A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (25 page)

There was a voice from close behind Victor.

“I
do
remember you.”

He turned to see the very unwelcome face of Dr. Müller staring at him. A little farther on stood a burly security guard, hand at the ready in his breast pocket.

“You're SpecOps. Litera Tec. Victor Analogy, isn't it?”

“No, the name's Dr. Augustus Ceres, Berwick-upon-Tweed.” Victor laughed nervously and added: “What sort of a name is Victor Analogy?”

Müller beckoned to the henchman, who advanced on Victor
drawing his automatic. He looked like the sort of person who was itching to use it.

“I'm sorry, my friend,” said Müller kindly, “but that's not really good enough. If you
are
Analogy, you're clearly meddling. If, however, you turn out to be Dr. Ceres from Berwick-upon-Tweed, then you have my sincerest apologies.”

“Now wait a moment—” began Victor, but Müller interrupted.

“I'll let your family know where to find the body,” he said magnanimously.

Victor glanced around for possible help but all the other Earthcrossers were staring at the sky.

“Shoot him.”

The henchman smiled, his finger tightening on the trigger. Victor winced as a high-pitched scream filled the air and a fortuitous incoming meteorite shattered on the henchman's helmet. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. The gun went off and put a neat hole in Victor's baseball glove. Suddenly, the air was full of red-hot meteorites screaming to earth in a localized shower. The assembled Earthcrossers were thrown into confusion by the sudden violence and couldn't quite make up their minds whether to avoid the meteorites or try to catch them. Müller fumbled in his jacket pocket for his own pistol as someone yelled “
Yours!
” close at hand. They both turned, but it was Victor who caught the small meteorite. It was about the size of a cricket ball and was still glowing red hot; he tossed it to Müller, who instinctively caught it. Sadly, he did not have a catcher's glove. There was a hiss and a yelp as he dropped it, then a cry of pain as Victor took the opportunity to thump him on the jaw with a speed that belied his seventy-five years. Müller went down like a ninepin and Victor leaped on the dropped gun. He thrust it against Müller's neck, dragged him to
his feet and started to march him out of the hill-fort. The meteorite shower was easing up as he backed out, my voice in his earpiece telling him to go easy.

“It is Analogy, isn't it?” said Müller.

“It is. SpecOps-27 and you're under arrest.”

Victor, Bowden and I had got Müller as far as interview room 3 before Braxton and Schitt realized who we had captured. Victor had barely asked Müller to confirm his name before the interview room door burst open. It was Schitt flanked by two SO-9 operatives. None of them looked like they had a sense of humor.

“My prisoner, Analogy.”

“
My
prisoner, Mr. Schitt, I think,” replied Victor firmly. “
My
collar,
my
jurisdiction; I am interviewing Dr. Müller about the
Chuzzlewit
theft.”

Jack Schitt looked at Commander Hicks, who was standing behind him. The commander sighed and cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry to say this, Victor, but the Goliath Corporation and their representative have been granted jurisdiction over SO-27 and SO-9 in Swindon. Withholding material from Acting SpecOps Commander Schitt may result in criminal proceedings for concealment of vital information pertinent to an ongoing inquiry. Do you understand what this means?”

“It means Schitt does what he pleases,” returned Victor.

“Relinquish your prisoner, Victor. The Goliath Corporation takes precedence.”

Victor stared at him hotly, then pushed his way out of the interview room.

“I'd like to stay,” I requested.

“No chance,” said Schitt. “An SO-27 security clearance is
not
permissible.”

“It's as well, then,” I replied, “that I still hold an SO-5 badge.”

Jack Schitt cursed but said nothing more. Bowden was ordered out and the two SO-9 operatives stood either side of the door; Schitt and Hicks sat down at the table behind which Müller nonchalantly smoked a cigarette. I leaned against the wall and impassively watched the proceedings.

“He'll get me out, you know,” Müller said slowly as he smiled a rare smile.

“I don't think so,” remarked Schitt. “Swindon SpecOps is currently surrounded by more SO-9 operatives and SWAT men than you can count in a month. Not even that madman Hades would try and get in here.”

The smile dropped from Müller's lips.

“SO-9 is the finest antiterrorist squad on the planet,” continued Schitt. “We'll get him, you know. It's only a question of when. And if you help us, things might not look so bad in court for you.”

Müller wasn't impressed.

“If your SO-9 operatives are the best on the planet, how come it takes a seventy-five-year-old Litera Tec to arrest me?”

Jack Schitt couldn't think of an answer to this. Müller turned to me.

“And if SO-9 are so shit hot, why does this young lady have the best luck cornering Hades?”

“I got lucky,” I replied, adding: “Why hasn't Martin Chuzzlewit been killed? It's not like Acheron to make idle threats.”

“No indeed,” replied Müller. “No indeed.”

“Answer the question, Müller,” said Schitt pointedly. “I can make things
very
uncomfortable for you.”

Müller smiled at him.

“Not half as uncomfortable as Acheron could. He lists slow murder, torture and flower arranging as his hobbies in
Which Criminal
.”

“So you want to do some serious time?” asked Hicks, who
wasn't going to be left out of the interview. “The way I see it you're looking at quintuple life. Or you could walk free in a couple of minutes. What's it to be?”

“Do as you will, officers. You'll get nothing out of me. No matter what, Hades
will
get me out.”

Müller folded his arms and leaned back in the chair. There was a pause. Schitt bent forward and switched off the tape recorder. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and draped it across the video camera in the corner of the interview room. Hicks and I looked at one another nervously. Müller watched the proceedings but didn't seem unduly alarmed.

“Let's try it again,” said Schitt, pulling out his automatic and pointing it at Müller's shoulder. “Where is Hades?”

Müller looked at him.

“You can kill me now or Hades kills me later when he finds I've talked. I'm dead either way and your death is probably a great deal less painful than Acheron's. I've seen him at work. You wouldn't believe what he is capable of.”

“I would,” I said slowly.

Schitt released the safety on his automatic. “I'll count to three.”

“I can't tell you!—”

“One.”

“He'd kill me.”

“Two.”

I took my cue. “We can offer you protective custody.”

“From him?” demanded Müller. “Are you
completely
nuts?”

“Three!”

Müller closed his eyes and started to shake. Schitt put the gun down. This wasn't going to work. Suddenly, I had a thought.

“He doesn't have the manuscript anymore, does he?”

Müller opened an eye and looked at me. It was the sign I'd been looking for.

“Mycroft destroyed it, didn't he?” I continued, reasoning as my uncle might have—and did.

“Is that what happened?” asked Jack Schitt. Müller said nothing.

“He'll be wanting to find an alternative,” observed Hicks.

“There must be thousands of original manuscripts out there,” murmured Schitt. “We can't cover them all. Which one is he after?”

“I can't tell you,” stuttered Müller, his resolve beginning to leave him. “He'd kill me.”

“He'll kill you when he finds out you told us that Mycroft destroyed the
Chuzzlewit
manuscript,” I responded evenly.

“But I didn't!—”

“He's not to know. We can protect you, Müller, but we need to capture Hades. Where is he?”

Müller looked at us one by one.

“Protective custody?” he stammered. “It'll need a small army.”

“I can supply that,” asserted Schitt, using the truth with an economy for which he had become famous. “The Goliath Corporation is prepared to be generous in this matter.”

“Okay . . . I'll tell you.”

He looked at us all and wiped his brow, which had suddenly started to glisten.

“Isn't it a bit hot in here?” he asked.

“No,” replied Schitt. “Where's Hades?”

“Well, he's at . . . the—”

He suddenly stopped talking. His face contorted with fear as a violent spasm of pain hit his lower back and he cried out in agony.

“Tell us quick!” shouted Schitt, leaping to his feet and grabbing the stricken man's lapels.

“Pen-deryn!—” he screamed. “He's at!—”

“Tell us more!” roared Schitt. “There must be a thousand Penderyns!”

“Guess!” screamed Müller. “G-weuess . . .
ahhh
!”

“I'll not play your games!” yelled Schitt, shaking the man vigorously. “Tell me or I'll kill you with my bare hands right now!”

But Müller was now beyond rational thought or Schitt's threats. He squirmed and fell to the floor, writhing in agony.

“Medic!” I screamed, dropping to the floor next to the convulsing Müller, whose open mouth screamed a silent scream as his eyes rolled up into his head. The smell of scorched clothes reached my nostrils. I leaped back as a bright orange flame shot out of Müller's back. It ignited the rest of him and we all had to beat a hasty retreat as the intense heat reduced Müller to ash in under ten minutes.

“Damn!” muttered Schitt when the acrid smoke had cleared. Müller was a heap of cinders on the floor. There wouldn't even be enough to identify him.

“Hades,” I murmured. “Some sort of built-in safety device. As soon as Müller starts to blab . . . up he goes. Very neat.”

“You sound as if you almost respect him, Miss Next,” observed Schitt.

“I can't help it.” I shrugged. “Like the shark, Acheron has evolved into the almost perfect predator. I've never hunted big game and never would, but I can understand the appeal. The first thing,” I went on, ignoring the smoking pile of ash that had recently been Müller, “is to treble the guards on any places where original manuscripts are held. After that we want to start looking at
anywhere
called Penderyn.”

“I'll get onto it,” said Hicks, who had been looking for a reason to go for some time.

Schitt and I were left looking at one another.

“Looks like we're on the same side, Miss Next.”

“Sadly,” I replied disdainfully. “You want the Prose Portal. I want my uncle back. Acheron has to be destroyed before either of us gets what we want. Until then we'll work together.”

“A useful and happy union,” replied Schitt with anything but happiness on his mind.

I pressed a finger to his tie.

“Understand this, Mr. Schitt. You may have might in your back pocket but I have right in mine. Believe me when I say I will do
anything
to protect my family. Do you understand?”

Schitt looked at me coldly.

“Don't try to threaten me, Miss Next. I could have you posted to the Lerwick Litera Tec office quicker than you can say ‘Swift.' Remember that. You're here because you're good at what you do. Same reason as me. We are more alike than you think. Good-day, Miss Next.”

A quick search revealed eighty-four towns and villages in Wales named Penderyn. There were twice as many streets and the same number again of pubs, clubs and associations. It wasn't surprising there were so many; Dic Penderyn had been executed in 1831 for wounding a soldier during the Merthyr riots—he was innocent and so became the first martyr of the Welsh rising and something of a figurehead for the republican struggle. Even if Goliath
could
infiltrate Wales, they wouldn't know which Pen-deryn to start with. Clearly, this was going to take some time.

Tired, I left to go home. I picked up my car from the garage, where they had managed to replace the front axle, shoehorn in a new engine and repair the bullet holes, some of which had come perilously close. I rolled up at the Finis Hotel as a clipper-class airship droned slowly overhead. Dusk was just settling and the navigation lights on either side of the huge airship blinked languidly in the evening sky. It was an elegant sight, the
ten propellers beating the air with a rhythmic hum; during the day an airship could eclipse the sun. I stepped inside the hotel. The Milton conference was over and Liz welcomed me now as a friend rather than as a guest.