1

London, 1968

A shout: high-pitched, terrified.

The sound was nearly lost in the noise of the busy Saturday-afternoon traffic and the crowds bustling along Charing Cross Road. A few people glanced up and looked around. Seeing nothing wrong, they went on their way.

A second shout rang out, almost completely drowned by the blare of car horns.

Only a tall dark-haired young man standing outside a shabby antiquarian bookshop continued to look, head tilted to one side, eyes half closed, listening intently. None of the passers-by paid him any attention and, since this was London and the city was awash with the latest fashions, no one even blinked at his oversized black turtleneck sweater or the fact that he was wearing a red Scottish-tartan kilt, complete with sporran.

The young man used a trick his father had taught him when they’d been hunting grouse in the Highlands. He deliberately focused on the sounds – first, the cars and buses; next, the street clatter, the dull hum of shouts, the buzz of laughter – and then he tuned them out. He waited for something out of the ordinary, something odd, alien. Something like …

The slap of leather on stone.

It had come from behind him.

Moving quickly now, he followed the sound. It led him to the mouth of a cobbled alley. He glanced down: it was empty. However, he knew with absolute certainty that this narrow tube of stone would have carried any sounds out into the street beyond. Ducking into the alleyway, he blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, before darting forward. The alley curved slightly to the left and as he rounded the corner he discovered the source of the noise.

A bearded grey-haired man lay sprawled across the filthy stones, surrounded by a scatter of antique leather-bound books. An enormous greasy-haired thug crouched over the figure, searching through a battered satchel, pulling out books and tossing them to one side.

‘Please … please be careful,’ the old man groaned as each leather-clad volume hit the ground with a distinctive slap.

‘Where’s the money?’ the huge thug snarled. ‘Where’s the shop’s takings?’

‘There is none …’ the old man said quickly. ‘We sell antiquarian books. But some days we don’t sell anything …’

‘I don’t believe you. Empty your pockets.’

‘No,’ the old man said defiantly.

‘Yes!’ The thief smiled, thin lips peeling back from yellowed teeth.

Anger flashed in the young Scotsman’s eyes. He knew he shouldn’t get involved. He’d been entrusted with a critical mission and had promised not to delay, but he’d also been raised to a strict code of honour, which included protecting the weak and respecting elders. Keeping close to the walls, he hurried forward, well-worn soft-leather-soled shoes making no sound on the cobblestones.

‘I said, Empty your pockets.’ The thug tossed the satchel to one side and loomed over the man lying on the ground.

Suddenly, a shout cut through the air: a guttural snarl that shocked the thief into immobility. He caught a glimpse of a shadow in the corner of his eye the instant before a tremendous blow to his side sent him crashing into the alley wall. His head cracked against the old stones, and red and blue spots of cold light danced before his eyes as he sank to his knees. The thief blinked, watching a figure in a red skirt – no, a kilt – swim into focus. Scrambling to his feet, he threw an unsteady punch and then something hit him in the centre of the chest and he sat down hard, spine jarring on the cobbles.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll run away now. And you won’t look back.’ Although the Scotsman had spoken in little more than a whisper, the threat was clear.

Bending double, with both arms wrapped round his bruised chest, the thief backed away, then turned and ran.

The Scotsman knelt, offering his hand to the old man and gently easing him into a sitting position. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Only my pride … and my trousers.’ The grey-haired man struggled slowly to his feet, brushing his hair back off his high forehead. ‘And my poor books.’ He moved to pick them up, but the Scotsman was already darting around, collecting the scattered volumes. ‘You’re very brave,’ the man said, his deep voice echoing off the alley walls.

‘Well, I couldn’t just walk away, now could I?’

‘Yes, you could have. Others did.’ The older man stuck out a leather-gloved hand. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’ He smiled through a neat, grey-flecked goatee beard, his eyes dark and curious beneath heavy brows. ‘I’m Professor Thascalos.’

‘I’m Jamie, Jamie McCrimmon.’

‘Scottish. I thought I recognised a Gaelic war cry. Creag an tuire. What is that – “The Boar’s Rock”?’

Jamie handed over the books. ‘You mean the kilt wasn’t a clue?’ he asked with a grin.

The old man smiled. ‘Fashions nowadays.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what you young people are wearing?’

Jamie picked up the satchel and held it open as the professor carefully brushed off each book and returned it to the bag. Some of the leather bindings had been scuffed and torn when they’d hit the cobbles and one cover had come away entirely. ‘You were in the military?’ the professor asked.

Jamie shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘You reacted like a soldier,’ Professor Thascalos said. ‘A shout at the last minute to disorientate the enemy, followed by an overwhelming attack. That only comes with experience. You’ve been in battle.’

The young Scotsman nodded slightly. ‘Aye, well, it was a long time ago,’ he said, his accent suddenly pronounced. ‘And it didn’t end well.’ He wasn’t going to tell the professor that the last battle he’d been in had taken place over two hundred and twenty years ago. He handed the final book to the professor. ‘Is there much damage?’

‘I can have the worst ones re-bound. I should not have come down this alleyway, but I was taking a short cut to my shop. I’m a bookseller on Charing Cross Road,’ he added, and then lifted the bag of books. ‘But you probably guessed that.’

‘I did.’ Jamie grinned. ‘Will you report this to the police?’

‘Of course.’

‘If you’re all right then, I’ll be on my way.’

The professor reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a wallet. ‘Here, let me give you something –’ He stopped suddenly, seeing the look on Jamie’s face. ‘Not money then, but here …’ Rummaging in the bag, he found a small book, wrapped in a black silk handkerchief.

‘I don’t want payment …’

‘Not payment – a gift,’ the bookseller said. ‘A thank-you.’ He handed the package to Jamie, who took it and turned it round in his large hands, folding back the silk to trace a curling outline embossed into the book’s dark leather cover.

‘It looks old.’

‘It is. It is one of the oldest books I possess.’

Jamie opened it. The thick pages were covered in blocky black print in a language he thought might be German. ‘It must be very valuable.’

‘It is,’ the professor repeated, ‘but I want you to have it. You saved my life today, young man,’ he said gruffly. ‘It is the least I can give you.’

‘I cannot read the writing.’

‘There are few who can. But keep it. I insist. You can always give it as a gift to someone you think might appreciate it.’ He suddenly reached out and shook Jamie’s hand. ‘Now I have delayed you and taken up far too much of your time. Thank you. You are a credit to your clan.’ The professor stood back and swung his satchel on to his shoulder, then turned and strode down the alley. He raised his gloved hand and his voice echoed off the stones. ‘Take care, Jamie McCrimmon,’ he called. ‘Enjoy your book.’ And then he rounded the corner and vanished.

Jamie looked at the black book, rubbing his thumbs over the surface. The leather felt oily and slightly damp. He guessed it had fallen in a puddle. Bringing it to his nose he breathed in slowly. He thought he smelled the faintest odour of fish and sea air from the pages. Shrugging, he wrapped it back in its silk and shoved it in his belt as he hurried away. Maybe the Doctor would like it.

Professor Thascalos paused at the end of the alley. He could hear Jamie’s footsteps fading away in the opposite direction. He turned his head to look at a huge figure lurking in the shadows. The greasy-haired thief stepped forward, mouth wide in a broad, gap-toothed grin.

‘You did well,’ the professor said quietly. He pulled out a wad of money from an inside pocket of his greatcoat. ‘We agreed on fifty, but here’s sixty.’ He peeled off six crisp ten-pound notes and handed them across. ‘A bonus for getting hit.’

The man looked at the thick bundle of notes and he licked his lips.

‘You’re thinking foolish thoughts now,’ the professor said quietly again, his face settling into an implacable mask. ‘Dangerously stupid thoughts,’ he added icily.

The thug looked into the professor’s dark eyes, and whatever he saw there made him step back in alarm. ‘Yes … yes, fifty. And the bonus. Very generous. Thank you.’

‘Good boy. Now, go away.’ The professor tossed the bag of books at the big man. ‘Here, get rid of these for me.’

‘I thought they were valuable.’

‘Only one,’ the professor muttered to himself, looking back down the alley. ‘And that was invaluable.’

Stepping into the shadows, the professor watched as the thief slid unnoticed into the throng of people walking past. Then he pulled a slender metal cylinder from his pocket, twisted it counter-clockwise and held it to his thin lips. ‘It is done,’ he said in a language that had not been heard on Earth since the fall of Atlantis. ‘I have completed my half of the bargain. I trust, when the time comes, you will honour your part.’

A thread of faint ethereal music hung on the air.

The professor snapped the cylinder closed and strode away, a rare smile on his lips.