waiting for just the right time to go in. From the outside, it looked very perfectly commonplace and everyday. Just another Bucket Shop, offering cheap and cheerful getaways to the usual suspect destinations, to the kind of people who looked like they could use a good holiday. The shop even had Travel Bureau: Ask About Our Special Departure Lounge! written across the top of its main window, which was packed full of gaudily-coloured posters and brochures. Featuring the kind of tanned and healthy happy-smiley people you only ever see in holiday posters and brochures. Nothing like hiding in plain sight . . .
I braced myself, as I finally walked in through the main entrance. I could See all kinds of pretty powerful defences and protections in place, every one of them ready to do something thoroughly unpleasant and downright devastating to me if they decided I presented any kind of threat. More than enough to stop anyone who wasn’t a Drood. I was a little concerned they might detect my torc and blow my cover identity. But nothing happened as I strode through the door, and I made myself relax. I should have known, should have trusted my armour. Ethel always does good work.
Inside, the shop seemed almost offensively ordinary. Full of ads for familiar vacations, at quite reasonable prices. The best cover is always going to be a real(istic) cover. Everyday people bustled around the shop, hurrying back and forth between the posters and the information desks, trying to squeeze a few more extras out of the money they had to work with. They chatted cheerfully with the information staff, paying me no attention at all. My gaze was drawn to a massive poster on the rear wall, bearing the official motto of the Travel Bureau, and its Departure Lounge: No One Ever Comes Back to Complain!
I walked straight up to the main reception desk, and introduced myself to the happy-smiley young lady sitting behind it. She didn’t even blink at the name Shaman Bond, or when I told her I was there to make use of the Departure Lounge, right now. A part of me wanted to wink significantly at her, but that would have been over-egging the point. I still felt one of us should make an effort . . . The receptionist nodded easily to me.
“Welcome, Mister Bond. We’ve been expecting you.” She gestured to a door at the rear of the room that I would have sworn hadn’t been there just a moment before. “If you would care to pass through the door marked Private, one of our personal assistants is waiting to talk to you.”
I stood my ground and scowled at her unhappily. “You were expecting me? How did you know I was coming here?”
“You made an appointment with us, Mister Bond,” the receptionist said patiently.
“I know!” I said. “I just don’t like people knowing things about me in advance. Like, where I’m going to be. That kind of information should be strictly need-to-know. It can be very dangerous to my well-being in my line of work.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said the receptionist. “And I really don’t give a damn. Please go through the door marked Private, where one of our people is waiting to help you with your problems. Or don’t. See if I care. Let some other firm help you with your problems.”
“There isn’t anyone else who can help me!”
“I know!” the receptionist said brightly.
I sighed loudly and headed for the door marked Private. Of course they knew I was coming; but I needed to establish my suspicious credentials as Shaman Bond. I slammed open the door and strode into a very smart, very comfortable private office. Nice carpet, nice prints on the wall, all the usual distractions. A smart young lady in an exquisitely cut suit stood up behind her desk to greet me. The door shut itself quietly as I moved quickly forward to shake the young lady’s hand. She was a hard-faced sort, with understated makeup and a businesslike air, and a wide and utterly impersonal smile. Her steady grey eyes studied me carefully, like an angler who’s just felt a sudden pull on his line. I did my best to look like a sucker.
“Good to meet you, Mister Bond,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Getting really quite tired of that line,” I said.
“With the name you chose, you must get it a lot,” she said, entirely unmoved. “So, Shaman Bond. I am Miz Smith. I know your name, of