The Gang of Four

Mr. Waterstone began to snigger.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Russell.

  The cat showed Russell the contents of the file he was reading, marked: Top Secret.

  ‘The Loch Ness Monster!?’

  Mr. Waterstone began sniggering again.

  ‘Seriously!? What the hell is MI6 doing filing secret reports on that!?’

  ‘Let me see that report,’ said Michael, who had been rifling through a filing cabinet at the other end of the large office. He came scuttling over at great speed.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Russell, ‘I can get used to your spider-form but this sudden acceleration of yours is still freaking me out!’

  ‘It’s a widely held view, regrettably. Spiders don’t seem to be that popular with anyone, or anything. I put it down to envy. Would you prefer me to move slower?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Michael moved to the side of the office sofa on which sat Russell and Mr. Waterstone. He then proceeded to advance on Russell very slowly, clambering over the arm of the sofa with menace.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ decided Russell, ‘stick to nippy.’

  ‘Thought so,’ replied Michael, ‘Now, show me that file on Nessie.’

  Russell passed it over and Michael began to read some lines out loud:

  ‘Non-corporeal projection of collective sub-conscious desires. Telekinetic abstraction. Sexual metaphor…’ Michael checked the title page: ‘Who has written this shit!?’

  ‘Is it bollocks?’ asked Russell.

  ‘Of course it’s bollocks!’ replied Michael, returning the file to Mr. Waterstone, who promptly threw it over the sofa causing the papers to splay out all over the plush carpet.

  ‘Keep looking, guys,’ said Michael, returning to his filing cabinet.

  Russell picked up a file marked: ‘Restricted’.

  ‘What exactly are we looking for, Michael?’

  ‘Your non-Sponsor ET.’

  ‘Hmm, to be honest I assumed you would know whether anything existed or not.’

  ‘It exists, Russell. But it’s stealthy, and it’s staying in the shadows. The Sponsors’ database has nothing at all. Human data stored on computer is vague at best.’

  ‘You know everything that’s on computers, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, so these old paper records are all that’s left. Trust me, it will have been careless before the computer age. We will find something.’

  ‘What are we going to do when we find it?’

  Before Michael could reply there was a clattering at the office door as Ceres wheeled in a tea trolley.

  ‘I found this!’ she declared with pride, ‘I’ve got tea, coffee, a range of cold drinks and…’ she examined the lower trays, ‘biscuits!’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee and a couple of biscuits, thanks,’ requested Russell.

  ‘Coming up!’

  ‘Nothing for me,’ said Michael.

  Ceres handed Russell his refreshments and at the same time gave Mr. Waterstone a can of Red Bull. The cat pulled it open with a single claw and took several swigs with relish.

  ‘Found anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing pertinent, ma’am,’ replied Michael.

  ‘Can’t you just access the minds of the people who know the secret, or something?’ asked Russell.

  ‘They’re all dead. No one has dealt with this for perhaps a century or more. So it’s rather hard to pin down, it’s like a vague memory for me.’

  ‘Sounds like the secret’s lost, if you ask me,’ remarked Russell.

  ‘No, they moved the old archive here,’ stated Ceres, examining the walls with the flat of her hand. ‘The architects of this building added an alcove behind this wall. Hmm…’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately the present incumbent does not know of its existence. Knowledge was passed on by word-of-mouth but his predecessor died before relaying it.’

  Michael came over to examine the wall: ‘No EM fields, no wiring of any description. It must be a physical mechanism. Scanning… There is a small catch down near the floor, imbedded in the skirting board, and another directly above it, near the ceiling. We need to press them both, probably simultaneously.’

  Russell watched as Michael jumped onto the wall and sidled up to the ceiling.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Click. A section of wall lowered to reveal an alcove containing shelves of files. Ceres reached in and grabbed them all. ‘There’ll be some ripe stuff in these!’ she said, handing out the files to the others.

  ‘I’ll say,’ said Russell, ‘talk about musty!’

  ‘Yeah!’ agreed Michael, seemingly less than impressed by what he had been handed. ‘They should have archived these files in a sealed nitrogen atmosphere.’

  Mr. Waterstone held up an ancient battered file. It was marked: Majestic.

  On seeing the classification, Ceres smiled broadly: ‘Well done, Ducky!’ She collected the file from the cat and glanced through it. Yes, we have it! Now, hold onto all the files from the alcove, I think it’s time we departed. You can leave the other files, Mr. Tebb.’

  The group collected up their files and made ready to depart.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Ceres, ‘let’s take a group selfie. Michael, can you do the honours?’

  Michael ushered everyone around him and then extended one of his paws. ‘Smile! … Done.’

  ‘Good, once we are clear of the building, send it to Sir Neville Stonehatch’s phone.’

  Russell and the others departed Stonehatch’s office and walked out onto a wide, carpeted balcony that overlooked a complex and busy arrangement of floors and offices.

  ‘This place is a maze. Which is the way out?’ asked Russell.

  ‘This way.’

  As the gang departed the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross and headed for the Bentley, which was parked haphazardly near the front entrance, the building’s alarms began to wail and various partitions started to drop.

  ‘No, Michael, I’ll take the front passenger seat,’ said Ceres.

  ‘As you wish, ma’am.’

  The Bentley crossed the river and glided down Millbank towards Parliament Square, the early evening sun casting a rich golden hue over the Houses of Parliament as they loomed up, directly ahead. All the prominent buildings in sight were highlighted in a similar way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Russell, glancing at Ceres, but she ignored him as she continued to study the ‘majestic’ file with obvious fascination.

  At the next set of red lights Russell tried again: ‘So where is this thing?’

  ‘The Victorians referred to “this thing” as “the Malevolence”.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Russell, continuing to drive eastwards along the north shore of the Thames. Ceres eventually closed the file and studied Russell.

  ‘Proceed to Drury Lane, Mr. Tebb,’ she instructed, clicking on the car radio. Phyllis Nelson sang Move Closer, and everyone joined in.

  ***