Roger frowned and stood up abruptly. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’ He sounded hurt.
‘I have been making mistakes all my life, Roger.’ She sighed. ‘For what it’s worth, I will miss you after you are gone.’
‘All right, old girl,’ Roger said. He suppressed a cough with his sleeve. ‘I guess this is a goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye, Roger.’
* * *
Max Chevalier leaned closer to the birdcage and peered at the finches. The female was morose and sat in a corner, all fluffed up, while the male jumped up and down and pecked at seeds as heartily as ever.
‘The females are a bit more fragile, I’m afraid. You have to watch out for tumours, the swollen belly may be a sign of that.’
‘Can we get to the matter at hand?’ Rachel asked. Although the bird did look unwell.
‘Tut,’ Max said. ‘Priorities, Mrs White. Living birds trump dead spies.’
‘Maybe this is all for nothing. Maybe Bloom was simply being polite.’ Her mood had not substantially improved in the past day. Joe had slept in the guest bedroom, blaming chilly sensations again.
Max had scheduled their meeting at Sloane Square that Saturday before a social outing. He wore Henry’s body and evening wear. His hair was waxed and he smelled of strong cologne. If not for the slackness of his face and dead eyes, he would have been one of the most handsome men Rachel had ever met, but on the whole, she preferred the Edison doll.
‘Poor wee beastie,’ Joan said. ‘I wonder if it has a soul.’
She was one of Max’s agents, a blonde, birdlike woman with a faint Scottish accent who was, based on the looks she gave Max, at least a little in love with the dead spymaster. The other agent present, Helen, a surprisingly senior lady with a cockney accent and a fearsome, feathered hat, sipped tea and fed sugar cubes to the foul-mouthed Amazon parrot on its perch. Max had sworn over everything he held holy that both of them, as well as Henry, could be absolutely trusted, but the two ladies still made Rachel a little uncomfortable.
She gave Joan a pointed look. ‘I am more concerned with espionage than eschatological ornithology right now,’ she said. ‘How long should we wait?’
‘Why the hurry, Mrs White?’ Max asked. ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey.’
‘Roger Hollis, my former secretary, came to see me yesterday. He claimed to be investigating the mole as well, on behalf of a patron in the Summer Court. He wanted me to help him.’
‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Max said. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I did not know anything. I believe he had … ulterior motives for offering his help and is not serious about the investigation.’
Helen let out a bright giggle. ‘Oo-er,’ she said. ‘Somebody after the old slithery?’
Rachel blushed. ‘Either that, or he is simply courting favour with Bloom’s protectors.’
She had been surprised to learn that Helen had infiltrated a Luddite group run by a Soviet agent and was a safe house and logistics expert. Joan had been the key witness in the famous Russian Tea Room Case a few years ago. A keen automobile enthusiast, she was to be their driver. At the Winter Court, Max had preferred such part-time agents over professionals, praising their dedication and lack of careerism.
It all seemed jolly and eccentric, but Rachel remembered the story about the fox that Max had shot. She had no doubt that, if necessary, he would treat his agents with the same combination of tenderness and ruthlessness.
‘Very well,’ Max said. ‘We shall watch out for Mr Hollis. As for Mr Bloom contacting you, no need to fret. I suspect he is going to follow the pattern of classic asset development—which is not dissimilar to seduction, incidentally. I could practically write you a script, if it wasn’t for the soul-reading.’
Rachel blinked.
‘Ah yes, Mrs White. Like all of us post-mortals, he can see into your head. That is what makes this interesting.’
‘All right,’ Rachel said testily. ‘So how am I going to stop him from seeing my deepest and darkest secrets?’
‘Well, soul-reading is not thought-reading. A spirit can see the aetheric shape of your soul, and that is a very transient thing, not verbal at all, more like a Cubist painting that moves. Even with just a little training, most emotions can be identified. That makes the Spooks very good at talent-spotting and asset development. However, there are counter-techniques related to Stanislavski’s acting method: using your memories to create powerful emotions to fool the observer. Let us try a little experiment.’
He touched a switch on the spirit crown. Henry stiffened, and then his face returned to normal.
‘Just wait a minute, my dear boy,’ Max’s voice echoed from the Edison doll. The medium sighed and leaned back. On the few occasions when Max was not inhabiting him, the young man said as little as possible.
‘Now, think of something happy, please.’
Rachel stared at the doll blankly. Happy. Childhood memories flashed in her mind. Listening to her ayah’s stories. Tending the garden with her mother. Joe’s proposal on the Atlantic Coast in France. The images felt cold and distant. Her eyes burned all of a sudden, and she had to squeeze them shut to keep from tearing up.
Rachel stood, embarrassed.
‘I don’t think I am naturally a happy person,’ she said in a choked voice.
‘I should say so.’ Max’s voice was soft. ‘Whatever that was, I wouldn’t use it.’
‘There, there,’ Helen said. ‘It’s all right, dearie-dove. Sit down. You’re amongst friends here.’
Looking at her beaming, ruddy face, Rachel was suddenly glad that Max had not recruited traditional Court hard men.
‘Obviously, we have our work cut out here,’ Max said. ‘I may have to cancel my dinner. Oh well. We might try anger instead. Or, better yet, guilt. Guilt is always reliable.’
Peter Bloom entered the Reading Room of the Summer Court Registry to look for the file on the last battle.
Only a handful of the thirty ink-spattered desks were occupied. There were four archivists’ counters and a small break area. It could have been a library in any civil service building of the living, unless one looked to ana or kata. Even rudimentary hypersight revealed the endless spiralling stacks with their labyrinth of secrets. Peter liked the Registry; it reminded him of the college library in Trinity, although it lacked the smell of paper and dust.
Ostensibly, he was here to compile material for the briefing on Spain for the Winter Court. C had been furious after Peter reported the outcome of his private session with West. The old man sealed himself into his office for two days, refusing to see anyone except the stone-faced Hill. The Special Committee was due to meet in another week, November 21st, and Peter suspected the Chief was girding himself for another confrontation with Sir Stewart. His absence left Peter to deal with the details of transferring the operation over to the Winter Court. A young officer called Hollis kept bombarding him with requests for information. Dutifully, Peter was in the process of preparing an information package—which would also be delivered to Otto and Nora via the Listener.
But the real reason he was in the Registry was the word West had spoken: Camlann.
Camlann was the battlefield where King Arthur and evil Mordred perished by each other’s hand, ending the golden age of Camelot. Was West haunted by the possibility of a world war precipitated by conflict between the Soviet Union and Britain? Did the image represent the Presence invading the Summer City?