Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me (13 page)

“Uncle James,” I said. “He always was the best of us.”

“What happened to him?” said Honey. “I heard he died, but . . .”

“He turned his back on the wrong woman,” I said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Why don’t you tell her who killed the Gray Fox?” said the Blue Fairy.

“Shut up, Blue,” I said, not looking around.

We all jumped a little as another figure joined us. He was just suddenly standing there with us, though none of us had heard him approaching. And I’m really hard to surprise. He looked . . . very much like the typical City gentleman, in his smart expensive suit, old school tie, bowler hat, and rolled umbrella. He seemed entirely unprepared for the cold mountain air, but if it affected him at all, he didn’t show it. He was average height and weight, middle-aged but still in good shape. Sharp, stylish, and sophisticated, with a calm smile and cool watchful eyes. He nodded to each of us in turn and actually tipped his bowler hat to Honey.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Walker. From the Nightside.”

For a long moment, none of us said anything. It’s not often I’m genuinely impressed, but we’d all heard of Walker. The Nightside is the hidden dark heart of London, where bad things live and worse things happen. Where it’s always night because some things can thrive only in the dark. Where gods and monsters plot and war and often frequent the same swingers clubs. The Nightside has the best bars and clubs in all the world, but the door charge can be your soul, and you’d better find what you’re looking for before it finds you. By ancient treaty, the Droods stay out of the Nightside. We’re not barred, as such; we just choose not to get involved. The Authorities used to run the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did or could, and Walker was their man on the spot. It was his job to keep the lid on. And no one ever messed with Walker. Even gods and monsters walked lightly when Walker was on the prowl. But now the Authorities were dead and gone, and Walker . . . was here. Which was . . . interesting. He smiled easily around him, very polite, very courteous.

Like a crocodile in a Savile Row suit.

“This is a day of surprises,” said Honey Lake. “I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting to see anyone from the Nightside. You people don’t tend to play well with others. In fact, there are those who say the fate of the whole world will be decided there someday.”

“No,” said the Blue Fairy. “You’re thinking of Shadows Fall.”

“I try very hard not to,” said Honey, still not looking at him. “The elephants’ graveyard of the supernatural, where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them? That place gives me the creeps.”

“So,” I said to Walker. “What brings you out of the dark and into the light?”

“The imminent passing of a legend,” said Walker, leaning casually on his furled umbrella. “Rumour has it the Independent Agent knows things that even the Nightside doesn’t know. Knowledge and secrets lost and forgotten by the rest of the world. He offered me a place in his little game, and I really couldn’t say no. I have been promised something, you see; something even the Nightside can’t provide. And I want it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I should have known there’d be a Drood here. It wouldn’t be an honest competition without one.”

“Hold everything,” I said. “You can see my torc too? Damn! What’s the point in having a secret weapon if everyone knows about it?”

“Ah,” said Walker. “But then, we’re not just everyone, are we?”

I nodded, acknowledging the point. “Still,” I said, “why would Alexander King choose you, Walker? No offence, but you’re not an agent, as such.”

“Perhaps not,” said Walker. “But who knows more about the real secrets and mysteries of the world than I?”

We all turned to face the next new figure as he strolled unhurriedly across the landing pad to join us. He came to a halt before us, nodded briefly, and then just stood his ground, letting us look him over. Truth be told, he didn’t look like much. A vaguely handsome, even elegant young man in his early twenties, wearing a sharply cut fashionable suit with ease and grace. Blond hair, blue eyes, in good shape but nothing to boast about. He had a reserved, bookish look, and a pale, essentially characterless face. In fact, the same kind of instantly forgettable face as mine . . . An agent’s face. He didn’t offer to shake hands with anyone, and if he felt the impact of Honey’s sexuality, he kept it to himself.

“Peter King,” he said shortly. “The Independent Agent is my grandfather. He insisted I take part in this last crooked game of his. Not that I expect him to cut me any slack. He never has before.”

“What part of the spy business are you in, Peter?” I asked.

“Corporate intelligence,” he said stiffly. “Industrial espionage. Stealing or protecting secrets or other privileged information. Arranging the defection and safe conduct of important personnel; that sort of thing. Not as glamorous as what you do, perhaps, but there’s always good money to be made in helping businesses screw each other over.”

“Can’t say I’ve actually heard of you, Peter,” said Honey, not unkindly.

He smiled briefly. “That’s because I’m very good at what I do.”

And there was no arguing with that. The best agents leave no trace at all that they were ever there.

“Still, Alexander King’s grandson,” Honey Lake said thoughtfully. “The Company has no files on King ever having any family.”

“Grandfather never did believe in leaving hostages to fortune,” said Peter. “If the world didn’t know about his family, the world couldn’t use them against him. The grand old man of secrets delighted in having secrets of his own. Don’t ask me about my father or my mother. Some things should stay secret.” He looked around the deserted landing pad. “This is the first time I’ve ever been here. To the house at the top of the world, where Grandfather sits in his jealous little web of intrigue, hoarding his secrets like the miser he is. My mother told me stories about this place . . . Even years later, she still had nightmares about her time here. And now here I am, the not so prodigal grandson, come to compete for what should be my legacy.”

“Family histories are always so embarrassing,” said the Blue Fairy.

“Can’t argue with that,” I said.

We all looked around at the sound of high heels clacking briskly across the concrete as the final contestant in the great game came forward to join us. I watched her approach, and she was worth the attention. I felt like whistling and applauding, just on general principles. Peter was grinning openly, the Blue Fairy was smiling almost despite himself, and Walker . . . looked calm and composed, as always. Honey Lake studied the final contestant with a cool, thoughtful gaze. She knew a threat to her position when she saw one. The delightfully stylish young lady swayed to a halt before us, struck an elegant and utterly bewitching pose, and bestowed her most charming smile upon us.

“Greetings and salutations, darlings,” she said in a low purring voice, like a cat licking cream off a mouse. “I am Lethal Harmony, agent for hire out of Kathmandu. Please, call me Katt. Everyone does.”

There was something feline about her. A sense of graceful style, casual cruelty, and vicious power concealed behind a hair trigger, ready to be unleashed on absolutely anyone at a moment’s notice. Honey Lake made a hell of a first impression, but she looked like an innocent corn-fed cheerleader next to Lethal Harmony of Kathmandu. Honey blazed, but Katt smouldered.

Katt was tall and slender, with delicate streamlined curves and enough presence and poise to take any man’s breath away. She wore a long black silk gown tucked in tightly here and there to accentuate her figure, and as she turned this way and that to make sure we all got the benefit of her smile, I glimpsed an ornate oriental dragon embroidered the full length of the back of her gown. Katt had sweet Asian features, sharply styled jet black hair, dark Eastern eyes, and a rosebud mouth with lips the colour of plums. Beautiful, graceful, and no doubt very deadly when required. Katt, indeed.

I still got the impression she practiced that smile in front of the bathroom mirror, though. It was just too good.

She was playing a part, but it was a good part, and I appreciated the effort she’d put into it. If you can’t be anonymous, like me, hide behind a cliché, and they’ll never see the real you. Until it’s too late.

“Lethal Harmony,” said Honey Lake, her voice coldly amused. “Dear little Kitty-Katt. I should have known you’d turn up. The espionage field’s very own wannabe dragon lady.”

Katt glared at Honey, who glared right back at her. I half expected them to hiss and bare their claws at each other.

“Are we to take it you two know each other?” said the Blue Fairy, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“We’ve worked together,” Honey said shortly. “When the job demanded it. Don’t trust her, don’t turn your back on her, and never go dutch on anything.”

“How unkind,” said Katt, still smiling her perfect smile.

“I notice you’re not denying any of it,” said Honey.

“Why should I?” said Katt. “We’re all agents here. We all know how the game is played.” She leaned forward to look at me more closely. “Ooh, a Drood! How thrilling!”

“Oh, hell,” I said, just a bit put out. “Can everyone here see my torc?”

“Well, yes,” said Peter. “We wouldn’t be much of a top field agent if we couldn’t, would we? I’m more concerned with what the half elf is doing with a torc. Elves are dangerous enough as it is without giving them the nuclear option.”

“How very kind,” drawled the Blue Fairy. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“So, Katt,” I said, ostentatiously changing the subject. “Who do you work for?”

“Anybody, everybody,” Katt said lightly. “Morals are all very well, but a girl has to eat, darling. It’s a cold-cash world these days.”

“Do you believe in anything?” said Honey Lake.

“I believe in being paid,” Katt said firmly. “And you’re a fine one to talk, little miss
I’m not really CIA; I just screw people over because I’m good at it.
No, sweeties; I am no man’s slave, and no dogma’s, either. I am the last of the great adventurers, darlings, and I love it!”

“Always good to have a fellow realist on board,” said the Blue Fairy. He extended a hand to Katt, and she looked down her nose at it, as though she’d just been offered a turd. Blue withdrew his hand, managing to look hurt but still dignified.

“Never trust an elf,” Katt said flatly. “And even then, trust an elf before a half-breed.”

“Harsh words,” Blue said calmly. “Especially from such a notorious femme fatale, the espionage field’s very own belle dame sans merci. How many men and women have died in your poisonous embrace, dear Katt? How many lovers have you seduced and betrayed? At least I had the basic decency to pay for most of mine . . . Tell me, dear Katt; is it true you prefer your victims to die in bed, so you can suck their last dying breath into your no doubt luscious mouth and savour it?”

Katt drew herself up to her full height. “You’ll never know.”

“Such a relief,” said the Blue Fairy.

“Children, children,” murmured Walker. “Play nice.”

“This is why I prefer industrial espionage,” said Peter. “No personalities to get in the way.”

I looked around the empty landing pad. “Is this it? Just us? No Russian or Chinese agents?”

“They’re mostly concerned with internal problems these days,” said Honey.

“You’d know,” said Walker.

“Still,” I said. “This isn’t quite the gathering I’d expected. I mean, we’re the six greatest agents operating in the field today? Us?”

“I think that says more about the current state of the world than I am comfortable knowing,” said Walker.

“Grandfather chose us,” said Peter. “He must have his reasons.”

“And why the flux fog?” said the Blue Fairy. “What was the point of that? We all know where we are.”

“Do we?” I said. “Once we arrived and stepped into the flux fog, it could have taken us anywhere. This is supposed to be the Swiss Alps, but I couldn’t prove it. One mountain chain looks much like another. It would seem Alexander King wants to keep the exact location of his private lair a mystery, right to the end.”

“And no one here to greet us,” said Peter. “How typical of Grandfather. What are we supposed to do, just stand around in the cold until he feels like talking to us?”

He’d barely finished speaking when the concrete rocked under our feet. There was a loud grinding noise, and puffs of dust flew up in long lines all around us, forming a great square. The concrete seemed to drop out from under our feet, and suddenly we were descending a huge dark shaft, leaving the cold and the light behind. We all moved to stand close together, forming our own square so we could look in every direction. The light above us disappeared, and for a long moment there was only the dark and a sense of movement as we descended towards some unknown fate. And then the great concrete slab groaned to a halt and there was a sudden flare of light that made us all wince, and we realised we were standing in a huge entrance lobby.

The air was refreshingly warm, after the cold up above. I looked down, but the concrete slab fitted perfectly into the floor. The entire lobby was bare and empty. No sign of life anywhere. No sign that anyone had ever lived here. Just where had Alexander King brought us? His tomb? And then we all winced again as a great Voice sounded inside our heads. That isn’t supposed to be possible when you wear the Drood torc; we’re supposed to be protected from such invasions. But the Independent Agent always did play by his own rules.

Welcome to Place Gloria,
said the Voice.
Welcome to my home. Welcome to the greatest game of all.

I waited, but that was all there was. I shook my head gingerly, half expecting something to leak out of my ears. That Voice had been seriously loud . . . I looked at Peter.

“Can you identify that as your grandfather’s voice?”