India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A Madam of Espionage Mystery) (28 page)

He rubbed his mouth painfully and coughed. “Miss Black speaks the truth. She is employed by the British government.” He cast a baleful eye at Bonnaire and Schmidt. “And I shall demand an explanation from your ambassadors as to your presence in England. As for you,” he said, turning to Ivanov, “you shall accompany Miss Black and me to Scotland Yard, where we shall discuss your employment as an agent of the tsar.”

Harkov clasped a hand to his chest. “Grigori! What does this mean? And you, Bonnaire, and you, Schmidt, you are all traitors? I cannot believe it.” His knees sagged, and he sank slowly until he was sitting slumped on one of the packing cases.

“His name isn’t Grigori. It’s Ivanov, and when I last saw him, he was gathering intelligence for the Russian army,” I said.

“My allegiance is to the tsar.” Ivanov glanced dismissively at Harkov. “Had these other fools not intervened, you and Flerko would be accompanying me to St. Petersburg. As it is, the two of you may wind up back in Russia anyway when Scotland Yard is finished with you.”

“You certainly won’t be escorting them.” The Bulldog was in my hand now, covering Ivanov. “You’ll be staying here. We have some unfinished business.”

Ivanov laughed, a guttural bark that echoed around the room. “You’re still angry about French, aren’t you? I shall never forget the pleasure I derived from manipulating the two of you. And you call yourselves agents? I maneuvered you both like chess pieces. But, tell me, pray, where is Mr. French?”

“Why, he’s dead, of course. Miss Black shot him,” Harkov bleated.

“Of course she didn’t kill him, you idiot. Those two performed an entire drama for you all, and you believed it was real. Miss Black would never harm French. She’s in lo—”

“That’s quite enough,” I cut in. Dizzy’s face was a study; he looked like a young vicar hearing confession for the first time.

“We’ll have many interesting discussions, Major Ivanov.” French strode into the room, trailed by Superintendent Stoke and four men with drawn revolvers and grim countenances. We made an interesting tableau, this group of various representatives of law and order in our respective countries squaring off like a group of boys in the schoolyard on the first day of term. Schmidt and Bonnaire looked uneasy, and I couldn’t blame them. They’d clearly stumbled into something more than a den of anarchists. The tension between Ivanov, French and me was positively glutinous.

French waved his Boxer at Ivanov. “Were you planning to stand by while this idiot Flerko decapitated the British prime minister?”

“Of course not,” Ivanov said scornfully. “I had intended to rescue the man, the rescue unfortunately being preceded by a gun battle in which everyone but the prime minister and I had been killed.”

“So you were going to shoot me, you bastard.” I cocked the hammer of my revolver.

Ivanov grinned wickedly. “Just imagine what the papers would say when it was revealed that an agent of the tsar had saved the life of Benjamin Disraeli. Heads would roll, would they not? Your intelligence services would be decimated, and your ministers would be occupied with domestic political issues, leaving Russia with a free hand in the Ottoman Empire.”

Thick Ed shoved a thumb inside his vest and scratched vigorously. “It’s all up, ain’t it?” He was taking it like a philosopher. Harkov was a picture of despair, sitting with his head clasped in his hands.

When it comes time to write down “India Black’s Rules for Government Agents,” I shall be sure to include the following: “Never forget about the lunatic with the axe.” Flerko had been following the sequence of disclosures with horror. Now he flung back his head and an enraged howl filled the room. He swung the axe over his head and charged, not at Dizzy as I had feared, but at Ivanov.

Several guns, my own included, fired at once, unleashing a hail of bullets that struck Flerko and sent him spinning, arms flailing, until he collapsed to the floor. He jerked once, eyes wide and staring as he glimpsed Utopia. His outstretched hands closed into fists. He took a juddering breath, and it was finished.

The noise had been earsplitting. The silence that followed was even more deafening. Smoke eddied in drifts and billows toward the ceiling. We stared at the crumpled figure of the little Russian. I thought I caught the subtle hint of herring beneath the corrosive odour of gunpowder. I had hated to fire on the little fellow, but one could hardly stand by and watch as he chopped Ivanov into pieces, a decision I was sure I would regret.

Ivanov made his move then, while the rest of us were frozen into immobility. He turned his revolver on us and fired at point blank range. A bullet slapped into one of Stoke’s men and he staggered, gripped his shoulder and collapsed to his knees.

I threw myself at Dizzy, who’d been staring openmouthed at Ivanov. I caught the prime minister at the knees, and we tumbled to the floor. Chaos erupted. Bonnaire, French, Stoke and the Scotland Yard men scrambled for cover in the nearly bare room, emptying their guns as they dived behind empty crates.

Ivanov fired as he ran, but he was angling away from the door and toward the back wall of the warehouse, which overlooked the river. He crashed headlong through a window, shattering the few panes of glass that remained in the frame.

“Cease fire,” shouted French as he clambered to his feet and rushed after the Russian. He dived gracefully through the window, like an acrobat in full flight, and the last I saw of him was the soles of his boots disappearing into a black void.

TWENTY-TWO

Y
ou’ll be wondering what happened after Ivanov and French did swan dives out the window of that abandoned warehouse. Stoke’s man had been potted in the shoulder and while the wound was painful, the fellow was in no immediate danger. Stoke and his men rocketed off to find a boat to scour the river for the Russian and our man. I helped Dizzy to his feet. He looked surprisingly fresh, and he bucked up awfully well after the uproar died down. I suppose if you’ve survived dozens of scurrilous political attacks and nasty comments about being a Jew, a gun battle is mild in comparison.

Bonnaire and Schmidt (or Hoffman, as he preferred, but I’ll stay with Schmidt so as not to confuse things any further) introduced themselves more formally to each other, and Harkov began to cry. Though he looked the very archetype of a Slavic villain, I don’t believe his heart was ever in this anarchy business. He’s just the sort of bloke who likes to spout ideological nonsense without getting his hands dirty. Once he gets out of prison, he’ll likely gravitate to a missionary society. Thick Ed went meekly. I don’t think he was committed to assassinating politicos and such; I think he just liked to tinker with dynamite and blow up things. With his mechanical skills, I had no doubt he would be out of gaol before summer arrived.

I was about to load Dizzy into Schmidt’s carriage and enlist the German policeman to drive us back to the Langham when we heard footsteps and shouts on the stairs, and French marched in with a hand on Ivanov’s collar, Vincent trailing in his wake, while Stoke and his chaps brought up the rear with guns drawn. Ivanov, French and Vincent were soaked, their clothes dripping water. They smelled like the river mud at low tide.

French gave Ivanov a brisk shake. “We’ve got him this time, India.”

Vincent’s buttons were about to pop off his coat, his chest had swelled to such an extent. “French tole me this Russian devil might make for the river, and I was waitin’ for ’im in a rowboat down there. When he popped ’is ’ead up out o’ the water, I belted ’im ’ard. All French ’ad to do was grab ’im by the scruff of the neck.”

“Quite true,” said French, grinning with pride at the little sod.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” I asked. “It would have been much more convenient just to kill him and throw his body in the river.”

Ivanov’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “You shock me, India. Where is your compassion?”

“I believe I lost it at sea, on a trip I made once to Calais.” It had been an involuntary journey, courtesy of Ivanov, and it had been a nightmare.

There wasn’t much to say after that, and the superintendent and his lads ushered Ivanov away, along with Schmidt and Bonnaire, who agreed that it would be best if they cooperated with their British counterparts and pooled their knowledge about anarchist activities. French manned the driver’s seat of Schmidt’s carriage, and we ferried the injured policeman to the hospital and then repaired to Dizzy’s room for a medicinal dose of spirits. Stoke meandered in a couple of hours later, and we rehashed the whole affair from beginning to end. He’d had a brief conversation with Schmidt and Bonnaire and had solved the mystery of the missing bomb.

“Schmidt, I mean Hoffman, confessed to taking the fifth bomb, not half an hour after Thick Ed planted the infernal device. He planned to disarm and remove the rest, but then he got nervous about thwarting the plan and decided not to risk it. He wanted Grigori, er, Ivanov, as much as we did, and was afraid to spook him. Bonnaire also chose to let the plan proceed so as to keep the group intact until
he
could lay hands on Grigori, er Ivanov. It’s all rather confusing, and I’ve instructed those two that we don’t take kindly to government agents from other countries operating here without our consent. They’ll be out of England by the end of the week.”

“And their desire to catch Grigori meant they were willing to stand by while I shot French?” I was beginning to loathe French and German agents as much as Russians.

French shrugged. “Obviously, they didn’t want to reveal their identities as government agents. It’s a wretched business, but things like that do happen. The Third Section has even been known to sacrifice one of its own informants in a cell to protect another.”

“Extraordinary,” Dizzy muttered, “that so many members of the group were government agents.”

“Not uncommon these days.” Superintendent Stoke sucked his moustache thoughtfully. “Almost as many men on government payrolls in Europe as there are anarchists.”

Dizzy took a fortifying swallow of brandy. “Still, it is remarkable. Why, if I had read of this situation in a piece of fiction, I should have found it unconvincing. Even a novelist would have a difficult time conjuring up such a convoluted plot.”

“Dashed odd,” agreed the superintendent.

“Beggars belief,” said Dizzy.

I remained silent, but I resolved then and there to commit the story to paper someday. I’d have to wait a bit, for the British public isn’t quite ready to grapple with the nefarious doings of these combat cells and the machinations of the men who seek to stop them. They’re a simple folk, the British, and don’t take kindly to stories of double-crossing and treason, even if done in the name of all that’s good and true in the world. They prefer their heroes and heroines to be virtuous types who confront evil directly, with a firm resolve and the cross of St. George under one arm. They’re likely to sniff disapprovingly at brothel owners skulking about Seven Dials and playing blind man’s bluff with a bunch of nasty foreigners. I’d record the affair in my notebooks and keep it hidden until the appropriate time came along.

Such was my intention. Then one day in 1908, when I was advanced in years and had enjoyed some success with earlier tales of my adventures, I was shocked to discover a book in my local bookseller’s by a portly, wild-haired fellow with a moustache that would have done credit to a Corsican bandit. Chesterton was the chap’s name. The title was clever:
The Man Who Was Thursday
. Intrigued, I picked it up and began to page through it, with growing outrage. The man had stolen my story! Only in his version,
everyone
in the anarchist cell was a government agent. That bloody Stoke must have spouted off the details about the Dark Legion, probably while he was in his cups at his club and reveling in past successes. The destruction of the anarchist cell had been kept from the newspapers at the time so as not to frighten the public, and because Dizzy (and who can blame him, really) didn’t want anyone to know that he’d participated in his own kidnapping. Somehow this chap Chesterton had got hold of the story and thought it would make a dandy thriller. I bought the book and took it home, and I have to tell you, I thought it a second-rate effort and still do. But I digress.

It was dawn when the party broke up, but French and I were still too excited to sleep. We walked back to Lotus House and popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. French assumed his favorite position, sprawled in a chair with his boots propped on the fireplace fender. He leered at me over his glass.

“I don’t think we’ve quite finished celebrating.”

“Oh? What did you have in mind?” Was that a twinkle in the man’s eye?

“We haven’t had a bout in some time. Are you game?”

“Do you mean fencing, or are you speaking euphemistically?”

It
was
a twinkle in his eye. There might be hope for French after all.

Mrs. Drinkwater knocked on the door. “Ooh. Sorry, dears,” she said, taking in the champagne bottle and French’s flushed countenance. “Letter for you, miss.”

The envelope was dusty with snuff.

Dear Miss Black,

If you want to know about your mother, ask French.

Sincerely yours,

Lady Margaret Aberkill

Dowager Marchioness of
Tullibardine

Ask French? Oh, I certainly would.

“You wanted a bout?” I enquired coldly. “Let me get my rapier.”

* * *

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