“Here!” A flaming orange haircut popped out of the door opposite the bathroom.
“What have you found?” What now?
“It’s a bedroom! I mean, there’s a bed and a chest of drawers and a wardrobe but everything’s really old, there’s a thing that I think is a stereo? It’s got a vinyl record player and a radio and one of those old cassette things, all in one box with lots of dials and knobs on it, like my grandparents had? But it doesn’t work!” Game Boy paused, drew breath, and gave vent to an elephantine sneeze. “It’s so dusty! It’s like nobody’s been up here for years and years and years!”
Afterwards Doc was never quite sure from whence it came, but a deep sense of foreboding settled over him. “This is—” he took a deep breath—“it shouldn’t be here. It can’t be here. Or we shouldn’t be here. It’s somewhere that shouldn’t exist. That’s some fucked-up Narnia-grade shit right there.”
“Yeah! Great, isn’t it?”
“I think we should tell Imp,” he said, then reluctantly added, “and Del.” See if Imp knows something he wasn’t telling us. Anything at all. The house had been in his family for generations, up until the late 1960s. We’ve wandered into a fucking TARDIS: What if there are Daleks? An urgent impulse prompted him to add: “Whatever you do, don’t split up!”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the slasher flicks too…”
“I’m going to get Imp.” And Del. “Don’t go any deeper until I get back?”
“Okay! I’ll just fetch my phone. I can’t wait to Instagram the hell out of it!”
After he hung up on Miss Starkey, Rupert de Montfort Bigge sighed happily, slipped his phone inside the breast pocket of his suit, and strolled onto the balcony to survey his estate. The flagstones were warm beneath the afternoon sun, and heat rose from the steep streets on the hillside below. Waves broke on the pebbled foreshore a quarter of a kilometer away, singing the never-ending song of the wild seas. All of this is mine he reminded himself, and if a man’s heart could burst from the joy of gloating over his possessions, he could not think of a better way to go at just that moment.
This was not, admittedly, as large a demesne as a fellow like Rupert might wish for. The territorial rights that had come with the title of Seigneur of Skaro—a steal for the asking price of a mere £48.2M—only covered the 2.8 square kilometers of Skaro itself, plus the surrounding fisheries out to the internationally agreed territorial limit. He barely had the right to levy taxes on the population of 462 souls, and he owed feudal dues to the Duke of Normandy by way of the Lieutenant Governor in Guernsey, dammit, so strike out the dream of a seat at the United Nations General Assembly. (At least for now.) But he was nevertheless the undisputed Lord of Skaro, and it was a start, and that was the main thing: he had an island base with minions, a castle, a luxury helicopter, and a multibillion-pound hedge fund to manage.
What more could a man ask for?
(Quite a lot, actually.)
It was early afternoon, and far to the west the dealer floor on Wall Street would be open for business. But business could wait on his attention for just a little longer. Rupert’s calling was more esoteric than the simple-minded worship of Mammon he was identified with in the public eye. He searched the horizon, gazing into the distance as if looking for signs of trouble in his private paradise: but his attention was directed inwards.
Footsteps approached him from behind, then stopped on the threshold of the balcony.
“Mr. Bond,” he said.
The name was Rupert’s little joke. A succession of men had played this role for him, their faces changing with the years (and seldom for any reason as benign as cosmetic surgery). They all answered in turn to the same code name. Indeed, Rupert was at pains never to learn their actual identity, to preserve a fig leaf of deniability. This one, being a twenty-first-century Bond, had a neatly groomed beard and moustache, wore his dress shirt with an open collar, and softened his hard-edged appearance with spectacles (albeit with non-corrective lenses). But despite the overhaul, he was still a Bond—the bludgeon-wielding counterpart to Miss Starkey’s poisoned stiletto.
“You asked for me, sir?”
“Yes, I did,” he said vaguely, then fell silent.
“The usual, sir?”
“With variations.” Rupert glanced at him. “I have recently tasked Miss Starkey with an extremely sensitive procurement job. I believe she will perform her assignment with her usual efficiency.”
“Sir.” The Bond’s eyebrows furrowed minutely, but otherwise his face displayed all the expressiveness of a brick wall. The faint twang of a Midwestern accent and the bulky musculature of a former US Navy SEAL were all that betrayed his background. (Rupert supposed he could have hired some former SBS muscle, but he liked to keep the Bonds just slightly alienated; in Rupert’s experience, British mercenaries tended to lack the deference towards nobility that he expected of his servants.)
“There may be loose ends,” Rupert continued. “Miss Starkey will tie off any that she notices, but the nature of the assignment is such that there will be competition, and it will leave a trail. So your job is to mop up after her.”
The Bond nodded, almost imperceptibly, then spoke: “Is Miss Starkey herself to be considered a loose end?”
Rupert turned the idea over in his mind, imagining Eve’s luscious lips turning blue and cyanotic, her purpling tongue protruding between them, eyes wide and innocent. It was almost enough to make him hard again: but no. “Not unless you find clear proof of treachery, which I don’t expect.” She’s not stupid: she knows the consequences of disloyalty.
Once again, he savored the memory of her shock and anger when he revealed his opening hand
