The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [543]
In any case, I didn’t like them and neither did Spike, and whatever it was they wanted it would have to be pretty weird. No one calls Spike until every avenue has been explored. He was the last line of defense before rationality started to crumble.
We pulled onto the verge, where two large black Bentley limousines were waiting for us. Parked next to them were six standard police cars, with the occupants looking bored and waiting for orders. Something pretty big was going down.
“Who’s she?” demanded a tall agent with a humorless demeanor as soon as we stepped from the car.
“Thursday Next,” I replied, “SO-27.”
“Literary Detectives?” he sneered.
“She’s good enough for me,” said Spike. “If I don’t get my own people, you can do your own weird shit.”
The SO-6 agent looked at the pair of us in turn. “ID.”
I showed him my badge. He took it, looked at it for a moment, then passed it back.
“My name is Colonel Parks,” said the agent. “I’m head of Presidential Security. This is Dowding, my second in command.”
Spike and I exchanged looks. The President. This really was serious.
Dowding, a laconic figure in a dark suit, nodded his greeting as Parks continued:
“Firstly, I must point out to you both that this is a matter of great national importance, and I am asking for your advice only because we are desperate. We find ourselves in a head-of-state-deficit condition by virtue of a happenstance of a high-otherworldlinesspossibility situation—and we hoped you might be able to reverse-engineer us out of it.”
“Cut the waffle,” said Spike. “What’s going on?”
Parks’s shoulders slumped, and he took off his dark glasses. “We’ve lost the President.”
My heart missed a beat. This was bad news. Really bad news. The way I saw it, the President wasn’t due to die until next Monday, after Kaine and Goliath had been neutered. Formby’s going missing or dying early allowed Kaine to gain power and start World War III a week before he was meant to—and that was certainly not in the game plan.
Spike thought for a moment and then said, “Bummer.”
“Quite.”
“Where?”
Parks swept his arm towards the busy traffic speeding past on the motorway. “Somewhere out there.”
“How long ago?”
“Twelve hours. Chancellor Kaine has got wind of it, and he’s pushing a parliamentary vote to establish himself dictator at six o’clock this evening. That gives us less than eight hours.”
Spike nodded thoughtfully. “Show me where you last saw him.”
Parks snapped his fingers, and a black Bentley drew up alongside. We climbed in, and the limo joined the M4 in a westerly direction, the police cars dropping in behind to create a rolling road-block. Within a few miles, our lane of the busy thoroughfare was deserted and quiet. As we drove on, Parks explained what had happened. President Formby was being driven from London to Bath along the M4, and somewhere between Junctions 16 and 17—where we now were—he vanished.
The Bentley glided to a halt on the empty asphalt.
“The President’s car was the center vehicle in a three-car motorcade,” explained Parks as we got out. “Saundby’s car was behind, I was with Dowding in front, and Mallory was driving the President. At this precise point, I looked behind and noticed that Mallory was indicating to turn off. I saw them move onto the hard shoulder, and we pulled over immediately.”
Spike sniffed the air. “And then what happened?”
“We lost sight of the car. We thought it had gone over the embankment, but when we got there—nothing. Not a bramble out of place. The car just vanished.”
We walked to the edge and looked down the slope. The motorway was carried above the surrounding countryside on an earth embankment; there was a steep slope that led down about fifteen feet through ragged vegetation to a fence. Beyond this was a field, a concrete bridge over a drainage ditch and beyond that, about half a