Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“What kind of weird things?” said Honey as casually as she could.

“Oh, shoot. Bright lights, strange noises, lots of coming and going. And tons and tons of brand-new equipment. Granddaddy always said the ship would have had to be bigger on the inside than it was on the outside to fit it all in!”

“And the . . . legend?” said Walker. “The tall tales . . . Was your grandfather here when all that happened?”

“Bless you, no, honey!” said the waitress. “Never saw any such thing! It’s all just stories to bring in the suckers. Sorry; tourists. Got to work that tourist dollar!” She smiled at Walker. “You know, if you want, I could get you a cup of tea from the cook’s private stock. Real tea bags!”

“We’re not stopping,” Honey said firmly. “Could we have the check, please?”

The waitress bestowed another gleaming smile on Walker and swayed off on her high heels.

“She likes you,” I said.

“Shut up,” said Walker.

“She likes you. She’s your special waitress friend.”

“I am old enough to be her father,” said Walker with great dignity.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” said Peter. “This is America. Most men here wouldn’t be seen dead with a woman old enough to be their wife. This is the only country that thinks Zimmer frames are sexy.”

Honey slapped him round the back of the head.

“Stop that!” said Peter, edging his chair back out of her reach.

“Then stop being you,” said Honey.

“Well,” I said quickly, “I think it’s safe to assume we were sent here to investigate the mystery of the Philadelphia Experiment.”

“Seems like our best bet,” said Honey.

“You could ask your people at Langley to lean on naval intelligence,” said Walker. “Get them to open some of these secret files they claim not to have.”

“Take too long,” said Honey. “Our intelligence agencies have a really bad track record when it comes to cooperating with each other. Partly politics, partly jurisdiction, partly because each agency has its own secret agenda, but mostly it’s just a pissing contest. The Company has more clout than most, but even so . . .”

“We don’t have the time,” I said. “Especially since we lost three days at Tunguska.”

“Right,” said Peter. “Grandfather could be dead by now, or getting close.”

“I have to say,” said Walker, “that you don’t sound too concerned.”

“Well, that’s probably because I’m not,” said Peter. “Except that the old goat could turn up his toes at any time, and then all of this would have been for nothing. Are any of you going to try to pretend you care?”

“I don’t know the man,” said Honey. “All I know is the legend of the Independent Agent.”

“It’s always sad when a legend passes,” I said. “One less wonder in the world.”

“Like your uncle James?” said Walker. “The famous, or perhaps more properly infamous, Gray Fox?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

“How did the Gray Fox die, exactly?” said Honey. “We never did get all the details.”

“And you never will,” I said. “That’s family business. We will now change the subject.”

“What if we don’t want to?” said Peter.

I looked at him, and he stirred uneasily in his chair. “Don’t push your luck, Peter,” I said.

“Now, children,” said Walker. “Play nice.”

“We need to go back to the docks,” I said. “I can use my Sight, boost it through the armour, if necessary. Perhaps pick up some ghost images of the experiment itself, back in 1943.”

“You think they’ll still be here?” said Honey.

“Of course,” I said. “Bad things sink in; remember?”

“Have we got time for some dessert?” said Peter. “Stop hitting me, woman!”

“How are we going to split the bill?” said Walker.

“Hell with that,” I said. “Honey can pay. CIA’s got the deepest pockets of anyone at this table.”

Honey scowled as she reached for her credit card. “Hate doing my expenses,” she growled. “They challenge everything these days. Whole damn Company is run by bean counters.”

Before we left, Walker made a point of leaving a generous tip for the waitress.

We headed back to the docks, strolling along with the portly, unhurried steps of the well-fed. There were tourists all around in brightly coloured shirts, looking like mating birds of paradise. Mostly they seemed interested in architecture, historical points of interest, and shops selling overpriced tatt. We were the only ones standing on the edge of the docks, staring out at the ships. No one paid us any special attention. I checked. The river was calm and peaceful, the sky was untroubled by cloud or plane, and the sun was pleasantly warm. Just enough of a breeze blowing in off the water to be refreshing.

I raised my Sight and looked at the river again. To my surprise, I couldn’t make out a thing. So much psychic energy had been released in the vicinity that the aether was jammed solid with an overlapping mess of signals. As though so many strange and wonderful things had happened here that the atmosphere had become supersaturated with information. It was all just a fog of events, magical and scientific, piled on top of each other like a thousand voices all shouting at once, desperate to be heard. I subvocalised my activating Words and clad myself in golden armour. Honey moved in close beside me.

“Is that really wise?” she hissed. “We’re supposed to be undercover agents, remember? Aren’t you in the least concerned that the tourists will see you in your armour and run screaming for their lives? Or an exorcist? All it needs is one quick-thinking onlooker to catch you on his phone camera, and we will be the local news, on every channel!”

“Try not to panic,” I said, still looking out over the river through my golden mask. “It’s very unbecoming in an agent. My torc broadcasts a signal that prevents anyone from seeing the armour. Unless I decide otherwise.”

“We can see it,” said Peter.

“Only because I let you,” I said.

“Hold everything,” said Walker. “Are you saying your torc has influence, even control, over our thoughts?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I am a Drood and therefore by definition far too nice and good and noble to even think of abusing such a privilege.”

“Typical Drood arrogance!” said Honey. “You never thought to mention this before, because . . . ?”

“I thought you knew,” I said. “You’re CIA. You know everything.”

“Don’t hit him,” Walker said to Honey. “You’d only hurt your hand. Wait till he’s armoured down; then hit him.”

“My turn to say, Hold everything, ” I said. “I See something.”

Focused through my golden mask, my Sight forced its way through the mass of information to show me ghost images of the final voyage of the USS Eldridge. The long ship came out of the docks on a gray afternoon in 1943, not knowing it was sailing out of history and into legend. The Eldridge was travelling severely low in the water, as though carrying far more weight than it was designed for. Every square inch of the open decks was covered with bulky equipment trailing wires and cables all fussed over by uniformed sailors dashing frantically back and forth. Tall spiky antennae thrust up at regular intervals the whole length of the ship, and long traceries of vivid electricity crawled up and down them, spitting and crackling. Strange energies pulsed and seethed, building an increasingly powerful aura around the ship.

Up till then, it was just a weirder than usual scientific experiment, but that all changed abruptly with the arrival of the green fog. It appeared out of nowhere: no warning, no clue, just thick green mists boiling up around the ship and enveloping it from stem to stern. A green fog thick with otherworldly magic, merging with and then suffusing the Eldridge ’s energy field. Magic and science combining, producing an effect neither could achieve on their own.