Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“We don’t,” I said. “He stole his torc.”

Honey Lake raised an elegant eyebrow. “And you let him live?”

“It’s . . . complicated,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s like that, is it?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You’re CIA. You know everything.”

She laughed. “If we did, we wouldn’t need field agents. It really is fascinating to meet you, Eddie. In the flesh, so to speak. Normally we only get to see Droods in action, from a distance, wrapped up in your amazing armour. And then only if we’re very lucky. You’re the urban legends of the espionage field. Often talked about, rarely glimpsed, never sticking around to accept praise or answer questions. Who was that masked man? we cry, and never a response. The CIA has massive files on you Droods, but we don’t trust anything that’s in them. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories we hear about you.”

“Believe them all,” I said solemnly. “Especially the really weird ones.”

“I met the Gray Fox once,” said Honey. “In a bombed-out bar in Beirut. Such a gentleman. Stole the courier I was escorting right out from under my nose.”

“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.