This was something we instinctively understood – it simply hadn’t occurred to us that it might need explaining.
I went south, towards Holborn.
Vera and Charlie met me in a small sandwich shop made of linoleum; it was round the back of Drury Lane and advertised itself as
Vera looked tired but alert; Charlie was his usual implacable self.
She said to me, not unpleasantly, “You buggered off something royal in the Exchange, bastard.”
“I’m sorry. I was hurt.”
“They told me.”
“Who they?”
“The bloody fucking Order, thanks a million for getting them involved, by the way.”
“Is there a problem?” demanded Charlie.
She glared at him. “No sooner have we smashed the massed undead army of Lee to a thousand itty pieces, wereman, than we’ve got a group of religious nutters sitting on our doorstep who know exactly where we live and what our tricks are.”
“They’re causing trouble?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then is there a problem?” I hazarded, uncertain of where her anger was coming from or what she wanted.
Her hand tightened round her cup of coffee until the knuckles were white. “When there is, are you going to come and make it all better, sorcerer?” Her voice dripped acid. We felt oddly ashamed.
“Oda didn’t tell me how many died.”
“Plenty.”
“But are… did it…”
“Did it make a difference?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps. With Lee dead, with his men beat… there’s only so much power that you can have at the end of a gun. First you’ve gotta fear it, and perhaps… that’s changing.” Her grip relaxed, her shoulders rolled forward. She looked drained; we wondered if she’d slept. “What’s next?” she asked.
“Harris Simmons.”
“Do you know something new?” said Charlie.
“Perhaps. I think he’s on the run.”
“How does that help?” asked Vera.
“He’s being followed. Bakker knows that I’m looking for him, cleared out the house and left a message for me.”
“You didn’t mention a message.” Charlie looked reproachful, edgy.
“It was personal.”
“I thought we’d gone past that.”
“Oh, get real,” snapped Vera. “You blind?”
“If they know you’re looking for him, things will not be so simple,” pointed out Charlie reasonably.
“Thank you for the profound insight,” groaned Vera. “What do you want, sorcerer?”
“Your help.”
“Again?”
“I think we can bring down the Tower.”
“What, exploding concrete, or in a more organisational sense?”
“Harris Simmons can lead us to Bakker.”
“Doesn’t seem very likely,” murmured Vera.
“Bakker is hard to find; he keeps moving all the time,” added Charlie. “Especially now that Khay and Lee are dead – he’ll be alerted to the danger, won’t stay more than one night in one place until you’re…”
“Deader than a decapitated zombie!” shrilled Vera. “Deader than old Marley’s ghost, deader than a tombstone on Mars, deader than…”
“Thank you, we understand the image,” we said. “Besides, ‘dead’ isn’t quite the full story, as far as Bakker is most likely concerned.”
“Is he a zombie too?” hazarded Vera.
“He is not,” said Charlie firmly, as if Vera’s question was a foolish thing asked by a child to annoy. “But he is dying.”
“And he was very interested in talking to us before,” we added. “So I think that, given this information, a few risks might be worth taking.”
“What kind of
“I think Harris Simmons is going to be a trap,” I replied. “It makes sense; he knows I’m coming, on the run, being tracked by a shadow…”
“… a shadow?” Charlie’s voice was hard.
“Are you an important person?” Vera asked Charlie quizzically. “Sorcerer, why is the wereman here?”
“He’s an important person,” I sighed. “Please be nice to each other, I still need your help.”
“Just our help? Not the biker, the Order, the warlocks, the…”
“You’re the two I trust.”
“Thanks,” said Vera with a grunt. “Touched, but a little surprised, since we hardly know each other.”
“All right, put it another way. You,” nodding at Vera, “have too much to lose, and have lost too much already; and you,” nodding at Charlie, “come with good credentials and an honest face, when it hasn’t got whiskers. Therefore, I’m talking to you both.”
“What about Oda?” asked Vera. “You seem quite pally with the psycho-bitch.”
“I trust her utterly,” I replied, surprised to find that it was true, “but only up to the point where she no longer needs me. Which, if what I suggest can be made to work, could be quite soon.”
Soon was three days.
I spent each night at a different hotel, not least because in every case my relentless casting of wards around the bed, and the mess this left, didn’t please the management.
In those three days, Charlie called by twice. The first time he provided £100 and a note from Sinclair that read simply, “Try legality, and best wishes,” as well as a change of clothes and a first-aid kit for the scabbing nail marks on my arms. The second time, he came by with a pair of shoes.
After I’d looked at them, I said, “You’re joking.” We added, “Are you sure it’ll work?”
“These things don’t just grow on trees,” he replied.
“The image is ridiculous enough already,” I retorted. “Besides, what if someone takes the shoes?”
“There is another option.”
“Which is?”
“Surgery.” We turned pale. “They can slice your skin open, implant the chip just below your…”
“You’re not as humourless as you look,” I said.
“In point of fact, I am.”
I took the shoes. They fitted perfectly, and when I walked on them, there wasn’t a bump or a lump to suggest the thing hidden inside. Charlie beamed. “Magicians,” he said brightly. “Always so busy doing the magical thing they never bother to think about technology.”
On the third day, I got a phone call from Oda.
It went, “Where are you hiding?”
“If I told you that, it wouldn’t be hiding.”
“Never mind, I’ll trace the call.”
