Free Clan Corporate by Charles Stross

she’d got his attention. She glanced at Mike as well. “Yes?”
    “Rule two: no turf wars.” Mike crossed his arms, trying to look self-confident. You worked for the DOJ for years, mucking out the public stables, then suddenly someone sent a car for you and drove you round to the grand palace entrance …
    “No turf wars.” Herz nodded at him with weary irony. Suddenly he got the picture.
    “Whose rules are we playing by?” he asked.
    “Probably these guys, NSA. At least for now.” Her eyes flickered at one corner of the ceiling as the elevator came to a halt on the eighth floor. “I assure you, this is as new to me as it is to you.”
    Their escort led them along a carpeted, sound-deadening corridor, through fire doors and then into a reception room. “Wait here,” he said, and left them under the gaze of a secretary and a security guard. Mike blinked at the huge framed photographs on the walls. What are they doing, trying to grow the world’s biggest puffball mushroom? All the buildings seemed to have razor-wire fences around them and gigantic white domes sprouting from their roofs.
    A head popped out from around a corner. “This way, please.” Herz led the group as they filed through the door, informatively labeled room 2b8020. Behind the door, Mike blinked with a moment of déjà vu, a flashback to the movie Dr.
    Strangelove. A doughnut-shaped conference table surrounded by rose-colored chairs filled the floor at the near end of the room, but at the other end a series of raised platforms supported a small lecture theater of seats for an audience. Large multimedia screens filled the wall opposite. “If you’d all take seats in the auditorium, please?” called their guide.
    “The film you’re about to see is classified. You’re not to make notes, or talk about it outside your group. After it’s been screened, an officer will brief you in person then take you through a team setup exercise so that you know why you’re all here and what’s expected of you.”
    Pete stuck his hand in the air.
    “Yes?” asked the staffer.
    “Should I understand that I’m being seconded to some kind of joint operation?”
    Pete asked quietly. “Because if so, this is one hell of an odd way to go about it. My superior officer either didn’t know or didn’t tell. What’s going on?”
    “He wasn’t cleared,” said the staffer-and without saying anything else, he left the room.
    “What is this?” Frank demanded, looking upset. “I mean, what is this place?”
    The lights dimmed. “Your attention, please.” The voice came from speakers around the room, slightly breathy as its owner leaned too close to the microphone. “The following videotape was shot by a closed-circuit surveillance camera yesterday, at a jail in upstate New York.”
    Grainy gray-on-white video footage filled the front wall of the theater. It was shot from a camera concealed high up in one corner of the ceiling, with a fish-eye lens staring down at a cell maybe six feet by ten in size.
    Mike leaned forward. He could almost smell the disinfectant. This wasn’t your ordinary drunk tank. It was a separate cell, with whitewashed cinderblock walls and no window-furnished with a bunk bolted to the floor, a metal toilet and sink bolted to the wall, and not a lot else. Single occupant, high security. This is important enough to drag me out of bed and fly me six hundred miles? he wondered.
    There was a man in the cell. He was wearing dark pinstriped trousers and a dress shirt, no tie or jacket: he looked like a stockbroker or Wall Street lawyer who’d been picked up for brawling, hair mussed, expression wild. He kept looking at the door.
    “This man was arrested yesterday at two-fifteen, stepping off the Acela from Boston with a suitcase that contained some rather interesting items. Agents Fleming and Garfinkle will be pleased to know that information they passed on from the preliminary debriefing of source Greensleeves directly contributed to the