The Clown Service Read online

  Toby couldn’t help but smile. Holding his hands out in front of himself and wiggling his fingers he luxuriated in the solidity of them. He looked over at Shining to find him smiling back.

  ‘Lesson one,’ his mentor said. ‘You did extremely well.’

  Suddenly there was the crackle of radio static and Jamie Goss contorted.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Toby, backing away as the eyes of the man they had just retrieved glazed over once more, and he appeared to vomit a mess of shortwave into the air.

  ‘One thousand,’ came the voice of the radio, impossibly bubbling up from Goss’ throat, ‘five, five, seven, five, five, seven.’ The voice was distant, almost lost beneath a soup of crackle and the crunch of atmospherics.

  ‘What is it?’ Toby asked. ‘It’s like he’s channelling a radio signal.’

  Shining sighed. ‘Time for lesson two.’

  CHAPTER TWO: NUMBERS

  a) 63 Sampson Court, King’s Cross, London

  Tea was poured as if to prove the world was normal. Jamie Goss seemed once more himself as he soothed his face in the steam of a mug of Lady Grey. Alasdair had returned to the kitchen in order to tut and pull angry faces at the dishwasher. He was still too angry to even feign comfort with the rest of them.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ said Goss, loud enough for Alasdair to hear. ‘Please stop fussing.’

  Alasdair muttered something percussive under his breath and continued being angry in another room.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Goss repeated, this time to Shining and Toby.

  ‘I’m glad you are,’ said Toby, staring at his mug of tea, ‘but I’m not sure I am.’

  Shining looked over to Goss and smiled. ‘He’s new! Isn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘I give him a week before he defects,’ said Goss.

  ‘Oh no,’ insisted Shining, ‘not this one – he’s got potential.’

  ‘And keeps finding himself being discussed as if he’s not in the room,’ offered Toby.

  ‘I like him,’ said Goss, still insisting on the third person but at least looking Toby in the eye.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ Toby replied. ‘My future career is assured.’

  ‘He’s as sarcastic as Alasdair,’ said Goss, ‘but a trifle less flamboyant.’

  ‘A trifle,’ Toby agreed. ‘Is anyone going to start discussing what just happened or shall we carry on listing my qualities?’

  ‘I was finished,’ said Goss, ‘so I’m happy to move on.’

  He gave a big grin and sipped at his tea, immensely pleased with himself.

  Alasdair finally felt calm enough to join them, stomping in and sinking down onto a sofa opposite Goss, from where he could occasionally pull disapproving faces whenever he felt the need.

  ‘Some people feel sick after their first out of body experience,’ said Shining. ‘Put some sugar in your tea; it seems to help.’

  ‘I don’t feel sick,’ said Toby.

  ‘See?’ Shining looked to Goss, terribly pleased. ‘Real potential.’

  ‘Or a man with high blood sugar,’ Goss replied, glancing at Toby’s stomach. ‘He doesn’t look like he’s a stranger to Snickers.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll sit back and enjoy one the next time you need saving,’ suggested Toby.

  ‘Now, now boys,’ said Shining, ‘let’s try to keep things friendly.’

  ‘It sounded like a numbers station,’ said Toby, happy to change the subject. ‘The radio broadcast.’

  ‘Numbers station?’ queried Alasdair.

  Toby kept talking. This was one of the few things he was confident about. ‘Shortwave transmissions that feature a string of seemingly random numbers and sounds, universally thought to be a method of transmitting information to foreign agents.’

  ‘Universally thought?’ Alasdair was aware of the implication of the phrase. ‘As in “not really”?’

  ‘They had their uses,’ Toby admitted, ‘but the Americans used them a lot more than we did. While some of our broadcasts were genuine, others were an excellent bit of misdirection.’

  ‘Espionage is all about confusion,’ Shining added. ‘Fill the airwaves with meaningless noise and settle back while the world wastes its time sifting through pointless data.’

  ‘True. The British intelligence community hasn’t used numbers stations seriously for decades,’ put in Toby. ‘They’re just not practical when compared to the alternatives. Of course, in some ways that means they might be due a comeback.’

  ‘Just when people decide they’re no longer important, make them important again,’ agreed Shining.

  ‘You silly boys,’ sighed Alasdair, ‘with your games and your constantly shifting plans.’

  ‘That’s what makes espionage an art,’ Shining insisted. ‘If we always stuck to well-trodden, mass-agreed policies we’d be much more transparent. But as long as the intelligence services remain a melting-pot of methods and preferences we stay infuriatingly obscure!’

  ‘None more so than Section 37,’ added Goss, ‘the section people are too embarrassed to even discuss.’

  ‘With one of the most successful track records, however,’ Shining chuckled. ‘I am the Barry Manilow of spies.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said Toby, ‘where does that leave me?’

  ‘Cliff Richard?’ Alasdair suggested.

  ‘So why did Goss channel that station?’ asked Toby, determined to bring things back on track.

  ‘It must have been local,’ said Alasdair, ‘he never picks up radio from far afield.’

  ‘Unless I’m particularly drunk,’ volunteered Goss.

  ‘Never let him near the vodka on a Saturday night,’ agreed Alasdair. ‘He spews out the on-air chatter from the taxi company on the corner.’

  Toby was becoming uncomfortable again, surrounded by this madness.

  ‘What triggers it then?’ he asked. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Oh, I have to be pissed to do any of this,’ Goss admitted, ‘or as high as a kite. Anything to shut the conscious mind up for a bit. I barely remember the summer of 2005 … The radio stuff seems random. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s strong.’

  ‘So it could just be random noise?’ asked Toby. ‘Nothing of interest?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Goss answered.

  Shining was clearly unconvinced. ‘I think I’ll be the judge of that.’

  b) Piccadilly Line, Northbound for Wood Green, London

  ‘So,’ said Shining, straightening the crease in his trousers and stacking spare copies of Metro newspapers on the seat next to him, ‘how’s your first day so far?’

  Toby wasn’t sure. ‘I haven’t died yet,’ he said after a moment, ‘nor have I completely lost my mind … at least I don’t think I have. Frankly it’s hard to tell.’

  The train they were returning on was all but empty now, the commuters safely boxed away in their cubicles and offices. At the far end of the carriage a man stared at adverts for summer holidays and dreamed.

  ‘You’re very open with your agents,’ Toby said, ‘I take it they’ve had security clearance?’

  ‘They’re cleared by me,’ Shining replied with a smile. ‘Besides, so much of our line is theoretical, we’re hardly sharing state secrets are we?’

  ‘You seem convinced,’ said Toby, ‘that the radio signal is important.’

  ‘It’s more that I’m unconvinced it’s not. You know what it’s like in our trade; you spend half your time dealing with theoretical problems.’

  ‘What was Goss looking for in the first place?’

  ‘Oh, he “goes fishing” every couple of weeks, dangles himself out into the void on the off chance. He used to spend far too long out of his head – that’s the problem with people that can travel astrally, the more they do it the harder it can be to stop. The flesh becomes an anchor, an unwelcome weight. I’ve known a couple of “travellers” just unhook themselves from their bodies and never return. God knows where they ended up, floating in the wind …’

  Toby felt he h
ad been doing just that for a couple of years.

  ‘So how do we trace the radio transmission?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah,’ Shining replied, ‘like all good spies, I have a man for that.’

  c) High Road, Wood Green, London

  They entered the mobile phone shop beneath the Section 37 office. Its owner was being shouted at by an elderly woman who seemed a hair’s breadth away from mounting an assault on him.

  ‘It keeps calling Bolivia!’ she was shouting. ‘As if I’d ever want to talk to someone in Bolivia!’

  ‘Lovely country,’ said Shining, courteously taking her by the arm and leading her away towards the door. ‘Perhaps you should make friends with whoever it is you’re dialling and you could meet up for a holiday romance?’

  ‘Romance!’ she shouted, spraying the lapels of his jacket with spittle. ‘What nonsense! And who might you be?’

  ‘Flying Squad, madam. Kindly step outside while we arrest this filthy foreigner for you.’

  ‘Bang him up!’ she screamed as he closed the door on her. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  ‘Of course you do, you hateful old bigot,’ Shining replied through the glass with a charming smile.

  ‘Foreigner?’ the owner complained. ‘I was born in Finsbury Park, as well you know.’

  ‘Just having a little fun, Oman,’ said Shining. ‘Speaking to it in a language it understands.’ The old woman was still loitering on the pavement. He waved her away.

  ‘Lock the door,’ said Oman, ‘or she’ll be back in. I think she’s escaped from somewhere, she comes in every day.’

  ‘Have you considered replacing her phone?’ asked Toby.

  ‘Nothing wrong with it,’ Oman replied. ‘She just doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘That’s probably a naughty lie, Oman, my old crook,’ said Shining. ‘I doubt you’ve sold a fully-functioning piece of kit in your life. But as she’s so hateful I applaud your criminality.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with anything I sell,’ Oman insisted. ‘Yours works fine, doesn’t it?’

  Shining removed a mobile from his pocket and looked at it as if surprised to have found it there. ‘That’s a very good point – was it stolen?’

  ‘Very funny. Now, what do you want before I make you eat the bloody thing?’

  ‘Temper, temper … I need you to locate the broadcast point of a radio signal.’

  ‘Great. So nothing annoying and time-consuming then.’

  ‘It gets better. I don’t have the frequency.’

  Oman threw his hands in the air. ‘How can I even get started then?’

  ‘You tell me. I’m pretty sure it’s broadcasting locally, shortwave transmission …’

  ‘Shortwave? You might as well be asking me to hunt down a pair of kids talking to each other with cans and string.’

  ‘I know it’s difficult. I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.’

  ‘Difficult? It’s impossible.’

  ‘The impossible is in my job description, Oman, and by extension, yours. It’s a numbers station, likely to be broadcasting within five miles of King’s Cross.’

  ‘Five miles?’ asked Toby.

  ‘I doubt Jamie would be picking it up otherwise. It has to be close.’

  ‘That’s still one hell of an area to trawl for a shortwave broadcast,’ said Oman.

  ‘It is. But you can do it because you’re brilliant and because I’ll pay you well.’

  Oman smiled at that. ‘Liar, you never pay me well.’

  ‘My budget is limited, true. Still, there’s a first time for everything. The first step has got to be picking the actual station up. Is there a way for you to run a scan? It should be easy enough to recognise it – it repeats the numbers one thousand, five, five, seven.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘It may be nothing,’ Shining admitted, ‘but I don’t think so. And after the amount of years I’ve been doing this job, I’ve learned to listen to my instincts.’

  d) Section 37, Wood Green, London

  Upstairs, Shining took up residence behind his desk. It was then he realised something. ‘We’ll need to get you a desk. I hadn’t thought about that. Dear Lord … they dump you here but they don’t think the whole thing through, do they? It hardly seems right that an intelligence officer should spend his time shopping at Ikea …’

  Shining looked around as if something useful might be lurking behind one of the bookshelves. ‘I must have had a second desk once. What on earth did I do with it? And what forms will I need?’ He began ferreting in his drawers. ‘I wonder what department I have to contact to sanction office supplies …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Toby, ‘I’ll sort it. I’d quite like to do something mundane for an hour, just while some of this sinks in.’

  ‘Fair enough. When you’ve employed whatever arcane skills one has to master to get kitted out, I was going to suggest you did a little reading.’ Shining got up and moved over to the filing cabinet in the corner. ‘I may not be terribly organised about office equipment, but I have kept case studies of everything I’ve worked on over the decades.’ He opened a drawer and leaned on it with a sigh. ‘After all, someone had to – I dare say they burn the copies I send to our noble paymasters.’

  He pulled out a large card folder, bulging with paper, and placed it on his desk. ‘That’s the last six months, small beer for the most part: research and speculation. Dive in when you have a moment. Do you mind if I leave you to it? I sometimes find it useful to go for a walk and think things through.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. That’s going to take some getting used to as well. Right then, help yourself to whatever you need. The password for the desktop is written on the corner of the screen. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

  Toby waited until he heard the front door close then got to his feet and went over to Shining’s desk.

  He sat down and looked at the computer screen. When Shining had said the password was written on it he had imagined it would have been on a sticky note, but Shining had been literal – it was inked neatly on the screen itself in indelible marker.

  ‘The man’s mad,’ he muttered to himself, tapping the word in. ‘MOCATA’ – it sounded like somewhere in Israel but was no doubt far more esoteric.

  He reached for the phone and started the task of trying to get a desk, chair and computer requisitioned. During this typically labyrinthine process of shunted calls, denials of responsibility and more red tape than he would have needed to wallpaper the office, he began to explore Shining’s computer.

  This proved harder than he expected.

  The computer was like a house that had been hastily abandoned, the documents folder empty but for a handful of bizarre text files that could have no discernible value: half of what seemed to be a short story concerning werewolves, a recipe for clam chowder and a list of books by a man called Dennis Wheatley.

  The pictures folder was better populated, if just as baffling. One folder, entitled ‘Sprites’ contained nothing but pictures of trees. Another, labelled ‘Revenant’ was even more dull, offering thirty-nine pictures of an empty room. Toby stared at the pictures, convinced that he must be missing something. He studied the photos, noting the peeling wallpaper, the splintered floorboards, a sagging wicker chair in the corner. But it was a puzzle beyond his ability to solve. As far as he could tell the pictures were just as pointless as they looked.

  Toby opened the default web browser and checked the history. There were several Wikipedia articles, covering everything from a small town in Spain to the movies of Oliver Reed. A couple of the links appeared to be for Internet forums and Toby clicked on one. As soon as he’d done it he realised that Shining would probably notice the intrusion if he checked when his account had last been online. Still … who bothered to do that? He guessed that Shining would have stored his login information in the browser and was proved correct. He was logged in automatically and given free rein t
o wander amongst the black and green neon corridors of UnXplained.net. There were pages and pages of posts about unusual phenomena, from crop circles to UFO sightings, all discussed, debated and flamed by such regular devotees as TheBeast666, RidgeMonster and LuvBishop.

  ‘Just buried gran,’ wrote Truth99. ‘Hope she stays there people saying that some are walking now drugs in the food scared she might come back.’ If only to bring you some punctuation, Toby thought. The forum members were more forgiving, though GoldDawn’s comment ‘They’re coming to get you, Barbra!’ seemed to have caused a mini bout of Internet rage. The reference was lost on Toby until he scrolled down and discovered it was a quote from a film, but the flaming was familiar enough; there was nothing Internet forums liked more than a good hard bitch at one another.

  He checked out some of the other threads, discussion on psychic surgery, poltergeists, mediums … it provided a fairly exhaustive list of all the things he didn’t believe in. He wondered how much his list would change over the next few months. The idea didn’t please him – he enjoyed being narrow-minded. Found it a comfort.

  Toby left the forum and decided to search for Shining’s name online. There was nothing.

  Toby gave up on the computer. Stuck on hold, waiting while someone in accounts hunted for Section 37’s requisition number, he cradled the phone under his chin and reached for the file of case reports. He began to read.

  e) High Road, Wood Green, London

  Shining liked to walk on busy streets. It was an act of immersion, listening to the voices, watching the people. He would subconsciously analyse those around him, watching their movements and piecing together what he could of their lives and motivations. It was important that he could read people. That was always the uppermost skill in intelligence: being able to see people for what they were and predicting their behaviour and responses. He had known many in the Service who lived out their lives in the false atmosphere of their departments, a world of data and dust that bred a view of humanity that could never be accurate. People were never that predictable, but a lifelong student of them could make informed guesses.