‘I can’t tell you that,’ Craddock said. ‘You could be a spy.’
Woodberry went pale. ‘I–’
Craddock held up a hand, stopping the protest before it had begun. ‘A joke, Woodberry, a very mild joke. I can’t tell you because I don’t know if you’re going to be involved in our research activities. That’s something we’ll know by the end of the week.’
‘Sir?’
‘While you’re here, you’ll be undertaking testing to see what talents you have that we can use.’
Aubrey was intrigued but, despite his curiosity jabbing him, kept his hand down. He was trying to remain inconspicuous. While he was pleased at the invitation for special training, since it was a vote of confidence from Commander Craddock, he also didn’t want the others to think it was only because he was the son of the prime minister.
This sort of thing was almost a reflex by now. Every time Aubrey thought he was being foolish, that no-one cared, an officious busybody would raise eyebrows and remark obliquely on some action or other of his and how it must be useful to have such a famous father.
As much as he respected and admired his father, being the son of Sir Darius Fitzwilliam, PM, was a constant trial.
Craddock led the small band along the corridor. Aubrey smelled iciness and heard a low-pitched hum that descended into a rumble that made the floor vibrate. Just before they reached the intersection at the end of the corridor, a door on the left opened. A scowling operative stepped out of the room marked B6, and Aubrey was immediately taken aback. From his appearance the operative had to be a specialist, and an important one at that. Craddock’s operatives were almost always immaculate in their black uniforms, professionally discreet, unobtrusive to the point of being almost invisible. This man, however, had a shock of grey hair that showed signs of constantly having hands dragged through it. He had glasses, flaming red cheeks, and he wore a baggy grey jumper over a uniform that looked as if it were grappling with him. He was glaring at the sheaf of papers in his hand, so totally taken up with his exasperation that he didn’t see Craddock and his band of curious irregulars. He turned around, shook the papers at someone inside the office and – to Aubrey’s soaring interest – shouted out a torrent of ancient Sumerian.
Then the specialist saw Commander Craddock and he froze. Aubrey could almost see him running a mental finger down his list of correct procedures before he finally stood at something like attention and brought his hand to his forehead in a salute-like action.
Craddock took this in for a moment, then addressed his small band. ‘Tonkin here has been brought in to head our Ancient Languages section. Having a problem, Tonkin?’
Tonkin’s grip on his papers increased. They began to crumple. ‘There’d be no problem, sir, if only those idiots would remember...’ He gathered himself and straightened his eyeglasses. ‘A slight disagreement of interpretation, sir.’
Deep as he was in his own studies of Ancient Languages at Greythorn University, Aubrey was well aware of how easy it was to have multiple interpretations of old script, especially when the subject matter was magical.
‘A disagreement that compromises security, Tonkin?’ Craddock said.
Tonkin blinked. ‘Sir?’
‘You work in a top secret section. On a highly sensitive project. One that could affect the security of the realm. And yet, the door behind you is open.’
Aubrey was in the grip of an internal struggle. Part of him thought that the best thing was to look away, embarrassed, and allow Tonkin some dignity. Another part of him said that any security operative, even an irregular one, had a duty to gather intelligence whenever and wherever possible.
Which was, he realised, a long and tangled way of admitting that he was dying to see what Tonkin and his crew were up to. Ancient Languages? A top secret project? Safety of the realm? It was as if someone had specifically designed something to tantalise Aubrey Fitzwilliam, packaged it in irresistible wrapping and pasted a ‘Do Not Open’ sign on it.
After a split second or two, he succumbed. He stood on tiptoes and looked over Woodberry’s shoulder, past the disapproving Craddock and the dismayed Tonkin, and the world went away as he realised what he was seeing.
The room was long and windowless. A row of electric lights illuminated a bench in the middle of the room. On three sides, it was surrounded by tables where operatives were hunched, sweating over papers and peering through magnifying glasses.
One operative was standing near the central bench. She was staring at the open door, mouth open, while one white-gloved hand held what looked like a parchment and the other pointed at the man-sized, irregularly shaped stone on the bench. Its black surface shone dully under the electric lights.
The Rashid Stone, Aubrey thought, stunned. That’s impossible. It can’t be here.
Eventually, Tonkin remembered himself. He flailed at the knob behind him before he managed to drag the door shut. It closed with the heavy solidity of doughty steel reinforcing.
‘That’s better,’ Craddock said to Tonkin, then he turned to the goggling band of irregulars. ‘Security applies to everyone in this building. Even researchers. Isn’t that correct, Tonkin?’
Tonkin swallowed again. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do not forget it. Even though there appears to be a dearth of experts in this field at the moment, I’m sure we can replace you.’
Tonkin stood still while Craddock swept off toward a distant set of stairs. Aubrey was nearly left behind because he was still astounded by what he’d seen – in fact, he couldn’t have been more astonished if the room had held a pair of elephants arguing over the latest battleship plans.
The Rashid Stone. What was it doing here? The last Aubrey had heard, the Rashid Stone had disappeared on its way back to its rightful owner, the Sultan of Memphis. Had Craddock diverted it from returning to its home? If so, what had happened to the person charged with this restitution: Professor Mansfield, Aubrey’s lecturer on Ancient Languages at Greythorn University?
Still off balance, Aubrey tottered after the others. Any feeling he’d had of being the old hand around Darnleigh House had vanished. It had been replaced by an uncomfortable sensation of being a mystery magnet; he had a brief and definitely unsettling vision of enigmas, conundrums and posers being drawn toward him no matter which way he turned, flitting relentlessly through the ether.
Prince Albert, the incorrigible punster, would no doubt say that all this was due to his attractive personality. Aubrey grinned and groaned at the same time, which nearly made his face explode; trying not to draw attention to himself, he hurried after Craddock and the others, massaging his cheeks and wincing.
Two
Alone, in the dark and embarking on activities that were possibly disloyal, probably dangerous and undoubtedly illegal, Aubrey began to have second thoughts about his plans for the evening.
Darnleigh House was not a good place to have hesitations – even if one was meant to be in the headquarters of the Magic Department of the Security Intelligence Directorate, something Aubrey was prepared to argue if he was found. After all, he was an irregular operative of the Directorate, on a week of intensive training. He belonged here, if only temporarily.
In the middle of the night, the building was quiet, but not silent. Standing in the dormitory in the dark, trying not to wake up any of the others, he listened before setting off. Clicks and hums, far-off rumblings, snatches of faint conversation and the muffled, indistinct sounds that indicated activity came to him through his mundane senses. Through his magical awareness, he could feel traces of magic coming from all directions, which meant that work was going on throughout the night. He knew that magical surveillance, for instance, was an around-the-clock procedure, and the corps of sensitive magicians in their basement offices would be monitoring for any signs of major magical disturbances. He made a mental note to stay well away from that part of the building.