The Rook: A Novel
Page 52
“Dead,” he repeated again quietly. Myfanwy nodded silently. “Still perhaps it is better this way,” he said, sighing. “Gerd would have had problems adjusting to the new situation. He had problems adjusting to lots of things of late.”
Including the idea of a traceable fax line, thought Myfanwy irreverently and then tried to quash the thought as unworthy.
“Graaf von Suchtlen, I’m not empowered to effect a merger between our organizations,” said Myfanwy gently. “You understand, it will have to be presented to the entire Court.” He nodded. “And of course, the Croatoan will need to be involved. Speaking of which, what were your intentions regarding the Americans? Why did you have agents there?” Von Suchtlen looked confused and shook his head helplessly.
“A Grafter operative was captured in Los Angeles,” Myfanwy explained.
“Ah, it looks as if Gerd enacted one of our contingency gambits,” he said. “If the Checquy were to become aware of our presence in Britain, we would allow one of our more expendable operatives to be discovered in the United States. This would be a red herring to distract the Croatoan and ensure that they did not provide inconvenient reinforcements to the Checquy.”
“Huh,” said Myfanwy. “You said the activation of the mold factory in Bath was another of your contingency plans? What about the flesh-cubey guy in Reading?”
“Not one of mine,” said the Belgian, puzzled. “It sounds as if Gerd was doing a bit of improvising.” Myfanwy looked at him closely, then shrugged.
I don’t buy it, she thought, but this guy had to have known that activating those plans would have prevented the possibility of any compromises. I’ll bet his skinless cousin took a project that was supposed to be a last option and tried to use it as a first strike.
“Well, as I said, negotiations cannot begin until all the relevant parties are gathered. Still, I’m interested in hearing some of your proposed terms. Are you hungry? I’m always terribly grouchy when I’ve just woken up, and you’ve been growing in a refrigerator for several months.”
“I would like a cup of coffee,” confessed the Belgian.
“The kitchens are closed for another few hours,” said Myfanwy, “and the office machine is broken. In my residence I have a coffee machine that is exceptionally complicated, but I’m sure I can figure it out. How do you take it?” Myfanwy stood up and moved toward the portrait of Grantchester. The eyes of the portrait caught her gaze. I suppose somebody will say that we should remove that, she thought.
“Black with sugar, please,” said the Grafter, shifting to get out of his seat.
“Please don’t get up,” said Myfanwy hurriedly. At least not until I get you a robe, she thought ruefully, and with perhaps a twinge of regret.
He was, after all, exceptionally attractive.
42
Monica Jarvis-Reed sat, cross-legged, on thin air. She sipped from a juice box and drank in the view of the deserted Italian beach below her. Sapphire waves stretched on for miles, crested into white, and then washed onto the sand. The bay was small, with cliffs arching up at the sides and olive-green shrubs drawing a perfect line around the sand. The sun was bright even through her sunglasses, and she was glad that she’d worn a long-sleeved shirt and trousers. Monica lifted a pair of high-powered binoculars from the strap around her neck and peered down as a tall figure in a swimsuit wove through the shrubs and made its way to the lonely beach chair on the sand. She pulled a satellite phone from its clip on her belt and put the phone to her ear.
“Signal?” she said.
“Standing by with bated breath” came a bored voice.
“It’s him. He’s wearing that smirk. And far too brief a swimsuit. Plus, I saw a small puff of smoke when he sat down.”
“Well, my darling, biometrics from the satellite verify your findings” came the amused answer. “It’s our wayward Bishop. Confirmed.”
“Okay,” said Monica. “Patch me through to Rook Thomas.”
That’s brilliant,” said Myfanwy. “Yes, please go ahead and take care of that. And then enjoy the rest of your week in Italy. Yeah, thanks, Monica.” She hung up the phone and turned her attention back to the coffee.
“So if it wasn’t an abusive boyfriend, then what happened to your eyes?” asked Bronwyn curiously. Myfanwy kept her gaze down and continued pouring coffee into three mugs. She added sugar to two of the mugs and milk to one.
“Airbag,” said Myfanwy, handing one mug to her sister. She picked the other two up and walked into the living room, where Shantay was lounging on the sofa reading a magazine. The American Bishop had arrived in England three days earlier, accompanied by a Rook of Comanche descent and a cohort of lawyers to help negotiate the terms of the merger.
Shantay accepted the coffee gratefully and pulled her legs up to allow Myfanwy to sit on the couch. Bronwyn sat down in a chair and lifted Wolfgang onto her lap.
“Airbag?” she repeated.
“I was in a car accident,” said Myfanwy. “Passenger seat. We got rear-ended, the airbag unfurled, and it hit me in the face.”
Shantay rolled her eyes behind her magazine.
“Ouch,” Bronwyn said, wincing. “When did this happen?”
“The day after we went out partying.”
“Didn’t your two black eyes cause any problems during your business meetings?”
“There were some embarrassed stares,” said Shantay, “but your sister is so important that no one was brave enough to ask any questions.”
“Plus makeup,” said Myfanwy.
“Plus that,” conceded Shantay.
“And the whole merger thing is going to work out okay?” asked Bronwyn languidly, stroking Wolfgang just behind the ears. It was clear she didn’t have any real interest but cared that it was a big deal to her sister. Shantay looked at Myfanwy and raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah,” sighed Myfanwy. “Of course, the details are going to take months to hammer out. There will be lawyers squabbling, and compromises, and arguments. They’ll be too proud to agree to some of our terms, and we’ll be too untrusting to agree to some of theirs, but in the end it will all work out.” And it will, she thought. We’ll bind them with contracts and oaths and promises of full disclosure. You keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and the Grafters are both.
In the meantime, we’ll be raising up a new Rook, a new Chev, and a new Bishop, and I’m determined to put a few non-powered people onto the Court. And a couple more women. Farrier keeps dropping hints that she wants me as the new Bishop, which is insane. Although…
Of course, there will be the typical day-to-day weird happenings around the world that we need to tend to. But with the help of the Grafters we’ll be able to do a better job.
“Well, that’s nice,” said Bronwyn distractedly.
“Yeah, it’s pretty satisfying,” agreed Myfanwy.
“And Jonathan will be back in two days,” said her sister. “You’ll finally be able to see him after, what? Twenty-two years!”
“That’ll be great,” said Myfanwy with a smile. “A brother. A family. A job. A rabbit. It’s a pretty good life I lucked into, really.”
“Yeah, now all you need is a boyfriend,” said Shantay dryly.
“Ms. Thomas, did you want this business card?” asked Val, coming in carrying a basketful of laundry. “It says ‘Call me if you fancy that drink’ on the back.”
“Where did it come from?” asked Myfanwy.
“I found it in the pocket of this heavily stained men’s business shirt,” sniffed Val.
43
Dear You,
I thought that I would scribble you one final note before I took my last set of letters to the bank in the morning. It’s late now, and I am at home, sitting on my couch, with my rabbit nestled against my feet. It’s snowing outside, but there’s a fire going, and it’s cozy in here. It’s safe and warm, and I’m finding it hard to stay awake. But I want to write these things down—for you and for me.
It’s been a long day with no
startling revelations or bizarre occurrences (which is kind of bizarre in itself). I had no time to do any detective work—just the day-to-day duties of being me. During my lunch hour, I went to the Rookery infirmary and had a quick checkup. I want to leave you a relatively fit body to inherit.
I want to leave you with as much as I possibly can.
It’s so easy to despair. I know that I have no choice in what’s coming, and for me it’s not a matter of faith or fatalism. It’s simply knowledge. I guess you could say this means there’s no free will, but in writing these letters, I like to think that I’m making my own choices. And besides, free will has never been something I had too much of in this life. I’m grateful for whatever I can get.
In the back of my mind, there’s the knowledge that you might choose the other option, use the other key, and go off to build your own life. I couldn’t blame you if you did. Of course, it means that all the work I’m doing now, all the preparations and letters, are mostly for nothing. But they’re there for you if you want them.
In the end, no matter what choice you make, I hope you can be happy. I don’t know what kind of person you are or what you’ll do, but I’ve written dozens of letters to you, and I find myself caring desperately. You don’t exist yet, but you’re my sister (identical!). You’re my daughter. You’re my family. Maybe you’ll be Myfanwy Thomas, or maybe you’ll pick yourself a new name and never think of me. But no matter what life you choose, know that I think of you and pray that everything works out for you and that you have the very best life you can.
Love, always,
Me
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Oh boy. There are so many people to thank. And, inevitably, I will forget someone.
Firstly, my early readers, compassionate and insightful, who consented to go through The Rook when it had a different name, then gave thoughtful and merciful feedback.
The staff of the Foundry, who have been so helpful and welcoming. Cecilia Campbell-Westlind, Kendra Jenkins, and Hannah Gordon, especially, endured several thousand ludicrous questions from me, and still resisted the urge to have me assassinated.
My copyeditor, the eagle-eyed yet astoundingly tactful Tracy Roe, who gently pointed out that I have been misusing hyphens my entire life.
Stéphanie Abou, foreign-rights agent and international woman of mystery.
Jerry Kalajian, my ambassador to the West Coast.
My editrix, the glorious Asya Muchnick, whose work and belief were invaluable and who made this story so much better. She was willing to engage in long and entertaining debates about the most incidental of points, such as what color of fungus was funnier. And her colleagues at Little, Brown, whose efforts have made all the difference.
The incomparable Mollie Glick, queen of agents, she of the diplomatic tongue and the razor mind. I am so fortunate to have a friend as enthusiastic, encouraging, and wise as she.
My dad, Bill O’Malley, the font of all knowledge, who was willing to answer spontaneous questions about a multitude of topics, ranging from the etiquette of government reports to how best to dispose of a duck that can tell the future.
And finally, my mom, Jeanne O’Malley, who really made it all happen. She comforted me from the other side of the planet when I called, utterly distraught because my aging computer had eaten the first two hundred pages of this novel. She congratulated me twenty-four hours later when I found a backup copy hidden in the bowels of the hard drive. (People, I implore you, back stuff up! The novel you save may just be your own.) My mom was the first to read the book, and she pronounced it good. She believed in it, and in me, and it was she who urged me to get an agent and then helped me find one. (The perfect one!) My mom gave me invaluable advice on how to proceed at every step of the way. She always thought big, and it is because of her that you are holding this book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANIEL O’MALLEY graduated from Michigan State University and earned a master’s degree in medieval history from Ohio State University. He then returned to his childhood home, Australia, where he manages media relations for the Australian Transport Safety Bureau, the agency that investigates plane crashes and runaway boats.
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2012 by Daniel O’Malley
Cover design by Lindsey Andrews. Cover art credits: octopus © Imagezoo/Getty images; lion © Jim Snyder/iStock Vectors/Getty Images; teapot, rabbit, and crown © Shutterstock images. Cover copyright © 2012 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First e-book edition: January 2012
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ISBN 978-0-316-19327-6