From a Drood to a Kill - Simon R. Green Page 0,118
course, and the reputation that goes with it. One does hear things, after all.”
“Nothing good, I hope,” I said.
“Don’t waste your famous charm on me, Mister Bond. I don’t find humour funny.” And quite suddenly there was a small but really quite nasty gun in her hand, trained very professionally on me. “Please stand still, Mister Bond. It’s a security thing.”
I raised an eyebrow, and my hands. I wasn’t in any danger, of course, but I didn’t want Ms Smith to suspect that. The door behind me opened, and a large and very muscular gentleman came in and stood beside me. He was so big he could have made two of me, and his plain grey suit strained to hold it all in. He had the usual shaved head, and enough steel piercings in his face to make him a danger to stand next to during thunderstorms.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, in a flat basso profundo voice. “I will be your threatening presence for this meeting. Just think of me as Mister Genuine Muscle, here to facilitate the deal and ensure that everything goes smoothly. Or to dispose of the body, should it prove necessary. It is necessary that I frisk you now.”
“Not going to happen,” I said. “Not unless you like gumming hospital food.”
Ms Smith came out from behind her desk to better aim her gun at me, and flash me another of her bright professional smiles.
“It’s all standard business practice, Mister Bond. Please don’t take it personally. We do occasionally find it necessary to disappoint people, some of them very desperate and dangerous people, and we have to be prepared for when they become . . . upset. So please stand extremely still and allow yourself to be searched, or Mister Genuine Muscle will do it while you’re unconscious. And that might involve cavity searches.”
I shrugged resignedly, and raised my hands just a bit higher. Mister Genuine Muscle frisked me with professional thoroughness, and found nothing of any interest to him. He didn’t find any of my weapons or useful toys, because I kept all of those in my pocket dimension. And while the Merlin Glass was currently resting in my coat pocket, he didn’t find that either, because it evaded his hand with all its usual perversity. As I’d thought it would. And neither Mister Muscle nor Ms Smith could even see my torc. You’d have to be the seventh son of a seventh son, outside my family, and Family Planning has pretty much put an end to that.
Mister Muscle finally finished, and nodded briefly to Ms Smith, before stepping away from me. Ms Smith nodded back to him and he left, closing the door quietly behind him. Ms Smith put her gun away and sat down behind her desk again. She gestured to the visitor’s chair, and I sat down facing her. Projecting just a little injured pride, as befitted Shaman Bond.
“Was that really necessary?” I said.
She smiled again. It didn’t improve. “Think of it as professional courtesy, Mister Bond. Now, I need to take down your details. Starting with how did you hear about the Departure Lounge? We don’t exactly advertise.”
“Harry Fabulous told me,” I said.
She nodded immediately. Harry’s name was always going to be a safe enough bet. Everyone even remotely connected with our line of business either knows or knows of Harry Fabulous. Your special Go-to Guy, for absolutely everything unusual that’s bad for you. Knock-off Hyde, Martian Red Weed, smoked black centipede meat . . . Harry might have developed something of a conscience in recent years, after encountering something he still won’t talk about in the back room of a Members Only club in the Nightside. . . . But he’s still your main man to go to when you want something out of the ordinary. And everyone knows it. Harry would definitely have at least heard about the Departure Lounge. I find a lot of the business of being a good field agent lies in knowing just the right name to drop, and just the right moment to drop it.
“Sorry to have to ask these questions, Mister Bond,” said Ms Smith. “But we do have to be very careful.”
“I understand,” I said. “But that thing with the gun; don’t ever do that again.”
She looked at me sharply, hearing something in my voice, but elected to move on.
“Now why exactly do you need our very special services, Mister Bond? And what makes someone like you believe you can afford it?”