Chapter 7: English Opening

I slept hard, and unfortunately, slept alone. Zephyr had almost all of the shift while I was sleeping. But there would be time for Zephyr and me to continue exploring whether there was something solid between us.

Or else there wouldn’t be. If I wanted any kind of future, I needed to get through this mission first. I focused on that.

Once I was up, I spent more time in the simulator trying out some additional ideas, and did further research on “Anthony St. Claire” through our tap into the Matrix. Beyond that, I simply got myself mentally prepared for my meeting with the person I knew as “Cleo.” The time passed extremely quickly.

Hermes accompanied me as far as the stockroom. This was our own virtual construct, similar to the sims, but we used it to create items that we could take in with us, employing the same hack that we used to jack ourselves into the Matrix.

Zephyr was acting as control, so he keyed up some clothing racks as soon as Hermes and I were in. The dark track suit that seemed to be the default attire of my “residual self image” in the Matrix would not do for a foray into a centuries’ old pub in the heart of London's financial district.

I looked at the offerings and shook my head. “A bit too Wall Street, Zephyr. Cleo knows I do something in IT. And I’m American, so she won’t expect European style sense. Or even British style sense.”

Hermes snorted.

I thought for a minute. “Let’s have some nice blue jeans. Dress shirts with stripes or maybe checks, and button-down collars. And a navy-blue blazer. No ties.”

“Blue jeans?” Hermes looked quizzical. “Aren’t you pretending to be in the City for a conference?”

I nodded. “Yeah. The blazer’s kind of conservative; the jeans are a bit of a counterbalance. IT folks are often even less formal. It’s kind of a way to rub our corporate masters’ noses in the fact that we’re indispensable.”

I was suddenly surrounded by racks of the items I’d requested, and made my choices quickly. Zephyr had thoughtfully included some sundries as well — shoes, socks, belts, wallets, watches. I passed on the latter item. Most people in my office just relied on their cell phones for the time; I hadn’t worn a watch in years.

Next came the dodgier part, since it was flat out illegal where I was going. “Guns. I need . . . .” I thought for a minute. “The Barretta 92SB-F. Two of them. With spare magazines.”

Hermes nodded approvingly. “Dakota told me to remind you to bring a knife.”

“Right. Let me have a folding Paranza Corta stiletto as well.”

A table appeared with all the hardware I had requested. Normally it’d weigh too much . . . but those are rules we can bend in the Matrix.

Hermes looked thoughtful. “You’re going to need to keep all the hardware hidden. Some sort of outer ware, I think.”

I nodded. “Let me play the Yank card again. Give me a duster. Lots of internal straps and pockets.”

It took a few minutes, but I was finally loaded up and ready to go.

Hermes walked around me, checking out the overall look. “Sure you don’t want a ten-gallon hat to go with that?” He was only half joking.

I laughed. “No. On its own, the duster just looks cool and eccentric. Add the hat and I’d look like I was auditioning for a bit-part in Dallas.”

“As you say . . . . Well, you look fine otherwise. Are you ready?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Ready.”

“Zephyr, send her in.”

~o~O~o~
The lawyer’s office – “Barrister’s Chambers” seemed like a pretentious description for such a small space – was as empty as it had been in our sim. Nothing else seemed different either, so I exited soundlessly, checking to make sure that the door wasn’t locked when I closed it behind me.

I might be in a hurry when I returned.

Down the hallway. Turn right. Down the stairs. Into the courtyard . . . into the street. A light rain was falling – more of a drizzle, really, but I was glad for my duster. There were people walking along Telegraph, chatting. Relaxed. Umbrellas were up, and not all of them were black.

I did my best to fit in with the crowd, moving at a steady pace. Not rushing; not dawdling. But I wasn’t carrying an umbrella, and I knew that everything about me – my clothes, my walk, even my facial expression – was alerting everyone that I was not one of them.

I heard an older woman’s voice behind me, in conversation with her friend, and caught the word, “Yank.” Old enough to remember when we were overfed, oversexed, and over here, I thought. Assuming, of course, that any of those memories are real.

Moorgate was busy; lots of traffic going both ways. I waited for a minute or so until it was safe to cross.

Great Bell Alley had some pedestrians as well, and people were checking out the packed restaurants through the tall windows that lined the first floor of the building to my right. The noise of the City was all around me. It was subtly different from San Francisco; more different still when I focused on it.

Coleman Street wasn’t nearly as busy as Moorgate had been. I walked right across and stepped into the covered walkway that led to the door to the Old Doctor Butler's Head Pub. I paused in the doorway to adjust my eyes to the light and my ears to the substantial increase in sound.

Everything looked and sounded exactly as we had expected. The pub’s smell had a certain, immediately recognizable odor — old, varnished wood, people packed in a bit tight, and lots and lots of beer.

There was no sign of Cleo, but I had arrived before we thought it likely she might show up. The two men who were at my preferred table looked like they might be finishing up. Rather than standing around like a vulture, I made my way to the bar and ordered myself a pint.

As the bartender went to draw my Bluebird, an older man to my left gave me a smile and said, “You watch yourself with those, mate — they’ve got a touch more punch than a Budweiser!”

I returned his smile. “I can certainly hope!”

“Won’t find any of that gnat’s piss here!” That was from a younger man in a group to my right. Five twenty-somethings, three and two, who had an air of being office mates rather than old friends.

I smiled but offered no response, and I wasn’t sufficiently interesting for him to follow up. Besides, he looked like he was trying to push things with one of the two women in the group.

I sipped my beer in silence, keeping an eye on both the table I wanted and the front door. My mind wandered to the paradox of how the AI would know what a pub that had been around for a few years would smell like. Of course, if the AI didn’t know, it might have given us the wrong memory inputs, so that the smell I associated with an old pub wasn’t what an old pub actually would have smelled like.

It was all too easy to follow that rabbit hole down, and every time I did it got me nowhere.

I looked around instead, taking in the scene. Lots of white men in nice suits, but it wasn’t all male or all white. The City of London was one of the premier centers of international finance – a capital of capital – and the pub was in the middle of all of that.

But while I didn’t see a whole lot of working class patrons, there were plenty like the group to my right who were the sort of climbers you see wherever office buildings congregate. They hadn’t arrived, not by a city mile, but they all aspired to.

I had been in bars that felt like this in San Francisco and LA, New York, Sydney, Rome and Hong Kong. Well . . . there was probably more beer in evidence here. And why not? It has the advantage of being exceptionally good beer.

The young man who’d spoken to me earlier was pushing the pace too fast for the young lady he was pursuing. It was strange to watch from a distance, like an observer at a play. His eagerness and desire were obvious. It was equally clear that she was interested — possibly very interested, even — but found his direct approach distasteful.

Unfortunately, the frustrated and overeager young man caught my sardonic observation. “Just what exactly are you looking at, Yank?”

The last thing I wanted was some sort of scene. I raised my hands placatingly. “Sorry. No offense intended.”

“If you don’t want offence taken, I recommend you mind your own business!”

I took in his flushed face, his loosened tie, his overly aggressive response and his somewhat slurred but still superior public school accent. He’d clearly had a few too many, and might not let me de-escalate all that quickly.

Still, worth a try. “I’ll do that. Thanks.” I looked away, hoping he’d let it go.

“You can apologize to Miss Lattimer, while you’re at it!”

I turned back slowly.

“Miss Lattimer” was certainly looking annoyed, but not at me. “Percy, stop it! Just stop it! You’re being impossible!”

Quite obviously, he was spoiling for a fight and it was too late for his lady friend to dissuade him. I’d need to watch him, and I had other things I should be watching instead.

In the forlorn hope that it might work, I said, “my apologies to you, Miss Lattimer. And to anyone else in your party who I might have inadvertently offended.”

This didn’t appear to mollify “Percy,” but he seemed to be having trouble finding a reason to object to it. Finally, he gave up in disgust. “Americans! You couldn’t even defeat Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia! The country scarcely exists!”

“I don’t recall being at war with them,” I said mildly. “We just sent peace-keeping troops.”

“Imbecile! I’m talking about football! The World Cup! You’ve heard of it, surely?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow it.”

“You probably fancy gridiron! Idiotic game!”

“You’re not pissed again, are you?” It was one of his other friends, or work colleagues. “That’s four times this month.”

“Bugger off, Aubrey, I’m fine!” Percy said heatedly.

Another one of his companions set down his pint with a crack. “Christ, Percy, are you trying to get chucked out of every pub in the Square Mile?”

Miss Lattimer put a hand on his arm. “Come on, let me walk you to the Tube.”

“We just got here!” he replied angrily, shaking off her arm.

“It’s not the minutes, it’s the pints,” said the other woman in the group. “Please, Percy. Why don’t you let Jane walk you out?”

“Because I’m drinking, that’s why! This is a pub, isn’t it? Or has that toad Blair decided to outlaw that, too!” He stepped towards me, his beer sloshing. “And I’m not done talking to our visitor!” He made the last word a sneer.

“Actually, you are.” The voice came from just behind me, and was instantly recognizable, even unmodulated. “On your way, Mr. Mott. We don’t want a scene.”

Percy’s ruddy face blanched. “Sir Anthony! I didn’t see you there!”

“I rather hope you didn’t. Nonetheless . . . .”

“Of course, sir. We were just going. Weren’t we, Jane?” He looked at “Miss Lattimer” pleadingly.

She rolled her eyes, then looked behind me. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Sir Anthony. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he will,” Cleo said behind me. The unstated “he’d better be” was clear enough that even someone as thick as the young man in front of me could scarcely miss it.

I didn’t turn to look until Percy, cowed, had headed for the exit, the rest of his colleagues deciding it was a very good time to leave as well.

Cleo cut a stylish and distinguished appearance as a man. Savile Row tailored suit, conservatively striped tie, snow-white dress shirt with cufflinks in a subdued, lustrous gold. I saw the recognition in her eyes – and the wariness.

I stuck out my hand, playing my Yank card to hopefully diffuse any concerns she might have over being exposed. “I’m Noel Ferguson. Thanks for the timely assist.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Ferguson. One of our — somewhat less dependable — employees, I’m afraid. Legacy hires are more trouble than they’re ever worth.” She reached out to take my hand, giving it a solid single pump. “Anthony St. Claire.” Naturally, she pronounced it “An-tenny Sinclair.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Mr. St. Claire? Seems like the least I can do.”

She hesitated for just a moment before saying, “That would be splendid.” Looking at the bartender, she said, “Good evening, Dick. I don’t suppose you can find us a table in all this?”

“Of course, Sir Anthony,” the man said. “And thank you for sorting that potential unpleasantness just now.”

A quick glance revealed that my preferred table was being bussed as we spoke. “Can we sit there?”

The bartender shot me a strange look. “Certainly, sir. We’ll have it clean in just a moment.” Looking at my companion, he said, “Your usual, Sir Anthony?”

Cleo inclined her head. “Perfect. Thank you, Dick.”

We made our way to the table and took seats opposite each other.

Cleo waited until Dick had brought her drink, took my money and bustled back behind the bar where he belonged. “Noel . . . what are you doing here?”

I’d known this was coming, so my cover story was pat. “I’m in town for a conference and just decided to wander after the session was over.”

“And out of all the gin joints in all the cities in the world, you happened to walk into mine?”

“You own this place?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She didn’t look suspicious, exactly . . . but she didn’t look open or friendly, either. “Quite the evening for coincidences. I go to my regular place, and find both 'Low-Watt Mott'. . . and you.”

“Pretty weird for me, too — although I could have done without meeting your employees.” I leaned forward and spoke more softly, though there was no chance of our being overheard. “Relax. I’m just passing through. I’m not here to cause trouble.” And that’s probably the biggest untruth I’ve uttered so far.

She gave me a long look, then finally smiled. It was a thin smile, but it was at least a start. “Alright. I have to be careful, and I’m sure you do, too. Still . . . it’s good to see you.”

“You, too. You’re well?”

“Business is flourishing,” she responded. “I haven’t seen a market like this in . . . well, ever, really.”

“I know you’re involved in finance of some sort. . . .”

“Investments, dear boy. Investments.”

I waved my hand. “Yeah. Those.”

She chuckled. “You're old enough to have a few – at least, I should hope you do.”

I thought of the substantial stacks of cash I had carefully amassed through my illegal activities. It dwarfed the pedestrian amounts that I had put into the company’s 401-k plan. “A few. Just a few. I ignore them, mostly.”

“You know what they say about a fool and his money, Noel.” She took another sip of her drink, which looked like a gin and tonic.

“Oh, sure. But I’ll be honest, I can’t really imagine retiring. There are never going to be enough IT people – at least, not good ones – to keep up with demand, so I’m set.”

“Yes, you tech types do seem to be on quite the tear just now. Though I’ll have to warn you, the mania for all things technology is starting to feel a bit like budget champagne – all bubble and no bottom, if you follow me.”

I parried easily. “It’s what happens when folks who don’t understand what we do try to put valuations on it. My two cents.” I didn’t care about any of this, of course. But I wanted her to relax, and talking her language might help that.

“Point to you,” she said with a smile. “So you’re doing well, too?”

“I am, though my measuring stick may look different than yours.” I took a long pull of my beer, then set it down. “I can see business is doing well. But how are you . . . ‘Anthony.’”

She looked down, then met my eyes, dropping her default pose of worldliness. “Well enough, ‘Noel.’ It’s hard to take, sometimes. You know that.”

I nodded, remembering. “I sure do.”

Something in her face suggested she wanted to ask something, but thought maybe she shouldn’t.

I waited her out by taking a long, slow sip of bitter. It’s amazing how effective silence can be at getting people to open up.

In the end, she wasn’t able to resist. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jo lately?”

A vision flashed through my mind — Jo’s face, composed and still as shots rang out at her gatehouse and all hell broke loose. Somehow, I managed to both nod and smile. “She’s doing well. Consuela and Lourdes too.” That lie almost choked me; I remembered Consuela’s agonized cries as she knelt over Britt’s lifeless body.

More softly, I added, “You are missed. You know that.”

“I’ve missed them too. Missed all of you. I’ve just been . . . .” She paused, shrugged, and finished. “Well . . . you know.”

“Busy?”

“Quite.” She was quiet for a moment, sipping her drink. Again, she seemed conflicted about whether to let her one-word answer stand. After a readily apparent internal struggle, she said, “Honestly, though, that’s not it. I’ve been trying . . . that is to say, I’ve decided . . . .” She lapsed into silence again.

It was a silence I recognized. I saw the pain in her face. The shame, the anguish and the longing. I knew that look, and I knew those feelings. Deeply, intensely, and very, very personally. My heart ached for her. “Decided to let Cleo go?”

She took a gulp of her drink, then nodded, spasmodically. “Yes. That’s it precisely.”

“You did a full purge?”

“How do you . . . ?”

“Because I’ve done them,” I said abruptly, cutting her off. “Three, four times. Rounding up every stitch of clothing, bagging them. Leaving them in bins, or the trash.”

She sat silent, her eyes boring into me. Finally she sighed. “I assume from your statement that you found the process didn’t achieve the intended result . . . for you.”

I shook my head. “No. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. I can toss clothes until the sun goes nova, but I’m still Noelle.”

“How do you know it’s not just a child’s fancy? A delusion?” Her voice was low; like my own, it was not pitched to carry. A different tone, and the question might have seemed rhetorical, or even derisive. As it was, she was desperately earnest.

“Did it feel like a fantasy to you? Does it feel that way?”

She lowered her eyes, staring down into her almost empty glass. “No,” she whispered.

“Cleo.” My voice barely touched an audible register. “If your heart tells you something, believe it. If the whole world tells you something else, it’s wrong.”

“The whole world wrong? Don’t you see how daft that is?” Somehow, she didn’t sound as convinced as her words implied.

“No. No, I don’t. The place is fairly bursting with idiots. Why listen to them?”

That at least elicited the chuckle that I’d hoped for. “There, you’ve got me. But seriously . . . they can't all be wrong, can they?”

I looked straight into her troubled eyes. “They can, and they are.”

“I wish I shared your certainty. I’d love to believe that the fault is out there, rather than in here.” She pointed to her heart. “Not that there aren’t times . . . .” Again she paused, uncertain whether or how to voice her thought.

“There are times?” I prodded gently.

“I’ll confess, the world does seem off sometimes.”

Promising . . . but I didn’t want to rush things. “Off?”

She stirred the ice in the bottom of her glass and drank whatever liquid was left. “It’s difficult to describe,” she said, sounding uncomfortable. “Just . . . I’ll be at work, and everything will be going swimmingly. And wholly out of the blue, I’ll get the strongest sense that it’s all a mirage. Unreal.”

“Imposter syndrome?”

She shook her head, impatient. Not at me, but at her inability to convey what she had been feeling. “No, not that! I’ve earned my position by being the best, and that’s simply an objective fact. . . . No. It’s more that the world I’m living in is unreal. Do you understand what I’m saying? It eats at me, like . . . like . . . .” She searched for an appropriate metaphor, but it wasn’t coming.

“Like shrapnel in your mind,” I said quietly. “Burrowing deeper whenever you move.”

Her eyes blazed. “Exactly! You do understand!”

I was just about to follow up when Cleo’s pocket chirped. Startled, she pulled out a Blackberry, typed something quickly, and put it away. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to go – I’ve got . . . well.” She stopped herself, thought again, then sighed. “I’ve got a date and I can’t miss it.”

“A date? Really?”

Cleo made a face. “Yes. Past time I did my duty to the family.”

“And that’s why Cleo has to go?”

“The Mater has been most insistent. Practically crazed, since my brother’s death. And she’s right, of course. But if I’m going to do it. . . . marry, have children, all of it . . . I have to do it properly. I have to give up all this . . . this foolishness.”

Dear God! Did she really believe she could make Cleo vanish forever by standing at an altar in a morning suit and saying “I do?” Now that was delusional! “It’s me here,” I reminded her, keeping my voice low. “I’ve seen you. Cleo is as real as I am!”

She looked uncomfortable. “Even so, I must let her go.”

“Does your mother care more about hypothetical grandchildren then she cares about you?”

She chuckled without humor. “If you’d met my mother, you wouldn’t ask. But that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

“Are you being fair to the woman you’re dating? What happens when she’s your wife, everything’s legal, and you find that Cleo is still with you?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I tell myself it’s just a matter of being strong. Resolute . . . .”

“And you know that’s bullshit.”

She looked at me with pure misery in her eyes. “Be that as it may.” She rose heavily, reluctantly, as if going to an execution. After a fashion, she was. “I have to go.”

I pulled out a pen, scratched my cell phone number onto a scrap of paper, stood and thrust it into her hands. “Call me!”

She looked at it for a moment, thinking, then gently put it back in my hands. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. A pleasure . . . Mr. Ferguson.” Without waiting for my reply, she turned and left.

I looked at her retreating back in something like shock, trying to understand how quickly our conversation had gone south. Standing there gaping, though, would draw attention I didn’t want, and she might be instantly suspicious if I followed her out. So I went back to the bar and ordered another Bluebird. I could use a moment to collect my thoughts.

Cleo had been so close! She was one of us, I could tell. For all the success the Matrix’s clever illusions had heaped upon her, she still could see through it. She could feel that it wasn’t right. Just like I had.

But she was dating? She knew she couldn’t bury Cleo forever, however hard she tried. There had to be a way to shake her out of her self-destructive path. I just needed to find the right key . . . .

I needed a plan to take back to the rest of the crew. Call her at work? At home? Those didn’t seem like promising options; it would be too easy to duck my calls. Come back another night? Risky . . . .

Without even realizing it, I’d followed my thoughts down to the bottom of the pint. That didn’t take long.

A friendly voice asked, “Care for another?”

And I knew. Even before I looked up. Even before I saw his coal-black hair and his sapphire eyes. Just the voice — that warm, rich, musical voice . . . .

“Davydd.” My voice was soft, but he heard it.

“That’s right. Can I get you another?”

I said yes before I even gave the matter any thought, but then reversed myself. “I’m sorry — no. I mean, I’d love another. But I have to go!”

“Of course. Come by again some time.” His tone was kind, but he was off to the other side of the bar before I could respond. I got up in a daze and found the exit.

The rain had stopped, and I paused in the shadows to let the cool night air fill my lungs. My mind was spinning as if I were intoxicated . . . something that wasn’t possible.

Davydd is here?

I needed my wits about me. I was on a mission, and Agents could show up any moment. I’d accomplished all that I could on this foray. It was time to go.

The first step was the most difficult, but I propelled myself forward. Coming through the covered walkway, I forced myself to check for traffic, left, right, left, before stepping off.

The screech of tires — make that ‘tyres’ — snapped me out of my daze, and I leapt backward. My simulator-enhanced reflexes were enough, just barely, to avoid being leveled by a delivery truck. Make that “lorry,” since it was, of course, driving on the left side of the street. Idiot! “Right, left, right!!!”

I took deep breaths, waiting for a couple vehicles to pass, then made my way across the street and into the alley. Just need to go a little ways . . . . Not too far.

The restaurants whose windows lined the alley were still doing a brisk business. It wasn’t late; my meeting with Cleo hadn’t lasted long. Somehow it felt like it should be later.

Someone was behind me, and my sense of paranoia ticked up a notch. I decided to dawdle, pretending to check out the restaurants. If he was tailing me . . . .

He wasn’t. He kept going at the same clip and passed me by, not so much as glancing my way. Not that he wasn’t a sinister-looking fellow.

I came to Moorgate and was more careful in my crossing. In the AI’s simulation, the pavement wouldn’t feel like a down pillow.

The sinister person had crossed and gone down Telegraph Street, so I decided to take another route. That is to say, I’ve decided. . . . Cleo’s words stuck in my mind.

Left on Moorgate, right at the next street, over . . . . I came back to the courtyard from the other side, and was relieved to see no sign of the man who had passed me in the alley. It was irrational, but I’d half expected to see him here before me.

When I got to the door at the base of the stairs, I found that someone had locked it. Picking the lock would be simple enough, but the courtyard was well-lit. I would be visible from any of the windows in the floors above me. A very stupid thing to have missed.

Thinking hard, I continued walking to Telegraph Street. The closest back-up point was back on the other side of the pub. Easy enough. And I could stop in again on my way . . . just for a moment. . . .

But when I got to Telegraph, I saw my sinister-looking friend chatting with a man who was standing in an open doorway . . . . the entrance to my building’s lobby. I decided to bluff it out.

I walked up to the pair and said, “pardon me” as I squeezed by.

They didn’t even break their conversation.

I pulled up the diagram of the building in my mind and headed up a different staircase than the one we had used before. One flight . . . two . . . three. The stairwell was empty, as was the hallway on my floor.

No one, mercifully, had locked the barrister’s door while I was out, nor were there any people in the hallways to see me enter. I locked the door behind me and sank down into Mr. Westen’s comfortable leather desk chair.

The phone was right there, but I needed a moment of quiet. A minute to process. I should have been focused on Cleo — needed to be! — but it wasn’t her face that kept coming to me, shaking the foundations of my reality.

I saw nothing but thick black hair, generous lips in a face full of angles and planes, eyes made for laughter . . . and loving. Davydd was here. In London, not two blocks away!

Davydd, who I had never seen before in my life.

Never.

Except in my dreams.

To be continued . . . .

Author’s note: As a reader, I know how distracting it can be when a story contains elements that are demonstrably wrong. So I'm very nervous any time I write about things I don’t know intimately. Fortunately, one of the things that is so wonderful about the BC community is how many people are happy to share their expertise. I am grateful to RobertLouis and Rachel Moore for their assistance with this story, and in particular, this chapter. It should go without saying, though, that the fault is purely mine for the inaccuracies that no doubt remain!