Free Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune by Keith Topping, Martin Day Page B

party?'
    'Tomorrow night.' The Brigadier checked his watch. 'Actually, I mean tonight. Nineteen hundred hours.'
    The Doctor jumped into the back of the jeep. 'Plenty of time to get ready then.'
     
     
     

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    The Glass Onion used to be a coffee bar, back when the world was a little more sane. Then the Cybermen marched down Noel Street towards Covent Garden, and things were never quite the same again. Now it had been rechristened the Apollo Café, and its small, white, iron, outdoor tables were largely unoccupied on this particular Sunday morning. A man in a blazer and an MCC tie read The Times; another sat with a Pan Am flight bag and a cup of weak coffee. He sipped from the mug between occasional heavy drags on his Guards cigarette. He disliked the brand but Bulaks were difficult to come by in this godforsaken country. Sometimes he agreed with Tom Bruce.' coming to England was like taking a step into the Third World.
    'The weather is unusually inclement for the time of year said Bruce in a mock upper-class English accent as he approached the table.
    'Don't be a jerk, Tom. Just sit down and assure me you weren't followed' Control glanced nervously around. He hated meeting in the open like this. 'I can't believe I allowed myself to be persuaded about the viability of this particular option'
    He shuffled about in his flight bag and then withdrew a small manilla envelope. He slid this across the table; Bruce left it where it was.'
    'I've been in this game almost as long as you have,' he said, with a hint of irritation. 'My methods are rarely beyond reasonable denial.'
    'Just so,' said Control, glancing across to the man in the blazer. The man nodded, slipped on a pair of Polaroid sunglasses, and folded away his newspaper. He moved off up the street without a backward glance.
    'One of yours?' asked Bruce.
    'Deep cover. He's been here so long even the cousins believe he's one of the chaps.' Control glanced at his watch.
    'You think you'll enjoy this assignment?'
    'I've pulled worse special projects than this,' Bruce answered. 'You remember that game in Istanbul?'
    'Oh yes, the little girl you found in bed with a cultural attaché, or five. Biographical leverage. And to think I used to believe you weren't cut out for covert actions.
    Bruce clicked his fingers, ordering a coffee from a bored-looking girl in the cafe. 'And don't be giving me any of that cappuccino crap,' he snapped. He returned his attention to Control, who was nearing the end of his cigarette. 'They're very bad for you, you know.'
    'John Neuberger told me the same in Prague. I'm still here. He isn't.'
    This seemed to amuse Bruce. 'Yeah, right. And, of course, you're ready to equate me with that one-man Bay of Pigs. Remind me to rain on your parade at the first given opportunity. Sir.'
    Control stubbed out his cigarette. The small talk was over. 'Get your goddamn coffee, Tom, and then make sure this game isn't blown, or you'll be shuffling files in Virginia until the next Ice Age. Capiche?'
    Bruce walked into the café and then returned to his seat with the coffee. 'The objective has been attained,' he said, spooning in some sugar.
    'You've encountered no problems?'
    'No, sir,' said Bruce with a grin.
    'Impressions?'
    'You want the good news, or the bad?'
    Control breathed out slowly. 'This had better be pertinent, Tom. I've got better things to do than come to London to watch the changing of the guard'
    'The pudding club is, as we suspected, run like a branch of the Junior Campers. I've yet to meet the extraterrestrial, but the trigger man, Lethbridge-Stewart, is a Bork. The rest of his staff are what you'd expect.' inbred clowns from the shires. They're a joke.'
    'Sure,' said Control, annoyed that Bruce's prejudices were getting the better of him again. 'Anything else?'
    'At least they're all right-minded politically. Those that have any mind to be right-minded with. And they say the scientific adviser's assistant's photograph doesn't do her