The Spy Who Haunted Me

CHAPTER THREE In the Court of the Cryptic King

Fog, fog, everywhere, and not a bit of it real. When I stepped through the Merlin Glass, the world disappeared, replaced by thick gray walls of slowly swirling mists. Endless shades of gray, cold and damp, diffusing the light and deadening all the sounds. I glanced behind me, but the Glass had already shut itself down back in the Hall. I was on my own.

I could feel a hard surface beneath my feet and the bitter cold searing my bare skin. The air was thin but bracing, so it seemed I was probably in the right place at least, somewhere deep in the Swiss Alps. I couldn’t see a damned thing. The fog churned around me, thick and deep, like water at the bottom of a great gray ocean, and I had a strong feeling there was something else there in the fog with me. It wasn’t real fog; I could tell by the way it glowed. This was flux fog: the pearly shades that mark where the barriers of the world have grown thin and possibilities are everything.

I definitely wasn’t alone. There were dim, dark shapes moving in the mists around me, circling unhurriedly like sharks hoping for the taste of blood in the water. There were faraway voices, like the echoes of old friends and enemies talking in forgotten rooms, and a constant sense of something important about to happen. I stood still, refusing to be tempted or intimidated into unwise action, while slow heavy footsteps sounded all around me and dark shapes drifted in and out of focus as though struggling to become firm and fixed. In a flux fog, the harsh and solid places of the world become soft and malleable, and all kinds of things become possible. I stood my ground, holding my calm before me like a shield. Make a sudden move in a flux fog, and you could end up someone else before you knew it.

Besides, I still wasn’t entirely sure where I’d arrived. I’d given the Merlin Glass the exact coordinates for Alexander King’s retreat at Place Gloria, but all I knew for certain was that it was somewhere in the Swiss mountains. For all I knew, there could be one hell of a long drop in any direction.

And then a great wind blew up out of nowhere, a soundless blast of bitter cold air that blew all the fog away in a moment, and just like that I was standing on a deserted helicopter landing pad on the top of an artificially levelled-off mountain. The pale yellow marking lines were faded and broken, and the slumping half-rotten control tower clearly hadn’t been used in years. There were five other people on the landing pad with me, as far away as they could get and not actually fall off the mountain. None of them appeared immediately dangerous, so I struck a nonchalant pose and looked around me, taking in the view.

I was high enough up to take my breath away in more ways than one. Place Gloria was set right in the heart of the Swiss Alps, and the long broken-backed range of mountain ridges stretched away in every direction. Snow-covered peaks lay below me to every side, each with their own collars of drifting clouds under a sky so blue and pure it almost hurt to look at. The air was thin and bitter cold, burning in my lungs as I tried for deeper breaths.

I was standing on top of the world, a long way from anywhere at all.

The sound of approaching footsteps turned my head around, and I growled deep in my throat as I recognised who it was. He must have seen the cold rage in my face, but he didn’t slow his approach. The Blue Fairy might have been many things, but he never lacked for balls. He stopped a polite and safe distance away and waited to see what I would do. He looked . . . watchful but not especially worried. I did consider killing him, right there, on general principles, but it seemed likely we were both here as guests of Alexander King, personally selected for his great game, and I couldn’t afford to upset the legendary Independent Agent. Besides, it wouldn’t look good, to be seen to lose control so easily, so early on in the proceedings. There would be other times. I fixed the Blue Fairy with a cold stare and bowed my head to him very slightly.

“That’s better,” said the Blue Fairy in an infuriatingly calm and drawling voice. “Let us all play at being civilised, for the time being at least. No squabbling, no accusing, no fighting in the playground. This contest is too important to all of us to risk being thrown out for bad behaviour.”

“You’d know all about bad behaviour,” I said, and there was something in my voice that made him flinch and actually fall back a step. “You betrayed my trust. Stole a torc. Spat in the face of my family. There will be a reckoning, Blue. But . . . not yet. There will be time for many things, once I’ve kicked your nasty arse right out of the game.”

He tried to smile haughtily, but his heart wasn’t in it. I looked him over. The Blue Fairy looked a lot better than the last few times I’d seen him. He looked healthier, even younger, and while he still looked every one of his years, he carried them more easily. He’d lost some weight, his back was straight, and there was a new confidence about him. He was dressed in the height of Elizabethan fashion, all tights and padded jerkin and silk ruff. The ruff had been pulled low, to show off the stolen torc around his throat. The new style presumably came from his time at the Fae Court. The elves still affected the fashions of old England from when they’d last walked our earth. Partly because they’re stubborn, partly because they like to pretend humanity hadn’t changed since those days. Made it easier for them to look down on us. The Blue Fairy also wore a ceremonial breastplate of silver and brass, chased and pointed and curlicued to within an inch of its life and no doubt crawling with defensive magics and protections. I had to smile. Blue might think he was protected, but his armour was no match for mine.

Still, he looked . . . proud, arrogant, aristocratic. Very . . . elven.

“Being a thief and a traitor seems to agree with you,” I said finally. “You’re looking well, Blue. I’m pleased. Really. After all, where’s the fun in kicking the crap out of a sick old man?”

“How unkind,” said the Blue Fairy, fixing me with his best supercilious stare. “And I’m not a man; not anymore. I have put aside my humanity and embraced my elven heritage. It’s taken me many years to realise, but I was never cut out to be a man. To be just a man. I feel much more . . . me, as an elf.”

“We took you in,” I said. “Made you our guest in the Hall. Gave you a place among us, gave you a home and a purpose, respect and friends. And right in the middle of our war against the Hungry Gods, with the fate of the whole world in the balance . . . you stole a torc from us and ran away.”

“If you’re going to be an elf,” the Blue Fairy said easily, “go all the way. Or what’s the point?” He raised his left hand and ran the fingertips caressingly along the golden torc around his throat. “You should have told me, Eddie. You should have told me how the torc can make you feel . . . I never felt so alive. Like there’s nothing I can’t do.”

“You always were a sucker for a new drug, a new addiction,” I said. “Enjoy it while you can, Blue. I’ll take it back when I’m ready.” I considered him thoughtfully for a long moment, and he stirred uncomfortably under my gaze. I smiled. “What secrets did Alexander King offer you to sucker you into his game? Something you could use to protect you from the fury of the Droods?”

“I’m not alone anymore,” the Blue Fairy said defiantly. “I don’t need protecting. I have allies, support, and backing you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You really think the Fae Court will stand up for a taboo half-breed like you if the Drood family says, It’s him, or you?”

Give him credit, he actually managed a smile. “I’m not here to represent the Fae Court,” he said. “My allies are older and more powerful. I do not bend the knee to Titania and Oberon. I serve Queen Mab.”

I shuddered then, and it had nothing to do with the chill wind sweeping across the abandoned helicopter pad. Mab was an old name, and not a good one. If the long-exiled original Queen of Faerie was back, there would be fire and blood, death and destruction, and perhaps more than one world would be thrown down into horror and despair . . .

“You poor damned fool,” I said to the Blue Fairy, meaning it. “You never could resist backing an outsider, could you?”

He sneered at me, his face cold and inhuman. “Be afraid, Drood. Be very afraid. Now that Queen Mab has taken back the Ivory Throne from Titania and Oberon, she will lead the elves to a new destiny. We’re coming home, Eddie. All of us, all the elves that ever were, returning in power and glory to save the world from the savages who’ve ruined and spoiled it. We will trample humanity underfoot and stamp them back into the dirt they crawled out of.” He smiled suddenly, and it was not a human smile. “And just maybe, when we come, we’ll all be wearing torcs.”

This time, there was something in his voice that stopped me cold. But never let them know they’ve got you on the ropes. So I just stared calmly back at him and changed the subject.

“This is supposed to be a contest to find the greatest spy in the world,” I said. “Featuring the six greatest field agents operating today. So—and don’t take this the wrong way, Blue—what the hell are you doing here?”

“The young always forget that the old were young once,” said the Blue Fairy. “You only ever knew me as a broken old man, brought low by his own weaknesses, so you just assumed I’d always been like that. But back when I was your age, Eddie, I was a name to be reckoned with. I worked for anyone, for any cause, took on all the major players of the day with just my wits and a few craftily purloined weapons, and made them all cry like babies.”

“So what happened?” I said.

“What always happens. I got old, and I got slow,” said the Blue Fairy. His voice was dispassionate; he might have been talking about someone else. “I lost more cases than I won. I started leaning on the booze and the drugs to keep me sharp, to make me feel like I used to feel . . . It’s easy to fall off the edge, you know. All it takes is one really bad day and a disaster so bad you can’t lie to yourself anymore.” He looked at me almost pityingly. “I was just like you, Eddie. At the top of my game, convinced I had the world by the throat. It’s a long way to fall, and you wouldn’t believe how much it hurts when you hit the bottom. That’s your future, Eddie. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to.” He smiled suddenly. “But I have been given a second chance. The torc has made me young and sharp and alive again. I’m the player I used to be, the greatest field agent of my time.

“And what use is your youthful confidence in the face of all my years of experience? I’m back, Eddie, and I’m going to run circles around all of you.”

“That’s the torc speaking,” I said. But I wasn’t entirely sure.

We both looked around sharply as one of the other figures came striding across the landing pad to join us. She stopped a cautious distance away, looked us both over, and smiled widely.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Honey Lake. CIA. Don’t everyone cheer at once.”

She had presence, give her that. Honey Lake was tall, Amazonian, with a splendid figure, dark coffee skin, and closely cropped hair. She wore a tight-fitting pure white jumpsuit under a long white fur coat and thigh-high white leather boots. I was sensing a theme. She had strong pleasant features, with high cheekbones, a broad grin, and merry eyes. Her sheer physical presence was almost overwhelming, like being caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. I’d have been impressed, if I believed in being impressed, which mostly I don’t. The best agents go unnoticed, walking unseen through the world; standing out in a crowd just makes you a better target. I let my gaze drift over her, making it clear I wasn’t dazzled, and just happened to notice that she had enough heavy gold rings on the fingers of her left hand to double as a knuckle-duster. She also wore a silver charm hanging on a chain around her neck, bearing the sign of the Eye of the Pyramid. As I looked at the charm, the Eye winked at me.

Honey Lake was studying me just as openly, grinning like a child who’s just been given a new toy to play with.

“Wow,” she said. “A Drood! Colour me impressed . . . so that’s what a torc looks like. I’d always thought it would be more . . . impressive. Still, an actual Drood! Not often we get to meet one of you face-to-face.”

“We prefer to keep to the background,” I said. I stepped forward and offered her my hand, and she shook it briefly with a firm grasp. Up close, she smelled of musk and perfume and gunpowder. Not an unpleasant combination.

The Blue Fairy cleared his throat meaningfully. “Hi. I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” said Honey, not taking her eyes off me.

“I’m Eddie Drood,” I said. I was starting to feel just a bit uncomfortable. Honey was doing everything but hit me over the head with her sexuality. Which was probably the point; it’s an old trick, to keep a man off balance. “So,” I said as casually as I could manage, “you’re CIA? Might have known the Company would insist on a presence here.”

“Oh, I was chosen,” said Honey. “Personally selected by the Independent Agent himself. And I’m only sort of CIA.”

I had to raise an eyebrow at that. “Only sort of?”

“You know how it is, Eddie. We’re like an onion; no matter how many layers you peel away, there’s always one more underneath. I work for one of those departments within departments that don’t officially exist. Our remit is to protect the United States from all threats of an . . . unusual nature. By all means necessary.”

“Does that include the Droods?” I said.

“Of course! We don’t trust anyone who isn’t one hundred percent American. Hell, we don’t even trust most of the people who work for the CIA. On really bad days, I don’t trust anyone but myself.” She smiled brightly. “I love the smell of paranoia in the morning. It’s so . . . bracing.” She turned abruptly to look at the Blue Fairy, who was standing stiffly to one side like the guest at a party no one wants to talk to. “I didn’t know the Droods had a half-breed elf lurking in their woodpile.”

“We don’t,” I said. “He stole his torc.”

Honey Lake raised an elegant eyebrow. “And you let him live?”

“It’s . . . complicated,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s like that, is it?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You’re CIA. You know everything.”

She laughed. “If we did, we wouldn’t need field agents. It really is fascinating to meet you, Eddie. In the flesh, so to speak. Normally we only get to see Droods in action, from a distance, wrapped up in your amazing armour. And then only if we’re very lucky. You’re the urban legends of the espionage field. Often talked about, rarely glimpsed, never sticking around to accept praise or answer questions. Who was that masked man? we cry, and never a response. The CIA has massive files on you Droods, but we don’t trust anything that’s in them. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories we hear about you.”

“Believe them all,” I said solemnly. “Especially the really weird ones.”

“I met the Gray Fox once,” said Honey. “In a bombed-out bar in Beirut. Such a gentleman. Stole the courier I was escorting right out from under my nose.”

“Uncle James,” I said. “He always was the best of us.”

“What happened to him?” said Honey. “I heard he died, but . . .”

“He turned his back on the wrong woman,” I said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Why don’t you tell her who killed the Gray Fox?” said the Blue Fairy.

“Shut up, Blue,” I said, not looking around.

We all jumped a little as another figure joined us. He was just suddenly standing there with us, though none of us had heard him approaching. And I’m really hard to surprise. He looked . . . very much like the typical City gentleman, in his smart expensive suit, old school tie, bowler hat, and rolled umbrella. He seemed entirely unprepared for the cold mountain air, but if it affected him at all, he didn’t show it. He was average height and weight, middle-aged but still in good shape. Sharp, stylish, and sophisticated, with a calm smile and cool watchful eyes. He nodded to each of us in turn and actually tipped his bowler hat to Honey.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Walker. From the Nightside.”

For a long moment, none of us said anything. It’s not often I’m genuinely impressed, but we’d all heard of Walker. The Nightside is the hidden dark heart of London, where bad things live and worse things happen. Where it’s always night because some things can thrive only in the dark. Where gods and monsters plot and war and often frequent the same swingers clubs. The Nightside has the best bars and clubs in all the world, but the door charge can be your soul, and you’d better find what you’re looking for before it finds you. By ancient treaty, the Droods stay out of the Nightside. We’re not barred, as such; we just choose not to get involved. The Authorities used to run the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did or could, and Walker was their man on the spot. It was his job to keep the lid on. And no one ever messed with Walker. Even gods and monsters walked lightly when Walker was on the prowl. But now the Authorities were dead and gone, and Walker . . . was here. Which was . . . interesting. He smiled easily around him, very polite, very courteous.

Like a crocodile in a Savile Row suit.

“This is a day of surprises,” said Honey Lake. “I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting to see anyone from the Nightside. You people don’t tend to play well with others. In fact, there are those who say the fate of the whole world will be decided there someday.”

“No,” said the Blue Fairy. “You’re thinking of Shadows Fall.”

“I try very hard not to,” said Honey, still not looking at him. “The elephants’ graveyard of the supernatural, where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them? That place gives me the creeps.”

“So,” I said to Walker. “What brings you out of the dark and into the light?”

“The imminent passing of a legend,” said Walker, leaning casually on his furled umbrella. “Rumour has it the Independent Agent knows things that even the Nightside doesn’t know. Knowledge and secrets lost and forgotten by the rest of the world. He offered me a place in his little game, and I really couldn’t say no. I have been promised something, you see; something even the Nightside can’t provide. And I want it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I should have known there’d be a Drood here. It wouldn’t be an honest competition without one.”

“Hold everything,” I said. “You can see my torc too? Damn! What’s the point in having a secret weapon if everyone knows about it?”

“Ah,” said Walker. “But then, we’re not just everyone, are we?”

I nodded, acknowledging the point. “Still,” I said, “why would Alexander King choose you, Walker? No offence, but you’re not an agent, as such.”

“Perhaps not,” said Walker. “But who knows more about the real secrets and mysteries of the world than I?”

We all turned to face the next new figure as he strolled unhurriedly across the landing pad to join us. He came to a halt before us, nodded briefly, and then just stood his ground, letting us look him over. Truth be told, he didn’t look like much. A vaguely handsome, even elegant young man in his early twenties, wearing a sharply cut fashionable suit with ease and grace. Blond hair, blue eyes, in good shape but nothing to boast about. He had a reserved, bookish look, and a pale, essentially characterless face. In fact, the same kind of instantly forgettable face as mine . . . An agent’s face. He didn’t offer to shake hands with anyone, and if he felt the impact of Honey’s sexuality, he kept it to himself.

“Peter King,” he said shortly. “The Independent Agent is my grandfather. He insisted I take part in this last crooked game of his. Not that I expect him to cut me any slack. He never has before.”

“What part of the spy business are you in, Peter?” I asked.

“Corporate intelligence,” he said stiffly. “Industrial espionage. Stealing or protecting secrets or other privileged information. Arranging the defection and safe conduct of important personnel; that sort of thing. Not as glamorous as what you do, perhaps, but there’s always good money to be made in helping businesses screw each other over.”

“Can’t say I’ve actually heard of you, Peter,” said Honey, not unkindly.

He smiled briefly. “That’s because I’m very good at what I do.”

And there was no arguing with that. The best agents leave no trace at all that they were ever there.

“Still, Alexander King’s grandson,” Honey Lake said thoughtfully. “The Company has no files on King ever having any family.”

“Grandfather never did believe in leaving hostages to fortune,” said Peter. “If the world didn’t know about his family, the world couldn’t use them against him. The grand old man of secrets delighted in having secrets of his own. Don’t ask me about my father or my mother. Some things should stay secret.” He looked around the deserted landing pad. “This is the first time I’ve ever been here. To the house at the top of the world, where Grandfather sits in his jealous little web of intrigue, hoarding his secrets like the miser he is. My mother told me stories about this place . . . Even years later, she still had nightmares about her time here. And now here I am, the not so prodigal grandson, come to compete for what should be my legacy.”

“Family histories are always so embarrassing,” said the Blue Fairy.

“Can’t argue with that,” I said.

We all looked around at the sound of high heels clacking briskly across the concrete as the final contestant in the great game came forward to join us. I watched her approach, and she was worth the attention. I felt like whistling and applauding, just on general principles. Peter was grinning openly, the Blue Fairy was smiling almost despite himself, and Walker . . . looked calm and composed, as always. Honey Lake studied the final contestant with a cool, thoughtful gaze. She knew a threat to her position when she saw one. The delightfully stylish young lady swayed to a halt before us, struck an elegant and utterly bewitching pose, and bestowed her most charming smile upon us.

“Greetings and salutations, darlings,” she said in a low purring voice, like a cat licking cream off a mouse. “I am Lethal Harmony, agent for hire out of Kathmandu. Please, call me Katt. Everyone does.”

There was something feline about her. A sense of graceful style, casual cruelty, and vicious power concealed behind a hair trigger, ready to be unleashed on absolutely anyone at a moment’s notice. Honey Lake made a hell of a first impression, but she looked like an innocent corn-fed cheerleader next to Lethal Harmony of Kathmandu. Honey blazed, but Katt smouldered.

Katt was tall and slender, with delicate streamlined curves and enough presence and poise to take any man’s breath away. She wore a long black silk gown tucked in tightly here and there to accentuate her figure, and as she turned this way and that to make sure we all got the benefit of her smile, I glimpsed an ornate oriental dragon embroidered the full length of the back of her gown. Katt had sweet Asian features, sharply styled jet black hair, dark Eastern eyes, and a rosebud mouth with lips the colour of plums. Beautiful, graceful, and no doubt very deadly when required. Katt, indeed.

I still got the impression she practiced that smile in front of the bathroom mirror, though. It was just too good.

She was playing a part, but it was a good part, and I appreciated the effort she’d put into it. If you can’t be anonymous, like me, hide behind a cliché, and they’ll never see the real you. Until it’s too late.

“Lethal Harmony,” said Honey Lake, her voice coldly amused. “Dear little Kitty-Katt. I should have known you’d turn up. The espionage field’s very own wannabe dragon lady.”

Katt glared at Honey, who glared right back at her. I half expected them to hiss and bare their claws at each other.

“Are we to take it you two know each other?” said the Blue Fairy, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“We’ve worked together,” Honey said shortly. “When the job demanded it. Don’t trust her, don’t turn your back on her, and never go dutch on anything.”

“How unkind,” said Katt, still smiling her perfect smile.

“I notice you’re not denying any of it,” said Honey.

“Why should I?” said Katt. “We’re all agents here. We all know how the game is played.” She leaned forward to look at me more closely. “Ooh, a Drood! How thrilling!”

“Oh, hell,” I said, just a bit put out. “Can everyone here see my torc?”

“Well, yes,” said Peter. “We wouldn’t be much of a top field agent if we couldn’t, would we? I’m more concerned with what the half elf is doing with a torc. Elves are dangerous enough as it is without giving them the nuclear option.”

“How very kind,” drawled the Blue Fairy. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“So, Katt,” I said, ostentatiously changing the subject. “Who do you work for?”

“Anybody, everybody,” Katt said lightly. “Morals are all very well, but a girl has to eat, darling. It’s a cold-cash world these days.”

“Do you believe in anything?” said Honey Lake.

“I believe in being paid,” Katt said firmly. “And you’re a fine one to talk, little miss I’m not really CIA; I just screw people over because I’m good at it. No, sweeties; I am no man’s slave, and no dogma’s, either. I am the last of the great adventurers, darlings, and I love it!”

“Always good to have a fellow realist on board,” said the Blue Fairy. He extended a hand to Katt, and she looked down her nose at it, as though she’d just been offered a turd. Blue withdrew his hand, managing to look hurt but still dignified.

“Never trust an elf,” Katt said flatly. “And even then, trust an elf before a half-breed.”

“Harsh words,” Blue said calmly. “Especially from such a notorious femme fatale, the espionage field’s very own belle dame sans merci. How many men and women have died in your poisonous embrace, dear Katt? How many lovers have you seduced and betrayed? At least I had the basic decency to pay for most of mine . . . Tell me, dear Katt; is it true you prefer your victims to die in bed, so you can suck their last dying breath into your no doubt luscious mouth and savour it?”

Katt drew herself up to her full height. “You’ll never know.”

“Such a relief,” said the Blue Fairy.

“Children, children,” murmured Walker. “Play nice.”

“This is why I prefer industrial espionage,” said Peter. “No personalities to get in the way.”

I looked around the empty landing pad. “Is this it? Just us? No Russian or Chinese agents?”

“They’re mostly concerned with internal problems these days,” said Honey.

“You’d know,” said Walker.

“Still,” I said. “This isn’t quite the gathering I’d expected. I mean, we’re the six greatest agents operating in the field today? Us?”

“I think that says more about the current state of the world than I am comfortable knowing,” said Walker.

“Grandfather chose us,” said Peter. “He must have his reasons.”

“And why the flux fog?” said the Blue Fairy. “What was the point of that? We all know where we are.”

“Do we?” I said. “Once we arrived and stepped into the flux fog, it could have taken us anywhere. This is supposed to be the Swiss Alps, but I couldn’t prove it. One mountain chain looks much like another. It would seem Alexander King wants to keep the exact location of his private lair a mystery, right to the end.”

“And no one here to greet us,” said Peter. “How typical of Grandfather. What are we supposed to do, just stand around in the cold until he feels like talking to us?”

He’d barely finished speaking when the concrete rocked under our feet. There was a loud grinding noise, and puffs of dust flew up in long lines all around us, forming a great square. The concrete seemed to drop out from under our feet, and suddenly we were descending a huge dark shaft, leaving the cold and the light behind. We all moved to stand close together, forming our own square so we could look in every direction. The light above us disappeared, and for a long moment there was only the dark and a sense of movement as we descended towards some unknown fate. And then the great concrete slab groaned to a halt and there was a sudden flare of light that made us all wince, and we realised we were standing in a huge entrance lobby.

The air was refreshingly warm, after the cold up above. I looked down, but the concrete slab fitted perfectly into the floor. The entire lobby was bare and empty. No sign of life anywhere. No sign that anyone had ever lived here. Just where had Alexander King brought us? His tomb? And then we all winced again as a great Voice sounded inside our heads. That isn’t supposed to be possible when you wear the Drood torc; we’re supposed to be protected from such invasions. But the Independent Agent always did play by his own rules.

Welcome to Place Gloria, said the Voice. Welcome to my home. Welcome to the greatest game of all.

I waited, but that was all there was. I shook my head gingerly, half expecting something to leak out of my ears. That Voice had been seriously loud . . . I looked at Peter.

“Can you identify that as your grandfather’s voice?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve never been here before, never met the old bastard, never talked to him on the phone. Not even a card on my birthday. If there were any letters, my mother kept them to herself. I got my invitation to this game through an . . . intermediary.”

He broke off as we all turned abruptly and looked in the same direction. There was new information in my head that I very definitely hadn’t put there, telling us which way to go to meet with Alexander King. It had the feel of a summons.

“It’s a magical working,” the Blue Fairy said quietly. “An influence. Sort of like a low-key geas. I didn’t know he could do that.”

“What do any of us really know about Alexander King?” said Katt. “Come on, darlings. We came here to meet the man. Let’s get this show on the road.”

We all stepped smartly forward, not wanting to be left behind and not ready to acknowledge any of the others as leader by letting them get ahead of the rest of us. We crossed the empty lobby, our footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet, and a door opened in the far wall before us. We walked through into the very lap of luxury. The fittings and furnishings of Place Gloria were soft and plush, sensual and sybaritic. I was so fascinated by the riot of colours before me, I almost didn’t hear the door closing itself firmly behind us. The decor was basically very sixties and seventies. Lots of comfort and bright colours, artistic furniture, and Day-Glo art from the decades that taste forgot. The huge low-ceilinged room, with its concealed lighting and its rich scents of sandalwood and attar, boasted luxury and wealth wherever you looked, along with an almost complete lack of restraint. We all moved slowly forward, tugged inexorably on by King’s subtle influence.

There were niches in the walls, each with their own special lighting, to show off the Independent Agent’s many spoils of war. There were treasures and wonders to every side, the loot and tribute of a lifetime’s secret wars. I had to smile. Alexander King could almost have been a Drood. We all stopped before a small statuette of a black bird.

“Oh, come on; that couldn’t be the real thing, could it?” said the Blue Fairy, leaning in for a close look.

“I wouldn’t touch,” I said quickly. “It’s bound to be protected.”

Blue straightened up and glared at me. “I wasn’t going to touch! I’m not an amateur! Credit me with a little sense.”

“I suppose it could be the real thing,” said Walker. “If anyone could have the original, it would be Alexander King.”

“Hell,” said Honey. “For all we know, he could have the Holy Grail itself tucked away here somewhere.”

“No,” I said. “That’s the one thing he definitely doesn’t have.”

They all looked at me. “Don’t say the Droods have got the Grail,” said Katt.

“No,” I said. “But we know where it is, and we’re very happy for it to stay there. The Sangreal is not for the likes of us. It . . . judges you.”

“You mean we’re not worthy?” said the Blue Fairy. “How will I ever recover from the shame?”

“Of course we’re not worthy,” said Honey. “We’re agents. You can’t do what we have to do and still be able to wash the blood off your hands.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Walker unexpectedly. “I do my duty, and I sleep perfectly well at nights.”

“So do I,” said the Blue Fairy. “With a little medicinal help, sometimes.”

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

“Typical high-and-mighty Drood,” sneered Blue. “Always so sure you’re better than everyone else.”

“Mostly we are,” I said. “Mostly.”

The influence nagged at us and we moved on, only to stop again as we came face-to-face with the Mona Lisa.

“Supposedly that’s the real thing,” said Peter. “Stolen from the Louvre, back in the sixties. Grandfather never could resist a challenge.”

King also had on his walls two Pickmans, an unknown Shlacken, and The Painting That Devoured Paris. Which suggested, if nothing else, that the Independent Agent was more of a collector than an art critic. There were also a number of display cases showing off items of unusual interest. The skull of an alien Gray peered blankly back at us, with holes and long grooves in the bone showing where bits of alien technology had been rudely extracted. Hopefully after death. A bottle of unholy water from the original Hellfire Club, Tom Pearce’s Old Grimoire, a stuffed Morlock, and a mummified monkey’s paw nailed very firmly to its stand. And, finally, a human skeleton wired together and standing upright inside a grandfather clock.

“That’s my mother,” said Peter. We all looked at him, but he had eyes only for the skeleton. “After she died, Grandfather claimed the body and had it brought here. Stole it, in fact, from the undertaker I’d entrusted her to. Had the body smuggled out of the country before I even knew what was happening. I got a solicitor’s letter sometime later informing me that Grandfather had used carpet beetles to consume the flesh, leaving only the bones, as they do in museums. And that Mother’s skeleton would be on display at Grandfather’s home, along with his other prized possessions. There was a photograph enclosed. Grandfather can be sentimental, but not in ways you’d expect. I was never allowed to visit Mother, until now. Remember this, if you remember nothing else: Grandfather never lets go of anything he owns.”

“Put it back,” I said sternly to the Blue Fairy.

“What?” he said, projecting injured innocence.

“That small black-lacquered puzzle box you just picked up and pocketed from the occasional table when you thought no one was looking,” I said. “Just because it isn’t in a case, doesn’t mean it’s up for grabs.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Blue Fairy said airily.

“I could just pick you up, turn you upside down, and shake you, and see what falls out,” I said.

Blue sniffed and put the puzzle box back on the table. “Just wanted a souvenir . . .”

King’s subtle influence pulled us on into a long narrow hall whose walls were covered with photos of people and places from around the world, celebrating King’s many famous missions and triumphs. Some places were so famous that all of us had at least heard of them. Roswell, Loch Ness, Tunguska. We all pointed and whispered and nudged each other like children in a museum.

“The Case of the Kidnapped Village,” said Peter, peering closely at a black-and-white photo of a crowd of people in 1950s clothing assembled in a village square. They were all turned obediently towards the camera, but none of them had any faces.

Another photo simply showed a severed human hand with the index finger missing. “The Case of the Cannibal Ghosts,” murmured Walker.

And a photo of Buchanan Castle, in Scotland. The sky was dark, almost night, and there were lights on in every window except one. A figure of a man stood silhouetted against a great light in the open doorway. There was something horribly wrong about the figure.

“The Case of the Recurring Ancestor,” I said. “All the Droods get told that story when we’re young, to keep us from getting cocky.”

The influence urged us on like an invisible dog leash through room after room, past wonders and treasures beyond counting, until finally it brought us to a sealed door. Black stained oak, eight feet tall and almost as wide, studded with brass and silver, and wrought with several lines of deeply inscribed protective wards in half a dozen languages that no sane human being had spoken in living memory. The influence snapped off, and I think we all sighed a little with relief. I was still debating whether to knock or give the door a good kicking when it swung suddenly open before us, smooth and steady despite its massive weight. Beyond the door was a huge baronial hall, with towering bare stone walls and great interlocking wooden beams for a ceiling. A fire blazed cheerfully in the huge open fire-place, but there was no sign of anyone to greet us. The sheer size and scale of the place rooted the others to the spot, but I grew up in Drood Hall, so I just strode right in. The others hurried after me.

“I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone here at all,” I said finally. My voice seemed very small in such a great hall, as though it had been designed and constructed for beings much larger than men. “I mean, King couldn’t run a place this size on his own, particularly if he’s on his deathbed, as he claims. Where are the servants, bodyguards, nurses? Could the Independent Agent have already died before the game’s even started?”

“Reports of my death . . . are no doubt highly anticipated,” snapped a cold, authoritative voice, and an image of Alexander King appeared suddenly out of nowhere before us. “I value my privacy, and I don’t have the time or the strength left to waste on unnecessary interactions.”

The legendary Independent Agent sat on a huge wooden throne, his back straight, his legs casually crossed. You could tell it was just an image projected from somewhere else in Place Gloria. Although the image was sharp and clear and had three dimensions, it lacked . . . presence. The image of Alexander King looked frail and shrunken but still vital. And nowhere near as old as he was supposed to be. Illness or age had dug deep furrows in his face, but he still had a long mane of silver gray hair, his mouth was firm, and his gaze was sharp. He was still handsome, in a ravaged sort of way, and he sat his throne as though he was King in fact as well as name. He wore a purple crushed velvet smoking jacket over checked tweed flares.

“I always felt most at home in the seventies,” he said calmly. “Such a glorious time to be young and alive and have the world by the throat.”

“Is that really you, King?” said Honey Lake. “Or have we come all this way to be greeted by a glorified recording?”

“Oh, I’m still very definitely me,” said King, grinning nastily. “Not gone yet, despite everything your pernicious Company has done to try to hurry me along. I am safe and secure in my private vaults, and I plan to stay that way until my game has run its course.”

“Hello, Grandfather,” said Peter.

“Peter,” said Alexander. He didn’t look or sound particularly pleased to see his only grandson. “Such a disappointment to me. All the things you could have done, all the people you could have been, and you settled for industrial espionage. Such a gray little world, when all is said and done. Where’s the glory, or the glamour, in grubbing through big business’s waste bins?”

“It pays well,” said Peter. He studied his grandfather thoughtfully, absorbing every detail.

“It would have to,” said Alexander. “Well, now at least you have a chance to prove yourself, grandson. But you’ll get no help from me. No advice or special preference, just because you’re family.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Grandfather,” said Peter.

From their cold, distracted voices, they might just have been discussing the weather. They sounded a lot like each other.

“Why us?” I said, and Alexander’s piercing gaze switched immediately back to me. I stared right back at him. “As I understand it, you wanted the six greatest field agents in the world today to find the one best suited to take your place when you’re gone. So why us? We’re all names, I suppose, with good solid backgrounds of work, but I could give you a dozen other names off the top of my head of agents more famous and more suited than any of us.”

Alexander King flashed me his nasty grin again. “I know who you’re talking about, and if any of them had been good enough, they’d have taken my place by now. No, I chose the six of you because you’re young and have potential. My game will bring out the best in you, or kill you. Either way, the winner will have proved themselves a worthy successor.

“Pay attention. This is the contest, and to the victor the spoils. You will go to five locations I have chosen and there investigate five of the world’s greatest mysteries. Discover the truth behind the legend. Then move on to the next, until the game is finished.”

“What if we can’t solve any of these mysteries?” Honey Lake interrupted. “What if it turns out there is no answer?”

“I found the truth,” said Alexander King. “So will you, if you’re worthy. Fail to uncover any one of these five truths, and you all fail. The game stops there. No secret knowledge for anyone. So don’t fail.”

“Terrific,” murmured the Blue Fairy. “Go, team.”

“To begin with, all six of you will have to learn to work together as a team,” said Alexander, his dark gaze sweeping over all of us dispassionately. “But only one of you can return to claim my prize. So, in the grand old tradition of spycraft, as you progress you will have to secretly work against and betray each other. There can be . . . only one.” He laughed briefly. “Always did like that film. At least I don’t require you to chop each other’s heads off.”

We all looked at each other. None of us looked too surprised or shocked.

“I’m still not too keen on any of this,” I said. “I don’t jump through hoops for anyone. I’m a Drood.”

“You’ll dance to my tune, Drood, if you want the identity of the traitor inside your family,” said Alexander King. “My game, my rules.” He smiled coldly around at all of us. “Concentrate on the prize. All the accumulated secrets of my extended lifetime. The greatest secrets of the secret world. Don’t you want to know who shot JFK? What the Eye in the Pyramid really means? And who really murdered the Great Dream of the sixties? Of course you do. This isn’t just about the particular little bits of information you came here for; it’s about knowing why the world is the way it is. I have the answer to every question you ever had, and I’ll give it to the winner, all wrapped up in a pretty bow.”

“Get thee behind me, Grandfather,” said Peter.

“Don’t take too long,” said Alexander, ignoring his grandson. “I don’t have too much time left. A few months, maybe less. If I should die before you complete the game, Place Gloria will be blown to pieces, and all my secrets lost forever. None of you will get anything. Now: five mysteries, five answers. That’s the game. Starting with Loch Ness in Scotland, for its monster.”

“Any Yetis?” I said hopefully. “I always wanted to visit Tibet or Nepal and track down an Abominable Snowman.”

Alexander glared at me. “I once came face-to-face with a Yeti, back in the fifties. Very old, very wise creature. Scared the crap out of me. You will leave the Yetis alone, Drood, and pray fervently that they continue to leave us alone.”

“How are we supposed to investigate five separate locations if we only have a few months to work in?” said Katt.

Alexander King waved one hand negligently, though I sensed the effort the movement cost him. It was the only move he’d made since he appeared. We all jumped just a little as five bulky metal bracelets appeared out of nowhere and clamped themselves around our left wrists. The Blue Fairy clawed at his, trying to prize it off, but it wouldn’t budge. I looked at mine thoughtfully; my torc was supposed to protect me from things like this. The metal was a dull purple, with strange lights pulsing deep inside the metal. It felt cold, and it looked very like alien technology.

I had to wonder just who the Independent Agent might have allied himself with down the years to ensure his precious autonomy.

“The teleport bracelets stay on until the end of the game,” said Alexander King. “Coordinates for each location are preprogrammed. So none of you can leave, or drop out, now the game has started. If you try, the bracelet will kill you.”

Katt glared at him. “That wasn’t in the rules!”

“It is now,” said Alexander, grinning his nasty grin.

“Where did you get these bracelets?” said Honey. “I know alien tech when I see it.”

“That’s just one of the secrets you’ll be competing for,” Alexander said smugly. “Oh, the things I know . . . that you need to know.” He looked at all of us in turn, savouring the moment. “You are the best I could find . . . But I can’t say I’m impressed. How will the world survive when I am gone? . . . Well, let the game commence! Prove your worth, to me and to the world. And, just maybe, to yourselves.”

His image disappeared, and we were left alone in the huge and empty hall. We didn’t have time to say anything before very suddenly we weren’t in the hall anymore.

And I am here to tell you, if anything Loch Ness was even colder than the Swiss Alps.