6.
Spec Ops
The Special Operations Network was the agency that
looked after areas too specialized to be undertaken by the regular
police. There were over thirty SpecOps divisions. SO-1 policed us
all, SO-12 was the ChronoGuard, and SO-13 dealt with reengineered
species. SO-17 was the Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations and
SO-32 the Horticultural Enforcement Agency. I had been SO-27, the
Literary Detectives. Ten years authenticating Milton and tracking
down forged Shakespeareana. After my work actually within
fiction, it all seemed a bit tame. At Jurisfiction I could catch a
horse as it bolted—in the Literary Detectives, it was like
wandering around a very large field armed with only a halter and a
photograph of a carrot.
Thursday Next, Private Journals
I pushed open the door to the station and
walked in. The building was shared with Swindon’s regular force and
seemed slightly shabbier than I remembered. The walls were the same
dismal shade of green, and I could smell the faint aroma of boiled
cabbage from the canteen on the second floor. In truth, my stay
here in late ’85 had not actually been that long—most of my SpecOps
career had been undertaken in London.
I walked over to the main desk, expecting to see
Sergeant Ross. He had been replaced by someone who seemed too young
to be a police officer, much less a desk sergeant.
“I’m here to get my old job back,” I
announced.
“Which was?”
“Literary Detective.”
He chuckled. Unkindly, I thought.
“You’ll need to see the commander,” he replied
without taking his gaze from the book he was scribbling in.
“Name?”
“Thursday Next.”
A hush descended slowly on the room, beginning with
those closest to me and moving outwards with my whispered name like
ripples in a pool. Within a few moments I was being stared at in
silence by at least two dozen assorted police and SpecOps officers,
a couple of Gaskell impersonators and an ersatz Coleridge. I gave
an embarrassed smile and looked from blank face to blank face,
trying to figure out whether to run, or to fight, or what. My heart
beat faster as a young officer quite close to me reached into his
breast pocket and pulled out—a notebook.
“Please,” he said. “I wonder if I might have your
autograph?”
“Well, no—of course not.”
I breathed a sign of relief, and pretty soon I was
having my back slapped and being congratulated on the whole Jane
Eyre adventure. I’d forgotten the celebrity thing but also
noticed that there were officers in the room who were interested in
me for another reason—SO-1, probably.
“I need to see Bowden Cable,” I said to the desk
sergeant, realizing that if anyone could help, it was my old
partner. He smiled, picked up a phone, announced me and wrote out a
visitor’s pass, then told me to go to Interview Suite 16 on the
third floor. I thanked my newfound acquaintances, made my way to
the elevators and ascended to the third floor. When the lift doors
rattled open I walked with a hurried step towards Room 16. Halfway
there I was accosted by Bowden, who slid his arm in mine and
steered me into an empty office.
“Bowden!” I said happily. “How are you?”
He hadn’t changed much in the past two years.
Fastidiously neat, he was wearing the usual pinstripe suit but
without jacket, so he must have been in a hurry to meet me.
“I’m good, Thursday, real good. But where the hell
have you been?”
“I’ve been—”
“You can tell me later. Thank the GSD I got to you
first! We don’t have a lot of time. Goodness! What have you done to
your hair?”
“Well, Joan of—”
“You can tell me later. Ever heard of Yorrick
Kaine?”
“Of course! I’m here to—”
“No time for explanations. He’s not fond of you at
all. He has a personal adviser named Ernst Stricknene who calls us
every day to ask if you’ve returned. But this morning—he
didn’t call!”
“So?”
“So he knows you’re back. Why is the Chancellor
interested in you, anyway?”
“Because he’s fictional, and I want to take him
back to the BookWorld where he belongs.”
“That coming from anyone but you, I’d laugh. Is
that really true?”
“As true as I’m standing here.”
“Well, your life is in danger, that’s all I know.
Ever heard of the assassin known as the—”
“Windowmaker?”
“How did you know?”
“I have my sources. Any idea who took out the
contract?”
“Well, they’ve killed sixty-seven
people—sixty-eight if they did Samuel Pring—and they
definitely did the number on Gordon Duff-Rolecks, whose
death really only benefited—”
“Kaine.”
“Exactly. You need to take particular care. More
than that, we need you back as a full serving member of the
Literary Detectives. We’ve got one or two problems that need
ironing out in our department.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, you’re AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at
worst. So we’ve concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity
and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a
parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters, you—”
But at that moment, the door opened and a familiar
figure walked in. I say familiar, but not exactly welcome. It was
Commander Braxton Hicks, head of SpecOps here in Swindon.
I could almost hear Bowden’s heart fall—mine,
too.
Hicks still had a job because of me, but I didn’t
expect that to count for much. He was a company man, a bean
counter—more fond of his precious budget than anything else. He had
never given me any quarter, and I didn’t expect any now.
“Ah, found you!” said the Commander in a serious
tone. “Miss Next. They told me you’d arrived. Been giving us the
little run-around, haven’t you?”
“She’s been—” began Bowden.
“I’m sure Miss Next can explain for herself,
hmmm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Close the door behind you, eh?”
Bowden gave a sickly smile and slinked out of the
interview room.
Braxton sat, opened my file and stroked his large
mustache thoughtfully.
“Absent without leave for over two years, demoted
eighteen months ago, nonreturn of SpecOps weapon, badge and ruler,
pencil, eight pens and a dictionary.”
“I can explain—”
“Then there is the question of the illegal cheese
we found under a Hispano-Suiza at your picnic two and half years
ago. I have sworn affidavits from everyone present that you were
alone, met them up there, and that the cheese was yours.”
“Yes, but—”
“And the traffic police said they saw you aiding
and abetting a known serial dangerous driver on the A419 north of
Swindon.”
“That’s—”
“But what’s worse was that you lied to me
systematically from the moment you came under my command. You said
you would learn to play golf, and you never so much as picked up a
putter.”
“But—”
“I have proof of your lies, too. I personally
visited every single golf club, and not one of them had ever let
someone of your description play golf there—not even on the
practice ranges. How do you explain that, eh?”
“Well—”
“You vanish from sight two and a half years ago.
Not a word. Had to demote you. Star employee. Newspapers had a
field day. Upset my swing for weeks.”
“I’m sorry if it upset your golf, sir.”
“You’re rather in the soup, young lady.”
He stared at me in exactly the sort of way my
English teacher used to at school, and I had that sudden and
dangerously overpowering urge to laugh out loud. Luckily, I
didn’t.
“What have you got to say for yourself ?”
“I can explain, if you’ll let me.”
“My girl, I’ve been trying to get you to tell me
for five—”
The door opened again, and in walked Colonel
Flanker of SO-1. He ran Internal Affairs, the SpecOps Police. About
as welcome as worms and another old bête noire of mine. If Hicks
was bad, Flanker was worse. Braxton only wanted me to do some sort
of disciplinary nonsense—Flanker would want to lock me up for good,
after I had led them to my father.
“So!” he said as soon as he saw me. “It’s true.
Thank you, Braxton, my prisoner. Officer Jodrell, cuff her.”
Jodrell walked over to me, took one of my wrists
and placed it behind my back. There didn’t seem to be much point of
running; I could see at least three other SO-1 agents hovering near
the door. I thought of Friday. If only Bowden had got to me a few
minutes earlier!
“Just a minute, Mr. Flanker,” said Braxton, closing
my file. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Arresting Miss Next on charges of being AWOL,
dereliction of duty and illegal possession of bootleg cheese—for
starters.”
“She was on assignment for SO-23,” said Braxton,
staring at him evenly, “undercover for the Cheese Squad.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Braxton lying? For
me?
“The Cheese Squad?” echoed Flanker with some
surprise.
“Yes,” replied Braxton, who, once started, clearly
found the subterfuge and reckless use of his authority somewhat
exciting. “She’s been in deep cover in Wales for two years on a
clandestine espionage operation monitoring illegal cheese
factories. The cheeses with her fingerprints on them were part of
an illegal cross-border shipment that she helped seize.”
“Really?” said Flanker, his confidence
rattled.
“On my word. She’s not under arrest, she’s being
debriefed. It seems that the operation was under the control of Joe
Martlet. Full details will be available from him.”
“You know as well as I do that Joe was shot dead by
the Cheese Mafia two weeks ago.”
“It was a tragedy,” admitted Braxton. “Fine man,
Martlet—one of the best. Could play a three under par with ease and
never swore when he drove it into the rough—and hence Miss Next’s
reappearance,” he added without a pause. I’d never seen anyone lie
so well before. Not even me. Not even Friday when I found he’d
raided the cookie jar with Pickwick’s help.
“Is this true?” asked Flanker. “Two years
undercover in Wales?”
“Ydy, ond dydy hi ddim wedi bwrw glaw pob
dydd!” I replied in my best Welsh.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment
without speaking.
“I was just reassigning her to the Literary
Detectives when you walked in the door,” added Braxton.
Flanker looked at Braxton, then at me, then at
Braxton again. He nodded to Jodrell, who released me.
“Very well. But I want a full report on my desk
Tuesday.”
“You can have it Friday, Mr. Flanker. I’m a very
busy man.”
Flanker glared at me for a moment, then addressed
Braxton: “Since Miss Next is back with the Literary Detectives
perhaps you would be good enough to appoint her the SO-14 Danish
Book Seizure Liaison Officer. My boys are pretty good at the
seizure stuff, but to be honest, none of them can tell a Mark Twain
from a Samuel Clemens.”
“I’m not sure I want—” I began.
“I think you should be happy to assist me, Miss
Next, don’t you? A chance to make amends for past transgressions,
yes?”
Braxton answered for me.
“I’m sure Miss Next would be happy to assist in any
way she can, Mr. Flanker.”
Flanker gave a rare smile.
“Good. I’ll have my divisional head of SO-14 get in
touch with you.” He turned to Braxton. “But I’ll still need that
report on Tuesday.”
“You’ll get it,” replied Braxton, “. . . on
Friday.”
Flanker glared at us both and without another word
strode from the room, his minions at his heels. When the door
closed I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sir, I—”
“I don’t want to hear anything more about it,”
replied Braxton sharply, gathering up his papers. “I retire in two
months’ time and wanted to do something that made my whole
pen-pushing, play-it-safe, shiny-arse career actually be worth it.
I don’t know what’s going to happen to the LiteraTec division with
all this insane Danish book-burning stuff, but what I do know is
that people like you need to stay in it. Lead them on a merry goose
chase, young lady—I can keep Flanker wrapped up in red tape pretty
much forever.”
“Braxton,” I said, giving him a spontaneous hug,
“you’re a darling!”
“Nonsense!” he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed.
“But I do expect a little something in return.”
“And that is?”
“Well,” he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the
ground, “I wonder if you and I might—”
“Might what?”
“Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.” His
eyes gleamed. “Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon
as you grasp the handle of a golf club, you’ll be hooked forever!
Mrs. Hicks need never know. How about it?”
“I’ll be there at nine,” I told him,
laughing.
“You’ll be a long time waiting—I get there at
eleven.”
“Eleven it is.”
I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free
woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect
it.