Not Less Than Gods (12 page)

“How can you drink anything in a place like this?” Bell-Fairfax demanded, horrified. Ludbridge chuckled.

“My dear boy, it’s only gin. Strong enough to stand off pestilence, I expect, and in any case I can’t imagine they wash the glasses here often. If at all.”

“What’s become of Jack? He wasn’t down the shop this morning
at all,” said a man at the bar. Bell-Fairfax sat straight but did not turn to look.

“He kept in upstairs today,” said the barman. “Lazy beggar! Dropped the word as he was feeling sick. More likely there’s someone looking for him.”

“Aren’t you the lucky fellow?” remarked Ludbridge
sotto voce
.

Bell-Fairfax tossed the contents of his glass on the floor and rose to his feet. He stalked out, followed at a slight distance by Ludbridge. Once in the street Bell-Fairfax crossed to the far side—not that he gained much perspective thereby—and peered up at the windows of the upper stories. One window on the topmost floor was lit from within.

“What’ll you do now?” asked Ludbridge. Without answering, Bell-Fairfax looked around. He spotted an open tenement doorway and ducked into it, vanishing into Stygian blackness. Ludbridge followed and just glimpsed Bell-Fairfax’s back vanishing as he swiftly climbed a flight of steep stairs. Ludbridge pursued at his best speed, up and up and up. Each landing was illuminated a little by feeble light from under the doors, enabling Ludbridge to keep Bell-Fairfax in sight. No tenants came out to inquire who might be running upstairs at such a pace; Ludbridge supposed a general listlessness made them apathetic.

At the next landing Ludbridge spotted Bell-Fairfax silhouetted against a narrow window there. Puffing and blowing, he approached. Bell-Fairfax held up a cautionary hand. Ludbridge peered past him. They had an excellent view straight across the street, into the Ship Aground’s gable windows. Two were dark, but in the third they saw a man shaving himself by the light of a candle.

“Ah! But how do you know that’s your man?” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax only shook his head in reply. They watched, breathless, as with infinite care the man scraped away at his upper lip. At last he put down the razor and caught up a towel to dry his face. As he tossed the towel away, both Bell-Fairfax and Ludbridge nodded sharply. It was the subject of the fourth portrait.

“He’s getting himself ready to go out for the evening,” Ludbridge observed in a whisper. Without a word, Bell-Fairfax turned and ran
back down the staircase. By the time Ludbridge, following him, emerged into the street, Bell-Fairfax had vanished.

Taking a guess, Ludbridge limped back across to the Ship Aground and made his way down an alley that ran along one side of it. Emerging into a foul muddy yard where privies leaned with open doors, he spotted a flight of outer stairs connecting with the inn’s second floor. Bell-Fairfax stood beneath them, peering upward. Ludbridge joined him.

They heard a door close; someone came pattering down the stairs, and as he descended they recognized their quarry. Bell-Fairfax stepped out and, reaching up, touched the last of the gummed labels to the back of the man’s coat as he passed.

Turning at the base of the stairs, the man came face-to-face with his stalkers. As if to underscore the moment, someone lit a bright lamp within, which shone out through a window and cast a square of illumination on their pale countenances.

“Dear, dear,” said the man. “Not clever enough, was I? Hallo, Ludbridge.”

“evening, Stayman,” said Ludbridge. “What do you think of my recruit?”

“Damned effective.” Stayman grinned at Bell-Fairfax. “Well, youngster, welcome to Jacob’s Island! What d’you think of it?” He made a wide gesture taking in the filthy yard, the brimful privies, the night miasma rising from the stinking canals and ditches. “What would you give, eh, to scour places like this from the face of the earth?”

“All I have,” said Bell-Fairfax.

He was silent on the long walk home—for the last train had gone and no cabs would stop for them, even after they had crossed back over the Thames. Ludbridge watched him, whistling an air as they trudged along. At last Bell-Fairfax turned to him.

“How often shall I be called upon to stick labels on people?”

“Never, I should think,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax said nothing more, and after a few paces Ludbridge cleared his throat.

“You said you’d give all you have to bring the longed-for day. The price will be higher than that, you know.”

“Will it?”

“Oh, yes. You will be obliged to pay out all you are, as well. All your notions of chivalry, honor, pride . . . any hope you had of winning a place for yourself in the history books.
You
won’t matter, d’you understand? Only the work matters.”

“It’s no worse than what’s expected of a soldier, after all,” said Bell-Fairfax at last.

“Precisely. You’re a soldier, in the subtlest of wars. And an act that would be criminal, when performed by a civilian for base purposes, is quite another thing when required of a soldier. I think you see.”

Bell-Fairfax nodded. They walked on down the Strand.

Greene reached out with his left hand, attempting to pull the globe nearer as he studied the paper on the desk in front of him. Bell-Fairfax, Pengrove and Hobson watched uncomfortably, each one wondering whether he oughtn’t push the globe within Greene’s reach, for as matters stood it was a good ten inches out of range. At last Ludbridge snorted and, getting up, shoved the globe on its stand toward Greene.

“For God’s sake, man, mind what you’re doing,” he said. Greene peered over his spectacles, giving Ludbridge a severe look.

“Our Customary Informant,” he said, “has advised us that Louis-Napoléon will stage a coup d’etat next year, and assume dictatorship of France.”

Bell-Fairfax caught his breath. “When, sir?”

“The second of December, in point of fact.”

“The anniversary of Bonaparte crowning himself Emperor!” said Bell-Fairfax. “As well as the anniversary of the battle of Austerlitz, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Keen on dates, are you? Well, you’re correct. He’s keen on them too. The following year, on the same date, he’ll end the Second Republic and found the Second Empire. This will have consequences, of course. There’ll be a war.”

“Are we to fight the Bonapartists in France, sir?” Bell-Fairfax sat perceptibly straighter. Pengrove and Hobson looked sidelong at him.

“No,” said Greene. “We are not. We will be allied with the French against Russia.” Bell-Fairfax looked stunned. Greene went on: “According to our Informant, we will fight a singularly long, bloody and badly managed war. We will win, of course, but at considerable cost.”

“We’ll be fighting for the
French
?”

“With them, Mr. Bell-Fairfax. May I continue without further interruption?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Our Informant has pointed out that advance notice of the war presents us with certain opportunities, and has recommended a number of steps to be taken. These will profit the Society, of course, but it does seem to me that we—I speak as a mere Briton now, rather than a Society member—would benefit greatly by having superior intelligence regarding the theaters of conflict, as well.

“And there is another matter . . .” Greene looked down once more at the paper on his desk. “I can’t imagine you’ll run into anything where we’re sending you, but orders are that all operatives should be briefed to keep their eyes open. You’ve heard of the Franklins, I assume?”

“What, poor old Northwest Passage Franklin?” said Pengrove.

“No!” said Ludbridge scornfully. “They’re a branch of our brotherhood in Philadelphia. Founded by Dr. Benjamin Franklin. Their inventor fellow.”

“So he was,” said Greene. “We received a curious communication from them, the other day. There appears to have been a breach of security over there.”

“That’s damned bad.” Ludbridge sat straight.

“They’re not telling us much, of course, but what we have been able to ascertain from independent sources is that some young fool broke from their ranks and took his talents to another organization.”

Ludbridge grunted as though he’d been punched. Pengrove, watching, noted that he’d gone pale. “What other organization?” Pengrove inquired.

“Exactly what we’d like to know,” said Greene. “And one can’t have renegades running about, after all; what are vows of silence for? So we had one of ours chase down their truant and sweat him for what we could learn. Which wasn’t much; some group associated with the old Burr conspiracy plans to have a go at conquering Mexico.
Filibusters
, they call themselves. Nothing Brother Jonathan can’t deal with himself, and he’s welcome to. The machinery’s another matter, of course.

“As far as our man was able to learn, the truant hadn’t actually built anything for them yet, and we made certain nothing
will
be built. Still, we don’t know how much the chap told them, nor whether he took them any plans from the Franklins. So all men in the field are being advised to look out for Americans bearing suspiciously advanced weaponry or other
technologia
.”

“So noted,” said Ludbridge.

“And so, back to our own game. Three young gentlemen of leisure shall set out on an extended tour of the Continent and other places of interest, which will, purely by chance, include the scenes of the coming armed conflict. They will be accompanied by an older gentleman, perhaps a tutor or uncle—Silenus to a trio of Bacchuses, if you like. The young gentlemen will appear to be prime examples of British idiots. Wastrels, dilettantes, positively the last sort of creatures anyone would suspect of intelligence-gathering.”

A silence greeted his statement. At last Pengrove put up his hand.

“I think I can play an idiot, sir.”

“I’m certain you can,” said Greene. “And if you others feel unequal to the task, I recommend you take a walk through some of the more fashionable districts of this great city and observe the Well-Bred Imbecile promenading in his natural habitat.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove, in subdued voices, and Hobson added: “Where are we to go, sir?”

“You will begin with the Holy Land,” said Greene. “As for the other places on your itinerary, you are not to know them in advance. You will be informed when and as necessary. Mr. Ludbridge, you are in command; Mr. Hobson is Dispatch Officer; Mr. Pengrove, you will serve as
the mission’s photographic portraitist, providing us with views of certain locations. Mr. Bell-Fairfax, you are Mr. Ludbridge’s second-in-command. Have you any questions?”

“I assume I’m to see Parker for funds and whatnot,” said Ludbridge.

“You are. The usual arrangements have been made. You’ll leave on the thirtieth.”

“Right.” Ludbridge got to his feet. “By your leave, then, Greene, I’ll just take my young gentlemen for a walk in Mayfair. Come along, chaps.”

Mr. William Jenkins operated a profitable tour service, conveying hundreds of pious Britons each year to Jerusalem and other sites of interest. The tour he was presently engaged in conducting had become a source of some discomfort to him, however. The fault lay not in the Bible students and devout pensioners who made up his list of tourists; rather in the indiscretion of the owners of the packet steamer, who (in addition to providing service for Mr. Jenkins’s tour) had booked a number of more secularly minded passengers as well, who were displaying unbecoming attitudes of irreverence.

Most notorious among these were four gentlemen who shared a cabin aft. They drank a good deal, wandered the decks and attempted to engage in inappropriate conversation with females, were rebuffed, blustered, were loudly and publicly seasick, monopolized a corner of the saloon and grew riotous at whist there, stuck out their legs to trip elderly gentlemen who passed their table, complained about the fare, smoked cigars in the presence of ladies, told jokes of the most infantile and scatological nature and laughed uproariously, annoyed the steward, and in general made themselves damned nuisances—though of course Mr. Jenkins phrased it in a less offensive manner when he complained to the ship’s officers, which he soon did on a daily basis.

In addition to their behavior, the quartet was visually irritating as well. One was an older gentleman, who might have preserved a certain leonine dignity had he ever been sober, but as it was his scarlet nose was the warning beacon that lit his entrance to the saloon, and advised
decent passengers to gather up their knitting, Scripture commentaries or travel guides and make a hasty departure before his three students, or nephews, or whatever they might be, followed in his train.

One was a grotesquely dwarfish and whiskered individual who nevertheless managed to fit no less than five different checked patterns into his attire—trousers, waistcoat, jacket, tie, and hatband—while what could be seen of his shirtfront was a jarring lime-green. Another was as markedly tall as his companion was squat, an immense youth who made matters worse with a beaver hat that added some fourteen inches to his stature, and who was forever striking his head against beams and falling down, prompting hilarity in his friends. The third was a shrill and lisping specimen of British manhood, foppishly dressed despite his manifest lack of any feature that might be deemed pleasing or, indeed, symmetrical. He wore a ridiculous straw hat and monocle, the latter of which he dropped into his tea regularly, at which his companions roared with laughter.

It was with profound gratitude that Mr. Jenkins watched them stagger ashore at Beirut, where they vanished with their considerable baggage into a crowd of mendicants screaming for baksheesh. He very nearly forgot them over the journey across Galilee, through Nazareth, through Jerusalem, as his tourists exclaimed over the ancient villages, the camels, the palm trees, the very stones that might have known the Savior’s tread (though it must be admitted some complained about the heat and the curious smell compounded of dust, donkeys and vinegar). How horrified Mr. Jenkins was, then, to spot the four oafs from the steamer in the throng at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem!