Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“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?”