Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“Shaman, darling,” said Linda, peering at me sharply over her glass of neat gin, “surprised to see you and the infamous Molly Metcalf together. Business or pleasure?”

“Bit of both,” I said.

“Did I hear right, that you two are an item now?”

“Can’t keep anything from you, Linda.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Linda was tall and overbearing, with a long, horsey face and a mouth with too many teeth in it, dressed so casually it bordered on downright careless. But she had a mind, when she cared to use it. She looked over at Molly and the people she was talking with, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she realised what they had in common. I moved in quickly, to distract her.

“So, Linda,” I said. “What story are you working on? Anything interesting?”

“The prime minister and his whole cabinet are up to something,” Linda said immediately. She never could resist showing just how in-the-know she was. “Bit of a surprise there, because normally they can’t agree on anything. They say the new cabinet table is round, so they can all stab one another in the back simultaneously. But whatever it is they’re up to, it must be really important, because I can’t get even a sniff of it. All my usual sources have either gone into hiding or are holding out for more money than my editors are prepared to pay. Fools. I keep telling them you have to spend money to make money, but the boards are all run by bean counters these days. Penny wise, pound foolish. Not one of them’s got printer’s blood in their veins.” She looked at me suddenly, and put her glass down on the bar. “You know something. You do, don’t you? Come on, Shaman; share the goodies, for old times’ sake. I’ll see you don’t go short.”

“Well,” I said carefully, “you’re probably not going to believe this, but I have been hearing very solid rumours that the prime minister and his people are in bed with a new satanic conspiracy.”

And the interesting thing was, she didn’t immediately laugh in my face. She looked at me thoughtfully and drummed her fingers on the bar. “So, that’s what you’ve been hearing, is it? Wouldn’t have anything to do with this Great Sacrifice that our glorious leader was on about? Oh, yes, darling, Auntie Linda has been hearing things, too. My regular sources might be fading into the woodwork, or pricing themselves out of the market, but there are still people willing to talk, if you know where to listen. No one’s got any details about this Great Sacrifice yet, but you can bet that the likes of you and I will be the ones who end up making it. And the PM and his lot who end up profiting. See that quiet little chap over there, brooding into his rum and Coke? He’s the one you want to talk to. Dear little Adrian Toomey, works for the Times , and occasionally as a researcher for the BBC’s only decent documentary programme, Panorama . Talk to him. See what you can get out of him.” She gripped me firmly by the arm, her long fingers digging deep into the flesh. “And be sure you share anything you find out. Yes . . . dear, dear Adrian. He’s deeper in this than anyone else. Or so he likes to claim . . .”

I thanked her, made a few promises I had no intention of keeping and moved over to join Adrian Toomey, who was sitting on the edge of a conversation and paying it no attention at all. His pale blue eyes were far away. He was a stocky, wistful type in a chubby pullover and a shapeless blazer, and his old-school tie was almost certainly more genuine than mine. He blinked mildly at me as I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him, and then he shifted uncomfortably on his chair as I explained what I wanted to know. He leaned forward so he could talk confidentially, his soft, clear voice almost lost in the general noise of the pub.

All my usual sources have disappeared, Mr. Bond. No one seems to know what’s happened to them. And of the few who are left, the official spokespeople, the briefers and the leakers . . . they’re still talking as much as ever, without actually saying anything. And not because they’ve been leaned on or scared off; they genuinely don’t seem to know what’s going on. And these are people who are used to being in the loop, in the know. Everyone’s talking about this Great Sacrifice, and the wonderful new future it’s supposed to usher in for all of us; but no one knows what it is, or what it involves. Except our current lords and masters. And they only ever talk about it behind closed doors, and with major levels of security, with no record kept of what’s said. Someone said . . . they saw the prime minister crying yesterday.

“The farther in I go, the less people have to say. There’s an atmosphere in the corridors of power, Mr. Bond. People are scared. Genuinely terrified of something that’s coming. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know any more. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Pardon me for being blunt,” I said. “But have you heard anything about a new satanic conspiracy?”

Adrian Toomey looked at me sadly. “Oh, Mr. Bond. I took you for a serious researcher. I don’t do that tabloid nonsense.”

Molly and I left the Floating Voter not much wiser than we’d arrived. Molly had quizzed all her old contacts, to no effect. The prime minister and his cabinet were definitely planning something, and probably up to no good; everyone was certain of that. . . . But no one knew what. Molly was quite annoyed, and a little mystified, that she hadn’t been able to get anything more specific. Westminster isn’t usually that good at keeping secrets. Someone always knows, and can’t wait to tell . . . for politics, or principle, or money. But it seemed the few people who were in the know weren’t talking. Because they were too scared.

Though, interestingly enough, few people were ready to believe in a new satanic conspiracy, except for those who worked on the more downmarket tabloids, for whom such things were their everyday meat and drink. I couldn’t help thinking of the boy who cried wolf. . . .

Still, it was a nice enough night, only just past midnight, so we enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the brightly lit streets of Westminster, and happily discussed all the truly appalling things we were going to do to the Satanists at the meeting, once we got our hands on them.

We reached the House of Commons with a good half hour to spare, and one of Philip MacAlpine’s people was already there waiting for us. I recognised him immediately, having done business with him before, back when I was only another field agent in London, and still learning my craft. No one ever sent a minor functionary like Alan Diment out on anything important. Alan was a middle-aged, lower-rank courier, as quietly anonymous as any secret messenger should be. He was blond and blue eyed in a minor aristocratic sort of way, the kind that drifts into intelligence work because that was what Daddy did. He would clearly have liked to be mysterious, but didn’t have the poise to carry it off. I’ve no idea what he does at MI-13 when he isn’t running errands, but he’s trustworthy enough. If only because he doesn’t have the ambition to be treacherous.

He was actually walking up and down outside the House of Commons quite openly, looking very much like he didn’t want to be there. He nodded quickly to me as I approached, and managed a small but punctiliously polite nod to Molly.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said. “But orders are orders, and all that, needs must. . . . So here are two MI-13 security passes: one made out to Shaman Bond, and the other to . . . well, one other. Is she really . . . Yes, thought she was. Best not put her name down on a pass, eh? Don’t want to give the chaps inside a coronary. . . . The passes will give you access to the outer lobby, but no farther . I was instructed to say that in a very definite voice, and I think you’ll agree I gave it my best shot. Anyone bothers you, show them the passes and look mean, and they’ll leave you alone. Please don’t break anything, please don’t kill anybody and above all, please don’t do anything that might embarrass the department. We’re up for a budget review next month, and this is no time to be making enemies, so try not to make any trouble. . . .”