The Shadow Project (2 page)

“A
re you going to be all right?” Michael asked. “After last night.”

Opal forced her mouth to close. She'd never worked with Michael Potolo before, although it wasn't for want of trying. He'd joined the Project nearly two months ago and was absolutely gorgeous, especially the smile. They'd chatted a few times, but never for long enough. She wondered where he came from, where Mr. Carradine had found him. She wondered if he had a girlfriend.

“Yes, I'm fine.” She smiled back. “What about you?” He looked faintly surprised. “Me?”

“You know, your…?” She glanced down, realized what she was doing, and looked up again hurriedly.

Michael stared at her for a moment, then looked embarrassed. “Still aching a little.”

What should she do next? Offer sympathy? Ask for details? Now she was sorry she'd brought it up. “Good.
I mean, not good. Not good that—not good about the ache, but good about the little.” She was beginning to blush; she could feel it. To divert the conversation onto safer ground, she said cheerily, “Well, where did they find you then?”

“Where did they find me?” He had a nice voice, and there seemed to be a slight trace of a French accent. Perhaps she hadn't put that very well.
Where did they find you?
made it sound as if somebody had been scavenging in a dustbin. “Where do you come from?” Opal asked. “Who—?” She stopped herself in time. The voice in her head was her late mother's, asking imperiously, “Who are your people?”

“Eton,” Michael said. He seemed to be watching for a reaction.

For just the barest moment she couldn't think where in France Eton might be; then she realized what he meant. “Oh, the school!”

He smiled slightly. “Yes, the school.”

He was a long way from Eton now, that was for sure. “Where are you staying?”

“With my uncle,” Michael said. “He lives quite close to the Project.”

When would he be going back to Eton, Opal wondered? But before she could ask, Michael said, “I understand you're Sir Roland's daughter?”

It was usually the first thing she was asked by newcomers. Opal nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.” She hoped he wouldn't find it off-putting: some people were very silly about these things, and Mr. Carradine's habit of describing her as a star performer didn't help. But before she could ask any more questions, Mr. Carradine interrupted, “You okay to go, Mike?”

“Thank you, yes,” Michael said, a little frostily, Opal thought. He probably hated being called Mike, and frankly she didn't blame him.
Mike
wasn't anything like as dignified as
Michael.
But Mr. Carradine was American, which meant he was terribly informal.

“And
you're
okay?” Carradine asked, looking at Opal. “You must have had a bit of a shock with our intruder.”

“I'm fine, Mr. Carradine,” Opal said. She was curious about their intruder. “It was poor Michael he hit—he didn't actually attack
me
. Who is he?”

“We don't know yet, but he's under lock and key now, so we won't be disturbed again. I've asked George Hanover to question him. I'll have a word myself after I send you off. Meanwhile, we need to get going. Feel okay to start—the two of you?”

“What's the target?” Michael asked.

Carradine glanced at him in surprise. “Haven't you been briefed?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Should I have?”

“Neither have I,” Opal put in.

“Sorry,” Carradine said. “Thought George talked to you.” He went over to the control panel and flicked a switch. “We've had a tip-off from Israeli Intelligence—another Elvis sighting. We need you to check it out.”

Another Elvis sighting.
Opal groaned inwardly. The target was the Skull, head of
Épée de la Colère
, the Sword of Wrath terrorist network. Real name Venskab Faivre, but no one ever used it since the media had come up with the nickname. At the Project they'd taken to calling him Elvis because so many people reported seeing him in peculiar places, the way nutcases insisted they kept seeing Elvis Presley. He was widely believed to be the most dangerous man in the world ever since his chemical weapon attack on New Jersey had left seven thousand people dead and an almost unbelievable eighteen thousand seriously injured. Although America had always been his prime target, he had struck successfully in Britain, India, Australia, Israel, and Bermuda. Security services throughout the world were now listing him as their number-one priority. The problem was that the U.S. government had put a $50 million bounty on his head. No wonder people kept thinking they saw him. “Where's he been sighted?” Opal asked.

“Lusakistan,” Carradine said. “Near the border with China.”

“Lusakistan.” Opal sighed. “Like the last time. And the time before.”

“Actually,” Carradine said, unfazed, “Mossad thinks it's the real deal this time, hence the urgency. So if you two are okay with it, maybe we should get started.”

Opal slumped down in her chair. She didn't want to complain too much or Michael might think she was a bit of a brat, and she didn't want that, certainly not on their first mission together. She grinned at him. “I'll try not to put too much strain on you,” she said, then groaned inwardly at her lame attempt at a joke.

Michael looked as if he might say something, but when he did, it was only a sober “Thank you,” which was not a satisfactory response at all. Annoyingly, he looked at Mr. Carradine, who nodded. Michael sat down in the other chair, then redeemed himself at once by turning to stare directly into her eyes. He gave her the smile again, then turned away. But they were still sitting close, almost shoulder to shoulder. She could smell his cologne. Normally she hated boys who used cologne, but this one was rather nice, spicy and subtle.

Carradine adjusted the helmets for both of them. The metal skullcaps were always icy cold, and their trailing filaments were irritating until they connected
with the microchip implants in her scalp. She waited patiently while he made the electrical connections, then watched out of the corner of her eye while he did the same for Michael. “Comfortable?” he asked them both when he had finished.

She disliked the gel—she had to shower after every mission to get it out of her hair—but since the equipment wouldn't work without it, she just said, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Michael echoed confidently.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Fran come in. Fran usually took care of operations once Mr. Carradine finished the initial setup. After a moment she heard the whine of the generator, closely followed by the distinctive tone of the Hemi-Sync. “Good luck,” Michael murmured, then closed his eyes as per standard procedure. Opal did the same. There was a brief moment of disorientation, but almost at once she felt the warm, pleasant flood of relaxation as their brain waves synchronized. Opal let out a long, sighing breath. The sensation was almost as if Michael had crept into her head and was now hugging her. Not telepathy, exactly—but she could sense the close connection of his presence and his warmth. She felt as if she'd known him for years.

“Here we go,” said Carradine, and he threw more switches.

He must have gotten the Hemi-Sync under control, because suddenly she could see the hazy flutter of the threshold guardians. Not for the first time, she thought they looked like little bats.

I
t was like being back in court, except it wasn't. More like the Spanish Inquisition. Or the interrogation room at his local cop-shop. He knew these characters well. Not by name, of course, but you could spot the types a mile away.

Take the goons by the door. Beefy. Big chests. Sharp suits just a shade too tight so you could admire their muscles. You saw the type employed as bouncers outside clubs, throwing their weight around and showing off for the girls. You saw it in the drug gangs too, minders for the pushers. And you got it with certain cops at the precinct as well, not the brightest bulbs in the sockets, but great when you wanted to break a door down or scare somebody rigid, the way Danny was now. These two stood like sentries in the doorway, faces blank, arms crossed, all ready to make sure young Danny Lipman didn't make a break for it. Flattering to think it took two
of them, but that didn't make him feel any less nervous.

The ones behind the desk were familiar types as well: Good Cop, Bad Cop, only Bad Cop was a woman. Nice looking too, if she'd only crack a smile, but you could tell from the shoes you wouldn't want to mess with her. Good Cop was older, liked his food, nice open face, lazy eye, friendly grin, shapeless suit. They could both actually be cops, Danny thought. Especially the woman. He could imagine her in uniform, pounding the beat, poking her nose in where it wasn't wanted. And the man might be plainclothes gone to seed, close to retirement.

Danny tried to get his fear under control. He knew from past experience he mustn't show he was scared—that only encouraged them. But the bad news was, he really
was
scared. This wasn't like any of his previous brushes with the law. He was in some sort of huge underground complex, like nothing he'd ever seen before. This wasn't law enforcement: the cops didn't have enough money to build something this size. It was far too big to be anything but government.

Danny worried about that, worried about that
a lot.
He didn't know for sure what he'd gotten himself into, but his money was on some sort of secret agency. It was the only thing that made sense. And he was old enough to know that British secret agents weren't nice gentlemen like James Bond, whatever they said in the movies.
These characters really
were
licensed to kill and weren't afraid to do it, either. The question was, would they kill somebody just because he'd found their hideaway?

“What's your name?” Bad Cop demanded.

“Lester Thomas, ma'am,” Danny told her. He opened his eyes wide and tried to look innocent. With luck she might think he was too stupid to lie.

“Where do you live, Lester?” asked Good Cop mildly.

“Sixty-eight Rigby Villas,” Danny told him. It was the home of a dealer he knew. If these freaks ever came calling, they were in for a big surprise. Lester was a hard man and so were his friends.

“What are you doing here?” asked Good Cop, still mildly.

“Sir,” said Danny earnestly, “your front door was open—somebody must have left it off the latch by accident—and I heard a noise inside and I came in to tell you, to warn somebody. I mean, just last Wednesday my old gran got her handbag nicked.” He blinked his eyes, took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and added, “Can't be too careful.”

“Is that why you assaulted Michael?” Bad Cop cut in, glaring.

That was admittedly a weakness in his story. Michael had to be the boy he'd kneed in the nuts. He stared at
her with wide-eyed innocence. “You know him, then? Thought he might be a burglar.”

“He's an African prince, you young—” Bad Cop started to get out of her seat, and for just a second Danny thought there might be a bit of grievous bodily harm coming.

But then Good Cop waved her back with a quiet “It's okay, Fran, the boy's just a bit nervous.” Then to Danny he said, “Actually, we do know him.” He had an interesting accent, a bit upper crust for a copper, but country rather than city. Danny filed that away, along with the information that Bad Cop was called Fran, probably short for Frances.

“Yes, well, he was running straight for me,” Danny said. “Seemed like he was up to no good.”

“The door wasn't really open, was it?” said Good Cop suddenly. He smiled a little sadly to show there'd be no hard feelings if Danny decided to tell the truth. Danny opened his mouth to tell another pack of lies, but Good Cop hadn't finished. “Or, if it was, you thought it might be an opportunity to look around, see if there was anything worth…borrowing?” Fran glared, but Good Cop's smile never wavered. “I understand,” he said. “I know what it's like to be short of money.” Danny blinked. It looked like it had been a long time since Good Cop went short of cash. “It makes you do things—on
impulse—that you mightn't otherwise do. Now, you look like a decent enough lad to me.” Fran snorted, but GC went on without a pause: “There's nothing missing from the house, and I know our staff handled you a little roughly, so why don't you just tell us what you did and what you saw, and maybe
we
could see our way to forgetting the whole thing.”

“George!” Fran exclaimed, like she was shocked by the suggestion.

So Good Cop's name was George, but the most important words in his speech were
what you saw
, Danny thought. They were up to no good, that much was obvious, and wanted to know how much of it he'd spied. Which meant there was a chance he might get out of this with a whole skin, but he had to be careful. The thing was, he
hadn't
seen much. There'd been the girl, and God alone knew what they'd been planning to do to her, but just at the precise minute he'd seen her, they hadn't actually been doing
anything.
She was the one who stopped him from punching what's-his-name-Michael in the mouth, so unless she was Houdini, she
couldn't
have been strapped into an electric chair.

Danny considered his options. In a situation like this you couldn't assume they were stupid, couldn't pretend you'd seen
nothing.
This was a critical moment and he had to play it right. “All right, it's a fair cop. I
did
come in
thinking there might be something…you know, some cash, lying around. But the door really was open, I swear it, and that's a big temptation when your mother—” He was going to say
needs an operation
but decided that would be overdoing it. “—has all those bills to pay. But I didn't take anything, I swear to God I didn't.”

They didn't look like they were buying it. Danny said hurriedly, “Anyway, when I came down here, there was a girl getting her hair done in a room with bats flying round her head, and next thing I knew this guy was running at me and I panicked, I admit it, and I hit him. But I didn't mean any harm and I didn't take anything, not a thing.” He thought of making an impassioned plea for freedom, but decided to leave well enough alone and stopped, waiting for a reaction.

Good Cop George was frowning. “Did you say ‘bats flying round her head'?”