downstairs . . . but I’d rather not make it too easy. I’m not a sleepwalker, but there’s always a first time. Finally, I use the bathroom, then lock myself in the bedroom, plug in my phone, and set an alarm for noon.
    And so to bed, perchance to sleep like a log. And, by some miracle, Lecter leaves me alone.
    *   *   *
    Unfortunately I do not get my full lie-in.
    I vaguely register confused sensations of a furry face pushing against my head, but I grew up in a house with cats and I can ignore Spooky ruthlessly, even in my sleep. But an hour before my alarm call—at about ten to eleven—my ears register the distant ringing of the work telephone in the kitchen. I’m asleep when it rings the first time, but by the second I am on my feet, and by the third I walk straight into the closed-and-locked bedroom door. Swearing ensues.
    It takes me eleven rings—six more than usual—to get to the phone, and I pick it up bleary-eyed and panting. “Yes?” I gasp, certain that something is
wrong
—then I realize what it is: Bob would normally have answered the phone because he sleeps on the side of the bed nearest the door.
    â€œOps desk. Is that Agent Candid?”
    Two calls in twelve hours.
“Yes,” I admit, and authenticate myself. “What is it?”
    â€œSorry to bother you after last night, but we have a”—the DO sounds reticent, which is just plain
wrong
—“peculiar situation emerging. How soon can you get to Trafalgar Square? With your instrument?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œWe want you to busk.”
    Flummoxed is my middle name. “You want me to busk why, precisely? In Trafalgar Square? Don’t you need a license to—”
    â€œThe police will cover for you. Um, it would be best if you dressed casual—a mature student out having fun, something like that.”
    My mouth flaps uselessly as I try to process this vexing—not to say patronizing—instruction. I don’t know how to explain to the DO that most music students aren’t in their early forties: Maybe I just look young for my age? I sigh. “I’ll give it a try. What’s the plan?”
    â€œThere’s a developing situation on the Fourth Plinth, and we need someone to keep an eye on it who isn’t going to draw attention and who is equipped to intervene if it escalates. All our reserves are committed after last night, so, um, I know this sounds bad, but when I say we’re scraping the barrel I mean we’re totally overcommitted andrunning on 120 percent and we didn’t want to disturb you but we’re entirely out of unobtrusive assets . . .”
    Suddenly it clicks. “You want me because I’m socially invisible.”
    â€œYou could put it like that: personally I’d rather not, but Colonel Lockhart said you’d understand?” He ends on a whimper blue-shifting into a whine, and so he should. The landline phone is a 1940s-era Bakelite-and-steel assembly. If it was made of flimsy modern plastics my death-grip would be crumbling it to splinters at this point.
    â€œI’ll be there in an hour,” I snarl, then slam the receiver down so hard that it bounces.
    The Laundry is, regrettably, top-heavy with men of a certain age. Institutional culture propagates down the decades, and however much we may want change, change takes time. As it happens, the Laundry is a lot better today than it was when I was sucked into the machinery a decade ago. We’re part of the civil service, and we’re required to follow anti-discrimination law to the letter: