Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me Read Free

religions, independent contractors and middlemen, service providers and every kind of bad business you could think of. Including some Very Big Names you’d almost certainly recognise. There were even a few stalls representing the smaller countries in the world, offering specialised services and opportunities . . . desperate for a chance to play with the big boys.
    And, of course, there were stalls for every spy and intelligence agency in the world. Not the Droods, of course. We’re urban legends, remember?
    But the CIA was there, and the KGB (or whatever initials they’re hiding behind these days), Vril Power Inc., the Vatican (represented by a big butch nun from the Salvation Army Sisterhood), the Tracey Brothers, Druid Nation ( Let’s put the fear back into Halloween! ), and a rather familiar face manning the MI13 booth. I wandered over and smiled easily at the balding, middle-aged figure of Philip MacAlpine, once one of England’s top spies. He saw me coming and if anything looked even more put-upon. I came to a halt before him, and he actually sighed loudly.
    “Hello, Phil,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
    “I could ask you the same question,” he growled. “I take it you are here as Shaman Bond and not—”
    “Quite,” I said. “Please don’t mention the name on the tip of your tongue, or I will be obliged to rip out that tongue, throw it on the ground, and stamp on it.”
    He sniffed loudly. “That’s right. Kick a man when he’s down. This is all your fault, you know. I had a perfectly good position at MI5, with seniority and tenure. I had my own office, with a window! And then they sent me after you . . .”
    “And I kicked your arse all over the place,” I said pleasantly. “I remember.”
    He glared at me. “You killed over a hundred of my people. Good men and women, just doing their job.”
    “They were trying to kill me at the time,” I said. “I’ve always taken that very personally.”
    He sniffed again. “Thanks to you and the failure of that mission, I got promoted sideways into MI13. No seniority, no tenure, and I have to share an office with three other operatives and a rubber plant. Overseeing all the weird shit that none of the other MI offices want to deal with. You know what they’ve got me doing here? Public relations. Handing out leaflets and badges and application forms. Shoot me now, you bastard.”
    “Don’t tempt me,” I said.
    “I had a career! I did important things! I couldn’t tell anybody about them, but still . . . It’s not fair.”
    “I let you live, didn’t I?” I said reasonably. “What’s MI13 up to these days? Anything interesting?”
    He shrugged. “Same old same old. Watching the aliens watching us, making sure they play nice and don’t stray outside the negotiated limits. There’s word of a Mothmen breakout down in Cornwall . . . I think they’re attracted to the lighthouses. When I’m finished here, I’m supposed to be putting together a team to go down to reason with them and/or kick their heads in. Don’t suppose you’d be interested . . .”
    “I’m spoken for,” I said. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard of any current threats to the Tower of London, have you?”
    “Nothing recent.” MacAlpine studied me thoughtfully. “Is this something I should be concerned about?”
    “Of course not,” I said, smiling. “I’m on the case.”
    I could tell he was about to say something indiscreet, so I nodded good-bye and let the currents of the crowd carry me away. I don’t like to spend too much time with any of the intelligence agencies when I’m being Shaman. Part of his usefulness as a cover identity is that Shaman never allies himself with any cause or faction for long and therefore is welcome anywhere. Shaman Bond is a chancer, a hustler, a useful extra hand, and a reliable backup. Always on the scene, but never aspiring to be a major player. A man who knows things, and people, but can be relied on to keep his mouth shut.