The Spy Who Haunted Me sh-3

by Simon R. Green

  We all kept looking hopefully at the Blue Fairy, who grew increasingly twitchy and finally scrambled to his feet and yelled at us.

  “Stop looking at me! I’ll tell you the moment I feel anything, all right?”

  After a moment he sat down again, staring sulkily into the flames.

  “I’ve just had a thought,” said Peter, sitting up straight.

  “Good for you,” said the Blue Fairy. “Had to happen eventually.”

  “No, listen! When I filmed Nessie on my state-of-the-art camera, the submersible was still broadcasting its siren mating call! It should still be audible on the recording. If I was to play it back now, perhaps the song would bring the Sasquatch to us!”

  We all considered the idea, but in the end Walker shook his head. “The mating call was filtered through the communications console so it would only attract really large creatures, remember? So unless you want to be humped to death by an oversized alligator . . .”

  “Ah,” said Peter. “Yes.”

  “Nice try, though,” I said. I reached for another branch to throw on the fire and found there weren’t any. “Damn.”

  “We’ll have to go out into the woods and get some more firewood,” said Honey.

  “What’s this we bullshit, kemo sabe?” said the Blue Fairy.

  “I’ll go.” Honey stood up, and then looked at me. “How about it, sailor? Care to keep a girl company?”

  “Your father wasted his money on that finishing school, didn’t he?” I got to my feet. “Let’s do it.”

  “Sure,” said Honey. “And afterwards, we can gather some wood.”

  “Hormones are a terrible thing,” said the Blue Fairy.

  I followed Honey out of the firelight as she headed for the river. She strode off into the darkness as though it was no big thing at all. And maybe for her it wasn’t. Away from the fire, my eyes adjusted to the gloom, but not by much. I could sense as much as see the trees and managed to avoid most of them. As soon as we were out of earshot of the others, Honey stopped and turned to face me. I wasn’t surprised. She couldn’t have made it more obvious she wanted to speak privately with me if she’d announced it through a loudspeaker. Honey clicked her CIA lighter, and a heavy wavering flame shot up some six inches, providing just enough glow to illuminate our features.

  “Thanks for taking the hint,” she said, her voice professionally low and discreet. “I just wanted to thank you properly for saving my life back at Loch Ness. I really thought the game was over when all my systems crashed and the water started flooding in. And I really would have hated to die in that bright yellow coffin. So tacky.”

  “No problem,” I said. “It’s what Droods do.”

  Even in the wavering light, I saw her raise an eyebrow. “It’s not all that Droods do. You’ve never approved of people like me.”

  I shrugged. “You would have done the same for me.”

  She smiled briefly. “No, I probably wouldn’t. This is supposed to be a contest, remember? I’m here to win this game, whatever it takes.”

  “Of course,” I said. “You’re CIA.”

  We shared a smile. Since you spend most of your time in the spy game getting lied to by all and sundry, these occasional moments of real honesty between allies or enemies are always something to be treasured. And it’s not often you can talk freely with someone who understands. Molly tries, bless her, but she’s never been an agent. A free spirit, a rogue operative, and a spiritual anarchist, yes, but never an agent. She didn’t have the experience to really comprehend the compromised ethics and dubious deals even a Drood field agent has to make sometimes to get the job done. We protect humanity, but it’s best they never learn how. They wouldn’t approve of some of our methods.

  God knows I don’t, sometimes. I do try to be a good person, but now and again the job just won’t let you.

  “That armour of yours was even more impressive than I’d imagined,” said Honey. “Is there anything it can’t do?”

  “Like I’d tell you,” I said cheerfully.

  Honey looked at me thoughtfully. “Shame about what happened to poor Katt.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That was a shame. Such an unfortunate accident.”

  “Yes,” said Honey. “Did you kill her, Eddie?”

  “No,” I said. “I was busy with the monster, remember? I take it you don’t think it was an accident?”

  Honey snorted loudly. “Hardly. Six experienced field agents in one place, competing for the biggest prize in the world, and one of them suddenly turns up dead? She could have died of a heart attack while being hit by a meteorite, and I’d still have suspected foul play. I was planning on killing her myself at some point. I was convinced she’d sabotaged my submersible. But now . . . I’m not so sure. And to kill her off this early in the game, when we could still have made good use of her talents? That’s . . . cold. Someone in this group is playing hardball, and for once it isn’t me. You understand why I immediately thought it might be you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m a Drood. Still, I suppose it’s almost a compliment, from a CIA operative. How did you get into the spy business?”

  “Oh, I’m third-generation spook,” she said easily. “Both my grandfathers worked for the OSS during the war, and most of my uncles ended up in the CIA. A couple of aunties as well. My family has been destabilising countries and executing bad guys for generations. And doing a little good along the way, when we could.”

  “So, are you people really responsible for all the evil in the world?” I said.

  “Not really. We try, but we just don’t have the manpower. We protect our own interests, just like every other spy organisation, by undertaking all the dirty, necessary, unpleasant tasks that the people, bless their timid little hearts, don’t need to know about. The spying game is not for the faint of heart, Drood. You know that.”

  “My family doesn’t deal in politics,” I said carefully. “Or at least, we try very hard not to. We defend everyone, whether we approve of them or not. And usually from the kind of threats you Company types are too busy, or ill equipped, to handle. Don’t ever think we’re the same, Honey. We might be in the same game, but we’re playing for different reasons.”

  “There’s nothing I’ve done that you haven’t done,” said Honey. “There’s probably more blood on your armoured hands than on mine.”

  “It’s not what you do,” I said. “It’s why you do it.”

  “I do it for America.”

  “I do it for all humanity.”

  “Oh, please! Isn’t that what terrorists say? Our terrible methods are justified by our glorious intentions?” Honey looked as though she was about to spit. “Who put you Droods in charge? Who do you answer to? Is there anyone in this world with the power to say, Stop, too far, too much? You get to decide what’s best for us, and we don’t get any say in the matter. You’re everything the Company exists to fight; everything America was founded to overcome.”

  “You see?” I said. “It always comes down to politics with you. Droods have to take a larger view. And we’re harsher on ourselves than anyone else could ever be.”

  “Don’t make your inability to choose a side some kind of moral high ground!” Honey said fiercely. “Everyone has to choose a side and fight for what they believe in! Think what your people and mine could accomplish, working together, with your armour. With a weapon like that at our disposal, we could sweep this world clean of everyone who threatens our way of life.”

  “You’d use it against anyone who didn’t think like you,” I said. “Or anyone who didn’t want the things you wanted. That’s why the Droods stay separate. We protect you all, and we try very hard not to judge. We’re shepherds, not policemen.”

  “Your only loyalty is to your family,” said Honey. “Everyone knows that. Some of us have greater loyalties. I have sworn to fight and if need be die in defence of my country, and I meant it.” She grinned suddenly. “Which is why I’ll probably have to kill you at some point, Drood. Acces
s to the Independent Agent’s treasure trove of information might finally make us your equal.”

  “Please,” I said. “Call me Eddie. It really is in our best interests to work together on this. And besides, you couldn’t kill me on the best day you ever had.”

  “I do so love a challenge,” said Honey, and we both laughed.

  “You’re everything I hoped a Drood would be,” she said finally. “You get disappointed so often in this game . . . but you’re the real deal, Eddie. I’ll enjoy working with you, for as long as it lasts.”

  I liked Honey. So sure of herself and her motivations. I hadn’t been sure of anything since I found out my family’s history was based on a lie. I didn’t think Honey would appreciate being told that the only reason my family doesn’t rule the world is because it can’t be bothered. We have more important things to worry about, like the Hungry Gods. I fight the good fight against all the many enemies of humanity because that’s what I was brought up to do. Trained from the earliest age to be loyal only to the family, because only the family stands between humanity and all the forces of evil. I still believe that. Mostly.

  My Molly didn’t have much time for the Droods, even after fighting alongside us during the Hungry Gods War. Power corrupts, she was prone to say darkly, and your family has become so very powerful, Eddie . . . I think perhaps that’s why I didn’t fight to stay on as leader of the family. I didn’t like what it was doing to me.

  “We don’t appeared to have gathered much wood,” I said. “They’ll be wondering what we’re doing out here.”

  “Of course they will,” said Honey. “They’re agents.”

  We gathered as much firewood as we could carry and headed back to the light of the fire.

  “I think everyone in our group should tell a story,” I said abruptly. “Something about themselves and the work they’ve done. We need to get to know one another. A bonding exercise, if you will, and a revealing one. Firstly, because it will help us work together as a team, and secondly, because it might make it that little bit more difficult for us to kill each other.”

  “Oh, Eddie . . .” said Honey. “Always so ready to look for the best in people. It’s a wonder to me you’ve survived this long.”

  Back at the fire, we dumped our armfuls of wood on the ground so everyone could see them, but it didn’t fool anyone. They knew we’d been talking. So I sat down by the fire and looked around the group with my best authoritative stare.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “All of us. We’re still mostly strangers to each other, and strangers can’t function as a team. I think everyone here should tell a story. Something meaningful and significant from your life. Could be your weirdest adventure, your greatest triumph, or failure. Anything, as long as it matters to you. Something . . . to help us know you.”

  “What brought this on?” said the Blue Fairy. “I don’t do therapy groups.”

  “We were talking about who might have killed poor Lethal Harmony from Kathmandu,” said Honey, settling herself comfortably down by the fire. “Eddie seems to think he can prevent future deaths by having us all bare our souls to each other.”

  “How quaint,” said the Blue Fairy. “You always were the sentimental sort, Eddie.”

  “Agents don’t have souls,” said Peter. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Have you got anything better to do while we wait for the Sasquatch to show up?” I said.

  “Good point,” said Walker. “One more cup of this inferior tea and I’ll piss tannin. So, who goes first?”

  We all looked at each other, and then Honey shrugged easily. “Oh, hell; I might as well get the ball rolling. Don’t we all love a good spooky story by firelight?”

  “I was sent to Cuba a few years back. And please; no jokes about making Castro’s beard fall out. We’ve given up on that. I was there, extremely unofficially, to investigate some rather unsavoury rumours that had drifted into Miami concerning the working practices at a new and suspiciously productive factory set up in the hills of Cuba, far away from anywhere civilised. Never mind how I got onto the island; that’s still classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you all and firebomb the whole area, just in case. Anyway, rumour had it that the reason these factories were so productive was because the managers were using zombie labour for their workforce. The idea had a lot going for it: the raised dead could work twenty-four hours a day till they wore out, and you could always make more.

  “The factory turned out to be surrounded with all kinds of security protections, scientific and magical. Far more than you’d expect for any business operation. Ugly place: all rough stone walls, electrified fences, and more floating curses than you could shake a grisgris at. I slipped in easily enough and made my way to the factory floor. Sometimes I think that’s the best part of this job—skulking around in the shadows, being places you’re not supposed to be, and watching people who don’t even suspect they’re being observed. I should have been a voyeur, like Momma wanted.

  “Turned out the rumours were almost right. The entire workforce were dead, but they weren’t zombies. They were patchwork men. Frankenstein creatures, pieces stitched together to make new forms, and all of them with clear lobotomy scars on their foreheads. A workforce that could easily be controlled, would never tire, and didn’t need paying.

  “I found an office and ransacked their records. The various body parts had come from executed prisoners and dissidents: the political opposition, artists, homosexuals. The usual. Anyone the current regime didn’t approve of. Executed secretly, and then brought back to life to labour for the State, forever. I wasn’t going to put up with that. So I crashed all their computers, planted some explosives where they’d do the most good, and burned the whole place down. I waited outside and shot everyone who escaped the flames. Neatness always counts. I suppose I should have interrogated a few people, got the details on how they did it, but just the sight of those poor bastards on the factory floor, alive and not alive, suffering forever . . . No. Not on my watch.”

  “A nice story,” I said after it was clear she’d finished. “But with just a few gaps in it. If you’re going to tell a story, Honey, you really should tell all of it.”

  “Really?” said Honey. Her voice was light, but her eyes were cold. “I wasn’t aware the Droods even knew about this mission.”

  “We didn’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out why you were sent to Cuba. Zombie slave labour is nothing new. Some countries have been using zombies for centuries. But the raised dead wear out quickly and fall apart, no matter how many preservatives you pump into them, and they need a lot of overseeing. But patchwork men; that’s new. Cutting-edge science, especially if you add computer implants to the subjugated brains. I can think of a whole bunch of American industrialists who would just love to get their hands on a process like that. No more unions, no more relying on illegal aliens . . . and no more back talk. Your orders must have been pretty clear: find out if the rumours were real, and if so, how it was done. Then steal the details and bring them back. Only you couldn’t bring yourself to do that, could you, Honey? Not after you’d seen the suffering involved. So you disobeyed orders . . . and did the right thing. You soppy sentimental idealist, you.”

  Honey smiled dazzlingly. “Don’t tell my superiors. They think the Cubans blew up the factory rather than have its secrets stolen.”

  “You can trust us,” said the Blue Fairy.

  “It would never have worked anyway,” said Peter. “Too much public resistance to the idea.”

  “Not if no one ever finds out,” said Walker. “I’ve seen worse practices in the Nightside.”

  We waited, but he had nothing more to say. So Peter told his story next.

  “Most of my work in industrial espionage is actually pretty boring and everyday. Watching and listening, spending hours in front of a computer searching for patterns and trends, trying to second-guess your opponents even as they’re second-guessing you, and always look
ing to spot someone useful on the other side who might be persuaded to jump ship, with just the right amount of encouragement. In the old days it was all bribes, honey traps, and blackmail, but everything has to be legal and aboveboard now. Boring; but I have seen a few . . . unusual cases. Perhaps because of my family name. I’ve always tried to play down my connections to the legendary Independent Agent, partly because I needed to prove to everyone that I could make it on my own but mostly because I can’t stand the old bastard. But people will talk . . .

  “I was hired to investigate a new firm that had just entered the tricky field of GM foods. There’s been a lot of public resistance to genetically modified crops and animals, especially since the tabloids dubbed it Frankenfood. A very hard public sell, but lots and lots of money just waiting for the first company to crack the market. This new company didn’t seem to be working on anything particularly new or outrageous, but rumours were spreading of some quite extraordinary advances in certain areas where every other company had failed. So I was sent in, extremely undercover, to have a little look around.

  “Took me almost a month to weasel my way into the right people’s confidence, but people who’ve achieved something really big are always desperate to talk to someone, and who better than their new best friend? It turned out the genetic manipulation hadn’t been confined to the food; it had been extended to the workforce as well. They were manufactured, grown, right there in the sublevels under the factory. You can see why Honey’s story reminded me of this one . . . Accelerated human clones, with added X-factor. Alien genetic material, to be exact, bought on the black market. You can buy anything these days if you know where to look.

  “These human-alien hybrids looked pretty normal to the casual glance . . . but mentally they were sharper, faster, and they could convince you of anything. Anything at all. Something about the voices, or maybe pheromones or telepathy . . . I never did get the details. But these people really could sell freezers to Eskimos, or morals to a politician. They could make you change your mind, your sexuality, or your religion, just like that. They were gearing up for a truly massive sales campaign to shift their new product . . . a cheap and tasty snack just packed with trace alien DNA. And since you are what you eat, eventually . . .