a general sense of people hurrying off to do things that needed doing even though everyone knew it was already too late. That’s London for you. I took time to stop and browse in the occasional shop-window, not because I was interested in any of the contents but because there’s nothing so useful as studying the reflection in the glass to help you check out the people behind you. And there’s nothing like stopping suddenly, to catch even the most professional tail off guard. But even though I took my time, and looked very carefully, I couldn’t spot anyone out of place. Not a single familiar face, and no appearance anywhere of suspicious behaviour. No one was watching me, and no one gave any indication of giving a damn about me. Which was . . . reassuring.
When I was sure I wasn’t being followed, or observed, I set off again and plunged suddenly down an unofficial short cut into old Soho, where twilight meets sleaze and together they make a profit off all the marks and suckers. Most of old Soho is gone now; after the most determined cleanup in generations. But there’s always some sin left, if you know where to look. I headed down a particular side street that’s always underlit, and well off the beaten track, and entered an area where no one ever stopped to browse the windows. People came this deep into old Soho only in search of quite distinct things and places. People walking these streets kept their heads well down, and never looked at one another, because they didn’t want anyone to look at them.
Eventually I came to a familiar little cybercafé, part of the information underground. The silicon subterraneans. This particular quiet establishment used to be part of the Electronic Village chain, but was far too independent to bow down to anyone for long. It was currently called the Mighty Argus.com. Which was . . . cute. Argus was the Greek god of a thousand eyes, who saw everything. Someone knew their classics. I didn’t; I got the reference only because I used to be very fond of an old Eddie Campbell comic about the Greek gods called Deadface.
This particular information-highway pit stop was open twenty-four hours a day, especially for twilight people like Shaman Bond. People who tended to need access and information in a hurry, and a hell of a lot of privacy. The storefront’s single window had been thoroughly whitewashed over, and the neon sign above the door hadn’t worked in ages. The café didn’t believe in publicity, and its patrons didn’t want to be disturbed . . . while they did illegal and quite possibly immoral and unnatural things with their computers. This was not a place to just wander in and look around, in the hope of making new friends.
I strode right up to the door, and it opened before me as it recognised me. The café and I go way back. Or more exactly, the café and Shaman Bond go way back. If this place even suspected the Droods knew about it, it would probably vanish in a puff of green smoke. I stopped just inside the door to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the deliberately maintained gloom. The café’s patrons valued their anonymity. There were tables and chairs and computers waiting for use—and absolutely nothing else. You didn’t come here for comforts.
The establishment’s manager came drifting forward out of the gloom to greet me, smiling weakly. Willy Fleagal has been around the information market for what seems like forever, always a part of the scene while owing allegiance to no one, always happy to facilitate a meeting or a deal or . . . anything else, really—for a consideration. Willy was a tall, gangling middle-aged hippy; with gold-rimmed bifocals, a really high forehead, and a long grey ponytail. He wore a grubby T-shirt over very grubby jeans and sneakers, and always looked like he thought he knew something you didn’t know. His T-shirt bore the simple message Yes, I Know.
Willy gave me his best smile and a weak handshake. He always looked like he was short of a few good meals, but no one ever gave him any trouble. He was protected. And the fact that none of us knew by whom, or even what, just made that all the more impressive. Willy knew Shaman Bond as a fairly regular customer, with certain special privileges guaranteed by the café’s mysterious owners. Whoever