Rook

and the next slide came up on the large projection screen. An awful lot of it was red, but it was really the green bits that got the minister’s attention.
    “You have made enemies of some very powerful people. And they keep
these
things as pets. You see these pointy bits? You do?
Those
are designed to go into
these
soft bits, causing the soft bits to come out, and those soft bits, Minister, were not meant to leave your stomach.” Grantchester ignored the weeping and continued. “The government, the people, and the Checquy want those soft things to stay in your stomach. Therefore, you will not go to Australia.” And with that, he stood up and walked briskly out of the darkened conference room, trailing wisps of inky fog behind him.
    “He’ll need a few minutes,” Grantchester said to the ministerial aides who were standing about awkwardly in the hallway. “Joan!” he called to his secretary, who was right behind him. “Send someone in to clean up all that vomit, please. What’s next?”
    J oshua Eckhart was walking down a long dim tunnel. Water dripped on the tiles, where a thick layer of mold was growing. Eckhart’s rubber galoshes splashed in the ankle-deep water, which swirled murkily. Overhead the fluorescent lights (what were left of them) flickered. Behind Eckhart slogged a petite woman in purple waders and a purple raincoat. She was grimly holding on to a plastic-wrapped folder. Behind
her
were two men in purple holding plastic-wrapped guns.
    Finally, they came to a massive door bound in strips of brass, lead, and copper. Eckhart pressed his hands against a plate in the center and felt it heat against his palm. Little bubbles rose up in the metal around his fingers. There was the sound of hydraulic machinery. The door split open and each half was drawn back into the wall. He was about to step inside when his secretary tapped him on the shoulder.
    “The Rooks have called an emergency meeting of the Court, sir,” she said, holding up a waterproof mobile phone. “Fifteen minutes after sundown.”
    “Fine,” he sighed. Then he stepped through the doors, and his entourage followed. There was an unholy shrieking, a clashing of a multitude of chains, and the sound of huge rubbery limbs smacking against each other in impotent rage. Then Eckhart’s voice.
    “Good afternoon, Your Highness. You look unchanged. Now, perhaps we shall talk about your country. Your subjects are very vulnerable without the unique protection you can bring them. And that is why you will do as we say.”
    There was a frenzied wailing in response.
    “No? Well, we shall see. Gentlemen, please shoot His Highness. In the left head this time, I think.”
    I t was an old room in an old building and was decorated in a very specific style that showed the decorators were lacking both imagination and a second X chromosome. The paint, which had not been vibrant to begin with, was now faded to a distressing beige. The carpet didn’t shag and very likely never had. Even the light filtering through the windows was tired and respectable.
    Leather-covered armchairs were occupied by the elderly, the plump, the male. This is not to imply that the occupants possessed only one of the above characteristics. They were all, without exception, male. Plumpness or age or both were preferred, but not mandatory.
    Cigars were chewed, pipes sucked, and snuff snuffled. One clump of chairs was occupied by a group of men whose names you wouldn’t have recognized unless you were a particularly eager scholar of tedious politics and obscure government offices. Still, they had power.
    Sir Henry Wattleman was seated among these men and was wondering if he could fake some sort of seizure. After engaging in several hours of conversation, even tedious old men can get tired of being surrounded by old tedious men. He nodded thoughtfully as some person in charge of an obscure mineral pontificated on how important it (and, by extension, he) was. A waiter came up bearing a cordless telephone on a tray. The bylaws of the club forbade members to carry mobile phones on the premises, which was not that great a sacrifice since very few of them knew how to use them.
    “Sir Wattleman, there is a call for you.”
    “Thank you,” he said, inwardly giving three cheers. “Hello?”
    “Sir Henry, this is Marilyn,” said his secretary from the lobby ofthe club, which was the farthest she was allowed into the building, having failed to fulfill any of the criteria of