India Black (20 page)

“If it’s Calthorp that returns, he’ll recognize me immediately. What then?”

“Then you throw the case out the window for me to retrieve, and employ some of your famous charm.”

“I see. Deniability for you and Dizzy. Gaol for India.”

“You won’t be there long,” said French, as if this were some consolation. “We’re wasting time. Give me your foot, and I’ll give you a boost.”

It was a perilous climb up the frigid iron drainpipe, the sleet peppering our faces and hands, and the wind howling like a banshee. I went first, with French behind me. I floundered and groped and would have made little headway, but he was agile as a monkey and strong as a gorilla, wedging his shoulder under my bum (a liberty I wouldn’t have permitted in ordinary circumstances, even though he was a handsome devil) and shoving me skyward. Maneuvering onto the ledge from the downspout was a damned-dicey business, but we finally succeeded, me with my heart in my throat and French spouting a torrent of invective, most of it aimed at me and my lack of gymnastic ability. Then we slithered along the ledge with all the grace of newborn colts, the soles of our leather boots glissading on the slick surface, French gripping my arm to steady me, until we reached Gladstone’s window. There he extracted a folding knife with a wicked blade, inserted it deftly, and sprang the window latch with the practiced ease of a screwsman. I clambered in through the open window, scanning the room for the black leather portfolio. The room looked less like a bedchamber and more like the headquarters of some political or military campaign, for there were documents stacked on every surface, maps lying unfurled on the floor, and a number of gentleman’s cases scattered around the room. After a rapid reconnaissance (for French had stuck his head through the window and was barking instructions to hurry, for God’s sake), I found Calthorp’s prize tucked away behind an armchair and gathered it up. I felt a thrill of triumph when I claimed it, for outwitting that pious pack of fools and laying hands on it before French. I had little time to bask in the warm glow of success, however, for French snatched the case from my hands at the window, and disappeared along the ledge on the slow journey back to the drainpipe without so much as a backward glance at me, leaving me to crawl out of the window and find my own way down.

A few steps into my excursion, it occurred to me that I had failed to close the window behind me, ensuring that when Calthorp and Gladstone and the rest returned to the room, they’d be greeted by a screeching gale, a drift of snow and ice on the Turkey carpet, and the sure evidence of an unwanted visitor to the chamber. For a moment, I wondered whether my oversight might lead to a general alarm being raised and our escape being circumvented, but then logic reasserted itself, and I concluded there was little Gladstone could do in the circumstances. He could hardly raise a hue and cry about the disappearance of a leather case belonging to Her Majesty’s government, particularly one that had been purloined by one of his supporters.

It was laborious business, navigating that frozen ledge, like mountaineering on a glacier without the aid of crampon or piton, and by the time I’d reached the drainpipe I was weak as a lamb, shaking with cold and wet to the bone. French was nowhere to be seen; I assume he’d already begun to descend the drainpipe, so I hooked a leg around the pipe and attempted to grasp it with hands that were numb with fatigue and chill. That probably explains why, as soon as I’d relinquished my foothold on the ledge, I slid down the drainpipe at speed, plummeting to earth like a meteor. It was a lucky thing for me, but a bit unfortunate for French, who had decided to play the gentleman. For he was waiting for me at the bottom of the downspout, about to offer a chivalrous arm I suppose, when I barreled into him like a Swiss avalanche, sending him sprawling into the darkness of the snowy garden with a muffled oath.

I found him a few feet away, laid out like an effigy on a tomb, too stunned, I presume, to move.

“French?” I inquired, for the second time that night.

There was no response. Tentatively, I reached out my hand and shook him gently. I didn’t want to be too close in the event he regained consciousness.

“French, are you hurt?” The only sound was the keening wind and the clatter of sleet against the windows of the hotel.

I groped until my hand found his face, cold as marble and damp with melting snow. I leaned over and put my ear to his nose, listening for the breath of life and debating whether to leave him as he lay or summon assistance.

There was a deep shuddering sigh, then a series of ragged breaths, and then French found his voice. “Imbecile,” he croaked, and I knew it would be no time at all until he was back to normal.

“Where’s the case?” I asked.

French waved a vague hand, indicating the world at large, and concentrated on breathing. I pawed around in the snow for a few minutes, praying that the impact hadn’t sprung the lock on the case and scattered War Office documents and the PM’s memo to the four corners of the Claridge’s garden, until my hands encountered cold wet leather and I hauled out the portfolio, none the worse for the ordeal but for a touch of damp. I brushed off the snow and tucked it under my arm.

“I’ve got the case, French. Let’s get out of here before Calthorp comes back and finds out someone’s buggered off with it.” The open window still nagged at me, and I wanted to put some distance between us and the hotel. Any minute, the disappearance of the case might be discovered, and a crew of clean-living, muscular Christians might come spilling out of the hotel, baying like hounds on a scent. When they did, I wanted them to find only snow churned into a bewildering pattern of sitzmarks, as though a gang of schnapps-drinking sportsmen had been schussing through the Claridge’s garden on a lark.

“Can you walk?”

French snarled something inarticulate that I took to be an affirmative answer, and he staggered to his feet. I took his arm, but he shook off my hand with another of his patented growls and stalked off through the falling snow. I couldn’t help thinking his behavior a tiny bit ungrateful. After all, I’d retrieved the case for him and Dizzy, probably saving Dizzy’s career (at least for the moment—there’s no telling about Dizzy; he’ll be in the soup again soon of his own accord, no doubt), and ensuring that Gladstone and his party of gospel grinders didn’t know how deeply British investors had backed the Sublime Porte. What Gladstone would have made of the War Office memo detailing the deplorable state of Britain’s armed forces I don’t know, but at a guess I figure he’d conclude that while they might be no match for the Russians, they could easily take on the hired thugs and indolent janissaries that comprised the Ottoman military. Gladstone was spoiling for a fight with the Turks, and there’s nothing as militant as a Christian when he’s convinced he’s doing the Lord’s work. On the whole, I preferred Dizzy’s sabre-rattling theatrics for the Russians to Gladstone’s barmy ideas about attacking Constantinople and freeing the Porte’s Christian subjects from their Turkish masters. I didn’t doubt that most of the lads in the army would prefer the comfort of their billets in England to dueling it out again on the Crimean peninsula, given the dismal performance there the last time round. Oh, no doubt some fire-breathers were chomping at the bit, anxious to test their skills and luck on the field of battle, whether against Cossacks or Afridis made no difference to them. But the average soldier probably preferred the comforts of bar-maids and beer.

While I was conducting this political analysis and congratulating myself on my charitable work on behalf of Tommy At-kins, I’d been trotting along behind French, who was marching along at a ground-eating pace. It was bitterly cold; the sleet had changed into a heavy, wet snow, and the wind was still blowing with a vengeance. I stopped ruminating about Turks and Christians and began contemplating the medicinal benefits of a stiff peg of brandy, followed by tea and toast. We’d left the garden of the hotel behind and were trekking through an alley, making for Downing Street, when French uttered a muffled oath, stopped short and held out a restraining hand.

“What is it?” I said, having to shout to make myself heard above the shriek of the wind. “What’s the matter?”

He didn’t reply, only directed my attention to the end of the alley where a gas lamp burned feebly. A dark figure, cloaked and motionless, stood in the muted halo of yellow light. My heart sank as I contemplated the figure, for there was something diabolical about that silent, waiting apparition that made me shudder with fear. The man’s unnatural stillness was more sinister than a flashing blade or a brandished pistol. I took a half step back and slid in behind French’s stalwart form.

“Not one of your men?” I enquired hopefully.

He grunted. Good-bye tea and toast, I thought regretfully. The evening looked far from over.

When you’re in a pickle, there are three things you can do: brazen it out, fight it out or run like the devil. Being a whore, I’m practiced at the first, avoid the second unless there’s no alternative and prefer the third as it offers the best opportunity to preserve purse and person. Instinctively I looked over my shoulder, back down the alleyway, to suss out an escape route. What I saw made me clutch French’s arm.

“Three more of them, behind us,” I hissed in his ear, and he nodded grimly, never taking his eyes from the dark figure under the lamp.

He clasped my hand and drew me close, putting his mouth to my ear. “Follow me,” he said. “If I give you the word, I want you to run. Don’t stop for anything. Go straight to the PM’s office. There will be someone there to help you.” His grip tightened. “And whatever you do, hold on to that case.”

“That’s the plan?” I asked, in some exasperation. “I try to outpace four ruffians through a blizzard?”

“You’re right. That’s a bloody awful plan,” French said. His tone matched mine. “I’m sure I can think of something else if you give me a minute.” He pretended to think. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” He paused for effect. “I could always take the case and leave you to your own devices.”

I glanced over my shoulder again. The three shapeless forms I’d seen in the alley were closer now and had materialized into three bulky brutes bearing down determinedly upon us.

“Right,” I said. “Plan one it is. Let’s move, or those three hooligans back there will be inviting us to make up a table at the nearest pub.”

We set off with French in the lead and me trailing along in his wake, checking now and then to see if the gap between us and the three men had narrowed. The few paces we covered seemed to take forever, with the dark figure waiting silently for us under the gas lamp, oozing menace, and the three men skulking along behind us like a pack of wolves stalking their prey across the steppe. We reached the street, and the motionless figure stirred and advanced slowly toward us, until we met just at the edge of the light.

“That will be far enough, Mr. French.” The voice was cold, cultured, and unmistakably Russian.

“Ivanov,” French said gloomily.

The Russian gave us a lupine smile. “This is an interesting game we play, is it not? A move here, a countermove there? But I believe my queen is about to take your rook, Mr. French, leaving King Dizzy exposed. Or so I would imagine, given the lengths to which you have gone to retrieve that case. I am trembling with anticipation, old boy. I simply can’t wait to discover what you’ve been at such pains to keep secret. Why, you’ve even enlisted a whore to help you protect national secrets. I’d gauge that a sure sign of desperation.” He gave me a mock bow, which sent snow cascading from his hat and the shoulders of his cloak. “Though I must congratulate Her Majesty’s servants for their taste in ladies of the evening. A prime specimen, without a doubt.”

There’s something about being discussed like a prize-winning Berkshire sow at the county fair that sets my teeth on edge, but for the moment the Russian had the upper hand. The three hoodlums had formed a semicircle around us, blocking any escape routes. They were a vicious-looking bunch, mustachioed and swarthy. A cudgel dangled from the hands of one; the other two had their paws buried in their pockets, ready to produce weapons if necessary. Now would have been a good time for French to produce a weapon of some sort to cover our retreat, but it was Ivanov who whipped out the barkers, matching Webleys that gleamed dully in the flickering lamplight.

“And now, I’ll have the case,” he said, “for it is much too cold to pass time in idle chitchat. We must get Miss Black back to her fireside, and you, Mr. French, must deliver some disappointing news to the prime minister.”

I tensed, waiting for the signal to flee from French, but it didn’t come. Ivanov jerked his head at one of his goons, who promptly obeyed the imperious command by wrenching the case from my grasp.

“Thank you for cooperating, Mr. French. It makes our interactions so much more pleasant when you are disinclined to play the hero, although I must say, I expected more from you.”

“And you’ll get it, Ivanov,” French said. “I’ll be after you.”

“I believe you, sir. And that is why I must arrange for you to be briefly detained by these fine fellows.” He gave us a wintry smile and a piercing glance from those glittering green eyes. “Do not struggle, and you will not be harmed. You will be released when I have gone.”

I hoped he was telling the truth; one look at those three burly accomplices made me also hope that at least one of them was smart enough to understand that we were to be freed after the Russian wolf had fled. Ivanov shoved one of the Webleys into his jacket and collected the case.

“Au revoir, French, and good-bye to you, Miss Black. Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of consulting you professionally someday.”

“I don’t do flunkies myself, but I’ll set you up with a nice girl who knows how to satisfy the common soldier,” I said.

“A woman of spirit. I admire that,” said Ivanov, but I could see that my comment would not be forgotten, and I hoped I would never have the ill fortune to meet that sinister figure alone and unarmed. With his last remark, he turned on his heel and stalked away without a glance, pocketing the Webley as he went and carrying the case securely under his arm. My gaze followed him as he plunged into the blowing snow, and then, just as he was about to vanish, I thought I saw a small, black shadow detach itself from the doorway of a shop and disappear into the darkness after the Russian.