“You owe me, MacAlpine. You, MI-13 and this whole country. I saved the crown jewels from being stolen.”
MacAlpine sniffed moistly. “All right. Say you did. Even though officially that never happened, and don’t you forget it. What do you want, a medal? I could probably get you a nice illuminated scroll, signed by Her Majesty.”
“You owe me,” I said, and something in my voice made him look away for a moment. “You owe me, and I want a favour. Right now, with a ribbon on it. Nothing too difficult. I need to get into Under Parliament, and for that I need access to the outer lobby of the House of Commons. Now, I could force my way in, but that would make more trouble than it was worth, for both of us. So I want you to supply Molly and me with two MI-13 security passes. One day only, of course. Do it now, Philip. Or watch me turn seriously crotchety.”
He growled and muttered for a while, but his heart wasn’t in it. He took out his mobile phone and moved away so he could talk in private. Though he needn’t have bothered; over the blasting music and the sheer bedlam of raised voices, we’d had to shout at each other to be heard anyway. Molly glared after him.
“Never trusted him. Shifty little scrote. You really think he’s going to help us? He hates your guts!”
“Possibly,” I said calmly. “But he’s far too much the professional to let that get in the way of doing business. He may not want to help me now, but his superiors will. They owe the Droods, and they know it, and they’ll be glad to get off this easily. What are a couple of passes to them? They hand the things out like party favours these days.”
MacAlpine put his phone away and came back to join us, looking even more sour than before, if that was possible. “All right, it’s arranged. Two security passes will be waiting for you at the entrance to the House of Commons: a full pass for Shaman Bond, and a backup pass for one other.”
“One other?” Molly said ominously. “The powerful and legendary wild witch of the woods is one other?”
“If I put your real name on the pass, they’d never let you in,” said MacAlpine. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Yes,” said Molly, not displeased. “It does tend to.”
MacAlpine made a point of turning his full attention to me. “The passes will get you into the outer lobby, but no farther. Don’t push your luck. And getting into Under Parliament is strictly your business.”
“No problem,” I said cheerfully.
“I really didn’t like the way you said that,” MacAlpine said sadly.
“Good,” I said.
“It’s not supposed to be easy to get into Under Parliament!” snapped MacAlpine. “Or London Undertowen! Because that’s where you’re really going, isn’t it?”
I considered him thoughtfully. There had been something in his voice. . . . “What have you heard, Philip?”
He smiled at me for the first time. “That maybe . . . there’s something worse than Droods in the world now.”
Molly and I left the Wulfshead Club by the back door, and emerged into a shabby side street in Westminster. The streetlights were sharp and bright, there was hardly anyone about, and only the very best kinds of cars rolled smoothly past. Molly and I strolled along arm in arm, allowing our hearing to recover from the deafening noise of the club. It wasn’t a long walk to the House of Commons. I didn’t even bother trying the Merlin Glass; both Houses of Parliament are all but buried under overlapping layers of defences and protections, laid down over the centuries. The establishment has always looked after itself, first and foremost. Bring an object of power like the Merlin Glass anywhere near Parliament, and every SAS combat sorcerer in the army would teleport in, loaded for bear and ready to commit extreme violence against anything that moved. So Molly and I strolled along, taking the pretty route, killing time till one a.m.
We stopped off along the way at a pub called the Floating Voter. The pub sign showed the actual voter, floating facedown in the Thames. They’re not exactly subtle around Westminster. It was definitely down-market, as pubs went, and this one went pretty far, but it had the benefit of being the local watering hole for all the political hacks, all the reporters and researchers and hangers-on that accumulate around Parliament like flies round a dead dog. Print reporters, of course; the television people were a more refined breed, with their own upmarket dives to hang around in. And the researchers here were really only glorified runners, making sure their respective MPs had all the information they needed, so they wouldn’t disgrace themselves every time they opened their mouths. Heaven forfend that they might have an opinion of their own, not thoroughly tested in advance by market research. It was a hard, thankless and never-ending job, but it was often the only way into the game for people who didn’t have the right family or party connections. And there’s never been any shortage of people who want to get close to power without the trial of actually getting elected. The Floating Voter was where all these people came to vent their anger as they wet their whistles, and let off steam about what idiots their masters were, and all the other people who were holding them back.
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 things 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 sever
al 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.
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