South by Southeast Page 3

  Luck must have been on my side because we found the lift just as it reached the sixth floor and the door slid open. I dived in and stabbed at a button. I didn’t even notice which one. I just wanted the door to close before Ed and Ted arrived. The door seemed to be taking for ever. Then I realized Tim was leaning on it. I yanked him out of the way. The door slid shut and there was a soft hum as we began to go down. It wasn’t the lift that was humming, by the way. It was Tim. I think it must have been the relief.

  The lift carried us all the way down to the ground floor and the moment the doors opened we were out. We crossed the lobby and went through the revolving doors. No sooner were we in the sunlight than a taxi drew up in front of us. Even then I thought it was a little odd. There was a taxi rank to one side with several cabs waiting. But this one had come from nowhere, jumping the queue.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  I threw open the door and got in. “Camden Town,” Tim said. I looked through the back window. There was no sign of Ed or Ted.

  But as we set off, there was a nasty feeling in my stomach and I knew it wasn’t car sickness. The driver took a left turn, then a right. Which was funny, because if I’d been going to Camden Town, I’d have taken a right turn, then a left.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” I said.

  “What…?” Tim began.

  The driver pressed a button and there was a loud click as the cab doors locked themselves automatically. Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and Tim and I were thrown back into our seats as the cab rocketed round a corner.

  The driver wasn’t going anywhere near Camden Town. We were prisoners on a one-way journey to who-could-say where. Well, one thing was certain. We wouldn’t be leaving a tip.

  NUMBER SEVENTEEN

  The taxi took us into the centre of London, down Oxford Street and into the shabby end of Clerkenwell. We turned into Kelly Street, a road that went from nowhere to nowhere with nothing worth visiting on the way and stopped at Number Seventeen. It was a broken-down red-brick building on four floors. You entered through a set of glass doors. Immediately behind them was a wide empty space that might once have been a shop. Now all it was selling was dust.

  “Out!”

  The driver was a man of few words, but then “thank you” and “goodbye” would have been enough words for me. Now that I’d taken a closer look at him, I saw that he’d come off the same assembly line that had produced Ed and Ted and I guessed they must have telephoned him from the hotel. He had the same sort of gun too. And he was pointing it at us in just the same way.

  He’d unlocked the doors and we got out of the taxi and walked towards the glass doors. There was nobody in sight in Kelly Street. Otherwise we might have tried to make a break for it. I hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Kidnap and murder,” I said. “You think you can get away with it?”

  “Yeah,” Tim added. He nodded at the cab. “And you’ve parked on a yellow line.”

  “Just keep moving,” the driver said, waving.

  He led us down a corridor and through a door that opened on to a bare, uncarpeted staircase. The concrete felt cold underneath my feet as we climbed up and I wondered who or what would be waiting for us at the top. There was a rusting fire extinguisher attached to the wall. The driver reached out and turned the tap. It looked as if he’d gone crazy. There was no fire that I could see and anyway no water was coming out. A moment later I understood. Part of the wall swung open – a secret door, and the extinguisher was the handle.

  “That’s very neat,” I said. “But what do you do if the place catches fire?”

  We stepped through the wall. And suddenly we were surrounded.

  There were people everywhere. In front of the entrance there was a pretty receptionist taking calls on an even prettier telephone system. I hadn’t seen so many flashing lights since Christmas. There were five or six offices on either side and the central area was being criss-crossed by suits with men inside. You could hear the jangle of telephones from every direction and voices talking softly like they were frightened of being overheard or even, for that matter, heard.

  “Tim…!”

  I nudged Tim and pointed. Another door had opened and I could see into what looked like a fully working laboratory with its own collection of technicians in white coats. But you didn’t need a microscope to see what they were working on. They had the telephone box from the alley. And they were taking it apart piece by piece. I watched as one man sprayed the glass with some sort of powder while another unscrewed the telephone receiver. But then the taxi driver prodded me with his gun and gestured at the door nearest the receptionist. “In there,” he said.

  We went in. It was an office like any other with a desk, a computer screen, a few leather chairs and lighting as soft as the executive carpet. Sitting behind the desk was an elderly man with grey hair that had probably come with the job. He was a black man, dressed in a three-piece suit and an old school tie. His movements were slow, but his narrow, grey eyes seemed to move fast.

  “Please sit down,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He punched a few letters on his keyboard but the screen was turned towards him so I couldn’t see what he was writing. Meanwhile, Tim had shifted onto the edge of his seat and was craning to look over the top of the desk. The man noticed him and stopped typing. “Is there something wrong?” he enquired.

  Tim coughed. “You’re only using two fingers,” he said.

  “Yes.” The man smiled and held up his hands. “But I do have a complete set.” He pushed the keyboard away. “So you know about Charon?”

  “Maybe…”

  “Of course you do, Mr Diamond. You are Tim Diamond, I presume?”

  Tim stared. “How do you know that?”

  “I was guessing. We found a name tag in the coat that McGuffin was wearing when he … left the company.” I couldn’t help smiling at that. “I presume he exchanged coats with you in an attempt to escape from Charon. That was the sort of thing McGuffin would have tried. And you must have found the hotel key in his coat. Am I correct?”

  “Keep talking,” Tim muttered.

  “I have your details here on the computer,” the old man went on. He glanced at the screen. “Tim Diamond Inc. Detective Agency. Camden Town.” He turned to me. “You’re not on my file.”

  “I’m his brother,” I said.

  “Ah.” He typed a few words onto the screen.

  “Nick Diamond. Want me to spell it?”

  “I think I can manage.”

  “And what exactly is it that you do manage, Mr…” Tim began.

  “My name is Mr Waverly.” He smiled. “I am the chief executive of this organization.”

  “And what organization is that?”

  Waverly lowered his voice. “I take it you’ve heard of MI6.”

  “I’ve driven up it,” Tim said.

  “No,” Waverly corrected him. “You’re thinking of the M6 motorway to Birmingham. I’m talking about intelligence.”

  Tim’s face brightened. “Then you’re talking to the right person!” he announced.

  “Military intelligence!” Waverly explained.

  “Spies,” I added.

  “McGuffin was an agent working for me,” Waverly went on. “He was pursuing a killer known only as Charon. I don’t know how much he had told you, but Charon has a contract on a Russian diplomat by the name of Boris Kusenov.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. I didn’t think it was an important question when I asked it. It was just something I wanted to know. But it seemed I’d touched on a sore point because suddenly he looked less like the head of the British Secret Service and more like a used car salesman with a second-hand secret.

  “It doesn’t matter how,” he said and I realized that it did matter a lot. “All that matters is that he doesn’t kill Kusenov on British soil.”

  “Suppose he stays on the pavement?” Tim asked.

  Mr Waverly swallowed hard. “I mean
, we have to ensure that Kusenov is not killed while he is anywhere in Britain,” he explained, choosing his words carefully. “It would have huge international repercussions. That is why it is essential that you tell me everything McGuffin told you.”

  “But he didn’t tell us anything,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Tim agreed. “He wanted to use a telephone but we haven’t got one. So he went out to use the one in the alley.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the laboratory. “He was lucky you hadn’t taken it before he got there.”

  “We took the call box after he was killed, Mr Diamond,” Waverly said. “McGuffin got through to this office. He told us where he was. Then he was shot. So we took the telephone box to search it for clues.”

  “Did you find any?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But he must have left something. McGuffin was a resourceful operative. He was secretive. A loner. But he’ll have done everything he can to get a message to us.”

  There was a pause.

  Tim and I glanced at each other. Waverly may have been hiding something, but we had to tell him everything we knew. After all, he was the head of MI6. And that meant he was on our side.

  “How about ‘south by south east’?” I said.

  “What?”

  “They were his last words,” Tim explained.

  “Just that? South by south east?” Waverly tapped the words into the computer then pressed the button that would send them hurtling into the data bank. The screen bleeped a few times. He pressed another button. “Nothing,” he muttered.

  Tim got to his feet. “Well, there’s nothing more we can do for you…” he began.

  “Please sit down, Mr Diamond!”

  There was a silence of about thirty seconds as he sat there, calculating. He had plans for us. I could see them forming – faster than the computer signals – in those soft, grey eyes. At last he stretched out a hand and pressed a button on his intercom.

  “Miss Jones,” he said. “Could you get a drink for our guests?” Then he turned back to us. “I have a proposition for you,” he said. “I want you to work for me. We have to find Charon and you can help.”

  “Now wait a minute…” Tim began.

  Waverly ignored him. “We’re running out of time, Mr Diamond. Boris Kusenov arrives in England in just a few days’ time. But we no longer have any leads. We have no connection with Charon.” He took a deep breath. “Except you.”

  “Me?” Tim squeaked.

  “Charon knows that McGuffin spoke to you before he died. When he discovers that you’re working for MI6, maybe he’ll get worried.”

  “How will he discover that?” I asked.

  “We’ll make sure he finds out.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I played back the sentence in my head and realized that was just what it was. A death sentence. We were going to be the bait in a trap for Charon. And if we got wiped out along the way, I don’t think Waverly would even send flowers to the funeral.

  Even Tim seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “You can’t do it!” he exclaimed. “I’m not a secret agent…”

  “You are now,” Waverly replied.

  The door opened and Miss Jones came in, carrying a tray. She was a short, dumpy woman with hair tied up in a bun – but I hardly noticed her. She had two glasses on the tray. They were filled with a green liquid that was almost luminous. Somehow I didn’t think it was apple juice.

  “I thought you might be thirsty,” Waverly said.

  “I was until she came in,” I replied.

  “Please drink…”

  It was a command, not an invitation, and I got the feeling that something nasty would happen to us if we refused. Mind you, I knew something nasty was going to happen to us anyway. We didn’t have much choice. I held up the glass.

  “Down the hatch,” Tim said.

  “Yeah. And into the coal cellar,” I added.

  We drank.

  The juice tasted sweet and minty – like mouthwash. I think I began to feel its effects even before it had reached my throat.

  “I can give you one piece of guidance in your task,” Waverly went on, but already his voice was in the next room. He seemed to be shrinking behind the desk, like we were looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. “McGuffin wasn’t working alone. He’d been in touch with the Dutch Secret Service…”

  “I didn’t know the Dutch had a secret service,” I said. The words came out thick and heavy.

  “That’s how secret they are,” Mr Waverly explained. “We don’t even know the name of the agent he was working with. But he had a number. 86. Can you remember that?”

  “68,” Tim said.

  “89,” I corrected him.

  “86,” Mr Waverly corrected me.

  The room was spinning round and round. Now I knew what a CD felt like. Only instead of music, all I could hear was Waverly’s voice, the words slurring together, echoing around me. “You’re on your own, Diamond,” he was saying. “On your own … on your own.”

  “Where’s Nick?” Tim asked.

  “On the floor,” I replied.

  A moment later the carpet rushed up at me, and I was.

  BIRDS

  “Waverly was hiding something,” I said.

  Tim and I were sitting back in the Camden Town office, which was where we’d woken up. Whatever it was in the drink we had been given, it was powerful stuff. My head was still hurting. My tongue felt like someone had used it to dry the dishes.

  “What was he hiding?” Tim asked. He wasn’t looking much better than me. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. We’d been unconscious for about six hours.

  “I don’t know. It was something to do with Boris Kusenov. How did Mr Waverly find out that Charon was planning to kill him? And why is it so important that it doesn’t happen in Britain?”

  “Maybe it would be bad for the tourist trade.”

  Tim poured himself a cup of tea. “He offered me a job!” he exclaimed. “A spy! Working for MI6!”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to disillusion him but he had to know. “You’re not a spy, Tim,” I told him. “You’re a sitting target.”

  Tim stood up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean – when Charon hears you’re working for MI6, he’ll come gunning for you. Or knifing. Or harpooning. That’s what Mr Waverly wants.”

  “Why? Didn’t he like me?”

  “If Charon comes after you, he’ll be too busy to go after Kusenov. And of course, it gives Waverly another chance to catch him.”

  “You mean – he’s using me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “Exactly…”

  Tim sat down again behind his desk. Then he stood up. Then he sat down again. I was beginning to get a crick in my neck watching him, but at last he swung round and I realized that he was actually furious. “How dare he!” he squeaked. “Well, I’m going to show him!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “He kidnapped me. He drugged me. And now he’s trying to get me killed. What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to the police!”

  “Snape?” I grimaced. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  But Tim wouldn’t let me talk him out of it. And that was how – the very same day that we’d been released from jail for wasting police time – we found ourselves knocking on the door, asking to be let back in again. The desk sergeant wasn’t pleased to see us. We left him chewing the desk while a constable went to fetch Chief Inspector Snape.

  Then Snape himself arrived, with Boyle, as ever, just a few steps behind. “I do not believe it!” he exclaimed in a cracked voice.

  “But Chief … I haven’t told you yet,” Tim replied.

  So Tim told him: the hotel room, the two MI6 agents, the taxi ride, Kelly Street, Mr Waverly … everything. Snape listened without interrupting, but I got the idea that he wasn’t taking Tim seriously. Maybe it was the way he rapped his fingernails on the tab
le and stared out of the window. Maybe it was his occasional sniff of silent laughter. Meanwhile Boyle stood with his back against the wall, smirking quietly to himself.

  “So that’s it?” Snape enquired when Tim had finished. “You really expect me to swallow that?”

  “But it’s the truth!” Tim insisted. He turned to me. “Tell him!” he exclaimed.

  “It’s the truth,” I agreed. What else could I say?

  Snape considered. “Very well,” he muttered at length. “Let’s take a look at Number Seventeen. But I’m warning you, Diamond…”

  He drove us back to Kelly Street and stopped at the bottom. We walked the last fifty metres – with Snape’s driving that had to be the fastest part of the journey. Eleven, thirteen, fifteen … I counted off the numbers of the buildings as we went past. It was all just like I remembered it. Then we reached Number Seventeen.

  It wasn’t there any more.

  At least, there was something there only it wasn’t what had been there the last time we were there. It was as confusing as that. The empty window, the dust and the bare floorboards had been replaced by a pretty shop that looked as if it had been there for years. There was a wooden sign above the door that read: Bodega Birds. But these weren’t the oven-ready variety. You could hear them squawking even out in the street: budgies and canaries and just about every other species of feathered friend. “Hello!” someone shouted. I think it was a parrot.

  Tim had seen all this too. “Wait a minute!” he cried in a high-pitched voice. For a moment he sounded remarkably like a parrot himself. “The birds. They weren’t there!”

  “So how did they get here then?” Snape asked. “I suppose they just flew in?”

  “I don’t know!”

  We went in. I looked for the door that led to the staircase. At least that was still in place, only now you had to step past a row of canaries to reach it. But then there were birds everywhere, twittering in their cages or rocking backwards and forwards on their perches. The back of the shop was lined with shelves stacked high with bird-food, bird-toys, bird-baths and everything else you might need if you happened to be a bird. And none of it was new. As far as we could tell, it had all been there for years.