From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “Don’t be proud, Eddie,” Kate said quietly. “If you do need help, yell for it.”

  “Understood,” I said. It was a way of agreeing without agreeing, and we both knew it.

  * * *

  I strode along Oxford Street, half wishing I hadn’t left the Bentley back at the Hall. Everywhere I was thinking of going was in walking distance, but that still covered quite a lot of ground and meant quite a bit of walking. I didn’t dare try using the Merlin Glass openly anywhere in London; it would have been like blasting a great spotlight through the dark, and be bound to attract all kinds of unwelcome attention. Even assuming I could persuade the treacherous little object to do what I needed it to.

  I realised I was walking with a distinct spring in my step. I felt better than healed; I felt strong and sound again. As though I’d put down a cripplingly heavy weight that I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. I still wasn’t sure what really happened down in the underworld, or even if anything actually had . . . but I didn’t want to think about that right now. I’d had enough of mysteries; I wanted answers. Starting with who the hell had taken Molly, and where they had taken her. And that meant striking a deal with the Travel Bureau for use of their Departure Lounge. As quickly as possible.

  I’d never been to the Travel Bureau before, but I knew about it. I knew about a great many things and places and nasty practices that went on in London that I’d never got around to checking out in person. There’s just too much weird shit going down in this city for even a Drood field agent to keep up with. As long as most of them didn’t make waves, or draw attention to themselves, I was usually ready to leave them be so I could concentrate on the things that needed stamping on. The twilight side of London isn’t so much a maintained peace as a constant juggling act between what we Droods can actually do and the threat of what we might do if we became sufficiently upset. Drood authority helps to keep the lid on things, but there’s always going to be a lot bubbling away underneath.

  I looked around surreptitiously as I continued down Oxford Street, but it all seemed normal enough. Crowds of people everywhere, traffic moving slowly and bad-temperedly along, and a general sense of people hurrying off to do things that needed doing even though everyone knew it was already too late. That’s London for you. I took time to stop and browse in the occasional shop-window, not because I was interested in any of the contents but because there’s nothing so useful as studying the reflection in the glass to help you check out the people behind you. And there’s nothing like stopping suddenly, to catch even the most professional tail off guard. But even though I took my time, and looked very carefully, I couldn’t spot anyone out of place. Not a single familiar face, and no appearance anywhere of suspicious behaviour. No one was watching me, and no one gave any indication of giving a damn about me. Which was . . . reassuring.

  When I was sure I wasn’t being followed, or observed, I set off again and plunged suddenly down an unofficial short cut into old Soho, where twilight meets sleaze and together they make a profit off all the marks and suckers. Most of old Soho is gone now; after the most determined cleanup in generations. But there’s always some sin left, if you know where to look. I headed down a particular side street that’s always underlit, and well off the beaten track, and entered an area where no one ever stopped to browse the windows. People came this deep into old Soho only in search of quite distinct things and places. People walking these streets kept their heads well down, and never looked at one another, because they didn’t want anyone to look at them.

  Eventually I came to a familiar little cybercafé, part of the information underground. The silicon subterraneans. This particular quiet establishment used to be part of the Electronic Village chain, but was far too independent to bow down to anyone for long. It was currently called the Mighty Argus.com. Which was . . . cute. Argus was the Greek god of a thousand eyes, who saw everything. Someone knew their classics. I didn’t; I got the reference only because I used to be very fond of an old Eddie Campbell comic about the Greek gods called Deadface.

  This particular information-highway pit stop was open twenty-four hours a day, especially for twilight people like Shaman Bond. People who tended to need access and information in a hurry, and a hell of a lot of privacy. The storefront’s single window had been thoroughly whitewashed over, and the neon sign above the door hadn’t worked in ages. The café didn’t believe in publicity, and its patrons didn’t want to be disturbed . . . while they did illegal and quite possibly immoral and unnatural things with their computers. This was not a place to just wander in and look around, in the hope of making new friends.

  I strode right up to the door, and it opened before me as it recognised me. The café and I go way back. Or more exactly, the café and Shaman Bond go way back. If this place even suspected the Droods knew about it, it would probably vanish in a puff of green smoke. I stopped just inside the door to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the deliberately maintained gloom. The café’s patrons valued their anonymity. There were tables and chairs and computers waiting for use—and absolutely nothing else. You didn’t come here for comforts.

  The establishment’s manager came drifting forward out of the gloom to greet me, smiling weakly. Willy Fleagal has been around the information market for what seems like forever, always a part of the scene while owing allegiance to no one, always happy to facilitate a meeting or a deal or . . . anything else, really—for a consideration. Willy was a tall, gangling middle-aged hippy; with gold-rimmed bifocals, a really high forehead, and a long grey ponytail. He wore a grubby T-shirt over very grubby jeans and sneakers, and always looked like he thought he knew something you didn’t know. His T-shirt bore the simple message Yes, I Know.

  Willy gave me his best smile and a weak handshake. He always looked like he was short of a few good meals, but no one ever gave him any trouble. He was protected. And the fact that none of us knew by whom, or even what, just made that all the more impressive. Willy knew Shaman Bond as a fairly regular customer, with certain special privileges guaranteed by the café’s mysterious owners. Whoever they might be. For a café dedicated to the uncovering and passing on of important information, there was a lot about the place that remained deliberately obscure. Hell, I’m a Drood, and I don’t know. There’s a lot of businesses like that in old Soho.

  It didn’t matter. All Willy and I needed to know was that an agreement had been made on my behalf so that Shaman Bond was never challenged. I frowned, briefly and inwardly so as not to upset Willy, as I remembered what Uncle Jack had said: It’s all about Pacts and Agreements . . . While I was thinking about that, Willy produced a highly up-to-date handheld scanner and ran it over my body, checking for listening bugs and other inquisitive things that might have been planted upon my person without my knowledge.

  Willy was always pleased enough to see me; in the past, I had dropped the occasional hint that Shaman Bond was a local source for a number of well-regarded investigative journalists, all of them dedicated to sticking it to the Man; and Willy loved that. He did a quick, professional job with the scanner, and I let him do it because it gave him a false sense of security. I knew I didn’t have any bugs on me—my armour would have detected them immediately. And I knew Willy’s scanner wasn’t powerful enough to detect my torc, or any of the toys and surprises I kept about me; otherwise I wouldn’t have let him scan me. Willy finished the scan with a flourish, put the thing away, clasped his bony hands together over his sunken chest, and gave me another of his weakly assertive smiles.

  “All part of the service, Mister Bond. And always good to see you, of course. Have we been smiting the ungodly again?”

  “I make them pay,” I said solemnly. “From those who have shall be taken, and serve the greedy buggers right.”

  “Will you be wanting your regular private room, Mister Bond?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Willy.” I paused, and considered him thoughtfully. “Has anyone b
een . . . asking around, about Shaman Bond?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of,” said Willy, blinking at me owlishly through his bifocals. “And I’m sure I would have heard something if there’d been anything worth the hearing. I mean, that’s what I’m here for.”

  He led me between the packed tables, each in its own little pool of light, with people hunched over their computers like priests at prayer, only not quite. No one looked up at us, even for a moment. Willy unlocked a door at the rear of the café and led me into the private room with its single table, chair, and computer. The hanging bare bulb turned itself on as we entered—a bitter yellow light that somehow banished every shadow in a moment. I nodded my thanks to Willy, and he immediately backed out, nodding bashfully as he closed the door firmly behind him. I sat down before the computer. I didn’t bother with the keyboard. I was probably the only person in the café who knew that this particular machine was just a shell, containing nothing but a preprogrammed scrying ball, provided by my family. (Reverse-engineered alien tech, rather than a mystical artefact, for whatever difference that makes.)

  I spoke aloud, giving my real name, and identified myself officially by armouring up one hand and placing the golden palm flat against the monitor screen. The machine immediately came to life, chattering quietly to itself in half a dozen languages at once, while it made up its mind who it was today. I armoured down again. I didn’t think anyone would get past Willy to take a quick peek in through the door, but it’s always best not to take chances you don’t have to. The monitor screen turned itself on, and I spoke up quickly before it could start reeling off all its various options and services. AIs do so love to show off. Like actors working as waiters who insist on declaiming all the day’s specials.

  “I don’t need any of the usual contact protocols for my family,” I said. “Or any of the diagnostic or investigative tools. Just give me a standard interface, with information and communication skills.”

  There was a pause, and a certain sense of sulkiness from the machine, that it wasn’t going to be allowed to demonstrate all of its many wondrous skills; then a metal face appeared on the screen before me. All harsh, angled lines and old-fashioned character. Like the Man in the Iron Mask, with all the human elements removed. I recognised it immediately. It was Robot Archibald, a mechanical adventurer from the Sixties. Robot for Hire: A Hard Man for Hard Times. I still had one of his business cards somewhere; a souvenir from one of Uncle James’ old cases. The glowing eyes in the metal face fixed themselves on me.

  “Yes? What do you want? Speak up! It’s your own time you’re wasting, you know. I don’t have to be doing this . . .”

  “You’re a standard interface?” I said.

  “I’m moonlighting,” said Robot Archibald. “Atomic power batteries don’t pay for themselves, you know. So I hire out. Apparently I’m cheaper than running and maintaining an AI. Who knew? What do you want, Eddie?”

  “I want you to make contact with the Travel Bureau on my behalf,” I said. “Concerning Shaman Bond and his current urgent need to make use of the Departure Lounge. But this has to be set up so they can’t tell where the communication originates, or that there’s any connection whatsoever with the Droods. This is strictly Shaman Bond business. I also need this message to be just interesting enough to intrigue them without giving them any reason to worry about me. And I don’t want them to be able to track this message back here. Can you do all of that?”

  Robot Archibald sniffed loudly, no mean feat in itself for a metal face that didn’t even have a nose. “Teach your granny to suck batteries. Of course I can do it! I thought you were going to ask for something difficult.”

  He set things in motion quite efficiently, establishing contact with the Travel Bureau on Shaman Bond’s behalf, using all the very latest code phrases and contact protocols. The Drood family prides itself on keeping up on all the latest passwords, etc. Droods know everything, remember?

  Robot Archibald suddenly disappeared, replaced by another artificial face, this time a computer-generated visage representing the Travel Bureau. All flat lines and no character; almost Art Deco. The eyes didn’t blink, and the mouth didn’t move as the face spoke to me.

  “You have reached the Travel Bureau,” it said, in a polite but entirely impersonal voice. “Your first step, for when it becomes necessary for you to make that much-needed hurried exit. Please be patient; your money is important to us. Please note, if you cannot afford to pay for First Class service, we recommend you do not waste your time or ours. If you can afford it, how may we be of service to you at this time?”

  “This is Shaman Bond,” I said, doing my best to sound urgent and affluent. “I am currently in deep doo-doo, and I need to disappear. Very thoroughly, and very quickly. I was told you could help me.”

  The artificial face paused, and seemed to look at me thoughtfully. “Shaman Bond. Processing . . . Your name and reputation are known to the Travel Bureau. We feel obliged to ask, therefore, are you currently solvent enough to be able to afford our Departure Lounge services?”

  “Yes!” I said. “I am now! That’s the problem! That’s why I need to disappear!”

  The face gave me an address in Denmark Street and an appointment. Along with a stern warning that the appointment was good only for its half-hour slot. Any earlier or later and I would not be admitted. The face disappeared, and the monitor screen shut down. Presumably so I wouldn’t be able to bother Robot Archibald with any more requests. I sat back in my chair, thinking. I recognised the address. It was that part of Denmark Street which edged onto old Soho. Where the really wild things still hung out. Modern-day London likes to say it’s cleaned everything up, and driven all the sin underground. Unknowingly, they’re describing the situation very accurately. There’s a lot goes on beneath the streets of London that those above are much better off not knowing about.

  * * *

  I arrived at the Travel Bureau with time to spare. The area seemed open and ordinary enough, mostly business premises and retail chains and ethnic restaurants. And the kind of pubs you wouldn’t want to enter on your own without an invitation. The streets were brightly lit, full of the kind of people who are always in a hurry, and ready to walk right through you if you don’t get out of their way fast enough. Much like most London streets, really.

  I hung around outside the Travel Bureau, looking the place over while waiting for just the right time to go in. From the outside, it looked very perfectly commonplace and everyday. Just another Bucket Shop, offering cheap and cheerful getaways to the usual suspect destinations, to the kind of people who looked like they could use a good holiday. The shop even had Travel Bureau: Ask About Our Special Departure Lounge! written across the top of its main window, which was packed full of gaudily-coloured posters and brochures. Featuring the kind of tanned and healthy happy-smiley people you only ever see in holiday posters and brochures. Nothing like hiding in plain sight . . .

  I braced myself, as I finally walked in through the main entrance. I could See all kinds of pretty powerful defences and protections in place, every one of them ready to do something thoroughly unpleasant and downright devastating to me if they decided I presented any kind of threat. More than enough to stop anyone who wasn’t a Drood. I was a little concerned they might detect my torc and blow my cover identity. But nothing happened as I strode through the door, and I made myself relax. I should have known, should have trusted my armour. Ethel always does good work.

  Inside, the shop seemed almost offensively ordinary. Full of ads for familiar vacations, at quite reasonable prices. The best cover is always going to be a real(istic) cover. Everyday people bustled around the shop, hurrying back and forth between the posters and the information desks, trying to squeeze a few more extras out of the money they had to work with. They chatted cheerfully with the information staff, paying me no attention at all. My gaze was drawn to a massive poster on the rear wall, bearing the official
motto of the Travel Bureau, and its Departure Lounge: No One Ever Comes Back to Complain!

  I walked straight up to the main reception desk, and introduced myself to the happy-smiley young lady sitting behind it. She didn’t even blink at the name Shaman Bond, or when I told her I was there to make use of the Departure Lounge, right now. A part of me wanted to wink significantly at her, but that would have been over-egging the point. I still felt one of us should make an effort . . . The receptionist nodded easily to me.

  “Welcome, Mister Bond. We’ve been expecting you.” She gestured to a door at the rear of the room that I would have sworn hadn’t been there just a moment before. “If you would care to pass through the door marked Private, one of our personal assistants is waiting to talk to you.”

  I stood my ground and scowled at her unhappily. “You were expecting me? How did you know I was coming here?”

  “You made an appointment with us, Mister Bond,” the receptionist said patiently.

  “I know!” I said. “I just don’t like people knowing things about me in advance. Like, where I’m going to be. That kind of information should be strictly need-to-know. It can be very dangerous to my well-being in my line of work.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the receptionist. “And I really don’t give a damn. Please go through the door marked Private, where one of our people is waiting to help you with your problems. Or don’t. See if I care. Let some other firm help you with your problems.”

  “There isn’t anyone else who can help me!”

  “I know!” the receptionist said brightly.

  I sighed loudly and headed for the door marked Private. Of course they knew I was coming; but I needed to establish my suspicious credentials as Shaman Bond. I slammed open the door and strode into a very smart, very comfortable private office. Nice carpet, nice prints on the wall, all the usual distractions. A smart young lady in an exquisitely cut suit stood up behind her desk to greet me. The door shut itself quietly as I moved quickly forward to shake the young lady’s hand. She was a hard-faced sort, with understated makeup and a businesslike air, and a wide and utterly impersonal smile. Her steady grey eyes studied me carefully, like an angler who’s just felt a sudden pull on his line. I did my best to look like a sucker.