Oh crap. And no. It’s not a standard-issue pistol at all. It’s the dodgy black-market pistol of dubiousness Malcolm gave me. Something to do with the bullets being difficult to trace and filed-off serial numbers. Not something that sounded astoundingly legal.
“No,” I say to the guard, unable to bluff in the face of such overwhelming evidence. “Not standard issue at all.” I have an urge to plunge through the gate and just see how far I get. I manage to suppress it, though.
“Get a special dispensation for it, did you, sir?”
“Yes.” I swallow and sweat harder than any innocent man ever would. “That’s exactly what I did.”
The guard grimaces. I almost soil my underwear.
“Been trying to get one for my Browning forever,” he says. “Don’t really like the action on the ones they give us.” He shrugs. “Above my pay grade, I suppose.” He gestures to the metal detector. “If you’d just step through.”
I almost pass out with relief. I almost skip through the detector. I have enough trouble just keeping the grin off my face.
I’m in.
* * *
There is a surprising amount of activity still going on in 85 Vauxhall Cross considering this is a government building, for people on government salaries, but MI37’s borrowed offices are mercifully quiet.
I wonder if everyone is out together. Do they have a lead? Are they way ahead of us?
I want to know, I realize. I want to know how all of them are doing. Is Clyde dealing better with being a mask? Is Tabitha? Is Felicity using my face as a target down at the practice range?
I especially want to know about Felicity. If only I could see a way back to her.
I swipe Coleman’s security card to unlock the office door and quickly push through. His desk is a large, ostentatious thing. Dark wood, severe edges. The sort I’d expect Wall Street villains in Oliver Stone movies to have. There are large official certificates on one wall—like the ones doctors always seem to have in excess. He has a bookshelf along another wall, heavy with thick leather-bound tomes that seem a mismatch with Coleman’s brash impatient demeanor. At least they do up until I touch them and realize it’s a thin veneer of spines over a wooden frame. He didn’t even bother buying real books he’d never read.
As much fun as exposing Coleman’s flaws is, though, I’m wasting time. I sit down in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. His laptop is still plugged into its docking station. I’m tempted to just yank the whole thing and run. But the whole point of this is to try and be undercover. Stopping the Russians will be hard enough without being actively chased through London.
I flip open the monitor, press the power button, wait.
For the password box to pop up.
Shit.
I stare at the blinking cursor.
Double shit.
Hacking. What do I know about hacking?
Man, as much as I like Devon, I sort of wish Tabitha or Clyde had gone rogue instead, right now.
The only thing I know about hacking is what Clyde told me. That way too many people use… Wait…
I type 1-2-3-4 into the little box. I press enter. The screen blanks to an innocent blue. I hold my breath.
The box reappears. It kindly apologizes to me but that is not the password.
Triple shit.
I think about Coleman. What do I know about him? He doesn’t strike me as being the most computer savvy of men. 1-2-3-4 isn’t too unlikely a password for him. But if not that, then…?
I try a-b-c-d, but to no avail.
Coleman thinks highly of himself. I’m staring blankly at all the framed certificates. He thinks he’s clever. He would do something he thinks is clever. Except it won’t be really.
If I was an idiot who wanted to prove his smarts, what would…
Something comes to me.
But no…
And what if I only get three tries at this password? That’s how it works sometimes. If I screw up, I’m done for. I can’t believe I wasted a chance with a-b-c-d.
I quickly ransack drawers looking for a piece of paper, anything, any scribbled notes. Nothing. There’s only a single fountain pen in a drawer and a single legal pad with a quick sketch of an improbably proportioned naked woman on it. That’s it.
I stare at the blinking cursor one more time.
Something an idiot like Coleman would think is clever. Oh screw it. Nothing ventured…
I type it in, slowly. 4-3-2-1.
I stare at the four asterisks. So bloody stupid.
I hit enter.
The box disappears. The screen is pure blue.
And then folders appear. An MI6 logo appears. Outlook starts booting up.
I’m in. I’m actually in.
Jesus, not only do I look like Coleman. I’ve figured out how to think like him. Is this how I’m going to be in ten years? I need to find someone to kill me if that happens.
There again, who am I kidding? I’m never going to survive ten years with this gig.
I see the database I want and start with the clicking. After five minutes of frustration and butting my head against a wall, I finally notice a little search box some designer bastard decided to make as unnoticeable as possible. I pull a note with the names we discovered in Chernobyl out of my wallet, and start typing.
Ivan Spilenski gives me a hit straight away. A grainier photo than the one from the Russian files, and from a worse angle. It lists him as deceased, so that could explain why Tabitha had trouble finding him. More hits on Joseph Punin, Urve Potia, and Ekaterina Kropkin. More on their associates.
I look, but the bastard designer doesn’t seem to have given me a way to save individual files, which renders my flash drive useless. I start clicking on the “print” button.
Next up is chasing the links the files have in common. More known associates. Mission files. Counter-intelligence operations. I click print again and again.
Only Leo Malkin is missing. The teleporter who beat me up. Either a nobody or somebody too good to make our radar. I am very worried he’s the latter. My ribs ache just thinking about him.
The printer grudgingly spools out sheet after sheet. I check my watch. I’ve been here half an hour now. Devon should be out of Coleman’s apartment, in with the others. Which means the chances of Coleman discovering the theft of his card are starting to go up.
I check my printing queue and curse loudly. Apparently even inanimate objects Coleman owns are out to get me. I’m going to be here another fifteen minutes at least.
I close my eyes and take a breath. No one knows I’m here yet. It would take Coleman a minimum of fifteen minutes just to get here from his house. I’m OK. It’s going to be OK.
And then someone rattles the handle of his office door.