Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (2 page)

'Then who...?' began Shuskin, just as the truth was dawning. 'The KGB?'

Katayev pushed open the door. 'It's best not to keep them waiting.'

The corridors smelt of dry rot and boiled cabbage. Paint peeled from every possible surface, and pipes and cables ran exposed over the walls. Only the security cameras, tucked into the darker corners, hinted at the building's function. If the new owners of the building wanted it to appear run-down, they'd certainly gone to extraordinary lengths, right down to the pool of urine in the corner.

They came to a door like any other, but here Colonel Katayev stopped and knocked. A man with the small, nervous eyes of a rat opened the door, indicated where they should sit, and then disappeared out into the corridor. Shuskin heard the door being locked behind them.

At first she thought they were in a lecture hall, as much of the room was dominated by steeply banked rows of seats. Then she noticed the large screen that the chairs all faced. She thought she could smell fresh glue and paint, an artificiality stronger than the stench of the corridors. Shuskin ran a hand over one of the seats. Her eyes widened. The covering was cream-coloured leather.

'If you ever wondered where the riches of the Soviet Union end up...' Katayev spoke in a whisper, a half-smile on his lips.

He nodded towards the front of the room. On two chairs were grey plastic folders. Shuskin followed him, and glanced at the papers in her binder.

Katayev nudged her with his elbow. 'Sit down. There is a protocol to follow at these meetings.'

The lights went out the moment she was seated. As her eyes struggled to adapt to the darkness she saw a figure shuffle into the room through another door. He made his way towards the back. Shuskin took her lead from the colonel, and stared forward at the screen, although she was itching to find out more about the mysterious man behind them, and the contents of the folder in her hand.

'I am grateful that two senior officers from UNIT have so willingly consented to meet with us.' said the man.

His voice was strong and clear, and Shuskin detected something of a regional accent. Baltic, perhaps?

'I am...' There was a pause, as if he were plucking a word from the ether. 'Mayakovsky, of the Narodnyi Kommissariat Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti.'

So, thought Shuskin, the Soviet People's Commissariat for State Security rather than the KGB. This must be really important. 'Please observe the screen in front of you.'

It flickered, and a blurred test image appeared. This was replaced by a photograph of a building. Shuskin noted Renaissance architecture, grounds that spoke of western Europe, a winding gravel road with a small car, obviously travelling at some speed.

'Headquarters of UNIT in the United Kingdom, some three to four months ago.'

Before Shuskin could really take it in the image vanished.

Another slide was shown, this one of a modern building of glass and steel in a city centre. London, possibly?

'The alternative headquarters, used in conjunction with or instead of the previous building. They move around more than we do.'

Shuskin thought the final comment a joke, but it was delivered in the same emotionless tone. Perhaps it was just what it seemed, a statement of fact. Again, before she could dwell on the picture, it was changed.

Another bourgeois house, doubtless maintained by oppressed workers and servants. The lawn was dotted with white statues and human figures. Shuskin saw uniforms and, right at the back of the picture, a jeep. It was her first glimpse of her equivalents in the West.

'Current HQ,' said Mayakovsky.

The slide changed, but this time to a cropped and expanded version of the original image, homing in on the figures. Green army uniforms, a young woman, and a decadent Westerner, flaunting his capitalist wealth.

'The man in the frills and cape...'

With a click the picture changed, zooming in on his face.

It was blurred, then computer-enhanced. White hair, lots of it, slightly curly. Strong nose. Sharp, mysterious eyes. Equally strong chin, atop a mass of lace and velvet. A fop, a dandy.

Doubtless quite debauched and lacking in any moral decency.

'This is the extraterrestrial. You will bring him here.'

SECOND PROLOGUE:

THE SPY WHO CAME IN

Thomas Bruce walked towards the almost anonymous offices of Drake Chemicals on 53rd street. He wore a suit that cost more than most people pay for a car. His car cost more than most people pay for a house.

Everything about Bruce screamed of the trappings of wealth. His suit was tailored by John Smart of Savile Row, London; it suggested sophistication and a hint of danger. His shirt and tie - even the handkerchief, ironed and nestling perfectly in his jacket pocket - were silk, from Barrett's of New York. His shoes were Italian, the leather hand-cured and hand-stitched. He'd bought them in Rome on a recent trip; he'd been in the city for only thirty-six hours, but had still found time to attend the opera and do some shopping.

To those who passed, he looked like another rich businessman in his early thirties, going to a meeting with a client and enjoying the bright sunshine. In fact, Thomas Bruce was forty-three, and he killed people for a living.

Despite his ostentatious attire, he'd spent most of his professional life walking in the shadows. It was dark in there, and he liked that just fine.

Bruce wore Ray-Ban Aviators against the harsh reflection of the sun on the Manhattan skyline, but he removed them as he entered the building so that he could wink at the receptionists behind the main desk. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, checking his watch - a Baume & Mercier, imported direct from Geneva - as the door opened. On time.

Of course.

'Good morning.' he said to the secretary, smiling brightly as he strode across the room to sit on the comer of her desk.

believe Control is expecting me.'

'Of course. Go right in.'

Bruce stood, folding his copy of the
New York Times
under his arm, and slipped the shades into his pocket. He entered the office without knocking and sat without being invited. For a moment the occupant of the office didn't even raise his head from his papers to acknowledge Bruce's presence. A cigarette smouldered in the large cut-glass ashtray in the centre of the leather-topped desk. It looked as if it had hardly been touched, but had already burnt down close to the filter.

Then the older man snapped 'Situation?'

Bruce smiled as his eyes met those of his superior.

'Under control, if you'll pardon the pun.'

'I wasn't aware of one.'

Bruce noticed for the first time a glass of whiskey in front of him.

'You were expecting someone?'

'Only you, Tom.' Control nudged the glass across the table towards Bruce, I have confidence in your ability to minimise the threat and deal with matters expediently. He
has
been dealt with, I trust?'

'With extreme prejudice.' said Bruce without emotion, draining the glass. 'I assume you have another job for me?'

Control stood, and walked to the filings cabinet at the back of the room. He was a small, inconspicuous man in his early fifties who wouldn't have been out of place in a bookshop or behind a bar. Flecks of dandruff on his grey jacket created the impression that he'd been in the shadows too long and was gently crumbling away, but Bruce knew better than to make snap judgements. The hand that reached into the cabinet was well-muscled, and there was a fading bruise over the knuckle of the little finger, as if he had been in a brawl.

Control extinguished the cigarette when he returned to his desk and dropped a bulging manila file in front of Bruce.

'UNIT,' Control said.

Bruce gave a wry smile. 'Tin soldiers playing hunt-the-alien.' There was a poorly disguised hint of annoyance in his voice. 'Give me a break, we
can't
be interested in those guys.

I've seen the reports on the New York HQ: it's amateur hour. A piss-ant operation.'

'True,' said Control. 'Set fire to their pants and they'd think it was Martians, but...' He paused, and it gave Bruce a chance to see something he rarely noted in Control's face: a trace of concern. 'The Agency has a specific interest in their work. And there are certain.., considerations attached to the British end of the operation.'

'England?' said Bruce, cynically. 'More alcohol-induced flying-saucer sightings at Stonehenge?'

'Britain is strategically vital to the entire programme.

You know that.'

'God alone knows why,' Bruce muttered. 'I've never met a more ignorant bunch of peasants. Goddamn country thinks it's still running the world.'

Control, well used to Bruce's outbursts, let him finish.

'That's partly the problem,' he said. 'The country's becoming unstable. They're a threat to the programme.' He opened the file and picked out the top sheet. 'This is a report from one of our men in London. The political situation has been a potential disaster area ever since the Liberal coalition took power.'

'I thought that suited our purpose,' said Bruce, remembering the shock waves that ran through the West some six months ago. The general election had seen an alliance of Liberals, various disenfranchised Tories and Socialists, and a group of minor fringe parties, enter power on a popular platform of social reform, the abolition of the death penalty, and a strong interstellar defence programme.

'In a manner of speaking.'

'Can't blame the Brits, I suppose, noted Bruce with a thin smile. 'Four invasions in the last four years. They always seem to get the bugs landing on their doorstep.'

'It's made them trigger-happy and reckless. Last night there was another National Front by-election victory.' Control glanced at a communiqué that sat in his in tray. 'Place called Walthamstow.'

Bruce nodded, having read a report on the subway. 'That's six now,' he said.

'Indeed. They give the people easy answers, and promise strength against the aliens. And, when you've seen Cybermen marching down your street, there's a lot to be said for easy answers. Control picked up another report. 'That suits us, of course. Subvert the British space programme.

Make sure they don't get their hands on any reusable technology.' He laughed, harshly. 'Let them play with their International Electromatics toys, their vid-phones and disposable transistors.'

Bruce shared in the joke, but he sensed there was something more serious coming. 'If Britain's such a disaster area, why not just leave them and concentrate on Paraguay?

Surely the potential for a zero-option situation there is stronger?'

'Paraguay will be kicking-off big time, but not for another year. The Chinese and the Russians are still not ready for war, either with each other, or with anyone else.

'Do we get involved?'

'Is Uncle Sam an American?' Control's
eyes
were grey and hard. 'We'll show no hesitation when the situation can be used to our advantage. Let Styles and that Texan jerk Alcott organise their conferences.
We
know where it'll all end.' Control flicked through the file. 'British UNIT worries us. They're the most experienced on the planet, and we need to get somebody in there.'

'Meaning me?'

Control didn't answer. He pulled three photographs from the manila folder. The first was of a woman with red hair and bright, lively eyes. 'Dr Elizabeth Shaw, born Stoke-on-Trent, 1943.

Research scientist at Cambridge, seconded to UNIT last summer.

Meteor expert, medical doctor, quantum physicist...'

'Pretty girl,' said Bruce, reaching for the photograph.

'...with an IQ of over two hundred. Dangerous.' Control released the photograph to Bruce, then tapped the second, a man in uniform. 'Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.

Head of British UNIT. Don't let the reputation fool you. Brilliant career in Africa and Aden, a great leader. His encounters with extraterrestrials will make him an extremely dangerous opponent. If we're to stand any chance of cracking them, we need to dispose of Lethbridge-Stewart.

With terminal force.'

'And the other one?' asked Bruce.

'Ah.' The meaningless interjection and the length of the ensuing pause were enough to pique Bruce's interest.

'Scientific Adviser, said Control at last, standing and walking towards the window 'As you'll see, we've not got much on him'

Bruce stared at a typewritten sheet of six lines, attached to four reports with observations by agents in the field. 'This is ridiculous,' he said at length. 'There's nothing in this but speculation. "There are strong rumours at UNIT HQ that the Doctor is an extraterrestrial"...' Bruce looked up, and saw a dark shadow flicker across Control's face as he turned away from the New York skyline. Bruce shook his head. 'We don't even know his name,' he said.

Control gave a short, harsh laugh.
'We
know much more than that.'

ANY FRONTIER

With a dark, ominous drone of rotor blades, the helicopters buzzed over the festival site. To those inside, Viscount Rose's estate was a sea change of colour: bright, gaudy, Day-Glo shades of purple, yellow, and red, splashes of paint that ebbed and flowed to an organic rhythm.

The helicopters worried Nick Blair. There was something sinister and almost Wagnerian about the way they had appeared in convoy from out of the clouds, and scudded across the sky, swooping close to the stage.

Stoned Weekend, who had been entertaining the crowd with their interpretation of southern boogie, had stopped mid-song. 'Look, man,' the singer had said dismissively. 'I can't handle dive-bombing fascists. This isn't Vietnam. There weren't these distractions at Tanglewood...'

Half the crowd - those whose brains hadn't been numbed by the sun, the loud music, and the drugs - had coughed up a reaction that could have been a fists-in-the-air cheer of anti-establishment solidarity or a bemused murmur of 'Where the hell's Tanglewood, man?'