India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (21 page)

There was silence as we all contemplated Schmidt’s words. My heart was thundering in my chest. I hoped my compatriots couldn’t hear it. I was finding it hard to swallow as well. I’m a dab hand at appearing innocent, having practiced my craft over many years (it’s surprising how many blokes like the virginal type), and I prayed my skill would continue for the duration of the meeting.

Schmidt had found a piece of straw and was cleaning his pipe. “Quite frequently the spy will urge the group to act. He has no value to his employers if the unit he penetrates does nothing.”

Flerko’s already pale face blanched. “If you are implying that I am the spy just because I suggested the memorial service as a target, I must protest.”

Schmidt lit his pipe and stared thoughtfully at Flerko through the smoke.

Flerko licked his lips and put a shaking hand to his mouth. “You might as well accuse Harkov. Everyone knows that the government agents who join our groups always seem to go missing whenever a dangerous deed is committed.”

The situation was becoming intolerably tense. At this rate, the group would disintegrate before we found Grigori.

“You’re all being ridiculous,” I snapped. Harkov opened his mouth. “And don’t tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about because I haven’t had a cigarette extinguished on my arm by the brutes in the Third Section. If we have been infiltrated, then you can bet we wouldn’t be sitting here now accusing one another of treachery. We’d either be dead or in gaol or on our way out of the country in the hold of a ship. You’re seeing ghosts, comrades.”

“How do you explain the fact that not one bomb exploded?” Schmidt asked.

“The police might have searched the park again before the service.” I turned to Thick Ed. “You said that our bombs would have less chance of being discovered if they were placed in those boxes from the construction site, but it’s certainly feasible that
any
container would have been considered suspicious. I think the constables found them. That sounds more likely to me than some fantastical story about one of us hiring a small army of street arabs to break up the memorial.”

Put like that, it did sound absurd.

“Why did we not hear of this great triumph of the British police? Surely they would have trumpeted their superior work in the press,” Harkov said.

“Do you think so? What politician in his right mind wants the public to know that anarchists had succeeded in hiding bombs in Trafalgar Square? I think they’d keep it quiet so as not to alarm people.”

“There is truth in what you say.” Bonnaire’s forehead was wrinkled in thought, his brows knitted. “It could have easily happened that way.”

“I remain unconvinced,” said Schmidt.

Harkov nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we should disband.”

“Certainly we should remain alert to the possibility that someone is here under false pretenses.” Bonnaire unlaced his fingers and stretched out his hands on the table. “But all we have are suspicions, and those can dissolve our group. I have been involved with cells before where infiltration was suspected. The fear, the paranoia, destroyed those units. I suggest that we continue to operate as usual. If we have been penetrated”—he gave a Gallic shrug—“then we will either catch the villain or bear the consequences. We cannot go running into the hills every time we get the wind up. It is the nature of our cause that we will encounter duplicity and danger.” He looked straight at Harkov as he said this. The Russian met his eyes for a moment, and there was hatred there, but Bonnaire continued to gaze mildly at Harkov until the latter looked away. I was waiting for Harkov to pull a revolver from his belt and demand the right to avenge this slur upon his courage, but apparently our brave leader was anything but.

“You are suggesting that we select another target? Even though we may have a backstabber in our midst?” asked Schmidt.

“I am,” said Bonnaire.

“But if we have a traitor—” Harkov protested.

“Yes,” Schmidt interrupted. “I believe you are right, Bonnaire.”

“But—” Harkov said

“I also agree with Bonnaire,” French spoke for the first time. He’d been deuced quiet over there. I’d been hoping he’d speak up, afraid that his silence might be interpreted by the others as guilt.

Schmidt lifted a hand. “Let us proceed with a plan. If we do nothing or disband, our turncoat will live to penetrate another cell. If we do have a traitor in our midst, we owe it to our anarchist comrades to deal with him before he infects more combat units.” He challenged us with a look. “What shall be our next objective? Our next prey?”

There was dead silence around the room, as you might expect when the suggestion of a proposed target had just been mooted as proof of treason. We all sat on our hands, metaphorically speaking, shifting in our seats and finding great interest in the bare stone walls of the cellar.

“Come, come,” Schmidt said impatiently.

“I have a plan,” said Flerko hesitantly.

“Your last proposal failed miserably,” said Harkov. “We should hear what the others have to say.”

“It is a brilliant plan. I insist we discuss it.” Flerko jumped to his feet. “It is a plan that will shock the European heads of state and send Britain into chaos. The people shall lose all faith in government and flock to our cause.”

You can always count on Flerko to produce a grand scheme. His mind must be stuffed with plans for exterminating the cream of society.

Harkov looked at Schmidt. The latter shrugged.

“Very well, Flerko,” Harkov said.

The little Russian leaned forward. “I propose that we kidnap the prime minister. We shall try him for his crimes and execute him. We shall cut off his head and place it on a pike on London Bridge.” Flerko’s eyes were luminous and his smile beatific. “It is a beautiful plan, is it not? In one stroke we will demonstrate our ability to reach anywhere into the halls of government. No minister or politician will feel safe. The people will see that their government is feeble and ineffective, and will rise up against their leaders. The Dark Legion will be a legend.” He looked eagerly at each of us, like a pup who’s done a trick and now expects a bone.

I hoped my face did not register my thoughts at the moment, for what I was thinking was that Flerko was cracked. Smoke dribbled from Schmidt’s nostrils. Bonnaire evaluated the silkiness of his beard. Thick Ed absently scratched an armpit. Harkov looked pained, and French’s right eyebrow was twitching.

I was the first to speak. “It’s . . . audacious,” I said lamely.

“Perhaps too audacious,” Bonnaire said, frowning. “How would we get access to the prime minister?”

“I’ve done a reconnaissance,” said Flerko excitedly. “He lives on the first floor of the Langham Hotel, and in the evening there are only two men on guard, one at the bottom of the stairs and one at the door of the prime minister’s room. Two men! They pose no challenge to us. We can dispense with them easily enough and force the door to Disraeli’s room.”

I was not best pleased to hear that Flerko had been prowling around the Langham. French and I had visited Dizzy on numerous occasions, and I hoped the pint-sized anarchist hadn’t seen us sauntering in to chat with Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke. But as Flerko was as excitable as your spinster aunt, I felt sure that if he had caught sight of us he would have confronted us then and there.

“Why not just blow him up and be done with it?” asked Thick Ed. “It would be much easier to do that than grab the bloke and whack off his head. And where we gonna find a pike?”

“Your bombs have proved ineffective,” said Flerko, though not without some trepidation as he looked at Thick Ed’s massive hands. “Besides, the boldness of the plan will shock the world. I’m afraid the press is getting blasé about infernal machines.”

“What day were you planning to conduct the operation?” Harkov asked.

“Perhaps three or four days from now. As soon as we are ready.”

“Ah.” Harkov shrugged. “Unfortunately, I shall be—”

“At a conference,” Bonnaire concluded his sentence. “How many damned conventions can a man attend?”

Harkov stiffened. “Grigori requests that I go. I am an important contact between him and other leaders of the movement. He is aware that I may not always be here when operations are conducted.”

“I find it hard to believe that the prime minister’s security is so light,” Schmidt said, prodding the bowl of his pipe where the fire had gone out again. “Are you sure you didn’t miss anything, Flerko?”

“I am certain of the details. I have spent many days and nights watching the prime minister’s movements. He shares the arrogance of so many other British politicians. They seem to think that no anarchist would dare attack them.”

“Have you followed the prime minister since the memorial service?” I asked. “I would have thought the police would have insisted on increasing the number of his bodyguards after we came so close to blowing up half of Her Majesty’s government.”

“We would surely have to disband after an operation of this magnitude,” Harkov said. “The police would not rest until they brought the perpetrators of such a deed to justice.”

“Yes, we should all have to leave the country immediately, but what a coup! The Dark Legion would serve as an inspiration to combat units all over the world. What does it matter if we have to flee England and regroup somewhere else?” Flerko had his tail up, all right, bouncing on the balls of his feet with suppressed excitement. I was about to object on the grounds that I was not about to leave Lotus House when it occurred to me that Flerko’s hare-brained scheme just might be the easiest way to round up the members of the Dark Legion. Provided we could convince Grigori to be present at the scene of the crime, that is, so as to join the others in the clink.

“There is one other thing,” said Flerko. What next, roust Queen Vicky out of bed and force her to parade through the city in her bloomers? I’d draw the line at imposing that sight on the poor citizens of London. “If there
is
a traitor among us, as Schmidt believes, then this will surely expose him. Or her,” he added hastily, glancing at me and turning pink. “No agent could possibly allow such an important figure to be kidnapped. He, or she, will have to reveal the plan to the authorities.”

“But how will we know which one of us is the snitch?” Thick Ed asked.

“Perhaps,” Bonnaire ventured, “we should meet again tomorrow night and discuss Flerko’s proposal in more detail, along with the matter of the turncoat in our midst. It is difficult to concentrate tonight.”

“The threat of an enemy agent among your rank should focus the mind,” a voice said drily.

Schmidt rose. “Grigori! Welcome, brother.”

Flerko sprang to his feet; Bonnaire stood up gracefully and bowed his head briefly. The legs of Schmidt’s chair screeched along the stone floor, and even Thick Ed deigned to rise. French and I sat frozen to our chairs, for I had recognized that voice and so had he. His hand had disappeared beneath the table and was no doubt resting, at this very minute, on the handle of the revolver he wore tucked into his boot.

SEVENTEEN

I
nto the room strolled Major Vasily Kristoforovich Bloody Ivanov, last seen by yours truly off the coast of Calais, floating facedown, arms outstretched, his body bobbing on the waves. There could be no doubt about that lean, wolfish face with the predatory smile and the glass green eyes, hard as emeralds. During the period of our previous acquaintance, he’d been serving as an agent in the military intelligence department of the Russian army, not in the least concerned with domestic security issues. What the devil was he doing here? Well, explanations would have to wait, or indeed might never be given, as Ivanov had a hand in his pocket and I doubted that it was because his fingers were cold. He spared me a glance and his mouth quirked, but his eyes returned immediately to French, who had risen to his feet. If there was going to be a battle, then I was going to contribute my shilling’s worth. I moved my hand cautiously to my Bulldog. Ivanov saw the movement and a frown creased his forehead. He shook his head, an almost imperceptible motion. Very slowly, eyes flitting between French and me, the Russian agent’s hand emerged from his pocket, and he turned to Harkov and extended it to his minion. Harkov grasped it quickly, babbling like a bloody serf caught pilfering the vodka. Ivanov grimaced at the flow of words, cut Harkov off midstream and acknowledged Schmidt with a quick nod.

Ivanov’s arm swept the room. “Introduce me, Harkov. I have not yet been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of our friends here.”

It was all deuced polite as Harkov led the treacherous bastard around the room, introducing each of us with a brief description of our reasons for joining the cause. I waited for my turn, fear turning my bowels to ice as Ivanov worked his way down the line. I wasn’t sure what the man was up to, but I reckoned “no good” covered most of the options. Then his eyes were inches from mine and he was smiling cool as, damn it, as if we’d just been introduced by a mutual friend on a Sunday afternoon in Hyde Park. Hard to believe that mere months ago he and French had shot it out aboard a wretched, leaky boat and I’d been prepared to exterminate Ivanov if I’d gotten the chance. Now we were smiling at one another, though my smile was as rigid as a corpse’s. Ivanov was more relaxed. Indeed, he looked as though he were enjoying himself. I’m sure he said something, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember what it was. I was too preoccupied wondering whether French would be able to shake hands with a man who’d once put a bullet in his chest. As much as I loathed the green-eyed spy, French hated him more, and who can blame him, really? Of course, French had returned the favor by plugging Ivanov with a bullet from a Remington .41 rimfire derringer, which had knocked the Russian rogue overboard and left him bobbing on the ocean swell where I’d last seen him. But by the time I’d tended to French’s wound and dispatched some of the thugs Ivanov had hired and gone chasing after Ivanov’s female accomplice (with no luck, confound it), Ivanov had disappeared. I had hoped he had purchased a one-way ticket to Davey Jones’s locker, but here he was in the flesh and clearly planning some fresh mischief.

Ivanov stepped up to French and met his eyes squarely. I fancy no one else in the room could see the smoldering rage behind French’s bland smile. I had to applaud the chap, for he seemed positively cordial as he shook hands with the fellow who’d shot him.

“So this is Mr. French, our patrician convert? Pleased to meet you, sir.” Smooth as silk, our Ivanov.

“The pleasure is all mine,” French purred. The two old adversaries shook hands, smiling grimly. A look of wary understanding passed between them. I hoped that if the others had noticed, they’d chalk it up to that unspoken camaraderie that exists between gentlemen of a certain class. Well, it appeared we had a truce on our hands, but for my part it would be an uneasy one. That Russian bugger was about as trustworthy as a crocodile, and I had no intention of lolling about on the sandbank while he was in the water.

* * *

Neither, it transpired, did French. We’d endured a hellish half hour, sitting across from that wicked devil Ivanov while Harkov fluttered about like a crazed moth, trying to impress the boss with a load of codswallop about our future plans and the heroic deeds we’d commit in the name of international anarchy. It had all been a bit awkward, really, and I even felt a little sorry for that stick Harkov, for though I didn’t like the fellow, it was rather humiliating to see him boasting like a schoolboy with an overactive imagination. Ivanov had sat silently most of the time, inscrutable as a Buddha, breaking in only to question Harkov, which flustered him so that he tied himself in knots trying to answer. Eventually Schmidt would interject a calm observation, which Ivanov listened to with interest, and each of us contributed a comment or two, so as to demonstrate our commitment to the anarchist cause. We talked mostly of our next campaign, which proved a lively discussion as everyone wanted to weigh in with a suggestion since our sponsor was present. But lurking in the room was that rather sizable elephant, Schmidt’s assertion that we had been infiltrated. I don’t think I could have stood it if we’d embarked on that conversation while Ivanov was present. I’d kept a cool head until now, but it was going to be jolly difficult playing the dedicated radical while Ivanov lurked nearby. To my great relief, the meeting had broken up without anyone raising the subject of betrayal, and I’d hightailed it back to Lotus House where I had a restorative glass of whisky while I waited for French.

As I expected, he soon appeared with Vincent (who’d been following me, ready to prevent an attack from Mother Edding’s hooligans) in tow.

“Blimey!” Vincent exclaimed. “Hivanov’s back.”

We huddled down before the fire with whisky in hand to talk over the Russian agent’s appearance.

“I’d like to get me ’ands on ’im,” growled Vincent. “I almost froze to death chasin’ ’im to . . . to—”

“France,” I offered helpfully.

“Right. France. Knew it was one of them foreign places where they talk queer. Wot’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”

“God knows,” I said. “But I don’t want to. He’s bound to be trouble. I say we wait for him before the next meeting and grab him. I’d enjoy visiting him in one of Her Majesty’s prisons.”

French stared moodily into his glass. He shook his head morosely. “Who knows if he’ll be at the next meeting? If we’ve seen the last of him, I’ll regret it. I want to know what he’s playing at. Has he transferred from military intelligence to the Third Section? Is he trying to sabotage the group, or does he want it to succeed?”

“Don’t the British and Russian governments cooperate when it comes to hunting down anarchists?” I asked.

French took a deep draught from his glass and grimaced at the strong spirits. “Theoretically, they do share information. But agents from every nation are working to infiltrate these combat units and they don’t always bother to inform the British government when they’re operating on British soil. I wouldn’t be surprised if the anarchist community isn’t riddled with government agents. I admit to being shocked when Ivanov walked in the room, though.”

“Christ, so was I. I thought I’d keel over and pass out when that bugger came through the door. He’s a cool one. He must have known we were there.”

“Of course he did. Confound the man, he took a huge risk in popping up like that. We could have given away the game, and then the three of us would have been in a hell of a tight spot.”

Vincent scratched an ear in bewilderment. “I still don’t understand, guv. You said Ivanov might want to ’elp them anarchists? Why would ’e do that?”

“The Russians are no friends of ours, Vincent. A British government distracted by domestic problems is much less likely to interfere with Russian plans for the Ottoman Empire or India. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Russians aren’t behind the whole affair.”

“But if this is a Russian scheme to destabilize our government, why would Ivanov show his hand?” I asked. “Surely he’d hide in the shadows. And if he wanted to create some deviltry, all he has to do is throw us to the wolves. Dizzy would be horrified to lose two agents.”

“You are charmingly naïve, India. Our places would be filled quickly. Governments do not mourn their dead.”

“Oh.” I must say, I found that attitude rather appalling. I must take a moment someday soon and think about why I’m risking my neck for such an ungrateful bunch. “If that’s the case, then the tsar probably doesn’t care a fig about Ivanov. I say we just kill the brute and be done with it.”

French frowned censoriously at me. “Really, India. You’re becoming as bloodthirsty as Vincent. There’s more to Ivanov’s actions than meet the eye, and I intend to find out what the fellow is doing. It could be of vital interest to the prime minister.”

“So we just go to the meeting tomorrow and if Ivanov shows, we have a friendly game of whist and forget all about the gunshots we’ve exchanged? This espionage game has strange rules, French. I don’t like playing about in the shadows, trading polite nothings with a cove who tried to kill us and wondering if he’ll try it again. It’s not natural.”

French seemed hurt at my depiction of his chosen profession, but I soothed him with more whisky and then we nattered on about Ivanov and his intentions. An hour later, we were none the wiser. Vincent had nodded off on the floor, and French yawned and stared at the dying embers of the fire. I nudged Vincent with the poker.

“Let the boy sleep,” said French.

“He’s not sleeping in my study. Do you have any idea how long it takes to clear the stench if he’s here for more than an hour?” I bestowed upon French my most bewitching smile, which usually scythes down men like ripened oats. “I could do with some rest myself. I don’t suppose—”

French blushed. “Regretfully, no. Not with Vincent around. And not when I’m exhausted from all this late night palaver. And not when I’ve been mucking about in Seven Dials. I’m filthy. I need a bath and my bed.”

I must have looked petulant (and who wouldn’t—what kind of a man turns down an offer like that?) for French tilted his head and gave me a rueful smile.

“You know how I feel, India. It’s just that . . . just that—”

“Don’t stutter, French. And don’t stew over it.”

He brushed a dark curl from his forehead. “This isn’t a good time, for a number of reasons. But I promise you, when this affair is finished—”

“Right,” I said brusquely. “When we round up these radicals, we’ll—”

What would we do? French and I exchanged a glance. Confound that blond lass in Mayfair. She was going to prove a difficult hurdle for French to jump.

“It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the meeting.” I prodded Vincent with my toe. “And take this one with you when you go.”

French nodded, looking uncharacteristically downcast, and for a moment I thought of taking his hand and assuring the poor fellow that I wasn’t a succubus and not to fret. But I steeled myself and watched from the front door as he and Vincent trudged away, until they were lost in the darkness. In truth, I was just as grimy and exhausted as French, and it would be a relief to fall into my bed. I lit a candle, extinguished the lamps in my study, picked up my revolver and staggered up the stairs to my bedroom. It felt grand to shut the door behind me, sealing off the world of rabid radicals, double-crossing agents and explosions for a bit. I put the candle and my Bulldog on the bedside table and opened the door to the wardrobe.

I don’t know about you, but there are certain times of day when I prefer to be attacked. Midmorning is capital, as I’ve had my breakfast and some coffee and I’m full of vim and vigor then. Just past teatime is also prime. And in a pinch, I can hold my own after dinner, though I’d rather settle before the fire and count my earnings. But I definitely dislike being ambushed at the end of a long night, when I’m wrung out and haven’t had a bite to eat and have imbibed rather too much whisky. It’s a damned shame that louts don’t bother to consult you on your preferred time for a contretemps, but they’re inconsiderate creatures and generally have the manners of ill-tempered ruminants. Goats, for example.

This fellow even smelled like one. When I opened the wardrobe door, a hand shot out and encircled my wrist. Then the chap was on me, his weight taking me to the ground (though the smell might have laid me out flat eventually) as he wrenched my arm and covered my mouth with a horny hand. We fell on the carpet with a thud that shook the house and should have woken anyone within the building, provided the occupants did not include a group of bints sleeping off the evening’s work and a drunken housekeeper. I concluded that I could not rely on any immediate assistance.

My attacker was sprawled over me, his dirty palm shoved into my mouth. I gnawed at the thing like a crazed rat, but he was pressing it so firmly against my face I couldn’t close my jaws and get a grip. All I succeeded in doing was dislodging a fair amount of filth into my mouth. I must have inflicted some damage, though, for he swore quietly and vehemently, and removed his hand long enough to punch me in the jaw with his fist.

“You shut up,” he hissed, and reared back to deliver another blow. He still grasped my right wrist, but my left hand was free and I brought it up forcefully, leading with the heel of my palm and catching him under the nose with as much force as I could muster, which, on account of my being right-handed, was not as strong as I had hoped. I’d wanted to break his nose, you see, and I don’t think I succeeded because I didn’t hear the satisfying snap of cartilage. But any blow to the nose hurts like the devil and so this one did. My assailant’s head snapped back and he swore again, more loudly this time. He scrambled to his feet, still holding my arm, and yanked me up after him. Most men seem to think that sheer strength is all they need when dealing with a woman, but despite being such strong brutes, men have some curiously vulnerable parts and one well-aimed blow can leave them gasping on the ground, staring up at you in astonishment, as if to say, “That ain’t fair.” No it ain’t, my lad, and don’t you forget it. The way I see it, those tender bits are the Big Bearded Bloke’s way of making up to us ladies for that serpent-and-apple business. But I digress.