The Left-Hand Way

by Tom Doyle

  A hand on her arm. She shuddered, revolted, trying to shake it off. But she couldn’t move.

  “Madame, you can let go now.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. She had lost control of her muscles, gone rigid, cramped beyond pain. “Who are you?” She had no craft to put into the question.

  “The oracle sent us.”

  Scherie ceased to question. With the gentle firmness of medical professionals, men pulled her hand off the pillar and placed her on a stretcher. Scherie felt the stretcher rise, though her vision was a narrow tunnel in front of her, so she didn’t see how they were hoisting her. She heard the Dogs; could they be actually snarling? Her head lolled, and she saw one of them, near enough to smell his meaty breath, who seemed to be straining on a leash that was about to give way.

  A man, close to her ear, spoke loudly. “Back, Dog, unless you wish to violate Oikumene law and meet our kindly hounds.”

  Still snarling, the Dog backed away.

  Scherie saw the world move above her, then stop. A Red Crescent ambulance had parked on the quiet night road, and with easy efficiency she was placed inside. The last thing she remembered was the warmth as the needles went in.

  PART II

  ON HER MAJESTY’S SPIRITUAL SERVICE

  Have a care: I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse the hour of your birth.

  —Mary Shelley

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  When the drug haze lifted enough to think, I found myself strapped upright in a metal chair. Not the first time I’d been in this position, but that didn’t make it more comfortable. My head was full of pain and endless interrogative snippets, as if in my twilight mental state I’d already been answering questions for a while. They were asking one now.

  “Why did you release Roderick Morton?”

  Release? As if we’d done it on purpose. Not good. Worse, I felt like I’d replied to this question before, maybe half a dozen times or so, which meant they weren’t buying my answer. That was bad because, drugged or not, I only lied when it was my duty, and I wouldn’t have lied about that.

  My eyes focused, and through the intimidating lighting, I beheld my audience. Five people: two men and a woman in business suits that radiated craft, a man in a lab coat, and their muscle of the compact English thug type.

  “Who are you?” I rasped. The answer might determine whether I’d have to inflict serious harm to others and self.

  The three suits spoke with Received Pronunciation in flat unison. “Answer us.”

  God help me, I almost did. Ouch. Seemed they’d been hitting me with craft compulsions with their many questions, as I already felt spiritually bruised. I itched to slam them back with words of command, but right now I’d waste them on anatomical impossibilities. I’d wait to give them a very specific and effective order, because I’d probably only get one shot.

  “I’ve already answered you.” We tried to kill him, you idiots.

  A pause, and in the silence the room felt like a true oubliette, a place to forget the unwanted. The space had a regulation polish, so it wasn’t likely to be an improvised location chosen by non-governmental others. No doorway or observation mirror that I could see.

  “Why did you release Roderick Morton?”

  My headache became a more active pain, but I continued to assess my situation. I didn’t know fashion, but I knew uniforms, even the unofficial ones. My three inquisitors wore expensive Carnaby Street suits, decades past glam, like Austin Powers had finally grown up and gotten a real job but still liked a touch of color. This was the style of the Magic Circus, the very organization I was supposedly here to help. But I had been sent here on a mole hunt, so they might not be friendly at all.

  If they were Magic Circus, their unusual ability to coordinate would mark these three as the legendary Walsinghams. “You’re trying to sweat me?” My voice had gone cold. This sort of thing wasn’t done, old chaps, even by legends.

  “Tell us,” they chorused again. God help me but it hurt.

  “I think I’ve told you everything a few times already. I think you’d better give me a phone line to my superiors.”

  The woman inquisitor nodded at the lab coat man. He held out a syringe that glowed with insidious comfort to relax the mind. They were going to give a psychoactive drug to a spiritual operative. “In God’s name, stop.”

  Lab Coat froze. But I had played the Lord’s trump card early. What next? The service’s muscle was usually the weakest mental link. “For Christ’s sake, undo these straps.”

  My inquisitors were already up out of their chairs. The two men were trying to restrain the muscle. That was good. But the more tactically aware woman grabbed the syringe from Lab Coat and walked up to me with a model’s poise and sneer. “What would you like me to do, Major?”

  Daring me to try the power of command on her, which meant I better think of something else. One thing still didn’t make sense—they hadn’t called for help. But I could.

  “The Endicotts believe in ghosts now.”

  She hesitated, maybe because she didn’t see the relevance, maybe because she did.

  “A change in doctrine,” I continued. “You may have missed it; Roderick can be very distracting. But yes, we know our family ghosts aren’t demons, and we talk to them.”

  She smiled. “Best of luck with that here.” We both knew no foreign ghost could get into this place.

  “You’re mistaken,” I said. “I’m not going to summon a ghost.” My opponent’s smile vanished as I continued. “You think Left-Hand Mortons are scary. You’re right, of course. They terrify me and every decent human being. But you’ve forgotten who I am. I’m an Endicott. And though the Mortons changed the weather, and saved Washington’s rear end, my ancestors were at Saratoga and New Orleans, and we hammered your best to a red-coated pulp. So let me be clear. You inject me with that, and I will command my own death. My ghost will return home, and the remaining Endicotts and all our relations in the other Families will come for you and yours.” With a turn of my head, I took in the room. “All of you and yours.”

  And the spiritual services of our two nations will be at war. Yes, it was a bit extreme, embarrassing even, but she was threatening to screw up my spiritual power for no good reason at all. If I had more time, a slower escalation would have been more prudent.

  But she wasn’t giving me time. “You’re bluffing,” she said. “It’s suicide. The unforgivable sin.”

  I wasn’t going to argue the moral distinction between the duty of self-sacrifice and the sin of suicide; I already knew it well enough. “You’ll sit down, now, or in five seconds, I pray for death. Five…”

  The woman wasn’t moving. Oh, well. See you soon, Father, in “Four…”

  “That will be enough.” A door had appeared in what had seemed to be a blank wall, and the woman who had found me on the freeway stood there in a Royal Navy uniform, as tall as anyone in the room. Syringe Woman took a step back, looking as nervous and relieved as I felt. The muscle took advantage of the moment to shrug off his restrainers and then shambled forward to unbind me. Lab Coat folded to the floor.

  I flexed my stiff hands and stood up as steadily as I could. The freeway woman looked at me with frank distaste and anticipated my next question. “Does anyone have a phone for our guest? No? Then use mine, Major.” She handed me a government Blackberry-style phone that glowed with craft.

  I realized that I didn’t know enough to make a good report. “Who are you, and where am I?”

  “I’m Commander Grace Marlow, MI13. We’re in a borrowed room at MI6.”

  No sign of deception, but that wasn’t my strong suit. I dialed Attucks. Whatever the hour was, he sounded fully awake. I told him my story in undiplomatic language, but my London audience didn’t react. “Sir,” I finished, “it’s obvious I can be of more use elsewhere.” So please get me out of here.

  “Your situation isn’t exactly what we agreed to,” said A
ttucks.

  “Agreed to, sir?”

  “Don’t let them inject you with anything, but otherwise, please cooperate.”

  “What did you agree to, sir?”

  “We’ll discuss on your return.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “That’s all, Major.” He ended the call. I didn’t wait to hand the phone back to Commander Marlow, because holding a disconnected phone next to my ear would just confirm that I was a loser. As Marlow pocketed the mobile, her cool demeanor couldn’t hide a trace of smugness. She had known what Attucks would say. Some kind of deal had been made, and no one had told me. Why had my own fed me to these British lions?

  The room was silent. Very well, might as well get this over with. “You have questions.”

  “Yes,” said the Suits, who were seated again as if nothing had happened.

  With an open palm, Marlow signaled an interruption. “New questions?”

  Without hesitation, the Suits again chorused, “Why did you release Roderick Morton?”

  Before I could protest, Marlow shook her head and said, “I’ve been listening. Do you have any new ground to cover? If not, the Major is leaving.”

  “We were promised access.”

  “You’ve had your access and more.”

  “Please, Commander, just a few more minutes,” said one of the men. “His conscious resistance and meta-responses are intriguing.”

  “You were told you could talk to him, not stress test him for idle curiosity.”

  Syringe Woman was pissed. “You don’t have the authority…”

  “C says no,” said Marlow, dry and cool as any martini. “Good day, sirs, ma’am.”

  We left the room through the door that Marlow had used and entered a conference space set up for observation. “Your response to the interview was excessive.”

  “Those interviewers were assaulting an American spiritual officer here as a guest of your government.”

  “And you respond with the power of command and a threat of war. You seem oblivious to any concerns but your own. This morning on the road, how many cars were you prepared to smash, how many people were you prepared to kill, merely to save yourself?”

  Was this that British humor I’d heard so much about? “I’m not used to rogue craftsmen running about and attacking servicemen in a supposedly friendly country.”

  “They were our rogues.”

  “What?”

  “They are denizens of the London craft underground with long police records and a history of activity on behalf of foreign powers. We were going to bring them in, but we decided to hire them first to bring you in.”

  The London craft underground didn’t have a true American equivalent. It was a legacy of British class structure and the government’s belated covenant with non-aristocratic practitioners. “But using rogues makes no sense,” I said, “unless…” Long police records. “You wanted to know if I could see their sins. You thought I was part Morton.” And all Left Hand.

  “Given what we know about Abram, is it so unlikely? They may have exceeded their instructions, but they were under a suspended death sentence anyway, and you were in no real danger.”

  All very easy for her to say. “If I had been a Morton, I also could have manipulated the air and avoided the gas.” And some of this headache.

  “Right again,” said Marlow. “I have only one more question. If you truly could not see their sins, what tipped you off that something was different?”

  So they could fool the next guy better? I had been ordered to cooperate, so I cooperated. “Several things. But it moved from probable to definite when they picked up the third man.”

  “Third man?” A pause, then, “Ah, yes. That’s what did it?”

  “Yes. If he had been there for the pickup, it might not have been as odd, though three minders would always seem excessive. After that, everything looked like enemy action.”

  “So, next time we should only use two.”

  “That’s SOP most everywhere.”

  “Thank you.” She seemed distracted. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “I have?”

  “I must be going.”

  “I thought…”

  “Oh, yes, your hotel.” She retrieved a soft leather briefcase from a chair, opened it, and with the usual practitioner’s avoidance of contact handed me an envelope. “Your things are already in your room. Enjoy your stay.”

  Oh, this was too much. I spoke as low as I could. “I was told I was here to assist in a mole hunt.”

  This seemed to bring back her focus. I’d never imagined dark eyes shooting lasers, but I felt torched by her gaze. “In typical fashion, you didn’t ask yourself if you were qualified. You’re not in your jurisdiction, and know nothing of the ground.”

  “I’ve come a long way.”

  “I doubt that you’re new to disappointment. The Crown has appreciated your cooperation.” Translation: We’re done with you. “Good day, Major.”

  She was turning to the exit in dismissal. I insisted: “Do you or do you not have a mole problem?”

  “We do have a mole problem, but it’s on your side of the Atlantic.”

  Oh, to be gone in an instant and escape this infuriating woman forever. But I felt the nakedness at my side and suspected that one item wasn’t in my hotel room. “Where is my sword?”

  Marlow tilted her head with a frown, and her eyes flicked down, but, relenting, she spared me the Freudian joke. “On your departure, I’ll deliver it to you personally at the airport. My word as an officer.”

  So she knew its importance. That would have to be enough, as I had fought and threatened too much today, and I wasn’t about to beg.

  Anonymous security escorted me through the exit, and I stepped out into twilight, alone, into the cold drizzle in which Londoners took such perverse pride. Looking about, it was indeed MI6’s headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, so at least she had been telling the truth about that much. In contrast to suburban Langley, the MI6 Building was deep within London. Its rounded, clean, turret-like structures gave it a modern castle fortress aspect. Langley dismissively called it “Legoland,” but I thought it was another Tower of London. That association chilled me—in spiritual sight, the Tower and Tyburn still glowed with the residue of practitioner blood from the days when the nobility had ruled spiritual practice with a mailed fist, and clerical celibacy to keep new Families from forming had been the only refuge for a new practitioner. Even for a praying Christian, all else had been Ex-22: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  The envelope from Marlow held my government passport, some pound notes, and the address of my hotel with a message that Her Majesty’s Government had already covered the charges. In other words, I had the exact minimum to reach my hotel and check in, and nothing more. I would have enjoyed defying my hosts’ constraints, but a change of clothes was too tempting, so I hailed a cab.

  During the ride, I weighed my situation and found it wanting. My hosts didn’t trust me. MI13 had brought me here on a pretense and didn’t seem much concerned with my well-being. Their mole story was probably more right than most of them knew, which added to my risk.

  The risk didn’t bother me as much as Commander Marlow. She had been right: on the freeway, I hadn’t considered the other lives at stake. I was guilty of selfish pride and, as she implied, not for the first time.

  But why did I care what she thought of me? She was nice looking, but that didn’t explain why my mind looped back to her every other minute. She had that RP British accent, those aristocratic cheekbones crossed by the trace of a scar, and eyes like cold dark pools until they burned their heat into you, but I had met and worked with women from all over the world, so I wasn’t swayed by what other Americans might find exotic.

  Even if I were attracted to her, and even if I could’ve altered her opinion of me, she was a foreign craftsperson, and that I couldn’t change. She was forever barred to me by long custom and very present government threa
ts. The special relationship between the UK and the U.S. wasn’t that special. I supported this policy completely, and it was my duty.

  But, God help me, I was thoroughly sick of my duty. I was twenty-nine, and duty had kept me a virgin. Christian novels made this sound easy and natural, but it had been neither. I figured from my reading of the Bible that the so-called sin of Onan was the deliberate failure to reproduce, and my virginity was that sin. I’d been on dates, and they hadn’t always been physically innocent, but I’d always stopped short of the deed. My job had always provided the excuse, though virginity seemed particularly ridiculous in the carpe diem military.

  Dating could wait. I had to think of my next steps, though my head resisted, still hurting like my one tequila hangover on the morning of repentance. I arrived at the upscale chain hotel where MI13 had booked me, in the middle of Belgravia. The neighborhood was wealthy, but also notoriously underoccupied by the rich transients from many lands who held foothold residences here. Sinister, like an anti-Rapture had taken all the non-believers and left behind just the many cameras of the British Argus to witness whatever the bad guys might have in store for me.

  Making such paranoid connections on the fly may have been an Endicott gift, but that same paranoia made my family reluctant to talk about it. For me, it felt excessive, just a short bunt away from schizophrenia. Unlike the gifts of the Spirit, it didn’t feel good to use.

  At reception, I gave them my operational name and they gave me a room. MI13 had booked it, so I assumed they knew its number. Were real killers with inside knowledge coming for me? They usually were. “Please change my room to a lower floor.” They did, and they sent a bellhop up to move my luggage. I didn’t add any forbidden spiritual fanciness to further obscure my location. If the bad guys had the info from inside MI13, maybe they wouldn’t check again at the desk.

  In the luggage delivered to my new room, I found my mobile. First things first. Yeah, it would be great to show up the locals and get the bad guys like a Western gunslinger or a Japanese ronin, but I wasn’t staying in this country a minute longer than necessary. With Roderick back, I had friends in trouble. Evening had arrived here, so back home it was midday. I called the Pentagon’s travel office, but they said they couldn’t get me anything at an authorizable price for an earlier day. Rather than waste time going up the chain, I called the airline myself and found an unreasonable price for a 9:50 a.m. flight tomorrow morning.