The Spy Who Haunted Me

by Simon R. Green

  Until finally it was all dropped in my lap through an anonymous tip. Now, it’s not easy to be anonymous around a Drood; we can See right through most glamours and disguises, and we’re almost impossible to sneak up on. Nevertheless, this quiet voice whispered in my ear, soft as a dove’s fart: If you’re interested in the Tower of London job, you need to speak to Big Oz. Over there, by the Universal Exports stall.

  “Who is this?” I said quietly, careful not to look around. “Why are you telling me this?”

  A breath of laughter warm on my ear. Perhaps because even the most unrepentant villain can, much to his own surprise, turn out to be a patriot.

  I waited, but there was nothing more. I looked around, but there was only the crowd, shoving and jostling and shouting each other down, doing business. I considered the situation. Big Oz? Really? If the Emerald City was mounting an operation in London, I should have been informed. Unless it was in one of those damned memos I hadn’t got around to yet . . .

  But no; it turned out the man I’d been pointed at was Big Aus, a fanatical republican Australian. I introduced myself, and he crushed my hand in a big meaty fist. He was a large man, broad in the shoulder and wide in the belly, wearing a suit that looked like he’d ordered it from a photograph. He had a broad cheerful face, with sharp piercing eyes and a ready smile. He knew my name and reputation and said he was very pleased to see me.

  “Call me Big Aus,” he said. “Everyone does. And you are a sight for sore eyes, Shaman. I’m a man short for a really sweet scheme, and you fit the part perfectly. Dame Luck must be smiling on me today. You want in? You’re in!”

  “Hold it,” I said quickly. “It’s nice to be wanted, Big Aus, but I’m not agreeing to be a part of anything until I know just what it is I’m getting into. And what the money’s like.”

  “Of course! Of course! Wouldn’t want a fella who was willing to just dive in blind! We can’t talk here. You come along with me to this nice little watering hole I know around the corner. The rest of the gang’s already there, just waiting for me to fill the last gap with the right man. You’ll love them; they’re all real characters, just like you. Come with me, Shaman, and I will tell you how we’re going to make ourselves really bloody wealthy and stick it to the whole bloody British monarchy. We are going to pull off the crime of the century and help make God’s own country of Australia the republic she was always meant to be!”

  Big Aus took me firmly by the arm and escorted me to a tacky little theme eatery just a few streets away from the Hiring Hall, an almost unbearably twee faux-Irish chain called the L’il Leprechaun. I knew of the chain but had never thought I’d actually be required to eat in one. The L’il Leprechauns have about as much in common with real Irish cuisine and culture as a plastic shamrock, and even less dignity. If the real Little People ever find out what’s being perpetrated in their name, they’ll declare a fatwa on the whole damned chain.

  The eatery was decked out in loud primary colours, the tables were shaped like great flattened-off mushrooms, and there were pots of gold in which to stub out your herbal cigarettes. Cartoon leprechauns gambolled cheerfully across the walls and ceiling and even peeped playfully out from behind the big stand-up menus. Most of the food, and even some of the drinks, came in shades of green. I made a mental note to steer well clear of the beef burgers. A sulky waitress done up as a Bunny Colleen, complete with sprayed-on freckles, tottered over on high heels and led Big Aus and me to a table at the back, where three other people were already sitting.

  I knew them, and they knew me. Big Aus had heard of me in the way most people have heard of Shaman Bond, but these three were very familiar faces. I don’t know that I’d call them friends, exactly, but we’d all worked together in the past at one time or another to our mutual profit, and we all moved in the same social circles. I pulled up a plastic chair so I could sit with my back to the wall while Big Aus dropped his great weight onto a plastic chair with such impact that it actually shuddered beneath him.

  As always, Coffin Jobe looked like he’d just been dug up out of his grave and then hit over the head with the shovel. He was a tall, thin, sad affair, wrapped in a long grimy coat with food stains down the front, topped with a thick scarf to keep the cold out. He wore heavy old-fashioned spectacles with the kind of thick lenses normally employed to fry ants with the help of the sun, behind which his gaunt face had the kind of pallor usually found only on things that live at the bottom of the sea. Coffin Jobe was cursed with an unusual affliction. You’ve heard of narcoleptics, who have a tendency to fall suddenly asleep and then wake up again? Coffin Jobe is a necroleptic. He has the tendency to suddenly fall down dead, and then get over it. A serial resurrector, as it were. He’s been dying and coming back to life again on a regular basis for some years now, and no one knows why, least of all him. (Though there are those who say he’s doing it in order to get used to being dead, so he can develop an immunity.) However, as a direct result of his many assignations with the Other Side, Coffin Jobe can See the world with more than usual clarity. This has made him very useful on many a criminal endeavour, as there’s no one better at spotting hidden traps and unexpected dangers.

  He’s also as crazy as a sewer rat on amphetamines, but you have to expect that. People make allowances.

  I’ve always suspected that Coffin Jobe can See the torc around my throat and therefore knows I’m really a Drood, but he’s never said anything. He’d never betray a friend and a confidant. Not unless there was really serious money involved.

  The Dancing Fool, on the other hand, would sell his own granny for the promise of a bent penny. He was the fastest fighter in the world and made sure that everyone knew it. He could move so fast you didn’t even know you’d been hit until the ground jumped up to slap you in the face. All the best martial arts are based on dances; he claimed his was based on an old Scottish sword dance. He practiced the deadly martial art of knowing exactly what an opponent is going to do before they do it. He called it déjà fu. He liked to style himself as an international assassin, but really he was just hired muscle. He was talented enough, but not all that bright, and was cursed with a terrible temper. When the red mist descended he was a danger to anyone around him, including his own allies. A broad, bluff Scottish type, he wore clan colours I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to and affected a lilting Highlands accent.

  He also had no sense of humour. You could tell that from his clothes.

  And finally, there was Strange Chloe. A disturbing young lady, with a permanent scowl and a stuck-out lower lip. A Goth, of course. In fact, a Goth’s Goth, dressed in black, complete with fishnet stockings and a black velvet bow holding back long jet black hair. Her stark white face was dominated dark makeup and stylings she’d actually had tattooed in place. The eyelids in particular must really have hurt. Strange Chloe had a mad on for the entire world, so much so that when she really concentrated, the world actually crumbled under the force of her gaze. She could make walls fall down, rivers evaporate, and people crumble into dust, and she did. Fortunately, she lacked the energy to get into any real trouble and hadn’t the ambition necessary to make herself a major player, for which the rest of us were very grateful. She did just enough to get by and spent most of her time sulking in bed.

  I couldn’t help feeling that the quality of her life would improve greatly if she just got her ashes hauled on a regular basis. But it would be a brave man who tried.

  So; a man who could See traps, a thug for hire, and a woman who could make things go away just by looking at them. Not a bad crew.

  Strange Chloe fixed me with a thoughtful glower. “What are you doing here, Shaman?”

  “Shaman knows secrets about the Tower of London, Chloe,” Big Aus said smoothly.

  “Such as?” said the Dancing Fool. He did his best to sound tough, but if he was really tough he’d never have put up with his nickname.

  “I know more than most people,” I said easily. “Including a whole bunch of stuff that no one but
the Tower staff are supposed to know.”

  “How?” said Coffin Jobe, trying hard to sound like he cared. He doesn’t really have any social skills anymore, but he does try.

  “Because I’m Shaman Bond,” I said. “I know things. So, what is this caper all about, O my brothers? Are we after the Crown Jewels?”

  “Hardly,” said Big Aus. “It would take more than our combined talents to get anywhere near them. Only one man ever got his hands on the Crown Jewels, and that was one Colonel Blood, back in 1671. The guards caught up with him before he even made it to the main gate. Word is he died slowly and very nastily, for his pains. No, we’re after something just as important but not nearly as well defended.”

  “Should we be talking this openly, in public?” murmured Coffin Jobe, staring sadly around him through his oversized lenses.

  “Relax,” said Big Aus. “No one who matters would be seen dead in a dump like this. And listen to the racket! With so many people coming and going, ordering meals and chatting together, and that bloody awful piped Riverdance music, we could discuss kidnapping the Queen and selling her organs on eBay, and no one would hear us. The safest place to conspire has always been in public places. It’s the secret meetings in out-of-the-way places that always attract the authorities’ attention.”

  “What are we after?” I said.

  Strange Chloe grinned suddenly. It didn’t suit her. “The ravens, Shaman. We’re going to murderise the Tower ravens.”

  I frowned, looking back and forth to make sure they were serious. “Are we talking about the old legend that if the ravens ever leave the Tower of London, England will suffer a great disaster?”

  “Got it in one!” Big Aus said cheerfully. “But it’s more than just a legend, sport. I’ve done the research. Buck House takes the threat so seriously that for many years now, all ravens in and around the Tower have to have their wing feathers clipped on a regular basis, just to make sure they can’t fly away.”

  “How very practical, and indeed British,” murmured Coffin Jobe. “Does anyone else feel that draught?”

  “We’re going to use our various abilities to get us close to the Tower, take care of the guards, and then kill all the ravens,” said Big Aus.

  “Aye!” said the Dancing Fool. “A powerful blow against the treacherous English!”

  “Pardon me if I’m being a bit slow here,” I said. “But where’s the profit in this? The hard cash, the old champagne coupons? Kidnapping the ravens for ransom, yes, I can see that; but just . . . killing them?”

  “I’m providing the backing for this little venture,” Big Aus said sharply. “Myself and a small consortium of like-minded Australian patriots. We’re going to strike a blow against England in general and the monarchy in particular. Humiliate Parliament and the bloody Queen, all at the same time! That’s worth ten times what we’re fronting, in the name of the republican cause.”

  Strange Chloe sniffed airily. “It’s something to do. Could be fun. Will I get to kill lots of people?”

  “Almost certainly,” Big Aus assured her. He reached out to pat her hand, and then reconsidered and pulled his hand back again.

  “Burgle the Bloody Tower and make the English establishment look like idiots,” said the Dancing Fool. “A plan with no drawbacks.”

  “I like it when lots of people die suddenly,” Coffin Jobe said wistfully. “I don’t feel so alone then.”

  The Dancing Fool glared at him. “Why don’t you go and haunt a house somewhere?”

  “Because I frighten the ghosts,” said Coffin Jobe.

  He might have been joking, or he might not. It’s hard to tell, with Coffin Jobe.

  As it happened, I knew for a fact there was no truth to the legend about the ravens. If there was, the Droods would have their own guard on the ravens. My family has a long history of knowing what’s really dangerous and what isn’t. The whole raven thing is just a story made up to give the tourists a bit of a thrill. But this little caper still needed stopping. Big Aus was right about one thing; if he killed the ravens, those popular symbols of Queen and Country, right in the heart of London, it would make everyone look bad. Very definitely including the Droods for letting it happen on their watch. Might give other people the idea we didn’t have our eye on the ball, and we can’t have that.

  Still, the situation was . . . complicated. Big Aus I didn’t know from Adam, except he was slightly better dressed. The other three, however, while not exactly friends, were still people Shaman Bond knew. We had history together, some good, some bad. I couldn’t warn them off without raising everyone’s suspicions; as far as they were concerned, this was easy money. So on top of putting a stop to the scheme and taking down Big Aus, I also had to find a way of doing it that wouldn’t involve seriously hurting my associates or revealing I was really a Drood.

  Great. Wonderful. Terrific.

  And . . . I wasn’t entirely convinced by Big Aus. The more time I spent with him, the more convinced I became that the man was playing a role. He might well be the bluff Australian republican he claimed to be, but I couldn’t help feeling there was more to the man than that. And much more to this caper than just killing ravens . . . So I’d let things run as long as possible, to see what would happen . . . and then rely on my skills and abilities to slam the brakes down hard the moment things looked like they were getting out of hand.

  I was authorised to kill Big Aus, if necessary. And the others. I try very hard not to kill on any of my missions. I’m an agent, not an assassin. But sometimes . . . it’s the job.

  Big Aus leaned forward across the table and looked at each of us steadily in turn. “Does anyone have any problems they’d like to discuss? If so, speak up now or forever hold your peace. Because once you’re in, you’re in all the way.”

  “I find I don’t care much about anything but hard cash, since I started dying on a regular basis,” Coffin Jobe said sadly. “At least with enough money I can be miserable in comfort.”

  “The hell with bloody England!” said the Dancing Fool. “Let it all fall down!”

  “And I don’t give a toss,” said Strange Chloe. “Go for it.”

  And then they all looked at me. I smiled easily. “You know I only ever ask one question: How much does the job pay?”

  Big Aus told me, and I didn’t have to fake my interest. He was offering serious money, far more than the caper warranted. Which probably meant he didn’t expect us to be around afterwards to collect our pay. Which was . . . interesting. I gave him my best smile.

  “I’m in. The game is on. Shall we order now?”

  “You must be joking,” said Big Aus. “I wouldn’t even use the toilet in a place like this.”

  He had a point.

  The Big Plan, as outlined by Big Aus, turned out to be refreshingly simple and straightforward. My job was to provide information about the hidden and deadly protections set in place outside and inside the Tower, and then Coffin Jobe would use his more than mortal gaze to walk us past and through them. He said he could actually See the shut-down Words implicit in any magical protections, and I hoped he was right. The Dancing Fool would use his déjà fu to deal with any human guards we ran into. And Strange Chloe would look harshly upon the ravens. And then we would all leg it for the nearest horizon. Big Aus, it seemed, was just along for the ride.

  “I’m paying for this,” he said flatly. “And part of what I’m paying for is a ringside seat.”

  I sat back in my chair, apparently lost in thought, and surreptitiously studied the others as they told each other how easy it was all going to be, and how much fun, and the great reputations they’d make for themselves. The usual stuff. Sometimes I swear they’re just a bunch of big kids. I took the time to review all the information about the Tower of London that the family had supplied me with earlier. The Drood researchers know all there is to know about . . . pretty much anything, really. And enough to fake it about everything else. That’s their job. By the time Big Aus had calmed the others down and tur
ned back to me, I was ready to sound like an expert and blind them with details.

  “The best time to approach the Tower will be in the early hours of the morning,” I said confidently. “When the human guards are at their lowest spirits. Also, no tourists to get in the way. Nothing like innocent bystanders to screw up the most well-laid of plans.”

  “Right,” growled the Dancing Fool. “The fewer uncontrollable factors, the better. Go on, Shaman.”

  “Thank you,” I said dryly. “First off, you should know there isn’t just one Tower of London. There’s a whole bunch of them. Over a dozen, in fact, set together inside a high stone wall, like a veritable castle. And we are talking seriously thick stone walls, baptised with human blood by their builders to give them strength and with executed criminals buried down in the foundations so the dead will hold them up forever. Builders took pride in their work, in those days.

  “The original Tower of London was the White Tower, built on the orders of William the Conqueror, back in the eleventh century. The one most people think of when they say Tower of London is actually the Bloody Tower, dating from Tudor times. That’s where traitors to the realm were kept, before execution. But there’s also Flint Tower, St. Thomas’s Tower (which contains the Traitor’s Gate entrance), and Whitechapel Tower, which holds the Crown Jewels. Each of these Towers stands host to secrets and treasures undreamt of by the everyday public, and they are very heavily defended.”

  “You’re just showing off now,” said the Dancing Fool. “Stick with what matters, Shaman.”

  “My feet are cold,” Coffin Jobe said wistfully.

  “You want research, you get research,” I said. “The ravens have their own lodging house inside the castle complex for shelter during particularly inclement weather. Which means if we want to be sure of getting them all, we’re going to have to get inside the castle. Which will mean getting past the human guards, the Yeomen Warders. Never call them Beefeaters, by the way; apparently that started out as an old French insult, and the Warders are still very sensitive about it.”