From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “I know why you’re here,” I said. “But why are you wearing your old outfit?”

  “A matter of style,” said the old villain with dignity. “It reminds me of the good old days, when everyone dressed up to do battle. Put on a persona, choose a mask and an outfit, and go out into the world to play the greatest game of all. People just can’t be bothered these days, my young friend. You are the Grey Fox’s nephew, yes? I have heard of you, Eddie. A fine adversary.”

  “That’s close enough,” I said. And the Fantom stopped his stealthy advance.

  “Your uncle trained you well,” he said, smiling. “I feel . . . you will not be persuaded to let me pass.”

  “I’m a Drood,” I said. “I’m here to stop you. It’s what we do.”

  “But I came prepared, monsieur Drood! You see this cloak; it belonged to the original Fantom of the Paris Opera. It enables its wearer to walk unseen, in plain sight. How else was he was able to run around that crowded old opera house without being observed? And see this knife! A very special blade, I assure you. Fashioned from the very first Madame Guillotine, from the time of the Terror. Bathed in the blood of a thousand executed aristocrats, it has become so sharp it can cut through anything! Perhaps even the legendary Drood armour.”

  “So,” I said, “you sneaked up on people while you were invisible, and stabbed them in the back. Not exactly worthy of the legend of the old Fantom.”

  “But no, monsieur Drood! That is exactly what a thief and spy does! He comes and he goes, and no one knows, until it is far too late. I was often pursued by your uncle, and occasionally thwarted in my plans, but never once was I captured!”

  “Then what are you doing here now?” I said. “No one’s heard anything of the Fantom in years. We just assumed you’d retired.”

  “And I had!” said the Fantom, with a sudden flash of anger. “Being a spy and a villain is a young man’s game. I carried on longer than I should have, for pride’s sake, but eventually . . . even legends grow old, and slow. I gave up the name and the legend while they were still something I could be proud of. For many years now, I have served my country quietly as an accredited member of the French Embassy staff, here in London. Nothing like being an old thief to help guard against young thieves. And there is nothing like knowing where all the bodies are buried to make you a player in the diplomatic game.

  “And I was happy, monsieur Drood. Happy! Content to be a respected elder statesman, whose opinion was still sought and valued. And then this Big Ear of yours ruined everything! This new device that sees everything, hears everything. I could not allow myself to be found out, to have my past revealed. There is no forgiving some of my old sins. My friends and colleagues would disown me, my old enemies would come after me for retribution! I had no choice but to come here and destroy your precious Big Ear before it could destroy me. I had retired, damn you! I was no threat to anyone! Why couldn’t you just leave me in peace?”

  “The Big Ear knows everything,” I said carefully. “But why should you feel singled out? Why would they care about you?”

  “Because I am the Fantom! I was the nightmare they could not wake up from! Never captured, never interrogated! Of course they would come after me, after all the things I did!”

  “No one’s so vain as an old spy and villain,” I said.

  “Perhaps, monsieur Drood. But I could not take the chance. The Big Ear must be destroyed.”

  “You’re a myth,” I said. “A piece of espionage history. A story in old books. You should have stayed that way.”

  He looked at his domino-masked reflection in my golden mask, and some of the strength seemed to leave him. Suddenly he looked . . . like an old man playing dress-up.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I should never have come here. Just let me go, monsieur Drood. I will leave here, leave England, disappear. No one will ever see me again.”

  “I would like to,” I said. “But I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “How many people did you kill to get this far?”

  He shrugged angrily. “I don’t know. As many as I needed to. They were just soldiers! Just . . . functionaries. They don’t matter!”

  “People always matter,” I said.

  “You have killed people, have you not, Eddie Drood?” the Fantom said coldly. “People who had to die? People who needed killing!”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “When I had no other choice. But always for a greater cause. Never to protect my own interests.”

  “You’re so like your uncle,” said the Fantom. “Just another self-righteous Drood.”

  He swirled his long opera cloak about him, and just like that he was gone. I couldn’t see him anywhere, even through my mask’s filters. I stood very still, listening, in case he did the sensible thing and made a run for it. But there was no sound of rapidly departing feet, so I boosted my hearing through the mask, holding my breath so I could concentrate on the smallest sounds in the corridor. I heard him breathing, heard the rasp and rustle of his clothes as he moved, heard every faint footstep as he advanced on me. I let him come, knowing he had that very sharp blade in his hand, trusting to my armour to protect me against even that awful weapon.

  The knife came slamming into my side out of nowhere and skidded harmlessly across my armoured ribs in a shower of sparks. I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and clamped down on where I knew his arm had to be. The Fantom cried out despite himself as my armoured hand crushed his arm. I took the knife away from him and snapped the blade in two. The broken pieces appeared in mid-air, falling to the floor. I grabbed the Fantom’s cloak and hauled it off him, and he appeared before me, glaring sullenly through his black domino mask, cradling his hurt arm. I let the cloak fall to the floor.

  “Go on, then, Drood!” the Fantom said defiantly. “Kill me! Do what your legendary uncle could not, and prove yourself a man!”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t do that any more.”

  There was the sound of a gunshot. The bullet hit the Fantom in the back, driving him forward into my arms. He didn’t cry out. He looked more puzzled than hurt, like an old man who’d fallen and didn’t know why. I held on to him as his legs gave out, and he tried to say something, but all that came out of his mouth was blood. I armoured down, still holding on to him. He seemed such a small and fragile thing. He looked up into my face, still struggling to say something, some last words worthy of a legend, but he died before he could. I lowered his body to the floor, straightened up again, and glared down the corridor at the Commander.

  “You didn’t have to do that! He was just an old man, no threat to anyone!”

  “He was the Fantom,” said the Commander. “A notorious uncaught criminal. A threat to the security of this establishment!”

  “He was just an old man, afraid of his past catching up with him,” I said tiredly.

  “He knew about the Big Ear,” said the Commander, finally holstering his gun. “He knew too much to ever be allowed to leave. If I hadn’t shot him, he would have spent the remainder of his life in solitary confinement. You might say I did him a favour.”

  “No,” I said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you have done, Drood?”

  I didn’t have an answer for him.

  * * *

  The Commander went back to his office, after giving orders for his men to come and take away the body. I waited with the Fantom until the soldiers turned up. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone, in a strange place. The soldiers gathered him up with brisk efficiency and carried him off. There wasn’t much left of the old man to weigh much. They left his top hat behind, lying on the floor. It looked lost and sad, on its own. I left it there, and walked away. Legends shouldn’t grow old. And they shouldn’t die from being shot in the back. Even though so many do.

  To my surprise, I soon caught up with
the Commander. As though he’d been walking deliberately slowly, waiting for me.

  “What should I do with the body?” he said, not looking at me. “Send it back to the French Embassy?”

  “No,” I said. “It would only embarrass them. Just dispose of it. Legends should disappear without trace.”

  “No,” said the Commander. “I think a lot of people are going to want evidence that the legendary Fantom is finally dead.”

  He increased his pace and strode off down the corridor. I watched him go. The idea of the Fantom’s body being shown around the espionage community, as some kind of exhibit or trophy, suddenly made me so angry I determined there and then to bring the whole damned centre down around the Commander’s ears.

  “Kate!” I said. “Are you still there?”

  “Of course, Eddie. I’m always here. Has something happened? You sound upset.”

  I filled her in on the Fantom, and the manner of his death. “Has the Matriarch decided on her official policy yet?”

  “Yes, Eddie. The Matriarch authorizes you to take all necessary actions to remove the telepath and the device from Lark Hill and bring them back to Drood Hall. They’re both far too valuable, and too dangerous, to be left outside the family’s control.”

  “So Gemma Markham gets to swap one prison for another,” I said. “That’s not what I had in mind when I offered her sanctuary with my family.”

  “We must all do what we have to,” Kate said carefully.

  “And if taking her away from Lark Hill puts this country’s security at risk?”

  “They managed without her before. And they always have us.”

  “Not always,” I said. “What if she doesn’t want to go with me?”

  “Explain the situation to her; tell her that it’s for the best.”

  “And if she still says no?”

  “You are authorized to use all necessary measures, Eddie.”

  There was a great deal I felt like saying, but I didn’t. I thought hard.

  “I’ve had an idea,” I said. “Put me in touch with Ammonia Vom Acht.”

  “What?” said Kate. “Her? Are you sure?”

  “Do it,” I said. “I need her.”

  There was a long pause. Ammonia Vom Acht was perhaps the most powerful telepath in the world, currently married to the Drood Librarian, William. She didn’t stay at the Hall; she couldn’t. Too many voices, pressing in on her. But they would know how to contact her. Ammonia’s voice rang suddenly inside my head, so loud it rattled my fillings.

  “What do you want, Eddie? I’m busy. I’m always busy.”

  “You’ll want to hear this,” I said. And I told her about Gemma Markham, and the device, and what they were doing at Lark Hill.

  “Where the hell did she come from?” said Ammonia. She sounded honestly startled, even shocked. “I never even heard of the woman! And I know, or know of, everyone on the psionic scene. If only in self-defence . . . Telepaths that powerful don’t just appear out of nowhere, Eddie. Could she have been artificially produced? Her mind and powers strengthened by this device, whatever it is?”

  “Looks that way,” I said. “I remember a scientist who was supposed to have made some real breakthroughs in the mind/machine interface. A Herr Doktor Herman Koenig. Molly and I fought over him, back in the day, when we were on different sides. But he’s been dead for years.”

  “Can’t be him, then,” said Ammonia. “But others could have carried on his work. Found a way to produce their own telepath and make a slave out of them. That was always my greatest fear . . .”

  I remembered when the Great Satanic Conspiracy kidnapped Ammonia and held her prisoner in Castle Shreck. They did bad things to her before my family rescued her.

  “The Commander has been talking about . . . controlling Gemma,” I said. “He used the word lobotomy, and not in a good way.”

  “That’s it!” said Ammonia, her harsh voice painfully loud inside my head. “I am going to mind-wipe everyone at Lark Hill!”

  “Please don’t,” I said quickly. “Most people here don’t even know Gemma exists! They’re doing important work—discovering terrorist plots, saving lives. I just want to help Gemma, not shut the place down. I could do that myself. I was hoping you might have some other idea . . .”

  “Hold everything,” said Ammonia. “I’ve been looking the base over, and I’ve just locked on to what the Commander is thinking. Eddie, you have to get to Gemma, right now! The Commander has decided to kill her! He believes you’re going to take her away, and he’d rather have her dead than share his secrets with the Droods. He’s heading there now . . . No. I’ve lost him. I can’t read him any more; he’s shielded somehow. You have to save Gemma!”

  I was already off and running, charging through brightly lit corridors at inhuman speed, drawing on all the speed my armour could generate. My pounding metal feet made dents and holes in the floor. I shot past people so quickly they seemed like statues to me, frozen in place. I called up the centre’s floor plans on the inside of my mask again, to calculate the quickest route to Gemma’s locked-down room. It took me only a moment to realise she was just too far away. I’d never get to her before the Commander did. So I changed direction, smashing through the intervening corridor walls, hammering through the fragile physical world in a straight line to Gemma’s room. When I take the power of my armour upon me, the world might as well be made of paper.

  I blasted through the last wall, and there was Gemma’s room, right before me. The door had been left open. The Commander was already there. I ran straight for the door, not even trying to avoid triggering the pressure pads in the floor. Gun emplacements swung out from inside the walls and opened fire on me. Gas nozzles emerged from the ceiling and filled the corridor with a thick yellow smoke. And acid sprays I hadn’t even noticed doused me with steaming fluids. My armour took it all in its stride. I didn’t even slow down. My armour absorbed the bullets, while the acid rolled harmlessly off, dripping down to eat ragged holes in the floor. My mask protected me from the curling yellow gas. I hit the door with my shoulder, and slammed it right off its hinges. It hit the floor hard, and I walked right over it. I needed to make a big entrance to distract the Commander from whatever he was doing.

  I finally came to a halt, not even breathing hard, just inside the room. The Commander was standing beside Gemma Markham, who was still sitting calmly in her chair, her knitting in her lap. She seemed entirely unconcerned by the Commander’s presence or my sudden entrance. The Commander’s head whipped round, and he glared at me silently. There was something not quite right about his cold, unblinking gaze and the taut, strained way he held himself. As though he was nerving himself to do something irrevocable and unforgivable. Gemma smiled reassuringly at me.

  “Please don’t concern yourself, Mister Drood; I’m quite unharmed. Can you please talk to Commander Fletcher? I fear he’s not in his right mind . . . and might be about to do something unwise.”

  “Shut up!” said the Commander. The gun in his hand was aimed at Gemma’s head. He was wearing a strange crown on his head, all stubby tech and glowing crystals. I’d seen similar devices before; they shielded the wearer from psionic attacks. He was breathing erratically. “She can’t be allowed to leave here, Drood. She knows far too much . . . You didn’t come here to save my command, did you? You came here to steal her, and the machine! Well, you can’t have them. They’re vital to national security.”

  “She can protect this country wherever she is,” I said, doing my best to sound calm and rational. Because one of us had to, and it clearly wasn’t going to be him. “I think she’ll be a lot safer with my family.”

  “You can’t guarantee your family wouldn’t trade her to someone else,” said the Commander. “If there was something the Droods wanted more, or if they just thought it was in their best interests. Who knows who she might end up with? And what if she chose
to leave the protection of your family? Would you hold her against her will? Or would you make her work for you? . . . No, the government has invested millions in Gemma Markham, and that machine. They belong to us!”

  “I won’t let you kill her,” I said.

  “I will kill her, rather than let you take her,” he said flatly. The gun in his hand didn’t waver at all, pressed into the tight curls on her head. “And you can’t stop me, Drood! Even you’re not fast enough to intercept this bullet!”

  I considered the point. My armour is fast, but . . . I couldn’t put Gemma at risk. So, when in doubt, be sneaky. I armoured down, and the Commander relaxed, just a little, as I stood openly before him. He thought I was helpless. He turned his gun on me. But I’d kept my right hand armoured, down at my side, out of sight. I concentrated, just as his finger tightened on the trigger, and a long golden blade shot out of my glove, extending so quickly he never saw it coming. The tip of the blade sliced through the gun, cleaving it neatly in half. The severed part fell away, dropping to the floor; and the Commander stared at it blankly. And while he was looking at that, I raised the tip of the long blade and inserted it neatly under the edge of his crown. I flipped it off his head, and it fell away.

  “Thank you, Mister Drood,” said Gemma.

  And just like that, all the expression went out of the Commander’s face. He just stood there silently, his eyes empty. I looked at Gemma.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mister Drood,” said Gemma. “He’s not dead. I just let him hear what I hear, all the time. But he doesn’t have the device to help him make sense of it. He’s lost among the voices. I’ll bring him back—in a while. And by then he should have a better understanding of what it’s like to be me. Hopefully, it will give him an insight, make him more reasonable.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” I said.