Absurdly, he wondered how to explain his muddy knees to Hildy Harris.
Just as he was about to hail a cab, a black electric car slid quietly from a cul-de-sac and swerved in front of him. The back door swung open.
‘FELIX,’ said a woman sitting in the back, using Peter’s Soviet code name and motioning with a gloved hand. ‘Get in.’
Peter hesitated, heart pounding. Was this some kind of Winter Court sting? But the woman did not look like any SIS agent he had ever seen. She had round cheeks and wore pink lipstick. Her hair cascaded in cherubic ringlets under a flowered hat. The dark green overcoat strained against a generous figure. The overall impression was that of a voluptuous tulip and he nearly laughed—until he saw her blue eyes.
Her pupils were pinpoints, and the utter lack of doubt and fear in her gaze belonged to someone who had spoken to God.
Gingerly, Peter climbed into the car and closed the door.
A man in a raincoat sat behind the steering wheel. He was young, perhaps twenty-five, with a long, sad face, protruding ears and dark, slicked-back hair. Apart from the rakish angle of his bowler hat, he looked thoroughly unremarkable.
‘I am sorry about this,’ he said as he manoeuvred the car back into the flow of traffic. Like the woman, he had a faint accent that might have been Dutch. ‘We received your message, but we had to make sure you were not followed.’
‘Who are you?’ Peter asked.
‘My name is Otto. This—this is my associate—’
‘Shut up, dear,’ the woman said. ‘I am his wife. You can call me Nora.’ Street lights flickered on her face and gave it a porcelain-like pallor. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’
With a nurse’s impersonal touch, she patted Peter down and, before he could protest, pulled the spirit crown’s control unit from his pocket. She cradled it in her hands and smiled.
‘I will hold on to this for a while. We have a lot to talk about, and we would not want you to leave us too soon.’
‘Nora. Show some respect,’ Otto said.
‘He understands, dear. He is a professional. Aren’t you, FELIX?’
Peter said nothing. The thought of escaping to Summerland had crossed his mind, but leaving Pendlebury with these two was hardly an option. Besides, they were likely to be armed.
‘Please excuse my wife,’ Otto said. ‘We were instructed to take precautions.’
‘Instructed? By whom?’
‘Your new case officer,’ Nora said, smiling. ‘And speaking of precautions, take off your mask and tie this around your eyes.’ She held up a piece of black cloth.
‘No. I want to know what this is about. Who is this new officer? What happened to George?’
Nora’s smile vanished. She exchanged a look with Otto via the rear-view mirror.
‘His name his Shpiegelglass,’ she said quietly. ‘He will explain everything. Now do as I say.’
She took his wrist in an iron grip and pressed the cloth in his hand.
Peter removed his mask. It was a custom for the New Dead to wear them when using mediums, both to separate the medium’s identity from the customer’s, and to hide the unavoidable ‘possessed’ look that resulted from the spirit’s inability to control their facial muscles. Pendlebury’s face was reflected in the window, slack-jawed and dead-eyed. Tufts of dark hair stuck out from the spirit crown’s silver net.
Quickly, Peter tied the blindfold over his eyes.
‘That’s better,’ Nora said.
Peter’s throat was dry. They drove in silence for a while.
When the car came to a halt, Nora took Peter’s hand. He could feel the cord of the spirit crown in her grip like a leash.
‘Now, let’s go and see Shpiegelglass,’ she said.
* * *
Nora led Peter out of the car, through a door and into a cold, empty space that smelled musty. Glass shards crunched beneath his shoes. They descended a narrow spiral staircase for several minutes, the air growing thick and oppressive. They had to be deep underground.
Ahead, somebody—Otto?—opened a heavy door. Peter smelled the mixture of antiseptic and poorly washed humanity he associated with hospitals.
Then Nora took Peter’s shoulders and gently eased him into a chair. She removed the blindfold, and he blinked at dim fluorescent lights in a high, arched ceiling. They were in a small space partitioned off from something big and cavernous with green hospital curtains.
A small, stout, blond man with protruding eyes sat on a folding chair in front of Peter, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the tips of his thick fingers pressed together. There was a heavy leather suitcase on the floor next to him.
‘Good evening, FELIX,’ the man said. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Shpiegelglass. I am sure you have many questions, but if you don’t mind, I am going to start with a few of my own.’
He motioned to Nora, who handed the spirit crown control box to Otto and took a step forward.
‘Is this really necessary?’ Otto asked, his voice reedy and thin. ‘We made sure he was not followed—’
‘Comrade Otto,’ Shpiegelglass said, ‘would you prefer to answer a few questions instead?’
Peter heard Otto shuffling his feet.
Nora was holding a hammer and a very sharp, needle-like chisel. Shpiegelglass nodded to her. She stood behind Peter and pressed the chisel’s tip against one of the thick vertebrae in his neck.
‘What are you doing?’ Peter hissed.
‘I am sorry about this, Comrade,’ Otto said.
The small smile on Shpiegelglass’s face did not waver.
‘Our Nora is not only beautiful but also talented. She is an accomplished sculptress who has exhibited bold work in Rotterdam. She is a student of anatomy, and is able to sever your spinal cord with one blow, just at the right spot to paralyse but not kill. I do apologise for the discomfort. This is merely a precaution, you understand, in case your answers do not prove satisfactory. We have other guests who have failed to be helpful. I am sure you have no desire to join them.’
There was a faint moan somewhere beyond the green curtains. Peter imagined lying in a hospital bed, trapped in Pendlebury’s paralysed body until the medium’s brain started to reject the foreign spirit and developed the inevitable tumours.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he whispered. ‘What have I done?’
Shpiegelglass pulled his chair closer and leaned forward until Peter could smell his faint aftershave and meaty breath. He gave Peter’s knee a fatherly pat.
‘Why, that is precisely what we are trying to find out. Tell me, why did you request an in-person meeting?’
Shpiegelglass’s voice was gentle, yet Peter hesitated. Telling him about Inez felt like sharing something intimate with a stranger. The tip of Nora’s chisel was a tingling point against his neck. He could feel its slight rise and fall in rhythm with her breathing.
‘FELIX. I understand you are upset. You are not sure why I am asking these questions, why I am treating you like an enemy. All will be made clear. I am here to help you, just like George was. But I cannot do it blindfolded. Please. Why did you ask for the meeting?’
‘There is a couple, the Harrises, who work for the SIS,’ Peter said. ‘They are hosting a soirée tonight. It offered me an opportunity to give my regular report to George.’
‘I am sure you know that an ectophone recording or an encrypted ectomail would have been much safer. I take it you had something very important to share? I want to believe you are not here to betray us, FELIX. I know Nora does, too.’
‘For the love of God, I am not here to betray anyone! Why can’t you tell me where George is?’
Tears rose into Peter’s eyes. He wished he still had his mask to conceal the hideousness of a crying man with a dead, empty face.