Read Online Clan Corporate by Charles Stross - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Stross
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and lay back as the attendant closed the door, checked to see that everyone was strapped in, and ducked inside the cockpit for a quiet conference. The plane began to taxi, louder than any airliner he’d been on in years. Minutes later they were airborne, climbing steeply into the evening sky. In all, just over an hour had elapsed since he answered the phone.
The seat belt lights barely had time to blink out before the woman was on her feet, her back to the cockpit door, facing Mike and Pete. (A couple of the other guys had to crane their heads round to see her.) “Okay, you’re wondering where you’re going and why,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to a small field in Maryland. From there you’re going by bus to a secure office in Fort Meade where we wait for another planeload of agents to converge from the left coast. Refreshments will be served,” she added dryly, “although I can’t tell you just why you’re needed at this meeting because our hosts haven’t told me.”
One of the other passengers, a black man with the build of a middleweight boxer, frowned. “Can you tell us who you are?” he asked in a deep voice. “Or is that secret, too?”
“Sure. I’m Judith Herz. Boston headquarters staff, FBI, agent responsible for ANSIR coordination. If you guys want to identify yourselves, be my guest.”
“I’m Bob Patterson,” said the black man, after a momentary pause. “I work for DOE,” he added, in tones that said and I can’t tell you any more than that.
“Rich Wall, FBI.” The thin guy with curly brown hair and a neat goatee flashed a brief grin at Herz. Undercover? Mike wondered. Or specialist? He didn’t look like a special agent, that was for sure, not wearing combat pants and a nose-stud.
“Mike Fleming and Pete Garfinkle, Drug Enforcement Agency, Boston SpecOps division,” Mike volunteered.
They all turned to face the last passenger, a portly middle-aged guy with a bushy beard and a florid complexion who wore a pin-striped suit. “Hey, don’t all look at me!” he protested. “Name’s Frank Milford, County Surveyor’s Office.” A worried frown crossed his face. “Just what is this, anyway? There’s got to be some mistake, here. I don’t belong-”
“We’ll see,” said Herz. Mike looked at her sharply. Five assorted cops and spooks, and a guy from the County Surveyor’s Office? What in hell’s name is going on here? “I’m sure all will be revealed when we arrive.”
A minivan with a close-lipped driver met them at the airport. At first it had looked as if he was heading for Baltimore, but then they turned off the parkway, taking an unmarked feeder road that twisted behind a wooded berm and around a slalom course of huge stone blocks, razor-wire fences, and a gauntlet of surveillance cameras on masts. They came to a halt in front of a gatehouse set in a high fence surrounding a complex so vast that Mike couldn’t take it in. Members of a municipal police force he’d never heard of carefully checked everyone’s ID against a prepared list, then issued red-bordered ID badges with the letters PV emblazoned on them. Then the van drove on. The compound was so big there were road signs inside it-and three more checkpoints to stop and present ID at before they finally drew up outside an enormous black glass tower block. “Follow me, and do exactly as I say,” their driver told them. The entrance was a separate building, with secured turnstiles and guards who watched inscrutably as Mike followed his temporary companions along a passageway and then out into a huge atrium, dominated by a black marble slab bearing a coat of arms in a golden triangle.
“I’ve read about this place,” Pete muttered in a slightly overawed tone.
“So when do you think they bring out the dancing girls?” Mike replied.
“When-” Lift doors opened and closed. Pete caught Herz watching him and clammed up.
“Rule one: no questions,” Herz told him, when she was sure
The seat belt lights barely had time to blink out before the woman was on her feet, her back to the cockpit door, facing Mike and Pete. (A couple of the other guys had to crane their heads round to see her.) “Okay, you’re wondering where you’re going and why,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’re going to a small field in Maryland. From there you’re going by bus to a secure office in Fort Meade where we wait for another planeload of agents to converge from the left coast. Refreshments will be served,” she added dryly, “although I can’t tell you just why you’re needed at this meeting because our hosts haven’t told me.”
One of the other passengers, a black man with the build of a middleweight boxer, frowned. “Can you tell us who you are?” he asked in a deep voice. “Or is that secret, too?”
“Sure. I’m Judith Herz. Boston headquarters staff, FBI, agent responsible for ANSIR coordination. If you guys want to identify yourselves, be my guest.”
“I’m Bob Patterson,” said the black man, after a momentary pause. “I work for DOE,” he added, in tones that said and I can’t tell you any more than that.
“Rich Wall, FBI.” The thin guy with curly brown hair and a neat goatee flashed a brief grin at Herz. Undercover? Mike wondered. Or specialist? He didn’t look like a special agent, that was for sure, not wearing combat pants and a nose-stud.
“Mike Fleming and Pete Garfinkle, Drug Enforcement Agency, Boston SpecOps division,” Mike volunteered.
They all turned to face the last passenger, a portly middle-aged guy with a bushy beard and a florid complexion who wore a pin-striped suit. “Hey, don’t all look at me!” he protested. “Name’s Frank Milford, County Surveyor’s Office.” A worried frown crossed his face. “Just what is this, anyway? There’s got to be some mistake, here. I don’t belong-”
“We’ll see,” said Herz. Mike looked at her sharply. Five assorted cops and spooks, and a guy from the County Surveyor’s Office? What in hell’s name is going on here? “I’m sure all will be revealed when we arrive.”
A minivan with a close-lipped driver met them at the airport. At first it had looked as if he was heading for Baltimore, but then they turned off the parkway, taking an unmarked feeder road that twisted behind a wooded berm and around a slalom course of huge stone blocks, razor-wire fences, and a gauntlet of surveillance cameras on masts. They came to a halt in front of a gatehouse set in a high fence surrounding a complex so vast that Mike couldn’t take it in. Members of a municipal police force he’d never heard of carefully checked everyone’s ID against a prepared list, then issued red-bordered ID badges with the letters PV emblazoned on them. Then the van drove on. The compound was so big there were road signs inside it-and three more checkpoints to stop and present ID at before they finally drew up outside an enormous black glass tower block. “Follow me, and do exactly as I say,” their driver told them. The entrance was a separate building, with secured turnstiles and guards who watched inscrutably as Mike followed his temporary companions along a passageway and then out into a huge atrium, dominated by a black marble slab bearing a coat of arms in a golden triangle.
“I’ve read about this place,” Pete muttered in a slightly overawed tone.
“So when do you think they bring out the dancing girls?” Mike replied.
“When-” Lift doors opened and closed. Pete caught Herz watching him and clammed up.
“Rule one: no questions,” Herz told him, when she was sure
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