Rule 34 (10 page)

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Authors: Charles Stross

BOOK: Rule 34
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Your hard work has paid off. In the process of examining commercial properties you stumbled upon some most remarkably posh digs at a knock-down price for your consular mission. It’s in one corner of a modernist glass cube that is embedded like a gestating alien larva within the bowels of the former post office headquarters on North Bridge. The Gothic architraves of Scottish Baronial limestone pulse with an eerie green radiance after dusk; passers-by who peer between the sandstone window casements can see the cleaning robots casting long shadows across the cube’s windows as they skitter hither and yon. It’s supposedly haunted by the ghost of a Microsoft sales rep who hanged herself in the central atrium a couple of decades ago. Some of the Ghost Tours from the Royal Mile have taken to stopping by late at night.
Admittedly, your stipend does not stretch to anything particularly plush: Your wee niche in the former Microsoft HQ is a three-metre-by-four room in a shared office suite. It’s half-filled by a scratched-up pine desk and a pre-owned Aeron chair the management threw in as a sweetener. The rest of the suite is overrun by programmers from a local gaming corporation who rent two entire floors above you. They’re working on some kind of Artificial Reality project—you made the fatal mistake of asking one of them, and your eyes glazed over before he reached the fourth paragraph of nerdspeak without stopping to draw breath. But at least you’re not hot-desking, or hanging out your shingle above Rafi’s phone-unlocking and discount-print shop on Easter Road. No, indeed. You’ve come up in the world, you have an office of your own, you wear a suit and tie to work, and people
respect
you.
(Well, we’ll soon see about that.)
Mr. Webber was certainly taken aback at your last interview. “Representing a consortium of central Asian commercial interests in the Midlothian region?” He doodled a note on his tablet. “Well, Anwar, you never cease to surprise me. A family connection, I assume?” You grinned and refrained from blabbing, but produced the documentation when he asked to see it. The smug bastard
really
raised an eyebrow when you showed him the letterhead. He’s going to check it out, but the beauty is that it
will
check out. Which means your future sessions with him will be reduced to thirty-second ticky-boxes rather than real probation interviews. Going straight doesn’t get much straighter than wearing a suit and working for a foreign government.
Actually, there’s fuck-all work in it. You’ve set up your office and your desk just so, and you’ve skimmed the helpful handbook they’ve prepared for honorary consuls. The first IBAN draft hits your bank account with a thud, and now you’re sitting pretty. Cousin Shani’s handling your tax—she’s an accountant—and you’re in credit and in employment. But after the first few days of scurrying around filling out online forms, it’s a bit boring. As the Gnome surmised, few natives of Issyk-Kulistan pass through Scotland. In fact, it’s a
lot
boring. There isn’t even any email to answer.
Alas, you’ve got to be behind the desk during core hours, all twenty of them a week. After a bit, you ask Tariq if you can borrow a pad so you can work on his dating website while you’re holding the fort: Nobody who walks in will know it from what you’re supposed to be doing, and you can do with the cash.
So you’re there one midafternoon, grinding your teeth over a broken style sheet, when the doorbell chimes. At first you mistake it for your IDE complaining about a syntax error, but then it rings again, and you see the desk set blinking its light at you. You’ve got company.
“Hello? Uh, consulate of the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan?”
The desk set clears its throat. “Hello, the consulate? Please to be letting us in?”
You stare for a couple of seconds, then figure out which button to push on the antique console. You hear the front door open and hide Tariq’s pad before you stand up and go to see who it is.
Two men are peering twitchily around the lobby area of the shared offices. One’s in his late twenties, and the other is considerably older. They’ve both got close-cropped hair, bushy moustaches, and an indefinable air of perplexity that screams
foreigner
at you. The younger one is clutching the handle of a gigantic rolling case. “Hello? Can I help you?” you ask, politely enough, and the young guy nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Er, hello, this is consulate of . . . Przewalsk?” The younger guy’s English is clearly a second language—or third. “Hussein Anwar?”
“That’s me,” you say, nodding. “Can I ask what your business is, sir?” You really want to get back to fixing Tariq’s botched style sheet, and you haven’t snapped into the right head space, but it comes out sounding patronizing and officious.
The old guy turns to his young companion and rattles something off. The young guy replies, then turns to you. “He says we need to speak in your office. We are visiting trade delegation. Felix Datka sends us to you.”
Oh.
Well
that
puts a different face on things! “Certainly, if you’d like to follow me?”
Your office is equipped with two plastic visitors chairs and a regrettably non-plastic rubber plant, which has hideous yellow-rimmed holes in its leaves but refuses to die despite your daily libation of coffee grounds. You usher the trade delegation past the plant and wave them into the seats. “What brings you to Edinburgh?” you ask.
“Emails are you has read, the?” begins the old guy before his young companion takes over: “My friend here, he is being lead trade mission to sell produce of our factories to foreign markets. There should an email be. We bring here for you a consignment of trade samples, to be distributed to visitors.”
The old guy nods emphatically. “You give we.” He waves at the huge and villainous suitcase, which is already settling into the carpet. “Samples.”
“Uh, yes. I see. What kind of samples?”
You watch, fascinated, as the young guy fiddles with the substantial locks on the case. He opens the lid with a flourish, not unlike a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Look!” he announces.
The suitcase is full of white paper bags. He pulls one out and hands it to you. The label reads: INSECT-FREE FAIR TRADE ORGANIC BREAD MIX BARLEY-RYE. “For Western home bread-maker machine,” says the young guy, as the old guy grins broadly and nods. “Is produced by People’s Number Four Grain Products Factory of Issyk-Kulistan! Taste very good, no grit, batteries included, just add water.”
“Batteries?” You shake your head.
“Yeast,” he says hastily. “You give. Visitors.”
You eye up the enormous suitcase. “You want me to give visitors bags of bread mix?” you ask him. “But I don’t have room here—”
The old guy nods again. “Give he you visitors bread.” He looks at you, and suddenly you recognize his expression and you just about shit yourself. “Is visitors, yes? Email, is.”
“The instructions are for you in the email,” the young guy adds helpfully. He stands up. “We go, now. Other consuls, more trade!” He grins alarmingly widely and reaches out to shake your hand. His skin is dry and hot, his grip tight as a handcuff. “Am thanking you. You are good man, says Colonel Datka.”
 
After the “trade delegation” leaves, you sit behind your desk breathing heavily for a couple of minutes. The suitcase crouches behind the dying rubber plant, like a snooping secret policeman intent on exposing your guilt.
Who do they think I am? Does Datka think I’m stupid, or something?
You glare at the case. It’s obviously drugs. That’s what this is all about. They’ve figured out how to use diplomatic bags and “trade delegations” to smuggle heroin out of Abkhazia or Ruritania or somewhere, and now you’re expected to play host to an endless revolving-door parade of dealers. Well, it won’t do! You weren’t born yesterday. If they think you’re going to tamely take the fall, for a mere thousand euros a month—
You’ve got a wife and kids to look after. And you’ve
met
Datka.
Colonel Datka.
Spoken to him. He’s not stupid, he’s got to know this is shit.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and you reach for the white paper bag on the edge of your desk. It weighs about a kilogram. You close your eyes, hefting it. The suitcase has got to hold at least fifty more of them, from the way it’s digging in the carpet. If this is heroin, it’s got to be worth half a million on the street.
Datka’s
met
you
. Would
you
leave yourself in possession of half a million in heroin, sight unseen?
Holy Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed, peace be unto him: No,
you
wouldn’t.
But Datka knows where you live, he knows where Bibi and Naseem and Farida and everything you hold precious can be found, and you’ve met plenty of cheerfully ruthless men who wouldn’t hesitate to use—
Your hands are sweating, and you feel yourself shaking as you tear open the flap on the bag of INSECT-FREE FAIR TRADE ORGANIC BREAD MIX BARLEY-RYE, Produce of People’s Number Four Grain Products Factory of Issyk-Kulistan, and jam your thumb inside, crush the coarse flour against the paper, raise it to your mouth, and suck.
It’s just flour.
INGREDIENTS: Malted Barley (40%), Rye (30%), Wheat (20%), Ascorbic acid, fructose-glucose concentrate, Sodium Metabisulfite, Sodium Chloride, Amylase, Protease, Vegetable fat (3%), Raising agent (yeast).
 
 
 
Add water (320ml to 500g Bread Mix), place in bread-maker, and select “wholemeal rapid” program.
Your shuddering gasp of relief is that of a condemned man receiving his pardon on the steps of the gallows; it’s no less heart-felt. You lean back in your chair, eyes screwed shut. You’ve never been much of one for your daily observations, but right now you make a mental note to lay in a prayer rug against the prospect of future roving visits by feral international trade delegations. God is indeed great: He’s sent you organic stone-ground bread mix instead of heroin.
The only question is, why? And so at four o’clock you switch on call divert, lock the office behind you, and go in search of the Gnome.
This afternoon, Adam is holding court in the back of the Halfway House, a wee nook alongside Fleshmarket Close, an improbably stepped thoroughfare that runs up the arse crack from the City Art Gallery to Cockburn Street. (You know you’re in the Old Town when the street’s so steep they’ve been talking about fitting an escalator for the tourists.) You take a short-cut through the upper retail deck of Waverley Station, dodging the commuter crowds, and reach the front door with only a slight shortness of breath. “Ah, Anwar,” calls the Gnome: “Mine’s a pint of sixty bob.”
Bloody typical. You sidle up to the bar and smile ingratiatingly until the wee lassie deigns to notice you and pours your pints—your IPA and the aforementioned sticky black treacle syrup for the Gnome. You carry it to the back. The Gnome smacks his lips and slides his pad away. “I didn’t think there was any signal down here,” you say.
“There isn’t usually.” The Gnome looks pleased with his pint of mild. “Mm, it’s in fine form today. Chewy, with a fine malt aftertaste and some interesting hops.”
You open your messenger bag, extricate the (slightly leaky) sack of bread mix, and plop it on the table in front of him. “Would it go with this?”
The Gnome stares at it for a moment, then picks it up. “You scanned it,” he says tersely. “Where did you get it?”
“No RFIDs,” you tell him. “Only the best organic ingredients, said the visiting trade delegation. I’m to hand them out to visitors, according to
Colonel
Datka.” You chug half your pint in a single panicky sharp-edged gulp. “What have you got me into?”
The Gnome, for once, is at a loss for words. “I dinna ken, sonny,” he says, lapsing into a self-parody of his ancestral Ayrshire accent. “Sorry. It appears to be . . . Bread mix.” He peers at the label. “Lots of malted barley: I suppose you could use it for home brewing. Some hops, a couple of demijohns, the yeast’s probably not ideal . . .” He trails off thoughtfully. Then he looks up at you. “It’s bread mix,” he says crisply. “Tell yourself it’s just bread mix. Give it to anyone who stops by. Tell
them
it’s bread mix. If by some chance the police pay you a visit? It’s just bread mix.”
You’ve got that frozen feeling again. “Fucking
fuck
, are you telling me—”

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