India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (10 page)

“Our factory,” he said.

“Impressive,” I murmured. I noticed that the packets were printed with the words “Atlas Powder A,” and felt the hairs on my neck rise. Well, I don’t know how the rest of you would react when you came face-to-face with lignin dynamite for the first time, but I have to say I found it a bit unsettling.

“Our bomb maker is quite experienced. He has spent some time on the Continent, and also in Ireland. You will meet him tonight.”

“Does he have all his fingers?”

Bonnaire laughed. “You are an amusing woman, but I should warn you that my comrades are serious people. Most of them have spent time with the security agencies of their countries, and that experience has removed any inclination to see the humourous aspects of life.”

“I’m sure it would. I’ll bear that in mind.” I appreciated the warning; I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with my anarchist pals, and if I had to forego my usual lighthearted approach to life for a few meetings, I would.

“What about you, Monsieur Bonnaire? Have you been the guest of the Sûreté?”

Bonnaire’s smile was grim. “I have. But the French police are more civilized than their Russian or German counterparts. I was merely questioned, not tortured. Still, it was an unpleasant experience and one I wouldn’t care to repeat.”

“I’ve had my own encounters with the local plod. They can be quite nasty if they like. And the whole city is in an uproar over these assassinations. I expect the police might forego their usual courteous habits if they caught a foreigner with a bomb in his pocket.”

Flerko had disappeared, presumably to keep watch, but he bustled in suddenly with a brutish fellow in tow.

“Ah,” said Bonnaire, advancing to meet the new arrival. “Thick Ed. How are you?”

Thick Ed? Well, if it wasn’t polite it was at least accurate. The fellow was built like a bull terrier, short, wide and stout. He’d cropped his dark hair until it was nearly as short as the heavy beard that swathed the lower half of his face. His features were coarse, and wiry black hair sprouted from his nostrils. The enforcer of the group, no doubt. My first impression was that Thick Ed had not been recruited for his intellectual prowess.

Bonnaire introduced us, and my hand was crushed by a meaty paw. Thick Ed mumbled something in what might have been English.

“Thick Ed is our engineer,” said Bonnaire. “He designs and constructs the bombs we use.”

With those thick fingers? I made plans to be elsewhere when Thick Ed was at work.

Thick Ed produced an incomprehensible noise that might have been an acknowledgment of Bonnaire’s comment, or a belch, and wandered over to his worktable. Bugger. Would it be rude to leave now?

I cast a sidelong and wistful glance at the door and found that my escape route had been blocked by a slim fellow with a ruddy face and a cold eye.

Bonnaire followed my gaze. “Ah, Harkov.”

Harkov advanced slowly into the room. He nodded at Thick Ed, who had his face buried in the interior of a clock and therefore ignored him, and at Flerko, who sprang up and kissed his hand with delight.

“My comrade,” Flerko gushed. “I am so glad you have returned safely. We have been very busy in your absence. You must hear of the attack on Moreland House. There was great destruction and—”

Harkov held up a hand. “In good time, my friend. All in good time. First, I must greet our new associate. Bonnaire, you will introduce us.”

Bonnaire nodded obediently. “Miss India Black,” he said, “Pyotr Alexeyevich Harkov.”

Harkov gave me a firm handshake and a quick appraisal. I can’t say I took to the man. I’m not fond of Russians generally, having been imprisoned in the Russian embassy at one time and carried off across the Channel by the tsar’s agents.

To date I hadn’t been much impressed with this anarchist lot. Bonnaire seemed a bit cavalier and not overly bloodthirsty. Flerko had passion in spades, but the thought of his twitchy fingers on a detonator was not comforting, and Thick Ed seemed, well, thick. Harkov, however, could have been the model for any theatrical poster featuring Slavic villains. Dark eyes glittered like chips of obsidian above slanted cheekbones. His cheeks were sunken, with two deep lines like sabre slashes on either side of a thin, tight smile. He wore his hair sleeked back, exposing a sharp widow’s peak that plummeted precipitously down his forehead. I could smell the hair pomade from where I was standing.

There was an air of authority about Harkov that I found puzzling, as my impression of anarchists was that they were all individualists who would rather die than submit to another man’s authority. I hadn’t imagined it, though, for Flerko had danced attendance on Harkov since his arrival and even Bonnaire seemed cautiously deferential. I wondered if Harkov could be the leader of this charming pack and the man Superintendent Stoke wanted, but in the string of names Bonnaire had rattled off during his introductions, he hadn’t mentioned “Grigori.”

Harkov gestured at the chairs around the table. “Please be seated, Miss Black.”

Flerko and Bonnaire joined us. Thick Ed remained at the workbench, his attention riveted on a length of wire. I chose a seat with a view toward the bomb maker. If he started fiddling with one of those packets of dynamite, I might need to ask for directions to the lavvy.

Harkov settled himself comfortably. “I must thank you for the information you have provided to us, Miss Black. It has been of stellar quality.”

“I’m glad to be of service to the cause,” I said with just a hint of fervor, not wanting to overegg the batter at this point.

“I am sorry that I was not here to see the results, but I was on the Continent attending a conference.”

A conference of anarchists? Superintendent Stoke would want to know about that.

Harkov produced a monocle and a clean handkerchief and began to polish the eyepiece. “Martine has vouched for you, and Bonnaire here believes you would be a useful addition to our group.” He finished cleaning the monocle, screwed it into his eye and scrutinized me through the lens. “However, I should like to hear myself about your interest in our enterprise.”

The bloke made it sound like I was proposing to buy railway shares from him. There’s nothing like politics to warp the brain and cause people to start speaking in euphemisms. Why can’t they just say what they mean? Nevertheless, I didn’t show my irritation at the uncanny resemblance between this Russian radical and the Tory politicians I’d encountered in my own country, but launched into my soliloquy. I won’t bore you with the details, as you’ve heard it before in this account, but suffice it to say that I threw in all the appropriate phrases at critical points of the narrative, chuntering on about my hatred of the nobs and the desire to strike a blow for freedom and all the rest of the twaddle you might expect from an initiate at a meeting of a secret society when she’s trying to impress the gang. I reeled it off easily; lying is second nature to a whore, or it should be if she means to be a successful whore. You’ve got to learn the knack of telling a portly gent with gout that he’s as strong as Hercules without giggling, or your bank account will be empty.

I finished my spiel with a resolution to assist the group in any way that Harkov and the others might determine. Harkov thought it over for a minute, those thin lips creased into a straight line, his dark eyes nearly closed. Flerko looked anxious and jiggled his leg under the table, while Bonnaire observed Harkov with a neutral visage. I plastered a pleasant expression across my face, though I was feeling far from comfortable. What would happen if Harkov decided my bona fides weren’t bona? Would he march me out into the alley and put a bullet in my head? Strangle me with some of that copper wire Thick Ed was fondling and toss my body into the Thames? I was berating myself for having failed to reload after firing off that shot outside the Bag O’ Nails and wondering if I’d be able to get the Bulldog out of my purse in time, when Harkov removed the monocle and placed it in his pocket.

“You can continue to provide us accurate intelligence about the movement and location of government ministers and peers?”

“Yes.”

“And you are prepared to provide financial support for our efforts?”

Curse Martine and Bonnaire. They hadn’t said a word about money. I had no idea what dynamite cost, but I reckoned I was about to find out. I hoped Harkov was just probing, trying to gauge just how committed I was to the cause. I’d be hanged if I’d fork over any of my hard-earned guineas to this lot; Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke would just have to come up with the cash, if necessary.

“Of course,” I said.

Money talks, even among those who affect to despise it. Harkov beamed, directing a satanic smile at me that made my blood run cold. Flerko sighed in relief, and Bonnaire relaxed.

“What is the topic of discussion tonight?” asked Flerko.

“We must wait for Schmidt,” said Harkov. “In the meantime, I have brought whisky and we shall have a drink to pass the time.”

A capital idea, I thought, for by this time my nerves were as frayed as a fishwife’s shawl. So we had a drink and Flerko and Harkov talked anarchist theory (deadly stuff, that; I nearly fell asleep during Flerko’s tirade) while Bonnaire smoked a cigarette, Thick Ed hummed a music hall tune as he tinkered with one of the alarm clocks, and I did my bit to lower the level of the whisky. It was all very cozy, but I hoped this Schmidt chap would arrive soon and we could move the evening along. My tolerance for anarchists was growing fainter by the moment and I was bloody tired.

My prayers were answered sooner rather than later (a clear indication of celestial favor if there ever was one) when Thick Ed lifted his head and announced, “I hear footsteps. Schmidt is here.” The bomb maker frowned. “And someone is with him.”

“Ah,” Harkov said smoothly. “So he has brought him tonight. Schmidt also has found a new recruit for our cell.”

A draft of wind whistled through the room as the door opened, and a professorial type with a shining bald head, gold-rimmed glasses and the beard of an Old Testament prophet bustled in. He looked like a kindly soul, with plump, red cheeks and a dimpled smile, but I spared him only a glance, for the new recruit that accompanied him was French.

EIGHT

O
ur eyes met and French inclined his head politely, just as any gentleman would when entering a room with a single female in the crowd. I acknowledged his courteous gesture with a graceful nod, and then he turned his attention to the men in the room. I would like to have given him the reaction his appearance at the meeting deserved, namely a poke in the ribs and a furious tongue-lashing, for the poncy bastard had surely known I’d be found among the Dark Legion. After all, he’d approved Dizzy’s plan for me to infiltrate this gang. But I restrained my natural instincts, as any agent worth her salt would do under the circumstances. The tongue-lashing and a bit of physical violence could wait, and they’d feel all the sweeter for the delay.

Schmidt introduced him first to Harkov, who mustered a parsimonious smile and a reserved handshake. Flerko pumped French’s hand but did not hide his curiosity, and Bonnaire was his usual suave self, extending languid fingers and murmuring “Bonsoir, monsieur.” Thick Ed contributed a grunt from the workbench.

Then it was time for my introduction to French. His cool fingers enveloped mine, and he bowed over my hand prettily, but his grey eyes were distant, betraying nothing. I matched his demeanor with only a hint of the inquisitiveness I thought any normal anarchist might exhibit. We separated and I slipped away to stand by Bonnaire’s side, a fact that escaped neither Bonnaire nor, I was absurdly pleased to see, French.

Harkov took charge and motioned us peremptorily to take our seats. I found it deuced odd that everyone deferred to him; this meeting was hardly the democratic exercise I’d expected, but as I was not au fait with the finer points of anarchist etiquette, I reckoned I’d just have to get Flerko alone and find out why Harkov had assumed such an air of authority. I was eager to hear what French had to say for himself, but before Harkov could give him the third degree about his radical views and the size of his purse, Schmidt plumped down opposite me and subjected me to the exacting scrutiny of a small boy examining an adder.

“I have looked forward to meeting you, Miss Black. The facts you have shared with us have been most interesting.” If the name hadn’t been a giveaway, the accent was. Schmidt was a German.

“Quite useful, too,” added Bonnaire.

“But for the damned influenza,” Flerko said, “we’d have struck a mighty blow at Moreland House.”

“Indeed,” said Schmidt. There was a twinkle in his eyes, but I thought it might be a glint of steel. “And now you have decided to join our merry band.”

“There is much to be done,” I said. “I’ll continue to provide information, but I’d like to do more for the cause.” I sounded like a right pillock, but Flerko was beaming at me and Bonnaire smiled and fingered his beard. Harkov stared at me, his dark eyes thoughtful. I didn’t dare look at French.

“Why?” asked Schmidt.

So I went through the whole song and dance one more time, though I did abbreviate the saga as by then I was heartily sick of the story and I reckoned Bonnaire, Flerko and Harkov were as well. I allowed myself to get a little hot at the notion of all those toffs paying for the privilege of rogering the fallen women of Lotus House, but I didn’t overdo things. Harkov’s unwavering gaze and sardonic expression were unnerving, and for some unaccountable reason, French’s presence had made me as edgy as a vicar giving his first sermon.

I finished reeling off my tale and waited for Schmidt’s interrogation to begin, but Harkov surprised me by abruptly addressing French.

“And what about you, sir?’ he enquired. “Schmidt has of course told us of your experiences together in Manchester and Liverpool. You’ve provided a great deal of financial support to our cause, and now I understand that you wish to be more actively involved in our affairs as well. Is that correct?”

“Indeed it is, sir,” said French.

“Yet Schmidt tells me that you are a member of the very class we intend to destroy. Your family owns mines, I believe he said. What was it?” Harkov turned to Schmidt. “Coal? Tin?”

“Both,” said French. “Coal mines in County Durham. Tin mines in Cornwall. My family has also expanded into manufacturing in the north of England, principally ironworks.”

“Then why should you seek to demolish the fruits of your family’s labours?”

“Our wealth is not the fruit of our labours. It was built on the backs of poor men and women,” French said bitterly, his face flushed. That was a nice touch, I thought, and vowed to make French tell me how he’d done that.

“You ask why I have turned against my family. If you could see the conditions in which our workers slave so that we might dine off silver and drink champagne, you would understand. We have exploited our workers so that we might live a life of decadence. We are parasites, living off the sweat and tears of others, without a thought for their health or happiness. In short, sir, I am ashamed of my family and what we have done. I intend to do the honourable thing and fight for the rights of the weak and the poor.” French had caught just the right look, equal parts humility and righteous anger.

Schmidt had been fiddling about with a large pipe, cleaning and filling it with tobacco. Now he lit the bloody thing and a noxious cloud enveloped the table. “Mr. French has been financing a series of newsletters and pamphlets for the workers, explaining their rights and urging them to down tools until their managers see fit to pay them a decent wage. Now he has decided that words alone will not accomplish the great task before us.”

Schmidt’s pipe belched black smoke. “You are not the first of your class to turn your back upon your relations in search of a better world. Our own leader, Grigori, comes from one of Russia’s greatest noble families. He too has rejected their ideals and has vowed to annihilate all those who stand in the way of progress.”

I’d been half-listening to French’s performance and pondering a change of the wallpaper in the drawing room at Lotus House, but the mention of Grigori snapped me to attention. Harkov was not the man we were after (though it would be no great loss to society if he ended up sent back to the Russians with instructions to deliver him to Siberia). At the mention of Grigori, Harkov’s eyes flashed and his hand moved involuntarily as though to silence Schmidt.

Schmidt forged on. “When Tsar Alexander II freed the serfs in 1861, Grigori was sure that Russia was finally on the path to freedom and dignity for all its people. But liberating the serfs has done little to improve their lot. They are still uneducated, still clinging to myth and superstition. The nobles were forced to turn over land to the serfs, but they chose the most barren fields to give to the peasants, and the poor creatures are required to pay for this land. Some of them must pay for fifty years or more. Grigori has tried to persuade his fellow noblemen to treat the serfs fairly, but they refuse to change. Like you, Mr. French, Grigori has decided that change can only be effected by drastic means.”

I wondered why, if Grigori felt so strongly about the wretched former serfs, he wasn’t back in Russia trying to assassinate the tsar, but running a brothel has taught me some useful diplomatic skills. “I take it Grigori has been exiled?”

Flerko snorted. “He fled Russia, just before his arrest. I was not so lucky. The Third Section—”

“Yes, Flerko, we know what you have endured,” Bonnaire said soothingly.

I had been puzzling over the conversation and now I spoke up. No doubt the manual for government agents recommends keeping your mouth shut and your ears open when you’re infiltrating a group of international criminals, but I’ve yet to read the manual and probably never will.

“Forgive me, Mr. Harkov, but there’s something I’d like to ask you. My review of anarchist literature”—I was stretching the truth a bit, as I hadn’t read any of that nonsense either, save for the information provided by Superintendent Stoke—“indicates that every man, and woman, of course, is considered capable of governing himself or herself, and thus no man has the right to govern another.”

French was giving me the eye, willing me to be silent, which is the surest way I know of encouraging me to talk.

“Yes?”

“Well, if that is the case, then why do you refer to Grigori as your leader?”

Harkov’s smile was laced with condescension. “You must explore the theory in more depth, Miss Black.”

I looked suitably chastened.

“But to answer your question, a group of men and women may freely choose to appoint one of their own as a leader. The critical point is that the decision is made
by
them and not
for
them. We have recognized that Grigori has certain attributes that will permit our group to function more effectively.”

Bonnaire laughed. “Money.”

“And education and contacts and many other things that make our task easier,” said Harkov primly.

“I see,” I said. “Thank you for explaining.”

Schmidt knocked his pipe against the chair leg. “We should administer the oath, Harkov.”

The oath? Anarchists took an oath? That seemed a bit structured for a group whose aim was to bring about the end of society as we knew it.

“Do you choose to join us?” asked Harkov. “You are free to refuse. Only an oath freely given binds a man to his brothers.”

Naturally we said yes, having been sent to do that very thing by the prime minister and Superintendent Stoke. I had visions of knives and the mingling of blood while we chanted something ancient and mystical, but the oath taking turned out to be a tame affair. Harkov asked French and me to stand, and we both did so, rather self-consciously. At Harkov’s direction, we placed our hands over our hearts. I screwed my face into a solemn mask and prayed I wouldn’t guffaw at an inappropriate moment.

“Repeat after me,” said Harkov. “I believe in the innate equality of all men, and I vow to respect my brother’s liberty.”

French and I spoke out loudly, parroting Harkov, though I felt the urge to ask why our sisters didn’t get some consideration as well.

“I vow never to use violence or usury to take my brothers’ property.”

French was word perfect, but I put “usury” before “violence” and thus spoiled the effect.

Harkov glared at me. “I vow,” he continued, “to speak honestly to my brothers and never to deceive them in any way.”

I concentrated and made it through without error, and I can assure you that I didn’t hesitate at all when I lied about not lying.

Then everyone gathered round and clasped hands. Flerko’s sweaty palm enclosed mine, and Bonnaire grasped my other hand.

Harkov looked solemn, like a priest about to deliver the wafer. “You have become a member of the society of free men, and, er, women,” he added, catching my eye. “We are bound together now in the noble enterprise of liberating all men, and, er, women, from the authority of the state and the oppression of the aristocracy.” He lifted his hands, raising French’s and Schmidt’s, and the rest of us hoisted ours.

“Brothers!” said Harkov.

“Brothers!” we all exclaimed.

“And sisters!”

“Sisters!” we echoed.

Harkov startled me by enveloping me in a bear hug, and then all the chaps lined up to embrace me and to clutch French in their arms. I was a trifle fretted by this, as Superintendent Stoke’s briefing materials had mentioned that some anarchists believed in the concept of free love, a notion obviously dreamed up by some bloke because even a radical female of average intelligence ought to know that free love was nothing but another name for prostitution, without the exchange of money. Some women might fall for the charm of unkempt beards and fervid talk about equality, but India Black wasn’t about to dispense her favors to any of the men of the Dark Legion (though under other circumstances, I might have fancied the handsome Bonnaire). But as a madam I’ve had quite a lot of experience in separating business from pleasure, and I wasn’t going to combine the two pursuits while I was weaseling my way into a cell of flaming zealots.

After all the cuddling and clinching, Harkov poured whisky and everyone gathered around the table, including Thick Ed, who reluctantly left off testing a spring and joined us. I reckoned we’d finally get down to business now, planning our next attack, but damned if the meeting didn’t degenerate into a philosophical discussion about the usual anarchist shibboleths: greedy parasites who exploited the working class, reactionary policies of the present European governments, and the torture techniques employed by the various security agencies (this last, predictably, resulted in an outburst from Flerko about Russia’s Third Section that took some time to quell). Vincent would have lapped this up, but I found it tedious, as indeed it was. Nevertheless, I had to make a show of appearing interested, and so I stuck a few verbal daggers into the aristocracy and the politicos and made enthusiastic noises about striking them down and otherwise burnished my laurels as a champion of the people.

Then Schmidt briefed us on the contents of a pamphlet he and French intended to publish, addressed to the costermongers of the East End, informing them of their rights as free men and merchants of the city, which inspired Flerko to yet another eruption, this one over the brutal treatment meted out to the costers by the police, who were known to upset their barrows and empty their wares into the street out of sheer malice. Bonnaire reported on the state of the group’s finances. French spoke sparingly, adding a comment here and there and appearing the earnest inductee. Harkov nattered on at length about the meeting he’d just attended in Lyme Regis, in which he and a few other ardent compatriots had talked about a concerted plan to set England ablaze with synchronized bombings, at which point Thick Ed actually uttered a few words about the practical difficulties involved in such a scheme until Harkov irritably cut him off.