1967 AD

James Plantagenet-Bois came from a long line of psychopaths, tracing their evil way back to Anglo-Norman ascendancy. His uncle, William Plantagenet-Bois, a wealthy Suffolk landowner, was said to have kept in his studies human remains from various warzones, all labelled and drawed like the obscene butterfly collection of an insane entomologist, while his second cousin Mary Reynolds-Bois was a committed anti-gay activist operating out of the south of France. He was distantly related to Humbert Clemens, the infamous fox-hunting czar of West Kent, and his brother, George, was a longstanding Tory MP for Oxton-on-Beetley and recreational necrophile.

James wore his dynastic aristocracy with an unwavering apathy, caring little for the high society his family had lain out for him. His were simpler pleasures: wine, cricket, literature and state-sponsored murder. He occasionally wrote for an oenological journal, The Connoisseur, and, being independently wealthy, donated the funds to “the arts.” He read widely, but possessed no analytical skills to appreciate either novels or poetry, enjoying them purely for what he called their “surface texture.” And, most relevantly, he was a member of the very exclusive Special Reaction Team, the secretive, almost legendary branch of the British SIS, designed to deal with “threats to the Empire occult, extra-terrestrial or miscellaneous in origin.”

His latest mission had been to infiltrate the headquarters of Benoit Bellegarde, the leftist revolutionary music producer and occasional mercenary, who was suspected of working for a larger conspiracy. Bellegarde, James had discovered, had taken up shop in Allerton Manor, not far from Windsor, one of the great ancestral homes of Old England. This, in itself, would rub the top brass the wrong way.

“We have more in common than you might think, James,” Benoit said. The man recoiled in his chair, placing his hands behind his head and his feet on the desk. James noted with admiration the fine cut of his trousers, and the expensive handcrafted leather Brogues.

“That’s Mr Plantagenet-Bois, if you don’t mind. And I don’t know about that, old man,” James replied. “You’re French, for a start.”

“Only by birth,” Benoit smiled. He gestured to the sommelier to pour two glasses, and motioned for James to sit. He preferred to stand, so Benoit went on: “We’re both Oxbridge men, both begrudgingly privileged. We have spent most of our adult lives behind the scenes of espionage. Your reputation as an assassin precedes you, as does mine. We are both interested in the occult…”

“Mine is only a professional interest,” James interjected, watching the sommelier leave.

“Ah, yes, I forgot your, shall we say, reservations.” Benoit rolled the wine in his glass like an amateur. He considered his next sentence, and delivered it with a hint of malice. “I did know your grandfather, you know. Briefly.”

“Let’s get down to business, Benoit,” James retorted with faux amicability. “We should discuss terms before the wine bores me to death.”

“Terms? What terms could you possibly discuss? You’re at something of a disadvantage, James. You were caught, dead to rights, in my cellars armed with nothing but your whangee and bowler hat.”

“Here are my terms. And I speak for Her Majesty’s Government. You give me the information I want, and I’ll kill you in the nicest way possible.”

Benoit laughed, catching a trickle of wine on his neck before it hit his suit. He wiped his jugular with a silk handkerchief as he stood, shaking his head in apparent disbelief as he made his way over to the bookcase. James Plantagenet-Bois sensed fear.

“Do you know what this is?” Benoit held up a dusty tome he had retrieved from the bookcase. Leather-bound and dog-eared, the book had an imperceptible edition number on the spine and an illegible title in gold font. But James knew it anyway. He’d know it anywhere.

“The Fifth Apocryphal of Adenesis the Magnificent,” Benoit elocuted with as much drama as he could muster. “William Walters’ translation, circa 1896. A most wonderful work, rare as anything, the centrepiece of any mystical library. But, as well you know, practically useless.”

“Walters was a fine magician, but a terrible translator,” James concurred. “And the original has been lost.”

“That’s what we thought, too. But it’s not the case.”

Benoit returned to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a large brown envelope that had already been opened. Turning the contents of the envelope onto his hand, he was suddenly holding a number of black and white photographs. He held them up, showing them to James one by one. At first James thought they were pictures of construction workers, perhaps road repairmen. But in fact they were something else all together, visual documentation of an archaeological dig.

“These were taken in Cairo two weeks ago. Our psychics unearthed quite an astonishing find.” He turned over to the last photo. It was a curious one indeed, depicting nothing more than a large chunk of rock or granite, with some kind of typography carved into the side. “The original Fifth Apocryphal. Hidden for millennia.”

“That’s impossible,” James almost whispered, his mind recoiling from the implication. “Walters…”

“…Was telling the truth when he claimed the work was dictated to him by his Holy Guardian Angel. He didn’t have a hard copy of the text at all. This edition,” he tapped the tome, “is nothing but a clumsy piece of automatic writing. The original is in Egypt, as we speak. You have no idea how many people we’ve had to kill to keep it a secret.”

“What’s your game, then?” James demanded. “What do you plan to do with it when you’ve translated it?”

“You know the legends. It’s said to bestow upon the reader who comprehends the text almost incalculable power. Maybe even surpassing the magics that defend England’s throne.”

“It drove Walters insane,” James replied. “It didn’t give him power.”

“The natural reaction of a weak mind. Walters was rather… overrated as a psychonaut.”

James nodded, fully comprehending the foul subversive conspiracy. He lifted his cane to his chest, a rare involuntary motion from a man usually the epitome of stiff-upper-lip self control. The whangee handle scratched the slightest itch on his cheek as he grinned a grin that was as unassuming as it was unexpected. He had retained his air of unflappability.

“Why are you telling me this?” James inquired.

Benoit sat back again, placing his chin upon his joined index fingers. “My hatred for you is matched only by my admiration. There could be a place for you in our organisation. I’m a very influential man. Either you’ll accept my offer or you’ll die in this very room. It makes no difference to me.”

James’ hand closed upon the handle of his walking stick as he heard a guard enter the room behind him, soft shoes upon soft carpet, fabric on a rifle butt. James drew the swordstick from its sheath, spun on his heel and threw the blade with unfailing accuracy. The sword sliced the guard’s Adam’s apple and continued through the oak door through which he had entered, slamming it shut. An eerie metallic gargle emanated from the guard’s throat as his body went limp, still pinned to the door. The gun dropped to his chest, a death wreath.

James beamed, satisfied.

“Can I think it over?” he asked Benoit, who had already pressed the alarm on his desk. Within seconds there were voices on the other side of the corpse, and then the sound of boots kicking on oak.

“Oh dear,” James said, approaching the desk. “I appear to have damaged a mechanism in your rather wonderful door, Benoit, old man.”

His opponent was speechless with surprise and trying to regain his composure. James calmly looked at his watch, looked out of the bay window behind Benoit’s desk, and bent over, ostensibly to tie a shoelace. At that moment the door gave way, and a blast of automatic gunfire thudded through the room. Glass screamed into pulverised shards. Benoit’s chair toppled over backwards, and he stayed on the floor, huddled to protect himself from what was left of his window, until the noise went away.

And, finally, it did go away. A ringing silence, then birds tweeting outside, then nothing. James stood, and looked over to the doorway, through which could be seen a smattering of dead bodies. The wall either side was a pointillism of violence. He looked back to the window, just in time to see Emily Skylark complete her abseiling journey into the office.

“Ms Skylark,” he said, removing his bowler hat and grinning.

“Mr Plantagenet-Bois,” she reciprocated. “Would you be a dear and help me out of my harness?”

“With pleasure.” He did so, relying on his reputation as a gentleman to get away with the occasional lingering eye or hand. She noticed anyway, and raised an eyebrow at him. To their side, Benoit scrambled to his feet and made for the door. Ms Skylark dropped her empty automatic weapon, retrieved a Makarov from her thigh-holster, aimed, and fired. Benoit cried out as his femur fractured.

“Leaving already, old man?” James laughed. “I’d hoped you might have another bedtime story to tell me.”

“Hurrrh…” Benoit grimaced, clutching his leg and watching the blood spurt through a hole in his expensive suit trousers. He stuttered: “B-b-bitch!”

“‘Bitch,’ is it?” James said, walking past the crumpled figure of Benoit to retrieve his sword. He pulled it from the guard’s body, wiped the blood on its victim, weighed it in his hand, and replaced it in his walking stick sheath. “All it takes is a few bullets for a gentleman to lose his manners these days. Must be that popular music you peddle, affecting your brain, Benoit. What does make you such a bitch, Ms Skylark?”

“Breeding, James, darling,” she replied, holstering her weapon.

Benoit moaned in fear as the two agents closed in on him. Skylark stood beside Plantagenet-Bois, picked a fleck of blood from his collar, and straightened his tie. The man grinned, and they stared for a moment too long into each other’s eyes. Benoit, paralysed with terror and pain, felt a stab of envy. Skylark was unquestionably beautiful, but ever so much more alluring than the girls he was used to, dressed in a PVC catsuit that accentuated every inch of her. Benoit moaned.

“Now, now, old man,” James said, remembering Benoit’s existence. “Didn’t I tell you that if you gave me all the information I needed, I’d kill you in the nicest way possible? And you’ve told me an awful lot.”

“I… I can tell you more!” Benoit offered. “Much more! Where our leaders are! Headquarters! I can give you names… Leftist groups, revolutionaries here in England and across Europe!”

“Of course you can, dear,” Ms Skylark said. “But that would be so unsporting of us.”

“It just wouldn’t be cricket,” James concurred. “We have to give you Marxists and Leninists and God knows what else a bit of a head start from time to time.”

“James,” Benoit made his final appeal. “Please!”

“I told you, old boy. That’s Mr. Plantagenet. Bois. To. You. Ms Skylark?”

Emily Skylark pulled her gloves taunt on each hand. She stepped one of her long, straight legs over Benoit’s body, and, hands on hips, lowered herself onto his chest. Before he could get an arm free, she had closed her hands over his neck. He struggled, trying to buck her off, and James placed the tip of his walking stick into the wound the Makarov had left in Benoit’s leg. Reaching for it, Skylark got the leverage she required, and crushed his larynx with her thumbs. Benoit took a minute to die.

“Auntie’s sending in the helicopter,” James said, looking at his watch again. “We should make our way to the roof before the explosives I set in the cellars go off.”

“All that wine, all these books. You do surprise me, James.”