Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me (14 page)

“No,” he said. “I’ve never been here before, never met the old bastard, never talked to him on the phone. Not even a card on my birthday. If there were any letters, my mother kept them to herself. I got my invitation to this game through an . . . intermediary.”

He broke off as we all turned abruptly and looked in the same direction. There was new information in my head that I very definitely hadn’t put there, telling us which way to go to meet with Alexander King. It had the feel of a summons.

“It’s a magical working,” the Blue Fairy said quietly. “An influence. Sort of like a low-key geas. I didn’t know he could do that.”

“What do any of us really know about Alexander King?” said Katt. “Come on, darlings. We came here to meet the man. Let’s get this show on the road.”

We all stepped smartly forward, not wanting to be left behind and not ready to acknowledge any of the others as leader by letting them get ahead of the rest of us. We crossed the empty lobby, our footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet, and a door opened in the far wall before us. We walked through into the very lap of luxury. The fittings and furnishings of Place Gloria were soft and plush, sensual and sybaritic. I was so fascinated by the riot of colours before me, I almost didn’t hear the door closing itself firmly behind us. The decor was basically very sixties and seventies. Lots of comfort and bright colours, artistic furniture, and Day-Glo art from the decades that taste forgot. The huge low-ceilinged room, with its concealed lighting and its rich scents of sandalwood and attar, boasted luxury and wealth wherever you looked, along with an almost complete lack of restraint. We all moved slowly forward, tugged inexorably on by King’s subtle influence.

There were niches in the walls, each with their own special lighting, to show off the Independent Agent’s many spoils of war. There were treasures and wonders to every side, the loot and tribute of a lifetime’s secret wars. I had to smile. Alexander King could almost have been a Drood. We all stopped before a small statuette of a black bird.

“Oh, come on; that couldn’t be the real thing, could it?” said the Blue Fairy, leaning in for a close look.

“I wouldn’t touch,” I said quickly. “It’s bound to be protected.”

Blue straightened up and glared at me. “I wasn’t going to touch! I’m not an amateur! Credit me with a little sense.”

“I suppose it could be the real thing,” said Walker. “If anyone could have the original, it would be Alexander King.”

“Hell,” said Honey. “For all we know, he could have the Holy Grail itself tucked away here somewhere.”

“No,” I said. “That’s the one thing he definitely doesn’t have.”

They all looked at me. “Don’t say the Droods have got the Grail,” said Katt.

“No,” I said. “But we know where it is, and we’re very happy for it to stay there. The Sangreal is not for the likes of us. It . . . judges you.”

“You mean we’re not worthy?” said the Blue Fairy. “How will I ever recover from the shame?”

“Of course we’re not worthy,” said Honey. “We’re agents. You can’t do what we have to do and still be able to wash the blood off your hands.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Walker unexpectedly. “I do my duty, and I sleep perfectly well at nights.”

“So do I,” said the Blue Fairy. “With a little medicinal help, sometimes.”

“It’s not what you do,” I said. “It’s why you do it.”

“Typical high-and-mighty Drood,” sneered Blue. “Always so sure you’re better than everyone else.”

“Mostly we are,” I said. “Mostly.”

The influence nagged at us and we moved on, only to stop again as we came face-to-face with the Mona Lisa.

“Supposedly that’s the real thing,” said Peter. “Stolen from the Louvre, back in the sixties. Grandfather never could resist a challenge.”

King also had on his walls two Pickmans, an unknown Shlacken, and
The Painting That Devoured Paris.
Which suggested, if nothing else, that the Independent Agent was more of a collector than an art critic. There were also a number of display cases showing off items of unusual interest. The skull of an alien Gray peered blankly back at us, with holes and long grooves in the bone showing where bits of alien technology had been rudely extracted. Hopefully after death. A bottle of unholy water from the original Hellfire Club, Tom Pearce’s Old Grimoire, a stuffed Morlock, and a mummified monkey’s paw nailed very firmly to its stand. And, finally, a human skeleton wired together and standing upright inside a grandfather clock.

“That’s my mother,” said Peter. We all looked at him, but he had eyes only for the skeleton. “After she died, Grandfather claimed the body and had it brought here. Stole it, in fact, from the undertaker I’d entrusted her to. Had the body smuggled out of the country before I even knew what was happening. I got a solicitor’s letter sometime later informing me that Grandfather had used carpet beetles to consume the flesh, leaving only the bones, as they do in museums. And that Mother’s skeleton would be on display at Grandfather’s home, along with his other prized possessions. There was a photograph enclosed. Grandfather can be sentimental, but not in ways you’d expect. I was never allowed to visit Mother, until now. Remember this, if you remember nothing else: Grandfather never lets go of anything he owns.”

“Put it back,” I said sternly to the Blue Fairy.

“What?” he said, projecting injured innocence.

“That small black-lacquered puzzle box you just picked up and pocketed from the occasional table when you thought no one was looking,” I said. “Just because it isn’t in a case, doesn’t mean it’s up for grabs.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Blue Fairy said airily.

“I could just pick you up, turn you upside down, and shake you, and see what falls out,” I said.

Blue sniffed and put the puzzle box back on the table. “Just wanted a souvenir . . .”

King’s subtle influence pulled us on into a long narrow hall whose walls were covered with photos of people and places from around the world, celebrating King’s many famous missions and triumphs. Some places were so famous that all of us had at least heard of them. Roswell, Loch Ness, Tunguska. We all pointed and whispered and nudged each other like children in a museum.

“The Case of the Kidnapped Village,” said Peter, peering closely at a black-and-white photo of a crowd of people in 1950s clothing assembled in a village square. They were all turned obediently towards the camera, but none of them had any faces.

Another photo simply showed a severed human hand with the index finger missing. “The Case of the Cannibal Ghosts,” murmured Walker.

And a photo of Buchanan Castle, in Scotland. The sky was dark, almost night, and there were lights on in every window except one. A figure of a man stood silhouetted against a great light in the open doorway. There was something horribly wrong about the figure.

“The Case of the Recurring Ancestor,” I said. “All the Droods get told that story when we’re young, to keep us from getting cocky.”

The influence urged us on like an invisible dog leash through room after room, past wonders and treasures beyond counting, until finally it brought us to a sealed door. Black stained oak, eight feet tall and almost as wide, studded with brass and silver, and wrought with several lines of deeply inscribed protective wards in half a dozen languages that no sane human being had spoken in living memory. The influence snapped off, and I think we all sighed a little with relief. I was still debating whether to knock or give the door a good kicking when it swung suddenly open before us, smooth and steady despite its massive weight. Beyond the door was a huge baronial hall, with towering bare stone walls and great interlocking wooden beams for a ceiling. A fire blazed cheerfully in the huge open fire-place, but there was no sign of anyone to greet us. The sheer size and scale of the place rooted the others to the spot, but I grew up in Drood Hall, so I just strode right in. The others hurried after me.

“I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone here at all,” I said finally. My voice seemed very small in such a great hall, as though it had been designed and constructed for beings much larger than men. “I mean, King couldn’t run a place this size on his own, particularly if he’s on his deathbed, as he claims. Where are the servants, bodyguards, nurses? Could the Independent Agent have already died before the game’s even started?”

“Reports of my death . . . are no doubt highly anticipated,” snapped a cold, authoritative voice, and an image of Alexander King appeared suddenly out of nowhere before us. “I value my privacy, and I don’t have the time or the strength left to waste on unnecessary interactions.”

The legendary Independent Agent sat on a huge wooden throne, his back straight, his legs casually crossed. You could tell it was just an image projected from somewhere else in Place Gloria. Although the image was sharp and clear and had three dimensions, it lacked . . . presence. The image of Alexander King looked frail and shrunken but still vital. And nowhere near as old as he was supposed to be. Illness or age had dug deep furrows in his face, but he still had a long mane of silver gray hair, his mouth was firm, and his gaze was sharp. He was still handsome, in a ravaged sort of way, and he sat his throne as though he was King in fact as well as name. He wore a purple crushed velvet smoking jacket over checked tweed flares.

“I always felt most at home in the seventies,” he said calmly. “Such a glorious time to be young and alive and have the world by the throat.”

“Is that really you, King?” said Honey Lake. “Or have we come all this way to be greeted by a glorified recording?”

“Oh, I’m still very definitely me,” said King, grinning nastily. “Not gone yet, despite everything your pernicious Company has done to try to hurry me along. I am safe and secure in my private vaults, and I plan to stay that way until my game has run its course.”

“Hello, Grandfather,” said Peter.

“Peter,” said Alexander. He didn’t look or sound particularly pleased to see his only grandson. “Such a disappointment to me. All the things you could have done, all the people you could have been, and you settled for industrial espionage. Such a gray little world, when all is said and done. Where’s the glory, or the glamour, in grubbing through big business’s waste bins?”

“It pays well,” said Peter. He studied his grandfather thoughtfully, absorbing every detail.

“It would have to,” said Alexander. “Well, now at least you have a chance to prove yourself, grandson. But you’ll get no help from me. No advice or special preference, just because you’re family.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Grandfather,” said Peter.

From their cold, distracted voices, they might just have been discussing the weather. They sounded a lot like each other.

“Why us?” I said, and Alexander’s piercing gaze switched immediately back to me. I stared right back at him. “As I understand it, you wanted the six greatest field agents in the world today to find the one best suited to take your place when you’re gone. So why us? We’re all names, I suppose, with good solid backgrounds of work, but I could give you a dozen other names off the top of my head of agents more famous and more suited than any of us.”

Alexander King flashed me his nasty grin again. “I know who you’re talking about, and if any of them had been good enough, they’d have taken my place by now. No, I chose the six of you because you’re young and have potential. My game will bring out the best in you, or kill you. Either way, the winner will have proved themselves a worthy successor.

“Pay attention. This is the contest, and to the victor the spoils. You will go to five locations I have chosen and there investigate five of the world’s greatest mysteries. Discover the truth behind the legend. Then move on to the next, until the game is finished.”

“What if we can’t solve any of these mysteries?” Honey Lake interrupted. “What if it turns out there is no answer?”

“I found the truth,” said Alexander King. “So will you, if you’re worthy. Fail to uncover any one of these five truths, and you all fail. The game stops there. No secret knowledge for anyone. So don’t fail.”

“Terrific,” murmured the Blue Fairy. “Go, team.”

“To begin with, all six of you will have to learn to work together as a team,” said Alexander, his dark gaze sweeping over all of us dispassionately. “But only one of you can return to claim my prize. So, in the grand old tradition of spycraft, as you progress you will have to secretly work against and betray each other. There can be . . . only one.” He laughed briefly. “Always did like that film. At least I don’t require you to chop each other’s heads off.”

We all looked at each other. None of us looked too surprised or shocked.

“I’m still not too keen on any of this,” I said. “I don’t jump through hoops for anyone. I’m a Drood.”

“You’ll dance to my tune, Drood, if you want the identity of the traitor inside your family,” said Alexander King. “My game, my rules.” He smiled coldly around at all of us. “Concentrate on the prize. All the accumulated secrets of my extended lifetime. The greatest secrets of the secret world. Don’t you want to know who shot JFK? What the Eye in the Pyramid really means? And who really murdered the Great Dream of the sixties? Of course you do. This isn’t just about the particular little bits of information you came here for; it’s about knowing why the world is the way it is. I have the answer to every question you ever had, and I’ll give it to the winner, all wrapped up in a pretty bow.”

“Get thee behind me, Grandfather,” said Peter.

“Don’t take too long,” said Alexander, ignoring his grandson. “I don’t have too much time left. A few months, maybe less. If I should die before you complete the game, Place Gloria will be blown to pieces, and all my secrets lost forever. None of you will get anything. Now: five mysteries, five answers. That’s the game. Starting with Loch Ness in Scotland, for its monster.”

“Any Yetis?” I said hopefully. “I always wanted to visit Tibet or Nepal and track down an Abominable Snowman.”