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The Case of the Left Hand of Thoth
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter Two Stuart Smedley Looks for Work Kitty Lang was 26-years-old. She had curly black shoulder-length hair and very dark, very pretty eyes. Her lips turned up at the corners and when she smiled she displayed small, even white teeth. Kitty was a receptionist, a typist, a linguist, and a secret agent. She worked in an office on Baker Street and, for the most part, spent each day engaged in fairly mundane tasks, just like those undertaken by receptionists in practically every other office in London. There were two telephones on her desk. One of them she used quite a lot. It was grey and ordinary. The other, which she used less often, was blue and unlike any other telephone in the city. It had a Winnie the Pooh sticker on the receiver. Whenever this particular telephone rang, Kitty started earning her rather large salary — a salary her office manager would be astonished to learn was six times bigger than his own. Usually, calls on the blue ‘phone came from people seeking an appointment with the man who lived in the three-storey flat above the office. Kitty’s job was to vet them — to sort the wheat from the chaff. The man upstairs was very particular indeed about whom he would or would not see. But on other occasions, the calls were rather more complicated. Sometimes they involved Kitty in top secret business… dangerous business, even. The call she answered now was of this latter variety. “Hello?” she said. “Hello Miss Williams. I have a problem.” Kitty pressed a red button on the dial pad. It was a button you wouldn’t find on an ordinary telephone. “Oh, hello Mr Gunner… what do you need me to do?” She pressed another button, this one just beneath the top of her desk. It made a bell ring in the flat upstairs. “Um,” said Mr Gunner’s voice. He sounded tired. “I’ve been taken ill.” “Oh no! Are you alright?” “I’m afraid not. I have to… uh… have treatment. I’ll be away until… until…” “Yes, Mr Gunner? Until when?” “Until the 18th. It’s a personal matter, you… you understand?” “Of course. So you didn’t make your flight then?” asked Kitty. “No, I have to reschedule the meeting. Any time from the… er... the 19th. Can you sort that out for me?” “No problem at all, sir.” Over near the office entrance, a door-sized mirror by the coat stand swung open and a young man stepped through. He had long dark hair and an unshaven chin, National Health spectacles and crooked teeth. He pushed the mirror back into place and slouched over to Kitty’s desk. “Is there anything else, Mr Gunner?” she was asking. “Okay then, leave it all with me. Get well soon, won’t you? And don’t worry; I’ll keep everything in order here. Bye!” She put down the receiver and looked up at the young man. “Who are you?” “Stuart Smedley,” he grunted, “What’s the story?” “He’s been hooked.” Smedley pursed his lips and asked, “And the Institute?” “Yes,” she said, “I got it relayed to them immediately. They’ll reply in a minute. You look bloody horrible.” “Thanks. These teeth hurt. I think they got knocked out of shape when we moved in upstairs. I’ll have to get new ones made.” “Is everything unpacked now?” “Yes. Tell you what, as soon as this business is sorted out, you’ll have to come up for dinner one night.” “My mother warned me about you,” said Kitty. Something on her computer screen flashed. “Here we are. I’ll print it for you.” She tapped at the keyboard. The printer beside her desk groaned and started to hum. “God!” Kitty suddenly exclaimed, “You stink too!” “Patchouli oil,” said Smedley. “It disguises the smell of dope.” “I see. Much the same as a T-shirt with ‘I smoke pot’ printed on it?” She handed the completed print-out to him. He read it and raised his dyed eyebrows. “They haven’t taken him far — just to the edge of the airport — and the Institute’s given me a fifteen-man squad.” “Good. I thought you were going to go it alone, as usual.” He smiled grimly. “Not this time. Better be off. Cheers, Kitty!” As he shuffled away, she muttered, “Break a leg, Sweetheart!” Smedley walked out of the office, pulled on a woollen hat against the January cold, then sauntered along the road and into Marylebone tube station. He travelled four stops along the Bakerloo Line and got off at Maida Vale. After a ten minute stroll, he arrived at a small building in a quiet, mainly suburban area. A sign above the window read ‘Cornhill Employment’ and postcards taped to the glass advertised a variety of uninspiring opportunities ranging from a vacancy for a litter collector to a temporary position in a call centre. Smedley pushed open the door and entered. A fat bald man was slumped behind a counter, smoking a cigarette and reading a tabloid newspaper. The grimy office was otherwise empty. “I’m looking for a job,” announced Smedley. The man didn’t look up. “Vacancies on the board,” he mumbled. “Not really my sort of thing,” Smedley advised, and slid an identity card onto the newspaper. “I’d like to be a zoologist or a pearl diver.” The fat man flicked ash onto the floor and looked up. “How ‘bout becoming an entomologist? We’re always looking for entomologists. They’re in very short supply.” “I don’t like creepy crawlies. Would that be a problem?” The man indicated a door marked ‘Private’. “Through there and out the back,” he said. Having successfully exchanged the code words, Smedley turned his back on the man, walked to the door and passed through it into a filthy kitchen. He crossed it, opened another door and stepped into a large yard. A number of men were waiting, gathered around a minibus. One of them moved forward and grinned at the new arrival. “Hello, lad,” he said, “I’m Franklin Goodheart.” Smedley laughed. “You look utterly ridiculous,” he snorted, “Like a bank manager dressed for a nature ramble! And what are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you too important for this sort of thing?” Goodheart rubbed his bristly moustache with his forefinger and shrugged. “I like to be hands-on,” he said, “Besides, you know — he’s a friend.” Smedley slapped Goodheart’s shoulder. “Good man,” he smiled, “Let’s get on with it then!” They all piled into the minibus. The driver started the engine, steered out of the yard and set course for Heathrow. In the back, Goodheart opened a detailed map of the airport. “We think he’s either in this building—” he said, pointing to a storage depot on the outskirts of the complex, “or this one. The Institute has disabled the three CCTV cameras which overlook the area. Funny thing about that. In this kind of operation we usually hack into them and just make them point in the other direction. These ones seemed oddly resistant, though; every time we took control it was reclaimed, almost as if the system had some sort of countermeasures; which we know isn't the case. In the end we resorted to a power surge to burn the circuitry. All very unusual... but beside the point. They're out of action; that's all that matters right now. In addition, when we give the word, an ‘incident’ will occur outside the entrance to the airport. It will be serious enough to draw away any security personnel who happen to be patrolling these depots.” “Excellent,” said Smedley. He looked around at his team. They were dressed in overalls and worn suits, denim jackets and heavy boots. “You lot,” he said, “will blend into the landscape. You’ll be ordinary working men going about your business. It just so happens that your business surrounds these two buildings. You know the routine.” Nods and thumbs-up came in response. A little later the minibus was left parked half a mile from the target area and the men moved off. Goodheart wished Smedley luck then ambled along a few yards behind the youth as he headed towards the depots. Smedley wandered along the perimeter of a fenced-in enclosure. The building within was a hive of activity, with fork-lifts loading crates onto trucks and workmen milling around shouting to one another. It was very obviously not what Smedley was looking for. He moved on to the next enclosure. This presented a totally different prospect. It was quiet and virtually abandoned, with a just a few men idling in its doorways. Smedley counted four in all. They were dressed as security guards. He stopped at the entrance gate then meandered in. One of the men straightened and eyed him speculatively before moving forward to meet him. “What you want?” growled the guard. He was Japanese. “Got any work?” “No. Try next door; they’re busy, we’re not.” “Already tried; they’re fully manned. You sure?” pressed Smedley. “Sure I’m sure! Now move on!” The security guard watched as the young man shuffled away and disappeared around a corner. He spat, turned, and moved back to the doorway he’d been leaning against. It was the main entrance. Above it a sign declared ‘Bays 1 – 15’. A white van with tinted windows was parked nearby. A few yards away, Smedley was talking in a low voice into a mobile. “Four guards — Agreed?” “Agreed,” came the response; Goodheart’s voice. “And this is the place?” “We’re certain.” “Me too. Let’s get on with it then.” |