India Black (26 page)

French remained silent, but seemed to be considering the wisdom of making just such a suggestion to Dizzy, if he ever made it back to the prime minister’s office.

“In any case,” said Ivanov, “I now know that Disraeli has been running a bluff for the past few weeks. Not a wise move, with such lax security. Your security services need some seeing to, my friend. Those agents you placed around the embassy? Disgraceful. A child could have eluded them.”

As Vincent had amply demonstrated that fact, it was difficult to argue the point. French didn’t bother. With as much dignity as he could muster, he struggled to a sitting position, brushing the snow from his shoulders and pushing his black hair from his face. Ivanov took a step backward, keeping the pistol leveled at French’s chest.

“If you’ve read the memorandum,” said French, “then I’ll have to kill you.”

I thought this would send Ivanov into a paroxysm of laughter, but he only shrugged. “I thought you’d feel that way. But as you can see, my friend, I control the situation. And I’ve no intention of giving you the opportunity to kill me.”

“I need be given nothing,” said French, with contempt. And then the snow exploded as he reared up from his seated position and lashed out with one leg, catching Ivanov behind the knees and toppling him backward into the drifts. In an instant, French was on him like a mongoose on a snake, one hand gripping Ivanov’s wrist, forcing Ivanov’s revolver to the ground, and the other hand locked around Ivanov’s throat.

The Cossack gave a guttural exclamation and started forward, but in a twinkling I had the Bulldog out of my purse and in my hand, and I obtained the Cossack’s attention by swatting him on the ear with the revolver as he charged past me. He skidded to a halt and turned a thunderous visage in my direction, his face crimson with anger and that hideous scar now a white seam across his face. It was enough to scare the doughtiest of whores (and I’m not her). I briefly considered the consequences of abandoning French to his fate, but as I cast about for a bolt hole, it was all too evident that there was nowhere to run in this frozen wilderness. I’d have to stand and fight, even if the fellow coming toward me did look like an extra from
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus.

The guard let out a blood-curdling scream (he evidently did sound effects, as well) and raised his
shashka
over his head. A man’s masculinity must be a fragile thing, seeing as how he tends to overreact when he’s smacked by a woman. A little cuff on the ear from another man and the Cossack would probably have settled in to dispatch his attacker with an air of professional boredom. But let a member of the fairer sex count coup on his stern self, and the bloke was out of his mind. He took a slow, menacing step toward me, and licked his lips as if to show me how much he’d enjoy displaying his skill with that bloody great knife of his.

I waved the Bulldog in front of his face, just in case he hadn’t realized that I’d boxed his ears with a .442 caliber pistol. That brought him up short for a minute, as he cogitated a bit on whether he could run me through before I could shoot him between the eyes. Evidently he liked his chances (most men do, when it comes to women, and that’s a great advantage to us all, my dears), because he gave me another one of those evil smiles, gripped the
shashka
in both hands and charged.

Now, I’ve never killed a man in cold blood before. I didn’t have time to consider whether there was any wiggle room in the sixth commandment, but I thought these might be considered extenuating circumstances by the Almighty. I don’t usually concern myself overly much with moral issues anyway. So when that great Cossack oaf bore down on me with the clear intent of cleaving off my head like this year’s Christmas goose, I held my ground, raised my revolver, took careful aim at the crossed bandoliers on his chest and pulled the trigger.

The .442-grain bullet spun him around like a child’s top; the
shashka
went flying out of his hand to bury itself in a drift, and the Cossack crashed to the ground with the sound of a boulder rolling downhill. At the shot, every crow within a mile had risen into the air, and their raucous calling broke the heavy silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Ivanov and French had ceased their wrestling match, stunned by the roar of the gunshot, which was still echoing in the cold air. French looked around wildly, and then, noticing a revolver in my hand and the absence of one large, scar-faced Cossack, renewed his efforts to subdue Ivanov. French had Ivanov’s pistol hand pinned beneath his body and was trying to drive his thumb into the Russian major’s eyes (not cricket, that, but who gives a damn?). Ivanov was twisting like an eel, trying to extract his pistol from under his body and fend off French’s probing fingers at the same time. To tell the truth, this match wouldn’t have attracted many of the touts; it looked strictly amateurish. Both men were encumbered by their heavy coats and gloves, and the snow made footing treacherous, which resulted in the two of them grappling and thrashing around, sending the snow flying, but neither gaining much of an advantage over the other. It looked like a schoolboy punch-up on the athletics field; the combatants would retire as soon as they’d run out of steam, perhaps bleeding from the nose or mouth, but mostly just sweating and out of breath.

A game changer was needed, namely me. I plunged through the snow toward the two men, which was no small feat in itself, as my skirts were soon encrusted with the icy stuff and heavy as lead. I halted a few feet from the two, who were still locked in an embrace, panting hard and faces squeezed with effort.

“Ivanov,” I shouted, and pointed the Bulldog at him. “I’ve killed your Cossack. You may as well give up now.”

Two heads popped into view, bearing similar expressions of incredulity. They must have thought I’d fired a warning shot. I do believe my stock rose dramatically with the two antagonists.

“You’ve killed Dmitri?” said Ivanov, wheezing asthmatically.

“Dead, by God,” said French, with not a little admiration, I thought.

“That’s right,” I said. “A
shashka
is no match for a Webley. Something,” I added witheringly to French, “I’ve been trying to get through that bloody thick skull of yours for some time. Now, Major, please release your grip on that pistol and stand up.”

Very slowly, he complied. French took the gun from Ivanov’s hand and backed away until a distance of several feet separated the two men. I’d have done the same thing; having seen Ivanov’s panther-like ferocity at close quarters, I wouldn’t get near the man either. All he needed was half a chance, and he’d be on you.

“It is you who now holds the whip hand,” said Ivanov, with a graceful little bow to French as he acknowledged his defeat. He spread his arms open theatrically, baring his chest. “It remains only for you to shoot me, and the secrets of your bungling government will be safe.”

“I doubt you would hesitate, Ivanov, but I draw the line at shooting an unarmed man,” said French.

There’s that damned public school indoctrination, always cropping up at the most inconvenient times.

“You’ll return with us to London, where you will be our guest for an extended stay. It won’t be Claridge’s, but neither will it be a labour camp.”

“That will cause some outrage among my Russian brethren.”

“Not if they don’t know about it. I rather think you’ll set sail from Dover, Ivanov, but never land in Calais.”

“You cannot hold a Russian major indefinitely, without charges. You British are renowned for your system of justice.” Ivanov looked defiant.

“I wouldn’t rely on that if I were you. If you’re tried at all, it will be for espionage against the state. Not quite the same thing as shoplifting some cuff links. As it is, I would not be surprised if you were shunted off to some dreary castle in Scotland, until things die down and the knowledge you possess is no longer relevant.”

“I am prepared to suffer what I must for the sake of my country,” said Ivanov.

“Spoken like a true patriot,” said French. I felt ill.

Then Ivanov grinned wolfishly. “But not this time, I think.”

An arm encircled my throat and a body pressed close to mine. This in itself was not unduly alarming, but the small, cold circle of metal pushed against my temple was.

“Drop your weapon, India, or you shall share Dmitri’s fate,” said a voice I recognized.

Of course the alert reader (and, if I tell the truth, probably even the barely conscious reader) will have remembered that Oksana was an occupant of the coach. In my defense I can only say that I was so intent upon preventing the Cossack from taking off my head, or French’s, that I had completely forgotten about Oksana’s existence. Until she pressed a pistol to my head.

“Oksana,” I said glumly. I slid a sideways glance and noted the look of grim triumph on her face. She was stylishly decked out in one of those stunning Russian fur hats and a full-length fur coat, both in the rare shade of jet known as “black diamond sable.” I coveted them both instantly. Compared to her I looked wet and frumpy. I conceived, if it were possible, an even more intense dislike of the woman.

The barrel of the gun bored into my skull.

“Drop your gun, India. I won’t ask again.”

I didn’t think she would. I let go of my Bulldog and watched it disappear into the churned snow at my feet.

“Now you, Mr. French. Please return the major’s weapon to him.”

French was looking at her with a bemused expression. “And if I don’t comply with your request?”

I was afraid I knew the answer to that question.

“Then I shall have no choice but to shoot India in the head.”

Usually, I adore being right, but not in this instance.

“I should then have sufficient time to shoot you,” said French. “And then Ivanov.”

I thought French seemed unduly optimistic about his mastery of the shooting arts, not to mention insufficiently concerned with the welfare of India Black.

“You have an unduly optimistic view of your skills, Mr. French,” said Oksana, “but if you want to try your luck, I’ll indulge you.”

There was a longish pause ... which stretched on interminably as French struggled visibly with his decision. I hardly dared breathe, what with Oksana’s arm across my windpipe and French’s evident desire to leave Ivanov by the road with a bullet hole in his cranium. Finally, after an unconscionably lengthy time (from my point of view), French sighed regretfully and tossed the pistol in the air so that when it returned to his hand, the grip now faced Ivanov. Reluctantly, French extended the weapon to Ivanov, who snatched it from his hand.

“For a moment, I wasn’t sure what your decision would be,” Ivanov laughed. “But as usual, you can count on an Englishman’s sense of honour. I didn’t think you’d allow Miss Black to die, even if she is a whore.”

“She may be a whore,” said French, “but she’s a damned fine shot. Felled your Cossack guard in one go. I’d be careful about insulting her, if I were you.”

Just what I was thinking.

Ivanov shrugged. “As she won’t be getting her hands on a pistol anytime soon, I’m not worried. Now, we’ve wasted enough time here. There’s a ship waiting for us at the coast. I do apologize, but I feel compelled to bind you both for the remainder of our journey.”

Oksana held French and me at gunpoint while Ivanov conducted a hasty search of the coach. After a few moments, he’d scavenged an extra pair of leather reins, several lengths of rope, and a belt from the dead Cossack. At his instructions, we turned our backs to him, and he bound our hands, first French’s and then mine.

“Into the coach with you, French. And please don’t be so foolish as to try anything. The first victim of any impetuosity will be Miss Black. And we’ve already seen that you’re unwilling to see her pretty face disfigured by a bullet to the temple.”

French climbed into the coach and Ivanov followed him, shoving him into one of the seats and tying his feet together. Then it was my turn for the same treatment, with Ivanov roughly roping my feet together with the Cossack’s belt and twisting the leather until the knots were tight. Then he propped me on the seat next to French and left the coach, summoning Oksana to him.

“I suppose I owe you my thanks for giving up that pistol,” I whispered to French. “But by God, we’re in some trouble now. What do you think they intend to do with us?”

“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” said French gruffly. I think he was embarrassed.

“And as for your question, I don’t think they’ll do anything to us until they reach Dover and ensure their escape route to the continent is clear. We’ll have our chance, then.”

Every glass of water was half-full to French.

There was no time for further conversation as Ivanov and Oksana returned to the coach, dragging the dead driver. They opened the door to the coach and with a great deal of straining and cursing, managed to maneuver the body onto the floor, where it lay across our feet, which was deuced uncomfortable as the fellow weighed a bloody ton. The dead man’s eyes were open, staring accusingly at me. I didn’t feel any sympathy for the bloke. He’d have lopped off my head if given the chance and bragged about it afterward. My only concern was for my boots; I’d paid a pretty penny for them and couldn’t bear the thought of the Cossack’s blood staining them. I pried my feet out from under the body and rested them on the guard’s legs.

Then it was time for the final humiliation. Ivanov stripped my muffler from my neck and, taking a knife from his pocket, cut it into small pieces.

“I need hardly remind you that we still have several miles to travel, and it will be necessary to change horses along the way. Obviously, I cannot allow you to raise an alarm at any of the inns, so you shall have to be gagged. Please open your mouth, Miss Black.”

I sat mute, jaws clamped shut. No need to help the bastard do this, I reasoned.

Ivanov huffed impatiently. “Come, come. The alternative is to put a bullet in your head and bury you under the snow. We haven’t much time; which will it be?”