Based on an exercise set by Writers in the Rafters - combine two book titles and write on the subject of crime. Both these books exist and I have one and used to own the other.
So Tarine Coutomaine is back in...
Birdy, the Penguin of Death
‘I don’t
know… An obscure cult with unlimited
funds claiming their idol, a carved jade penguin reported to be thousands of
years old, has been stolen and the world will come to an end if it isn’t found
by Thursday?’ David said. ‘Doesn’t sound
very likely to me!’
‘And having
the secret headquarters of a modern-day espionage agency in an apparent broom
cupboard in a replica of Ceausescu’s palace now functioning as a DSS building
isn’t?’ Tarine cupped the side of her
face in a hand which ended in long, elegant fingers tipped by glittering
titanium implant fingernails. ‘Do you want to go and tell Tremaine you think
our assignment is improbable? Or do you
actually like working here?’
David
muttered something, and Graham, the other operative in the room, grinned.
Tarine hid a
sigh. As trainees went’ they were no
more than averagely hopeless… and after all, she had been a trainee herself,
once. She hadn’t ever been this wet
behind the ears, though.
‘Rule number
one. Do not get side tracked by
minutiae,’ she said.
Graham, as
she’d expected, pounced on the remark.
‘We had rule
number one yesterday, it was…’
‘…don’t get
caught. But this is Tuesday’s
rules. If we followed the proper
sequence, by Friday we’ll be up to rule 378 and you’ll be so busy remembering
the numbers you’ll forget the rules entirely,’ Tarine pointed out.
‘And… rule
number one, epic fail!’ David pointed out. ‘Look who just got side tracked by
minutiae!’
‘Yes,’
Tarine went on, taking control once more.
‘It doesn’t matter if this is a holy relic, or a powerful new weapon
disguised as a penguin statue, or just a valuable piece of jade, it has been
stolen from an impregnable fortress and its fabulously wealthy and politically
dangerous owners want it back. So. Theories, gentlemen?’
‘Inside job.
Owner falls on hard times, fakes the theft, claims the insurance.’ Graham
shrugged. ‘Has to be.’
‘Point of
note: The Jade Penguin of Death, a treasure beyond price, is not insured; it
being priceless, and its religious significance means the owners didn’t even
try; one does not insure one’s deity; it is considered bad manners.’
‘Still could
be an inside job,’ Graham muttered.
‘Either that or someone really has invited a matter transporter…’
‘Second point
of note: Yes, they have. But this wasn’t
it, we know its whereabouts. Any more
ideas?’
‘What about…
it isn’t stolen, it’s lost?’ David offered.
‘Not the
most far-fetched of theories; it does sometimes get taken out of the vault for
use in rituals. And there is the core of the problem; one of the cult’s
festivals is coming up, and if the artefact isn’t found by then, and used in
the ritual, then the followers believe the world will end in a massive ball of
flame… or, if the penguin is in the wrong hands, and used for a different
ritual, it will cause financial collapse and the gradual breaking down of the
planetary climate systems.’ Tarine shrugged.
‘It may be that finding out how it was stolen isn’t actually as
important as finding the icon.’
‘Okay,’ David
grinned. ‘Let’s go and find Birdy. Where do we start?’
*
It would
take too long to follow all the steps taken, sources investigated and persons
questioned in the search for Birdy, the Penguin of Death, and if Tarine were
ever to suspect any of her interrogation techniques were in the public domain,
she would believe it her duty to kill everyone who had discovered them...
Suffice it
to say that by Wednesday afternoon, her sources were beginning to feed back to
her, Graham had gone on the sick with stress, and David had developed a nervous
tic that made it look as if his face was dancing a salsa every time Tarine
looked at him.
‘Are you
sure you’re cut out for this line of work?’ Tarine asked. David shook his head.
‘I was
probably better off in Bomb Disposal…’
‘Never
mind. Drink up your nice chamomile tea
and make sure you’ve got plenty of money in your pockets. We’re going to pay a visit to Skinny the
Dip. It’s not far, and the fresh air
will do you good.’
Skinny the
Dip (named for his favourite coffee and his habit of picking pockets) held
court in a tired greasy spoon café in Leeds Market. He knew how to accept a
bribe with grace and the money slid into his pocket almost invisibly. At the same time he pushed a scrap of paper
towards Tarine.
‘I have it
on good authority the item you want is here,’ he said. ‘But it’s due to be collected today. Just hand this to the manager with the cash.
You’ll have to hurry.’
‘Thank you,
Skinny.’ Tarine got to her feet and made a point of counting her fingers. ‘Nice to do an honest deal with you for once.’
‘What next?’
David asked.
‘Next, we
want a number 5 bus from opposite the bus station… this way…’
A ten-minute
bus ride deposited them in a run-down street made up mostly of charity shops
interspersed with supermarket, butchers, betting shops. A little way up the hill, Tarine stopped
outside a latter-day pawnbroker’s.
‘This is it.
So… in you go, give the nice man behind the counter this piece of paper… and
some money… and I will be your back up, just in case.’
‘In case of
what?’
‘In case the
real contact comes back while you’re collecting the relic.’
It was the
longest five minutes of David’s life, handing over the paper and waiting for
the manager to go and fetch the jade statue from somewhere in the depths of the
shop. Tarine browsed and kept subtle
watch until David was done, the Penguin of Death had been wrapped in tissue
paper and put into a plastic bag, and then linked arms with him and whisked him
out of the shop and around the corner.
‘What now?’
‘Now we walk
very quickly along here, turn left at the end, and wait for a number 4 bus.
‘Why?’
‘Well, the 4
runs every ten minutes, the 5 every twenty.
And they won’t think to look for us here, they’ll be expecting us to run
straight back for town down the main road. And give me that!’
She reached
out and took the statuette, still wrapped in a plastic bag, out of his slack
hands and squirrelled it away in her capacious handbag.
The bus
arrived before David’s nerves gave way completely, and they took seats towards
the back.
‘And this
bus stops almost outside HQ, of course,’ Tarine said, smoothing her skirts. ‘I
do hope Tremaine is expecting us.’
‘Any
problems, Tarine?’ Tremaine asked as he took relieved charge of the Penguin of
Death.
‘Not so’s
you’d notice. They’re not always so
simple, of course. Any word on Graham?’
‘He’s
starting to feel a bit better… next time, Tarine, warn the newbies before you
use your patented interrogation techniques in front of them, yes?’
Tarine
blinked wide, innocent eyes at her boss.
‘I was in a
hurry for the information. So, you have the icon and I have the rest of the
week off.’
‘Yes. David
and I will take care of the handover, don’t worry.’
‘I’ll see
you on Monday, then.’ She winked at David.
‘That’s if the world doesn’t end in a big ball of flame tomorrow.’
*
When Tarine
arrived at her office on Monday morning, she found an air of gloom about the
place and a message telling her to go straight to Tremaine’s office. David was waiting outside, too, and went in
with her.
‘What’s all
this about?’ she asked. ‘Everyone seems
rather subdued this morning?’
Tremaine
sighed.
‘The owners
of the icon wanted us to keep hold of it until the ceremony. We declined. Apparently, on their way home, they were
stopped and the icon taken again. It’s
been returned now, but not after it was used for the alternative dark rites… so
while the world hasn’t ended in a ball of blistering flame, their prophets are
now predicting all manner of disasters…’ Tremaine sighed again and shook his
head. ‘The polar ice caps will melt,
great financial institutions will falter, the economy will fail… tornadoes and
floods…’
Tarine gave
a delicate little shrug and quirked an eyebrow.
‘Pretty much
business as usual then?’ she said.
