The Strangelove Gambit

by David Bishop

  "Who are you? What do you want?" Arbatov demanded.

  The leader smiled. "There'll be time for introductions later. You're not going anywhere today, you missed the only shuttle." The leader was wearing an imperial red jacket with gold braid over a creased white dress shirt and skin-tight black trousers. Jet black hair was swept back to reveal a cunning face, his black moustache and goatee beard adding a devilish touch. Alarm bells were ringing at the back of Arbatov's mind, but he couldn't remember why. He sensed this man was dangerous, even if there was no weaponry in evidence.

  Arbatov risked a quick glance at the other two. The man to his left was tall and blond, with a faded elegance and stately bearing somewhat at odds with the threadbare nature of his clothing. The creature to Arbatov's right was short, round-shouldered and smirking, a foul face accompanied by an odour of pickled eggs and fresh manure. Yes, there were even lice and ticks visibly moving on the creature's stained clothing. The trio were plainly brigands intent on relieving Arbatov of his valuables. Well, they were in for an unhappy surprise! Nobody got the better of Grigori Arbatov without suffering.

  "I demand the satisfaction of your names," he said sternly.

  The creature shuffled a little closer, scratching an open sore on its neck. "I'm Spatchcock, but you can call me Spatch if you like. You got any diseases?"

  "Certainly not!"

  "You want some?" Spatchcock cackled at his own joke, licking his lips to reveal a mouthful of decayed, rotting teeth.

  Arbatov took a step back from the rancid creature and bumped into the blond bandit. "My name is Flintlock, Lord Peter Flintlock." The accent was pure Britannia. Arbatov recognised it from an interminable month he had spent stationed on that rain-soaked isle during the war.

  "You're a long way from home, Lord Flintlock, and I do not care for the company you keep either."

  Flintlock shrugged. "Beggars cannot be choosers."

  Arbatov regarded the trio's leader. "And your name?"

  The black haired brigand smiled broadly. "Let me hear yours first. I may have encountered your kin in the past and would like to know where I stand before giving you my name."

  "Very well." Arbatov drew his sword and held it in front of his face, standing to attention. "I am Grigori Arbatov, one of the finest swords in all the Empire and, until recently, a captain in the Tsar's own Hussars. Now, tell me your name or there shall be trouble!"

  The trio's leader gave a heavy sigh. "Dante. My name is Nikolai Dante."

  Arbatov's nostrils flared angrily. "The Nikolai Dante?"

  "Why do they always ask that?" Spatchcock enquired.

  "Every time," Flintlock agreed. "It's not like there's dozens of people called Nikolai Dante wandering about, causing trouble wherever they go."

  "The Nikolai Dante responsible for one of my family being flayed alive on orders from the Tsar?" Arbatov demanded. "The Nikolai Dante who unsportingly beat another member of my family when they demanded the satisfaction of a duel for that first ignominy? The Nikolai Dante who had another of my kin falsely arrested for embezzling at the Hotel Yalta? The Nikolai Dante who has killed, maimed, beaten, emasculated and humiliated more than a dozen of my relatives for no other reason than capriciousness?" He was shaking with fury, such was the rage building within him.

  "Don't forget what he did to the Arbatov sisters," Spatchcock chipped in.

  "Pink ball in the corner pocket, you might say," Flintlock added. "He snookered three of them during the war. I wouldn't be surprised if they've all given birth to his bastards by now."

  "Enough," Dante snapped. "Yes, I'm that Nikolai Dante - bane of the Arbatovs, accursed by your family for all time. Satisfied?"

  "Only when I have the pleasure of killing you and dragging your rotting carcass to my family's estate. There we will feast on your sweetmeats and have the skin from your loins made into a ball for dogs to play with. Prepare to die, you festering pustule upon the face of humanity!"

  Arbatov drew back his sword, ready to charge at his mortal enemy. But Dante raised his hands in surrender, urging the enraged man to wait.

  "Please, captain, I have no quarrel with you or your family, no matter how difficult you may find that to believe. In almost every instance you cited, my brushes with the Arbatovs have been a mixture of bizarre coincidence and an over-developed sense of vengeance on the part of your relatives. Even my, er, encounter with the three sisters, that was purely unintentional. To be honest, they threw themselves at me. I was injured at the time, found it hard to resist."

  "That's not all he found that was hard," a rough voice snickered.

  "Quiet, Spatch, you're not helping," Dante hissed. "I never meant to be the individual who deflowered those women. It was just a quirk of fate. Sorry."

  "Sorry?" Arbatov spluttered. "You're sorry?"

  Dante shrugged. "It was beyond my control."

  "You say you're sorry and I'm to do what, simply accept that as the truth? Believe the word of one of the Empire's most wanton liars and thieves? Take his feeble apology as adequate compensation for six years of ignominy, humiliation and degradation heaped upon the noble family name of Arbatov?"

  "Nikolai, I don't think he's quite on your side," Flintlock said quietly.

  "I was getting that impression too," Dante commented.

  "Even if I could kill you a thousand times it would not be enough to undo all the ills you have visited upon my family," Arbatov snarled. "Instead I shall kill you once and rejoice in being the man who brought about your destruction!" The captain flung himself at Dante, his sword flashing through the air.

  But before he could reach his target, Arbatov's right foot got snagged in the handles of his largest kit bag. The captain threw both hands forwards to break his fall, forgetting one of them still clutched a long and deadly blade. It twisted in his grip, so the point was facing Arbatov as he plunged to the ground. The captain did not even have time to cry out before being run through by his own weapon, the blade puncturing his chest to emerge from his back. Momentum pushed the sword further inwards, all the way down to the hilt.

  Dante looked down at the dying man. "What is it with these Arbatovs? Can't they just let sleeping dogs lie?"

  The captain spat blood on the ground before replying. "Not where you're involved, fiend! We shall have our vengeance upon you yet, Nikolai Dante. We shall prove ourselves superior. We shall... shall..."

  Spatchcock knelt beside the body, checking for life. "He's gone."

  "Good. His ranting was proving rather tiresome," Flintlock added.

  "Help me shift the body before it bleeds all over the landing pad," Dante said, grabbing one of Arbatov's arms. "Grigori may still be useful to us."

  Once the corpse was buried in a shallow grave, Dante and his companions returned to the top of the cliff. The trio sorted through the dead man's possessions, looking for some clue why he wanted to catch the daily shuttle to Fabergè Island. Spatchcock opened a bag and found it full of fencing foils and facemasks. "Those who live by the sword...?"

  Flintlock uncovered a cache of personal papers, including travel documents and instructions. "Seems Arbatov was joining the Fabergè Institute as a tutor in self defence, swordplay and two unspecified disciplines. There's a letter from a Madame Wartski, offering the captain a two-week probationary post. If that proves successful, the job becomes permanent."

  "Not anymore," Dante noted wryly. "But those papers could give us a legitimate way on to the island."

  Spatchcock frowned. "What kind of educational institute offers classes in self defence and swordplay? Who are Fabergè's students?"

  "Perhaps the contents of this will give us a clue," Dante ventured as he opened the last of the kit bags. A selection of silk and lace lingerie tumbled out. "Or perhaps not. Who carries a bag filled with women's underwear?"

  "Maybe the captain fancied himself a ladies man and kept a trophy from each of his conquests?" Flintlock suggested. "They are all different shapes and styles, so they probably come from different women.
"

  "Or maybe he liked dressing up in frilly knickers?" Spatchcock replied with a broad smirk. "Takes all kinds, doesn't it Flintlock?"

  "What are you trying to imply, Spatch?"

  "I wasn't implying anything."

  "I should hope not," Flintlock grumbled.

  "I was inferring."

  "No, no, no! The speaker implies, the listener infers."

  "Whatever you say," Spatchcock said. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

  "There you go again! I will not be subject to these snide little remarks of yours. Just because I come from Britannia, does not mean I am some sort of sexual pervert to be taunted and teased for your pleasure!"

  "Well, if it turns you on-"

  "Enough!" Dante interjected. "Spatchcock, spare us the details of your sordid fantasies. Flintlock, stop rising to his bait. If you two can't work together you can stay here while I visit the island on my own." He examined the other paperwork. "Spatchcock, how are your forgery skills?"

  "A mite rusty, but I can match anything you've got in your hand, given time and the right materials."

  "We've got twenty-four hours till the shuttle returns, so you'd better get to work. Flintlock, forage for supplies in the village. We'll be staying here tonight and those look like rain clouds coming round the hills. Beg, steal or borrow food and shelter."

  The two men nodded and began their tasks, while Dante continued studying the papers Arbatov had carried. "Crest, forged papers will only get us so far. I'll need credentials listed on the Imperial Net if I'm going to survive more than a few hours on the island."

  You're not planning to become Grigori Arbatov, are you? I cannot work miracles, Dante, not without prior notice.

  "No need for that. I'm reviving a favourite alias of mine. I need you to hack the Imperial Net and establish a fresh life story for him."

  Using what - thin air? the Crest demanded.

  Dante produced a slim silver rectangle from among Arbatov's things. Smaller than a cigarette case, it had the Imperial Net logo embossed on both sides. "How about a netski? Will that give you enough access?"

  Part credit card, part communications device, and solar powered too. That'll do nicely, the Crest said happily. Rest your fingers against either side of it and relax. I'll do the rest.

  By noon the next day the trio were ready. Sleep had proved elusive overnight, thanks to a torrential downpour. But strong sunshine in the morning soon helped restore their spirits. A distant, mournful bell chimed twelve. "What day is it?" Dante wondered. "We didn't hear that bell once yesterday."

  "Sunday, isn't it?" Flintlock scratched his chest absent-mindedly. "The bells must be calling the faithful to worship."

  It's Palm Sunday, the Crest told Dante. Only one week until Fabergè's new weapon becomes active.

  "Religion is wasted on us," Spatchcock smiled. He slapped Flintlock's back. "Something wrong, your lordship? You don't seem comfortable today."

  "No, you're right. I can't seem to stop scratching." Realisation dawned on the aristocratic face. "Spatch! What did you do to me in the night?"

  "I was cold and wet, so I snuggled against you for warmth."

  Flintlock ripped open his shirt to discover a profusion of tiny red bites on his chest, the marks made more livid by scratching. "Fleas! You've given me fleas, you disgusting little worm!"

  Spatchcock shrugged, scratching himself under an armpit. "You were sharing your warmth with me. Seemed only fair to give you something back."

  "Give it a rest for five minutes," Dante snapped. "I see our ride leaving the island."

  In the distance the shuttle rose above the castle and began swooping across the water towards them. Dante led the others down to the landing area, carrying a selection of luggage culled from their own possessions and those of the late Grigori Arbatov. The trio were waiting for the shuttle when it arrived, its afterburners eradicating the last traces of blood from the launching pad.

  A burly figure in a hooded cloak emerged from the vehicle. Dante stepped towards him, smiling and offering to shake hands. "Good afternoon, sir. My name is-"

  "Address me as either Madame Wartski or simply as Madame, but never as sir!" The hood was pushed back to reveal a wart-strewn face, greying hair scraped back into a bun and a scowling countenance. If this person was not the ugliest woman alive, Dante had no urge to go in search of any alternatives.

  "Of course, Madame! Excuse my folly, I could not see your face beneath the hood," Dante continued. "My name is-"

  "Why were you not here yesterday, as previously agreed? Why did you not contact us and explain the reason for this unforgivable delay? And why are three of you waiting, instead of one?"

  Dante stood his ground before the flurry of interrogation, doing his best to smile ingratiatingly at the horrendous harridan. "Alas, I was only contacted by Captain Arbatov late last night and thus it was impossible for me to be here yesterday."

  "So you are not Captain Arbatov?"

  "No, Madame Wartski. As I tried to say before, my name is-"

  "Your name is of no consequence." Wartski turned back to the vehicle.

  Dante grabbed her by the arm, his fingers failing to encompass even half of her fleshy limb's circumference. "Please, Madame Wartski, if you will just let me explain..."

  Wartski called to the shuttle's pilot. "How long before we can take off?"

  "Fifty-five seconds, Madame!"

  She turned back to Dante. "You have that long."

  "As I have been trying to say, my name is Quentin Durward and I am a close personal friend of Grigori Arbatov. Alas, a fencing accident means he could not accept your gracious invitation to join the Fabergè Institute for the final days of this term, so he suggested I offer my services in his stead. Had I been able, I would have called ahead to explain. I wrongly assumed he had already done so and apologise for that error."

  Dante produced a sheaf of papers, all of them artfully created by Spatchcock. "I believe you'll find these documents establish my bona fides. As for my travelling companions, they are servants and have been with me since I was a youth." He gestured for them to come forwards. "The shorter, Spatchcock, is a fine cook and would add distinction to your kitchen, while the taller is my factotum, Flintlock. The latter, sadly, is a mute and thus unable to speak." Spatchcock suppressed a snort of laughter.

  "Madame Wartski, we're ready to go," the pilot called.

  Wartski regarded the trio, her bottom lip curling outwards sourly. "I am not satisfied with these explanations, but your papers appear authentic. You may come to the island, Mr Durward, where I can better establish the truth."

  "And my servants?"

  "We have little need of their services."

  "They work without payment. Mere lodgings and board will satisfy them."

  Wartski scowled. "Very well. But be warned of this: should I have any reason to doubt your veracity or that of your servants, all three of you shall suffer the consequences equally. Is that clear?"

  "As the blue of your eyes," Dante said sweetly.

  Wartski leaned into his face, the rank stench of her breath invading his nostrils. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr Durward. I am interested only in what you can do for the institute."

  "Of course, Madame Wartski. I would have it no other way." Dante snapped his fingers at Spatchcock and Flintlock. "You two! Fetch my things!" Ignoring the foul looks they were sending in his direction, Dante followed Wartski into the shuttle. The interior was luxuriously fitted, with four plush chairs for the passengers. But once Wartski had sat down only one of the seats remained, leaving nowhere for Spatchcock and Flintlock. "You'll have to travel in the cargo hold with my bags," he told them, suppressing a smile at their reactions. "And be quick about it! Madame Wartski has waited long enough on our behalf, let's not keep her here any longer!"

  The flight to Fabergè Island took only minutes but Flintlock still found time to throw up thanks to airsickness and being confined in the cargo hold with Spatchcock. "A mute? Why did h
e say I'm a mute?"

  "I can think of two reasons," Spatchcock replied. "Either he figured your Britannia accent would attract unwanted attention..."

  "Or?"

  "Or he didn't want to listen to your whining any longer - and I can't say I blame him. Now put a sock in it!"

  "Why should I?" Flintlock protested.

  Spatchcock indicated a security camera in the ceiling. "Your lips do a lot of flapping for somebody who's supposed to be mute. Best not to let anyone else see you talking, alright?"

  "I- I-" Flintlock sighed in exasperation and clamped his mouth shut.

  Spatchcock smiled blissfully. "Ahh, the sound of silence. Could anything be finer?" The sound of violent farting issued from his trousers, closely followed by a noxious stench. Flintlock pinched his nostrils shut and moved to the other side of the cabin, getting as far from the odour as possible.

  "I'll take that as a yes," Spatchcock decided.

  The shuttle circled Fabergè Island once so Wartski could point out the castle's exterior features to Dante. The imposing square structure covered more than two-thirds of the island's surface area. Each corner was adorned by a tower, standing twice the height of the adjoining building. "This entire complex was reconstructed stone by stone, after the doctor bought it from a Britannia noble family who had fallen on hard times. Most of the building is devoted to the institute's work, but the north tower is reserved for the doctor's private research."

  "Sounds fascinating. What is Doctor Fabergè researching, if I may ask?"

  "You may not," Wartski replied with a scowl. "The north tower is strictly out of bounds at all times. Anyone caught trespassing there will be dismissed or expelled immediately - without exception."

  "I understand, of course. Rules are rules."

  "And must be obeyed at all times."

  "Precisely," Dante agreed. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

  Dante, you've never obeyed a rule in your life!

  The shuttle descended towards the island's landing pad. Dante peered out of his window, absorbing as much information as he could about the external facilities. "Well, I must say I am looking forward to working with your pupils," he said. "How many do you have here at present?"