The Sterling Directive

by Tim Standish

  Patrolling in Canada, I learnt, along with my troops, to pay attention when one of us felt something was out of kilter, even if they couldn’t say why. We would stop, stock still in the landscape, and open our senses to identify the sound, or smell, or pattern that shouldn’t be there, or the familiar something that was missing. More than once we avoided an ambush because one of us sensed the smallest of incongruities.

  So I froze in place, waiting until the room was totally dark and my eyes had adjusted. Then I heard it. A close to inaudible whining, intermittent and almost lost in the hubbub that drifted in the early evening air from Regent Street.

  I moved towards the window and looked out again. The square was completely empty now; the walker and his dog had gone on their way and there was not a soul in sight.

  Again, I heard the noise, this time louder, and its direction suddenly crystallised in my mind so that slowly, ever so slowly, I crouched down by the window and looked up. And knew, then, that I really shouldn’t have come to Cooper’s.

  3. Mesh

  The airship filled the sky.

  It was small, not much more than an aerial cutter or light sloop, but in those first few moments that I saw it, its gossamer bulk dominating the sky above the square, it seemed impossibly massive. Within the craft a host of technologies would be whirring away in productive harmony: a small computational engine would be calculating height, measuring wind and adjusting each small propeller individually to maintain a steady position; other sensors would be monitoring weight and height and adjusting gas mixtures accordingly while finely tuned instruments were ready to respond to the instructions of the pilot. All this I understood but somewhere deep inside the un-evolved recesses of my mind an ancestral instinct still cowered and shook in fear at the marvellous impossibility of it all.

  I stood stock still as a series of new sounds broke into the night air; the clank of catches, whirr of gears and the smooth rush of pulleys as the bay doors opened and several lines unfurled in unison to the pavement below. From the underside of the airship men emerged and dropped down the ropes, steadied themselves and raced to take up positions facing the club. I watched for a moment and then turned to Marie, who had huddled against me as I studied the scene below.

  ‘Is there a back way from the club?’

  ‘Oui. Through the kitchen.’

  ‘They will have thought of that.’ I held her shoulders. ‘Is there another way? A window perhaps or a side door?’ She gave a nervous shrug, her eyes wide in fear and this time it was no act. I held her hands, squeezed them briefly. ‘You will be safe as long as you stay here, Marie. Do you understand?’ She nodded. ‘Stay here. Leave the door open but stay out of sight. All will be well.’ I smiled at her in as reassuringly a manner as I could manage.

  I had no idea how truthful my words were. I had never known the club to be raided before and in fact certain members of the local judiciary were encouraged to return regularly for an evening of free entertainment to ensure that that remained the case. But this was different. I doubted that the doormen employed by Mrs Cooper would be a match for this particular raid; my last glimpse down had told me that much as I watched the armed men take up their positions. I had seen that very arrangement once before, in a training session at HQ back in Canada, laid out on a plan of a street under the legend ‘Assault, urban (search and retrieval)’ or, as the lecturer had described it, ‘Kidnap and robbery, gentlemen, kidnap and robbery.’

  Staying away from the window I stood and walked to the door. I probably had a few seconds before the last one was in position, then a few more before their officer checked all was ready and gave his signal. A fleeting thought that I might be the object to be retrieved was quashed as quickly as it arose: no one knew I was in the country, there was no record of my arrival and any attention caused by the morning’s events would surely be focused on my hotel. I had deliberately come out without my own card so that now I was simply Captain Brown of the North American Volunteer Rifles, back in London on leave and keen to purchase some pleasure. My main hope was that the intruders would be fixated on a rapid retrieval and exit and uninterested in me or anyone else in the club, though what their fixation might be had me baffled.

  I opened the door and turned back to look at the girl where she knelt. She looked up at me and nodded quickly. I left her and moved down the corridor as stealthily as I could. From behind one of the other doors I heard a giggle followed by a braying guffaw. I crept onwards towards the head of the main staircase but before I reached it they started.

  First the crash, startlingly loud in the stillness of the house, as the door was forced in; then the thump of boots and shouted orders as they manhandled the protesting doormen out of the way and spread into the house. I walked into plain sight, a startled client wanting to know what the blazes was going on.

  ‘Armed officers! Lie down. Do not move!’

  I raised my arms, still radiating shock, surprise and not a little outrage.

  ‘Are you deaf? Get down! Now!’ One of them started towards me; he was wearing what looked like army fatigues but instead of the usual khaki these were dark blue, almost black. The bulky, high-necked waistcoat he wore over them was a similar colour as was the kit belt that hung heavily laden about his waist. His face was blackened and barely visible above the waistcoat that I now realised must be some sort of anti-ballistic protector. The gun that he raised to shoulder height and aimed at me looked like a short-nosed machine carbine; notoriously inaccurate over anything above thirty yards but more than capable of hitting me over the short distance that separated us.

  I knelt slowly as he walked up the stairs towards me, lowering the gun but keeping it pointed steadily towards me. I continued, dropped to the floor and lay flat with my fingers joined behind my head. Moments later I felt the muzzle jab into my back between my shoulders.

  ‘And stay there if you want to live.’

  He was not quite the professional that his equipment proclaimed; getting so close to me was the mistake of a novice and likely because my slow compliance had riled him somewhat. Even so, armed as he was, I rated my chances of any sudden movement on my part resulting in long-term survival as ‘poor to non-existent’.

  The rest of the squad sounded as though they had split up, with the majority moving into the rest of the ground floor and the remainder coming up the stairs, some going to the girls’ rooms and a few to the opposite end of the second floor where, I knew, Mrs Cooper had her office.

  ‘Who have you got there?’ This voice carried authority; came from near the front door.

  The response was another nudge of the gun’s barrel into the nape of my neck and a shout from my captor: ‘Some nob; caught ’im wandering around when we came in. Here with one of the tarts I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ The tone was bored, scornful of this piece of conjecture. ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘Don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think so? That is tremendous news. Well, bring him down and let’s take a look at him.’

  I was pulled to my feet and marched down the stairs to where a slim, fashionably dressed man waited. He had none of the military accoutrements of his subordinates and though he carried a sizeable revolver it hung loose in his hand as though he had forgotten what it was. In his well-cut overcoat, fine woollen scarf and bowler hat he seemed more like a client of the club than an officer of the law, not that those two categories had ever been mutually exclusive.

  ‘And who, sir, are you?’ His stance, voice and face betrayed not a shred of urgency or interest but his eyes were a cold, startling blue with a focus and intelligence that gave the lie to the carelessness he was so keen on portraying.

  ‘Captain Brown, North American Volunteer Rifles.’

  ‘Well, Captain Brown, North American Volunteer Rifles, where are your papers?

  I fished my card out of my pocket, conscious as I did so of the nervous carbine-wielder who was still behind me. I held it out to him and, after tucking his
pistol away in a coat pocket, he took the card and looked it over. ‘Back for a spot of leave, Captain?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Expensive place, Cooper’s. I’m surprised a captain can afford it.’

  ‘I’ve been abroad. Nowhere really to spend it over there.’

  ‘Far East?’

  ‘Canada. Frontier duty.’

  ‘Really?’ His interest seemed piqued by that. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘And came straight round here, no doubt to renew an old acquaintance?’ He seemed amused. As he thought of his next question two of his men came up from the cellar of the house carrying a strongbox between them. He glanced at them and motioned for them to set it down on the floor. The larger of the two saluted.

  ‘Sir. Found this in the cellar.’ He opened the box, the lock of which looked like it had already been forced. Inside was a layer of oblongs, shaped like pats of butter and wrapped in waxed paper.

  ‘You have tested one, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s opium. There’s another box just like it down there.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Cooper’s is licensed.’ I was surprised at my own interjection but I felt I had to say something.

  The officer bent down to look at the box while the others stood to almost attention. He stared at the contents for a moment and then started tugging the blocks of opium out by the armful and throwing them onto the floor. He gave a gentle grunt of satisfaction and stood, holding a long brown paper package the length of a man’s arm. Silently he unwrapped the loose covering and let it drop to the ground.

  ‘As you say. But tell me, Captain, do you think that Mrs Cooper has a licence for these?’ What he was holding toward me was very similar to the weapons that armed his squad, though with no magazine and still gleaming from the protective oil applied in the factory.

  ‘That’s not all, sir.’ The taller of the box-bearers spoke up. ‘We found a false wall down there. There’s a wireless transmitter and some sort of engine. It looks milit’ry.’

  ‘Now then, Captain. Tell me again, what were you doing here?’

  ‘Seeing a girl.’

  He smiled. Dropped the carbine back onto the packets of opium. ‘I don’t think so.’ He waved a hand at me. ‘You seem a trifle overdressed for a customer. I think that you were meeting someone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a meeting exactly. Conversation wasn’t really on the menu.’

  ‘So, you aren’t here to sort out problems with your supplier? Perhaps Cooper was asking for more money? Perhaps the rebels were asking for more money?’ All pretence to casual disinterest was gone from the man as he took a step towards me and brought his face to within an inch or two of mine. His eyes sparkled with insight. ‘I have hit upon it, have I not? You came here to meet Mrs Cooper, your criminal partner in some treasonous scheme?’

  I kept my tone matter of fact. ‘I’ve been out in North America for a few years. I got myself injured, came back to recuperate and thought this would be a good place to start. If taking a girl to bed counts as treason, things have changed since I was last here.’

  We stood toe to toe for a moment while he stared closely at my face; searching for nerves or a sign that I was lying. I controlled my breathing and let him find nothing but inside my mind was racing. Was this why Mrs Cooper hadn’t been here as promised? Was she in some sort of trouble?

  He was smaller than me by a good few inches and thinly built but more importantly he didn’t know how to spread his weight and a quick push would have had him over. I could have easily followed up with an arm lock or something more painful and I considered it for a second but I still hadn’t heard the safety catch of the carbine behind me go on so thought better of it.

  Suddenly he smiled and turned away, walking slowly away from me and spoke, almost to himself, ‘Taking a girl to bed.’ He paused and stared down into the box then lifted one of his arms to point back at me as if conceding a point in a debate. ‘You are, of course, quite right. There is nothing wrong with that at all. Supplying Continental Army rebels with weapons to use against the Confederate States Government; now that’s more than a harmless bit of fun. I will grant you though that, strictly speaking, it’s not a betrayal of our nation. And who knows what else your Mrs Cooper has been plotting with her wireless transmitter? And possessing illegal engine technology? Well, that’s a capital offence on its own.’

  I stood my ground. ‘This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I am sure that Mrs Cooper will tell you the same thing when she arrives.’

  ‘A hypothesis, I fear to say, that we shan’t be putting to the test.’ He looked pleased with himself in a way that made me want to punch him. Several times. ‘Mrs Cooper was shot earlier this evening while attempting to escape police custody.’ He pointed to one of the others: ‘Wilkins. Keep things locked down. No one in or out. And see what else you can find.’ He turned at the clatter of boots on the staircase; another of his men returning from the upper floor. ‘Anything?’

  ‘A promising-looking safe in the office.’

  ‘Good. Sergeant Wilkins will be taking charge; make sure that the others know.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Now then, Captain. I think we have done enough standing in the hallway, wouldn’t you say? Probably best if we take our conversation elsewhere.’ He indicated the open front door. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Shall we not?’ I replied. ‘This is a licensed establishment. I have done nothing wrong so I don’t see why we shouldn’t wait here for one of the more well to do guests upstairs to call their lawyer and explain to you the error of your ways.’

  ‘Well, Captain, while that sort of bluster might intimidate the average constable, we are the Bureau of Engine Security and you must have been away for quite a while if you don’t know what that means. So, I think we’ll just move along.’

  The prod in the small of my back pre-empted my reply and I followed him out into the square where the ship was waiting, at almost ground level now, with a short, brass-framed ladder reaching down from it.

  ‘After you, Captain.’

  I climbed up the ladder, clambered through a wide hatch in the floor of the cabin and emerged into the rear space and under the watching eyes of another of the men in uniform. He gestured with his gun to a seat. I sat and waited while the grey-coated man entered and took a seat for himself. As he did so, electric motors whirred into action and the ladder concertina’d up into a storage space in the wall; short moments later the hatch doors swung up and clicked into place, sealing the cabin.

  ‘All comfortable? Excellent. Then we’ll be off I think.’ He reached behind him and tugged down a robust-looking microphone from a hook on the wall and said one word. ‘Millbank.’

  We rose surprisingly quickly, the ship turning as we did, before we headed on our way. There must have been some sort of built-in sound system because, as we started to move, music started playing.

  It sounded like Schubert.

  4. Panopticon

  The cell embodied the atmosphere of all English prisons: an unsettling combination of old stone and fresh detergent. The metal grille that formed the whole of the wall facing the courtyard was open to the night air and the narrow windows set high on the opposite side were mostly broken. It was damnably cold. Thinly whitewashed walls formed a space that slanted slightly outwards from window to door. The only source of artificial light was a pair of weak electric bulbs mounted on the ceiling that lit the room with a subdued yellowish glow. Through the grille I could see out into the darkness of the courtyard and, here and there, a few other similarly lit cells dotted the vast, curving circumference of the prison.

  The airship that had brought me here was just visible, tethered and netted in the main yard where we had landed, its distinctive silhouette shielded by sheets of unevenly dappled material. The lights at the yard’s perimeter that had briefly flared as we descended were dormant now, adding to the deserted air of the place. Occasionally I’d see
n a dim figure patrolling across the expanse of flagstones that floored the central area. Aside from that, and the squad that had travelled with me, I had seen very little signs of life on the way to my cell. I assumed that the majority of whatever force garrisoned the prison were holed up in the dark, truncated spire that rose up from the centre of the yard like a squat, black lighthouse.

  They had Bertie’d me in a room there when we arrived using a portable machine: forty-four minutes ago, by the watch they had thoughtfully allowed me to retain when they locked me in here. More than enough time to run my head measurements through the Whitehall engines and find out who I was. And at that point, I assumed, they would be straight back up here with a more focused line of enquiry than ‘we know you were up to something’.

  I’d paced the room and quickly looked it over, expecting a brief wait before the interviewing began but it seemed that they were in no hurry. So I’d settled in as best I could, pulling the worn wooden chair that was the room’s only furniture to the centre and sitting in a gently smothering silence. Faded letters were still visible beneath the cheap whitewash on one of the walls and I passed the time by trying to make out what they said. I assumed that it was some sort of morally uplifting verse and tried to fit the few I remembered from my youth to the barely discernible lettering, though without success. As a pastime it was dull but at least it kept me from dwelling on my idiocy to date and the fact that even at his most pessimistic and patronising, my elder brother Julius would never have imagined that my return would have gone so catastrophically wrong as it had.

  Up in one corner a kinetograph gently clicked and whirred as it intermittently recorded and transmitted its pictures of the scene. In contrast to the rest of the cell, its brass housing looked fresh and new, as did the thick iron bolts that clasped its cables to the wall as they snaked away through the floor of the cell and down into the dark below. Somewhere in the bowels of the building a screen like the one in Marie’s room would be relaying a staccato series of images as an ongoing register of my incarceration. I hoped that whoever was tasked with viewing them was finding the entertainment as tedious to watch as I was to be its subject.