Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“We started out with six, and now we are three,” I said. “Wouldn’t take a lot now to whittle us down to one. Treachery and backstabbing have always been a recognised part of the spy’s trade.”

“Sometimes literally,” said Honey. “Where were you, Eddie, when Katt and Blue died? Or when my submersible was sabotaged and I nearly died?”

“I saved your life,” I said.

“Good misdirection,” said Honey. “How better to make me trust you?”

“We could still be four,” said Walker. “Peter might still turn up.”

“Perhaps,” said Honey. She looked at me for a long moment. “Keep a close watch on that phone, Eddie. I’d hate for it to go . . . missing.”

“Right,” said Walker. “A tourist trap like this is bound to be lousy with pickpockets.”

Honey sniffed loudly. “If I find someone else’s hand in my pockets, I’ll tie their fingers in a knot.”

I smiled, perhaps a little complacently. “No one steals from a Drood and lives to boast of it.”

“The Blue Fairy stole a torc from you,” said Walker. “Is that why you killed him?”

I turned to face him, slowly and deliberately, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch.

“Is that an accusation?”

“Not yet,” said Walker.

“You’re sure someone killed them?” said Honey. “No way it could have been just . . . chance?”

“I don’t believe in chance,” said Walker. “Not where professionals like us are concerned. And especially considering someone tried to kill me back in Tunguska.”

“So you say,” I said.

“Well, quite,” said Walker.

“We have business to attend to,” Honey said firmly. “Starting with working out just what that business is. Everything else can wait.”

“Yes,” I said. “It can wait.”

“For now,” said Walker.

“Men . . .” said Honey. “Why don’t you just get them out and wave them at each other?”

We walked on through the town, taking in the sights, hoping for a glimpse of something significant. The sun blazed fiercely in a clear blue sky, not a hint of a cloud in sight, and not a whisper of a breeze to take the edge off the increasingly uncomfortable hot dry air. And still, tourists everywhere: large, red-faced, happy souls in colourful outfits with not a care in the world . . . or any sense of danger, apparently.

“I may be wrong about this,” Walker said quietly, “but I rather think we’re being followed.”

We stopped, looked into a shop window full of cute little stuffed aliens, and then casually turned and looked about us, as though wondering where to go next. I let my gaze drift easily back and forth, but with so many people milling about it was hard to spot anything unusual.

“I don’t see anyone,” I said finally. “And I really am pretty good at identifying tails.”

“I run the Nightside,” said Walker. “You don’t last long in the Nightside without developing especially good survival instincts. There’s someone out there, and they’ve been following us for at least five, maybe ten minutes.”

“I don’t see anyone,” said Honey. “But I do feel . . . something.”

We walked back the way we’d come, darting in and out of shops, using front and back entrances, doubling back and forth and using shop windows as mirrors . . . All the usual tactics for surprising a tail into betraying himself. And even after all that, not a glimpse of anyone anywhere doing anything they shouldn’t. But now I was definitely getting that prickly feeling at the back of my neck of being watched by unseen eyes. Someone was out there, shadowing our every move; someone really good at what they were doing.

A professional, like us.

“Who knows we’re here?” Honey said finally. “Who knows who we are? Hell, even we didn’t know we were coming here till we were here!”

“Alexander King knew,” I said. “He could have arranged for word to get out. And we have been making waves . . . We were bound to attract attention sooner or later from any number of groups or organisations or even certain powerful individuals. Damn, this is creepy. I spy on people; I don’t get spied on.”

“Use the Sight,” said Walker.

“No,” I said immediately. “If he’s as good as I think he is, and he must be really bloody good if he can hide himself from me, he’ll detect it the moment I raise my Sight. And then he’ll know for sure he’s been spotted.”

“He must know that now, the way we’ve been acting,” said Honey.

“No . . .” I said. “He may suspect, but he doesn’t know. And as long as he’s still not sure, we’ve got the upper hand.”

“Perhaps,” said Walker. “Whoever they are, they must represent whoever it is that’s responsible for whatever’s happening here . . . or what’s scheduled to happen. God, I hate sentences like that. But consider this: if you were setting up a major operation in a small town and all of a sudden just happened to notice a Drood, a CIA agent, and the man who runs the Nightside strolling casually around taking an interest in things . . . You’d want to know more about them, wouldn’t you?”

“Let him watch,” I said. “Let him follow. He can’t do anything without revealing himself, and if he’s stupid enough to do that, I will then quite happily bounce the bugger off the nearest wall and ask him pointed questions.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Honey.

Our attention was attracted by a small group of tourists gathered in front of a shop window. They seemed more than usually excited. We strolled over to join them and found they were watching a news programme on a television set in the window. The local news anchor, a small man in a large suit with a deep voice and an obvious toupee, was getting quite excited over the story that was just coming in through his teleprompter.

“We’ve all heard about cattle mutilations,” he said, his voice only slightly muffled by the shop window. “Cattle found dead of no obvious cause, with bits missing and numerous incisions made with almost surgical skill. All kinds of people (and others) have been blamed for these: aliens, mad scientists, government agencies backed up by their ubiquitous black helicopters . . . even Devil worshippers and extreme vegetarians. But events right here at Roswell have now taken a new and disturbing turn.”

I looked at Honey. “Black helicopters?”

“Nothing to do with me,” she said. “Cattle mutilations are just so beneath us. We’d never be involved in anything that messy and that obvious.”

She broke off as several people in the crowd shushed her, and we all turned our attention back to the news anchor.

“Early this morning, seven dead and mutilated cattle were discovered on the ranch of well-known local businessman Jim Thomerson, some twenty miles outside of Roswell,” he said. “In each case, major organs were missing, removed from the carcasses with professional skill. Strange burn marks were noted on the ground near the dead cattle . . . but no other signs to show how the attackers came and went, according to local law enforcement officials. Disturbing enough, you might think, but the breaking news is that Jim Thomerson himself has been found dead and mutilated not far from his cattle. His body has been brought into town, to the new morgue, for forensic examination.”

The news anchor forced a smile for the camera. “Have our little Gray friends finally gone too far? We hope to be able to show you actual photos from the crime scene later this evening. We must warn you that these photos are likely to be of a graphic nature; viewer discretion is advised.”

“Translation: everyone gather around the set; this is going to be good!” said Honey. “Yes, I know; shush.”

And then the television screen went blank. The four other television sets in the window that had been showing other channels with the sound turned down also went dead. The crowd stirred nervously, broke up into couples and families, and drifted away, chattering animatedly. Walker and Honey and I looked at each other.