Not Less Than Gods (41 page)

Mikhail Ilych nodded sadly. “He cannot be moved, for now; you will have to leave him with us, but I promise you, we will care for him as one of our own.”

“Damned decent of you.” Ludbridge coughed, looked down. “Well. As Brother Matthews said, won’t the bastards try to steal a boat or something, and get away on the Neva?”

Nikitin shook his head. “They cannot, any more than you can. The river is being closely watched by the Third Section. They may think they can cross the country unseen, if they travel by night.”

“And night will fall . . .” Ludbridge took his watch out, checked it. “Entirely too soon. You’ve got men posted, watching the place?”

“We have,” said Mikhail Ilych.

“Good. Can you provide us with that wagon again, old chap?”

“And a good deal more.” Nikitin bowed from the waist. “But for this
moment, come and have supper. You will want a good meal in you, for this night’s work.”

A great deal of preparation was necessary. There was, however, time to pay a visit to Hobson’s bedside in the Kabinet’s infirmary, before they departed. Unrecognizable for tubes and bandages, Hobson lay still and gray as one of the dead men in the martyrs’ shrine. Ludbridge shook his head. Pengrove turned away, tearful. Bell-Fairfax looked on, white and silent; as they walked away he said only, “He was an innocent.”

Chlebnaya Street lay no great distance from Anglisky Avenue, in a thinly populated district of warehouses.

“They must have run to the first empty house they could find, after shooting Hobson,” said Bell-Fairfax. In the darkness of the jolting wagon he was a grim shadow, with pale eyes in a pale face.

“So much the easier for us,” said Ludbridge. “Though I’m not happy about the police being so nearby if things should get—how shall one put it? Theatrical.”

“It’s as though last night never ended,” said Pengrove, with a hollow laugh. “Here we are again! The murder-fairies have magically cleaned our garments and our weapons.”

“We aren’t murderers,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“Just as you say, old chap. The blood will spill all the same, what? And none of it will bring back Johnny.”

“No,” said Ludbridge. “It won’t. But I invite you to consider what our world will be like, in a few years, if the Reverend Breedlove and his lads get that transmitter back to the States and take it apart. If they’ve any clever fellows in their ranks who can reason it out from first principles, they will. Who knows what they might extrapolate further?

“But you can be sure they’ll come after the Franklins to see what else they’ve got that might be useful, and, with all respect to our Quaker
friends, I don’t give them much of a chance of holding out against a determined enemy with weapons. Then
we’ll
have an enemy set on carving out a slave-holding empire, armed with our machines.

“No, I really do think we must stop them here, tonight, whatever the cost.”

“We will,” said Bell-Fairfax.

The wagon slowed, drew up. They emerged into a small open square at the eastern end of Chlebnaya Street. The wagon rolled away as Ludbridge looked at his watch. He tucked it away in his pocket.

“Very well. Gentlemen, do you recall the church with all the scaffolding around it, just opposite the Admiralty?”

“And the War Office,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“The one with the golden dome,” said Pengrove.

“That’s the one. We should be on its roof no later than nine o’clock, on the highest point we can reach. Shouldn’t have any difficulty climbing the scaffolding.”

“On the roof?” Pengrove turned to stare at him.

“That was what I said. Bell-Fairfax, do you think you could find your way there, at need?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Saint Isaac’s Cathedral.”

“Good. This shouldn’t take long, but one never knows.”

They walked up Chlebnaya Street, which was dark and seemingly deserted. As they approached, however, a shadow detached itself from a doorway and met them. It was Semyon Denisovich.

“They are still in the house,” he said quietly. “They broke into the cellar, but have gone upstairs. The house belonged to the English; in a way they are burglars on your property, yes? The manager of the tallow manufactory lived there. He has since found less fragrant quarters, and so the house is used for storage.”

“Is that what the stink is?” Bell-Fairfax looked disgusted. Semyon Denisovich nodded and pointed at a complex of warehouses across the canal, immediately to their right.

“That is the Tallow Depository. Your industrious merchants have filled it with barrels of grease. Rancid fat becomes candles to light the mind of the scholar, you know. Life is full of such transformations.”

“So it is.” Ludbridge looked thoughtfully at the house. “Are all of them in there?”

“We think so. No one has gone in or come out, but we have seen a light behind the shutters from time to time.”

“How far away is the police station?”

Semyon Denisovich pointed toward the southeast. “Two streets that way.”

Ludbridge nodded, never taking his eyes from the house. It was a plain wooden frame building of one story, shabby, its paint peeling. “Used for storage,” he said. “Storage of tallow, by any chance?”

“Yes. There are barrels in the cellar.”

“How many entrances and exits?”

“A front and back door. Two windows in each side.”

“Right. How close can we get to the house without being seen?”

“Quite close. The Americans broke into the cellar easily.”

“Thank you.” Ludbridge shook his hand. “I’d be obliged to you if you’d pull your fellows out now. We will do what needs to be done.”

“You are certain, sir?”

“Yes, thank you. Quite sure.”

“Then God and all His saints go with you, sir.” Semyon Denisovich bowed from the waist and walked back into the shadows.

“Pengrove?” Ludbridge turned to him. “Make your way across that lane. Position yourself where you’ll have a clear shot at anyone coming out the back of the house. Be sure you mind the windows as well as the door.”

“Am I to shoot anyone who emerges?”

“You are.”

“To kill?”

“I should have thought that was obvious.”

Pengrove nodded, tight-lipped, and slipped away into the night. Ludbridge turned to Bell-Fairfax.

“Now, my boy, we’re going into the cellar.”

“And up into the house to confront them, sir?”

“Good Lord, no. A chap could get killed that way,” said Ludbridge, and started off for the house. Bell-Fairfax followed. They stepped over the low fence and threaded their way through the neglected garden, following the convenient wedge of obscuring shadow thrown by the house itself.

The cellar door was at the side of the house. Ludbridge squatted beside it and worked for a moment on the hinges with a vial of penetrating oil. Putting the vial away, he rose and cautiously lifted the door. It opened out with the faintest rasp.

Ludbridge pulled on his night vision goggles. After a cursory glance within he lowered himself into the cellar, motioning Bell-Fairfax to remain where he was.

The reek of tallow, in the close darkness, was stifling. A few white-hot blurs darted across the floor as rats fled from him. Ludbridge looked around. Barrels were stacked in the corner, some twenty or thirty of them, clearly leaking; the floor was a quarter-inch deep in tallow, and bootprints could clearly be seen proceeding through it toward the stairs.

Stepping cautiously, Ludbridge went to the stairs and listened.

“ ‘. . . And they shall dwell safely therein, and shall build houses, and plant vineyards; yea, they shall dwell with confidence, when I have executed judgments upon all those that despise them round about them; and they shall know that I am the Lord their God.’ There you have it, boys. That’s the Lord’s own promise to us. We’re a great nation and we’re going to be greater, because it’s His will. And don’t you just pity those who cross us? God Himself’s going to smite them,” said a voice.

“Amen. What time is it now?” a second voice inquired.

“Almost eight. Say, I can’t read this damn map—,” said a third voice.

“Voices! There’s voices coming out of this thing!” the second voice cried.

Ludbridge turned and picked his way back through the sea of tallow. He bent and hefted the barrel nearest the window. It came free grudgingly. Gritting his teeth with effort, Ludbridge lifted it toward the cellar
doorway. Bell-Fairfax, anticipating his need, drew a deep breath, leaned in and took it from him. He leaned out again, releasing his breath with a gasp, and Ludbridge followed gratefully. After closing the cellar door and sliding the broken lock back through the hasp, Ludbridge straightened up and wiped his hands on a handkerchief.

“Now then,” he whispered. “Just you go to the opposite corner from Pengrove’s location. Find a spot where you can watch the front door and the windows. Shoot them as they come out, and make your shots count, son.”

“I will, sir.” Bell-Fairfax was there one moment and gone the next, vanishing into the darkness like a ghost.

Ludbridge drew his knife and, twirling the haft between his palms, drilled first one and then another hole in the spongy wood forming the top of the barrel. He tilted it and got his arms around it. Lifting it awkwardly, he carried it around the garden, laying down a stream of liquid tallow along the side of the house and here and there splashing the house itself. At the last he drenched the wooden hand-rail by the back steps. Having emptied the barrel, Ludbridge set it down among the dry bushes and took out his handkerchief once more. He wiped his hands again and tied the handkerchief to the hand-rail.

Pulling out his lucifer safe, Ludbridge lit one and held it to the edge of the greasy handkerchief. It caught immediately. He flicked the still-burning match into the dry weeds at the side of the house and walked away.

The fire bloomed, spread, fluttered delicate shades of blue and pink in its flames before brightening to white and gold. It ran up the rail; it spread down into the weeds and advanced along the side of the house, licking up the slopped grease shining on the walls. For a long moment it was silent before some knot of pitch in the firwood boards exploded with a bang, and the flames roared out with joy.

“Fire!” shouted Ludbridge as he walked on. He made his leisurely way to the black shadow into which Bell-Fairfax had disappeared, and stepped inside just as the front door of the house opposite flew open. Bell-Fairfax raised his revolver.

A man in a black topcoat appeared in the doorway, with the Aetheric Transmitter clutched in his arms. Bell-Fairfax shot him. He fell backward through the door, an explosion of blood at his throat. There were shouts inside the house and then the front window was smashed out. There were gunshots from within. Ludbridge felt himself shoved to one side by Bell-Fairfax, just as bullets slapped into the wall behind him. He drew his own revolver and fired, aiming for the figure he spotted crouched over the dead man inside the open door. The figure rose with the Aetheric Transmitter in its arms, staggered and fell over. More movement within; someone crossed the doorway. Both Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax fired at the moving target, but there was no way to know whether they’d hit it.

Another gunshot, from the rear of the property. Pengrove. There were no shots fired from the house after that, and it was flame shattering the windows now as the house burned merrily. The fire illuminated their hiding place, and so Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax darted out and ran back down the street to another doorway. There were shouts now, men running from the direction of the police station.

“Oughtn’t we go, sir?” said Bell-Fairfax, as Pengrove, ducking from shadow to shadow, joined them.

“Not just yet.” Ludbridge turned back and watched the fire. No figures came crawling from doorways. But when would—

There was a deafening explosion and the roof blew off the back half of the house, sending flaming debris up into the night and down, clattering on the cobblestones, hissing into the canals. The fire shot up, towering under a gigantic column of smoke that blotted out the stars.

“Ah! Farewell, Aetheric Transmitter,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“Felmouth won’t be especially pleased, all the same. It blew at the back of the house,” said Ludbridge, frowning. “That’d be your man, then, Pengrove.”

“I suppose,” said Pengrove. “The door opened, a man looked out and I shot him. It appeared he had something in his arms.”

“So . . . first man starts out the door with the transmitter, Bell-Fairfax shoots him. That’s one. Second, third and presumably fourth men
break the windows and shoot at us. Not a lot of bullets for three men, especially three heavily armed Americans, were there? Second man goes over to first man and picks up the transmitter. I shot him. I saw him go down. So that’s two. Third man goes over to him, I would guess to pick up the transmitter, and both Bell-Fairfax and I shoot but possibly miss. Assuming we did, and he ran to the back of the house and was stopped by Pengrove, that’s three for certain. And I only heard three voices coming from above, when I went into the cellar.”

They stared at the fire. Distant men were trundling a pump engine as close as they dared, running a hose into the adjacent canal.

“I don’t like it,” said Ludbridge. “Where’s the fourth chap?”

“Right here, you limey bastard,” said a voice from under the trees, some yards away. A shot rang out. An American in a black topcoat stepped into the firelight, clutching a revolver. Bell-Fairfax shot him between the eyes; he jerked backward and fell.

“Ludbridge?” Pengrove caught at his arm.

“Damn,” said Ludbridge. He took a few tottering steps backward and sat down heavily on the curb, holding his stomach. Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove crouched beside him.

“Sir, I can carry you—it’s not far to the safe house—,” said Bell-Fairfax. Down the street by the fire, someone had noticed them, was pointing and shouting.

“No; it’s nicked an artery. Renal artery, I think. Kidney too, perhaps. Bleeding to death,” said Ludbridge shakily. “Job carries its own justice, you see, Bell-Fairfax? Not unexpected, after all.” He pulled the goggles from around his neck, handed them to Pengrove.