Doctor Who_ The Devil Goblins From Neptune - Keith Topping [2]
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,