Molly knew a whole bunch of these people from her time in Manifest Destiny, back when that organisation was still pretending to be a part of the political process. We strolled casually into the main bar, and a number of heads came up to smile and nod in our direction. Molly isn’t someone you easily forget, and as always, people expected Shaman Bond to turn up anywhere. A bunch of tabloid hacks waved us over to join them at the bar.
“Welcome back to the din of iniquity, Molly dearest!” said an overstuffed gentleman in a long, grubby coat. “Still plotting character assassinations and general insurrection?”
“Ah, happy days,” said Molly. “Hello, Brian. Stand me a drink, and I’ll tell you where a few bodies are buried.”
Everyone laughed, though a bit uneasily. You never knew with Molly. . . .
The pub itself gave every indication of being a bit dodgy, a place where quiet deals could be made, and expensive items purchased cheaply out the back when no one was looking. It was also more than a little old-fashioned, with political cartoons from the fifties and sixties in framed cases on the walls. No one sat alone. People came here to talk. Secrets were currency, and gossip was gold. And everyone had something to sell or, more hopefully, swap. Reputations could be made or destroyed here, and old slights avenged by nudging the right person in the right direction.
There were a lot of sideways glances and muttered conversations, as the regular clientele wondered what Molly Metcalf and Shaman Bond were doing here. Because no one ever came to the Floating Voter by accident, or dropped in for a quiet drink. We must want something; and they were all wondering how best to sell it to us. A lot of them seemed to remember Molly; but then, she always did make an impression. A political journalist from one of the more upmarket tabloids, one Linda Van Paulus, remembered Shaman Bond, and made a point of drifting casually in my direction. She bought me a drink, which was decent of her, and we propped up the bar together for a while, as Molly reestablished old connections and pumped them ruthlessly for information.
“Shaman, darling,” said Linda, peering at me sharply over her glass of neat gin, “surprised to see you and the infamous Molly Metcalf together. Business or pleasure?”
“Bit of both,” I said.
“Did I hear right, that you two are an item now?”
“Can’t keep anything from you, Linda.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Linda was tall and overbearing, with a long, horsey face and a mouth with too many teeth in it, dressed so casually it bordered on downright careless. But she had a mind, when she cared to use it. She looked over at Molly and the people she was talking with, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she realised what they had in common. I moved in quickly, to distract her.
“So, Linda,” I said. “What story are you working on? Anything interesting?”
“The prime minister and his whole cabinet are up to something,” Linda said immediately. She never could resist showing just how in-the-know she was. “Bit of a surprise there, because normally they can’t agree on anything. They say the new cabinet table is round, so they can all stab one another in the back simultaneously. But whatever it is they’re up to, it must be really important, because I can’t get even a sniff of it. All my usual sources have either gone into hiding or are holding out for more money than my editors are prepared to pay. Fools. I keep telling them you have to spend money to make money, but the boards are all run by bean counters these days. Penny wise, pound foolish. Not one of them’s got printer’s blood in their veins.” She looked at me suddenly, and put her glass down on the bar. “You know something. You do, don’t you? Come on, Shaman; share the goodies, for old times’ sake. I’ll see you don’t go short.”
“Well,” I said carefully, “you’re probably not going to believe this, but I have been hearing very solid rumours that the prime minister and his people are in bed with a new satanic conspiracy.”
And the interesting thing was, she didn’t immediately laugh in my face. She looked at me thoughtfully and drummed her fingers on the bar. “So, that’s what you’ve been hearing, is it? Wouldn’t have anything to do with this Great Sacrifice that our glorious leader was on about? Oh, yes, darling, Auntie Linda has been hearing things, too. My regular sources might be fading into the woodwork, or pricing themselves out of the market, but there are still people willing to talk, if you know where to listen. No one’s got any details about this Great Sacrifice yet, but you can bet that the likes of you and I will be the ones who end up making it. And the PM and his lot who end up profiting. See that quiet little chap over there, brooding into his rum and Coke? He’s the one you want to talk to. Dear little Adrian Toomey, works for the Times, and occasionally as a researcher for the BBC’s only decent documentary programme, Panorama. Talk to him. See what you can get out of him.” She gripped me firmly by the arm, her long fingers digging deep into the flesh. “And be sure you share anything you find out. Yes . . . dear, dear Adrian. He’s deeper in this than anyone else. Or so he likes to claim . . .”
I thanked her, made a few promises I had no intention of keeping and moved over to join Adrian Toomey, who was sitting on the edge of a conversation and paying it no attention at all. His pale blue eyes were far away. He was a stocky, wistful type in a chubby pullover and a shapeless blazer, and his old-school tie was almost certainly more genuine than mine. He blinked mildly at me as I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him, and then he shifted uncomfortably on his chair as I explained what I wanted to know. He leaned forward so he could talk confidentially, his soft, clear voice almost lost in the general noise of the pub.
All my usual sources have disappeared, Mr. Bond. No one seems to know what’s happened to them. And of the few who are left, the official spokespeople, the briefers and the leakers . . . they’re still talking as much as ever, without actually saying anything. And not because they’ve been leaned on or scared off; they genuinely don’t seem to know what’s going on. And these are people who are used to being in the loop, in the know. Everyone’s talking about this Great Sacrifice, and the wonderful new future it’s supposed to usher in for all of us; but no one knows what it is, or what it involves. Except our current lords and masters. And they only ever talk about it behind closed doors, and with major levels of security, with no record kept of what’s said. Someone said . . . they saw the prime minister crying yesterday.
“The farther in I go, the less people have to say. There’s an atmosphere in the corridors of power, Mr. Bond. People are scared. Genuinely terrified of something that’s coming. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know any more. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Pardon me for being blunt,” I said. “But have you heard anything about a new satanic conspiracy?”
Adrian Toomey looked at me sadly. “Oh, Mr. Bond. I took you for a serious researcher. I don’t do that tabloid nonsense.”
Molly and I left the Floating Voter not much wiser than we’d arrived. Molly had quizzed all her old contacts, to no effect. The prime minister and his cabinet were definitely planning something, and probably up to no good; everyone was certain of that. . . . But no one knew what. Molly was quite annoyed, and a little mystified, that she hadn’t been able to get anything more specific. Westminster isn’t usually that good at keeping secrets. Someone always knows, and can’t wait to tell . . . for politics, or principle, or money. But it seemed the few people who were in the know weren’t talking. Because they were too scared.
Though, interestingly enough, few people were ready to believe in a new satanic conspiracy, except for those who worked on the more downmarket tabloids, for whom such things were their everyday meat and drink. I couldn’t help thinking of the boy who cried wolf. . . .
Still, it was a nice enough night, only just past midnight, so we enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the brightly lit streets of Westminster, and happily discussed all the truly appalling thin
gs we were going to do to the Satanists at the meeting, once we got our hands on them.
We reached the House of Commons with a good half hour to spare, and one of Philip MacAlpine’s people was already there waiting for us. I recognised him immediately, having done business with him before, back when I was only another field agent in London, and still learning my craft. No one ever sent a minor functionary like Alan Diment out on anything important. Alan was a middle-aged, lower-rank courier, as quietly anonymous as any secret messenger should be. He was blond and blue eyed in a minor aristocratic sort of way, the kind that drifts into intelligence work because that was what Daddy did. He would clearly have liked to be mysterious, but didn’t have the poise to carry it off. I’ve no idea what he does at MI-13 when he isn’t running errands, but he’s trustworthy enough. If only because he doesn’t have the ambition to be treacherous.
He was actually walking up and down outside the House of Commons quite openly, looking very much like he didn’t want to be there. He nodded quickly to me as I approached, and managed a small but punctiliously polite nod to Molly.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said. “But orders are orders, and all that, needs must. . . . So here are two MI-13 security passes: one made out to Shaman Bond, and the other to . . . well, one other. Is she really . . . Yes, thought she was. Best not put her name down on a pass, eh? Don’t want to give the chaps inside a coronary. . . . The passes will give you access to the outer lobby, but no farther. I was instructed to say that in a very definite voice, and I think you’ll agree I gave it my best shot. Anyone bothers you, show them the passes and look mean, and they’ll leave you alone. Please don’t break anything, please don’t kill anybody and above all, please don’t do anything that might embarrass the department. We’re up for a budget review next month, and this is no time to be making enemies, so try not to make any trouble. . . .”
“Trouble?” I said innocently. “Us?”
“If you should be arrested, the department has never heard of you,” said Diment. “We’ll deny all knowledge of you, and swear blind the passes are forged. Would you like to sign for your passes?”
“What do you think?” said Molly.
“Oh, here,” said Diment. “Take the bloody things, so I can go home.”
He thrust two small laminated passes into my hand. Very official-looking, but carefully bland. No photo ID, because MI-13 agents don’t like to be remembered, and the official signatures were just scrawls. Perfect.
“Right. That’s it. I’m off,” said Diment. “I am going home to a warm bed and a hot wife, and if you should need any further assistance, feel free to phone anyone except me. Phone MacAlpine. He never liked me. Good-bye.”
And he strode off into the night, still muttering to himself. Molly looked at me.
“If I’d known it was this easy to break into Parliament, I’d have done it years ago. You know, I could get you a really good deal on several gallons of napalm. . . .”
“Another time,” I said.
Getting into the House of Commons was easy: Flash the passes around and look confident. The police on duty nodded to us. The security guards inside insisted on a close look at the passes, but bowed down to the implied might of MI-13. The outer lobby was exactly like it looks on television: very old, steeped in history and tradition. Full of people with vaguely familiar faces coming and going with an important air about them, even at this early hour of the morning. The business of government never sleeps, which is sometimes a good thing, and sometimes not. Occasionally someone very dignified and important would come striding through the outer lobby, on very important business, smiling graciously at the television crews waiting about, because you never knew when a camera might be rolling. The television reporters showed no interest in Molly or me. They didn’t recognise us, so we couldn’t be important.
A uniformed security guard with a large sniffer dog felt quite the opposite, and came forward to check us out. So I immediately knelt down and made a big fuss over the dog, rubbing his head and scratching behind his ears, and he wagged his tail happily as I spoke cheerful nonsense to him. The guard looked pained.
“Please don’t do that, sir; he’s working.”
“Oh . . . is he working, then? Is he?” I said to the dog. “Is he working then!”
“Soppy,” said Molly.
I showed the guard our passes, and he reluctantly dragged his dog away, only to be replaced almost immediately by a plain-clothed security man who seemed to take it as a personal insult that he hadn’t been briefed about an MI-I3 presence in advance. He looked down his nose at me, and then at Molly, and studied our passes very thoroughly, obviously just itching to find something he could say was wrong with them.
“MI-13,” he said sniffily. “I am Peregrine Le Behan.” And he looked down his nose again, clearly expecting the name to mean something to us. I think we were both supposed to bow down and offer him our firstborn, to appease his wrath. When we looked back at him blankly, he glared at both of us. “No one from your department cleared this with me! Or anyone from Drood Hall. Oh, yes, Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf . . . I’ve read your files. You’re trouble, both of you, and I want to know what you’re doing here with MI-13 passes!”
“At least I’m not one other anymore,” said Molly.
“The fact that we’re using the passes should tell you that we’re not here as ourselves,” I said. “As far as you’re concerned, as far as anyone’s concerned, there’s no need to make a big deal of this. We’re just two MI-13 people having a quiet look round. No need to panic anyone, is there?”
Le Behan sniffed loudly. “These passes have no validity, since they weren’t cleared with me. So I’m confiscating them. And you will both have to come with me while I make further enquiries. I’m sure we can find somewhere suitably depressing to hold you while I find out what’s really going on. You should never have been allowed in here in the first place.”
“Allowed?” I said, and something in my voice made him fall back a step. I smiled coldly. “No one allows Droods to do anything. We do what needs doing, and minor functionaries like you get the hell out of the way, if they don’t want to be trampled underfoot.”
Le Behan started to splutter something officious and suitably outraged, so I armoured up my right fist and held it up in front of his face. He stopped talking immediately, his wide eyes fixed on the golden spikes rising up from my knuckles. He actually whimpered a little. He jerked his gaze away and looked at Molly. She smiled unpleasantly, snapped her fingers and turned his expensive shoes into a pair of dead fish. Le Behan looked like he was going to burst into tears.
“Now be a good little functionary, Peregrine, and piss off,” I said. “Or we’ll get cranky.”
“Seriously cranky,” said Molly.
“And give me back the bloody passes,” I said. He thrust them into my hand, and I gave him a hard look. “Remember: We were never here. Or we’ll fix it so you were never here.”
“Ever,” said Molly.
Le Behan squelched mournfully away in his dead fish, and I made my armoured fist disappear. No one noticed. No alarms. No one was paying us any attention at all. The television people were still waiting for someone important to show up. Security in the outer lobby was seriously rubbish. I’d have to have a word with someone about that later.
Molly and I wandered around the outer lobby, looking the place over. The old walls looked solid enough, but my torc-backed Sight led me immediately to one particular section tucked away in a corner. As we approached, several quite powerful move along; nothing to see here avoidance spells kicked in, more than enough to divert normal attention. Molly brushed them aside with a sweep of her hand, like clinging cobwebs. As we drew closer, my Sight showed me a massive door set into the wall, made of solid gold. Molly made admiring noises.
“Is that really solid gold . . . ? It is, it is! Tons of it! Well, one up on the Wulfshead’s silver door . . .”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said.
“The door is fused to the wall; you couldn’t pry that loose with an enchanted crowbar.” I ran my fingertips across the gleaming gold. It was unnaturally warm to the touch, and subtly unpleasant. As though there were something really nasty on the other side. “This isn’t just gold, Molly. It feels . . . inhabited.”
“Could this be the same material as your armour?” said Molly.
“Good question,” I said. “Obviously not the strange matter of my current armour, but . . . the Heart got up to a lot of stuff that most of the family never got to hear about. No . . . No. I don’t think so. London Undertowen had already been in existence for centuries before the Heart crashed into our reality. This is probably a coincidence.”
But I couldn’t seem to make myself feel comfortable about that, even as I said it.
“How do we get in?” Molly said briskly. “Without our having to do something urgent, violent and attention-gathering?”
“We use the passWord,” I said; and I said it. The golden door swung smoothly and silently open before us.
“How did you know that?” said Molly.
“Because Droods know everything,” I said.
“Not always,” she said sweetly. “Or we wouldn’t need to be here, would we?”
“True,” I said.
Inside the door, a narrow stairway of very old, very smooth and worn-down stone steps led away into darkness. They looked old enough to have actually been Roman. I looked back, but no one was paying us any attention. The door’s avoidance spells were protecting us. I led the way down the steps, Molly following close behind. She wanted to go first, but I wouldn’t let her, and then she wanted to walk beside me, but the steps weren’t wide enough; so she settled for walking close behind and sulking. There was no handrail, so we had to press our shoulders hard against the rough stone of the adjoining wall to be sure we didn’t accidentally get too close to the edge of the steps, and the apparently bottomless drop beyond.
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