The Strangelove Gambit

by David Bishop

  Dante reached out a friendly hand and patted her on the shoulder. "Trust me, the world outside - it's no better than being here."

  Tempest nodded. "That is what Doctor Fabergè always tell us."

  "So, what did you want to talk about?"

  "Your servant, Spatchcock. He's working in the kitchen, with Scullion."

  "Yes. I understand she's quite taken with him."

  "Two days ago Spatchcock delivered a bowl of soup to the doctor's laboratory. Soon afterwards we discovered an item was missing from one of the worktops. Storm and I have thoroughly searched the room, but can find no trace of the item. The only feasible explanation we can formulate is that your manservant took the item - either intentionally or otherwise."

  Dante nodded, unsure of how to react. "I see..."

  "The item is of little value, beyond a sentimental attachment for Doctor Fabergè and us - my sister and I. It is a crystal containing a recording of our mother's voice along with her likeness. We would very much like to retrieve it."

  "Completely understandable," Dante agreed.

  "Do you know anything about this crystal, its whereabouts?" Tempest stared at him intently, her eyes searching his face for a reaction.

  "I can't say that I do," he replied carefully, "but I will approach Spatchcock and see if he can shed any light on the matter. It pains me to say it, but my manservant was once a thief. He came into my service during the war as a conscript, just like Flintlock, but both proved themselves worthy of my trust and loyalty. I would be mortified to think Spatchcock had lapsed back into his old, wayward habits." Dante smiled. "Thank you for mentioning this matter to me so discretely. I will ensure it is dealt with this evening."

  "All three of us would be most grateful," Tempest said.

  "One thing confuses me a little," Dante added. "You said the crystal contained recordings of your mother?"

  "Yes."

  "If I might ask, what happened to her?"

  "She died giving birth to Storm and myself," Tempest said sadly. "It was a great loss for our father."

  "And where is he now?"

  "In the laboratory, at the top of the north tower."

  Dante finally realised the truth. "Doctor Fabergè is your father?"

  "Yes, of course." Tempest looked puzzled anyone could think otherwise. "He does not want it widely known, but I thought all the faculty knew."

  "Well, I've only been here a few days," Dante said.

  Tempest rose from her seat, towering over him. "I must return to the laboratory and tell the doctor what you have shared with me. When do you think you might have any further information?"

  "Later tonight, I am certain of that," Dante replied. "Perhaps I could visit your quarters with an update?"

  "That would be most kind of you. I share a room with my sister, on the top level of the west tower. Knock twice and I'll know it's you."

  "I'll be there before midnight," Dante said.

  Tempest nodded, acknowledged the others and then left the library. Dante smiled quietly to himself. Who says I need the Crest's help with everything? Tonight Quentin Durward will be making a house call.

  After dinner Dante loudly announced he was going down to the kitchen to visit Spatchcock, making sure the other staff knew of his whereabouts. Although Wartski had not attended dinner, no doubt Ms Ostrov or one of her cronies was passing on news of Mr Durward's movements about the castle. It didn't hurt to act out the role he had created for himself as intermediary with the troublesome Spatchcock. Dante found the kitchen hand sulkily scrubbing pots and pans.

  "Where's she of the many tentacles?"

  "Went to bed early, complaining of a headache. More likely put too much sherry down her gullet instead of into that trifle."

  Dante nodded. "It did seem a little lacking in kick. Now, did you steal a data crystal from Doctor Fabergè's laboratory on Monday?"

  Spatchcock stared at him as if Dante had grown an extra nose. "Are you off your head? Why are you asking me that?"

  "I'm worried that you might have reverted to your old ways."

  "What old ways?"

  "Don't try to play the innocent with me, Spatch. We both know you used to be a thief and a felon, along with numerous other offences."

  "Yeah, so what?"

  "Have you embraced that terrible life again?"

  "I'm not getting this at all. What are you babbling about?"

  Dante abandoned trying to be subtle, since such efforts were proving futile. Instead he explained about the conversation with Tempest, her explanation of the data crystal's contents and the belief the former thief might have accidentally purloined it.

  "Oh," Spatchcock said slowly, at least showing signs of understanding. "I see. Well, er, now that you come to mention it, I might have accidentally picked something up - entirely by mistake you understand - when I was delivering the soup to the location you mentioned some two days ago."

  "You're not giving evidence in court," Dante hissed.

  "Sorry." He sniffed and then wiped a dribble of mucus from the end of his nose on the dishcloth. "So, er, what do we do now?"

  "You give me the crystal and I return it to the Strangelove twins later tonight, no questions asked."

  "So you get to play the hero-"

  "And have a legitimate reason to visit them after dark in their room."

  "Kill two birds with one stone," Spatchcock observed.

  "Hopefully it won't come to that." Dante folded his arms. "So, where's this crystal then, hmm? Where have you hidden it?"

  "Er, I'm not sure I remember."

  "I hope you haven't hidden it in my private quarters," Dante hissed through clenched teeth, winking repeatedly at Spatchcock.

  "What? Oh! Yes, well, it's funny you should say that."

  "Somewhere near the bed? Or amongst my luggage?" Dante accompanied the latter suggestion with another flurry of winking.

  "The luggage, it's definitely in amongst your luggage."

  "Well, then I shall have to go and recover it." Dante delivered a firm clout to Spatchcock's head for good measure. "Don't you ever dare do something like this again, or I'll have your guts for garters! Got it?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." Dante began to leave, then stopped and came back. Spatchcock winced, fearful of another blow. "Where's Flintlock?"

  "I think he's checking a blockage near Madame Wartski's quarters."

  "Excellent. Well, I'd best go and find this data crystal. And remember what I told you, Spatch."

  "What's that?" The kitchen hand was swatted with another blow.

  "No more thieving!"

  Flintlock had scrubbed himself clean before beginning his covert raid on Madame Wartski's quarters. He didn't want to leave any trace of his intrusion, and the lingering aroma of sewerage would not require a detective to identify the culprit. If he was honest, Flintlock would admit the elongated ablutions were merely a method of delaying his attempt at breaking and entering. But the message from Dante had been clear: they had to know what secrets the wart-ridden woman had hidden in her room and Flintlock was the man for the job. Besides, the exiled aristocrat had never been honest in his life, even with himself, and this was no time to start.

  Taking what little courage he possessed and forcing himself forwards, the blond-haired burglar knocked on the matron's door. "Madame Wartski? It's Flintlock. I understand there's another blockage in the pipes near your quarters. I was wondering if I could come in and check for any signs of trouble?"

  His hopes of being told to come back later proved fruitless, as no reply was made. After knocking and calling out several more times, Flintlock realised he couldn't linger outside the door any longer. He removed a sliver of flexible metal from a concealed pouch inside his trousers and used it to prise open the lock. The door swung open with an ominous creak but no lights were visible inside. "Madame Wartski? Are you in there?"

  Flintlock could not hear the matron: neither her voice nor the heavy rasp of breathing that accompanied her everywher
e. There was a different noise emanating from inside the room - a faint bubbling accompanied by a low rumble that defied easy identification. Perhaps she had left the Imperial Net on? And what was that smell - like a swamp with a nervous disposition, noxious and nauseating. As Flintlock entered, the stench grew stronger and more cloying. He closed the door and stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the limited lighting.

  The room had a green hue, illumination spilling in from another doorway. Wartski's quarters were sparsely furnished, just a bookshelf, wardrobe, dresser and vanity unit. No bed, so that must be in the adjoining room, Flintlock reasoned. He moved to the bookshelf and examined the spines on display: Toads for Pleasure, Toads Across History, Tropical Toads. The matron liked her friends amphibious, that much was certain. But the first room revealed few secrets. It was time to venture deeper into Wartski's privacy.

  Flintlock edged closer to the other doorway, peering through the gap. Beyond he could see a double bed, its sheets rumpled and unkempt. A selection of plus size lingerie had been abandoned nearby, seemingly cast aside during moments of frenzy or passion. Pity the poor sod who gets caught in here while she's on heat, Flintlock thought, before remembering where he was standing. Best get on with the task in hand.

  He ventured into the bedroom, its interior suffused with emerald. The source for this light was an entire wall of glass tanks, each containing a dozen toads of varying shapes, sizes and colours. Even more disturbing were the sexual implements arranged on hooks and handles in front of the tanks - whips, canes, harnesses, handcuffs, chains and a selection of rubber objects with intimidating proportions. Flintlock shuddered, backing away from the display of depravity. His legs collided with the bed and he twisted round in surprise. He noticed there were notches carved into the wooden framework, while chains and fur-lined handcuffs were attached to each corner.

  That's it, I've seen enough, Flintlock decided. Wartski isn't doing any secret research for Fabergè in here - not unless it involves sexual deviancy and toads. Time to make a tactical withdrawal.

  "Is someone out there?" a voice called.

  Flintlock stopped, frozen with terror. He urged his legs to move but they seemed to have forgotten their normal functions. A door opened in a corner of the bedchamber and Wartski emerged, clad in just a thigh-length white camisole, towelling her hair dry. "I said is someone-" she stopped abruptly, surprised and perplexed by Flintlock's presence.

  "Oh! What are you doing in here?" Wartski demanded.

  Flintlock shrugged helplessly.

  Wartski strode to the doorway between the bedchamber and outer room, waving her hand over the palm reader so the exit was sealed, trapping the intruder. "I said what are you doing here?"

  Flintlock opened his mouth to speak and then remembered he was supposed to be a mute. Instead he improvised an elaborate mixture of mime and sign language, trying to communicate that he had wandered in by mistake while looking for a blockage in the drains but plainly there was no blockage here so it was for the best if he left now and-

  Wartski stopped his spasmodic movements with a shout. Once Flintlock had abandoned his wordless attempts to communicate, the matron moved closer, an intrigued look on her wart-strewn features. "I can only think of three reasons you would enter my private quarters without permission. Firstly, you have come here on a mission from Scullion to investigate some blockage."

  Flintlock nodded hurriedly at that suggestion.

  "However," Wartski continued, "I know of no such problem, nor has Scullion mentioned it in our daily briefing. So that cannot be correct. Secondly, you came here to steal from me, hoping to find something of value to sell once the term is finished. Is that why you're here, mute?"

  Flintlock shook his head vigorously, denying the charge.

  "That just leaves the third reason. No doubt you've heard whispers about what I do here during the little spare time I have from the institute. You're curious. Can she really be the sexual deviant everybody says? Perhaps you have wondered whether you could share in my delight of the obscene, the obscure and the downright disgusting? Perhaps you would like a session in my chamber of delights and debauchery?"

  Flintlock shook his head again, his face smeared with dismay.

  Wartski reached down between the intruder's legs and grabbed hold of his genitals. "Your head says no but the rest of your body is saying yes. How delightful." She let go, smiling as Flintlock collapsed to the floor with a shriek of pain. "Good. It's a while since I've really enjoyed myself. Best of all, I've got the night off from patrolling the castle's corridors, so you don't have to leave before dawn. Isn't that wonderful?"

  Flintlock whimpered helplessly, his eyes clenched shut to stop them seeing the vile woman standing before him. Wartski removed her camisole in a single movement, revealing her repulsive naked body in full. She licked her lips while contemplating the many options waiting in front of the toad tanks. "Let's get started then, shall we? Since you're already kneeling at my feet, you're in the perfect position for your first task of the evening."

  TEN

  "Trouble appears without prior notice"

  - Russian proverb

  Dante had drenched himself in cologne, pulled on his cleanest underpants and chosen the best-tailored jacket from among his meagre possessions. He examined his reflection in a mirror, running a hand through the luxurious mane of black hair. "Catnip for the ladies," he murmured, giving himself a wink. "The twins won't know what hit them." An itching sensation on his left arm forced him to pull jacket and shirt aside. The double-headed eagle symbol of the Romanovs was visible below the skin, like a faded tattoo.

  "Crest?" Dante whispered. "Crest!"

  What is it? I'm close to decrypting the data from that crystal, it replied tersely, but I'll never finish if you insist on interrupting me.

  "You're becoming visible again," Dante explained. The tattoo was the only visible sign that he bore a Romanov Weapons Crest. The Crest was able to conceal itself when its human host was vulnerable, such as Dante being asleep or unconscious. This skill was more important than ever since the war, with anyone bearing a Crest was liable to execution by the Tsar's forces.

  Sorry. The code breaking is taking all my concentration.

  "I can't afford to have Tempest and Storm discover my true identity in a middle of a romantic moment, can I?"

  You don't seem to understand how much effort is consumed by making myself invisible for such long periods of time. The Crests were not designed to go undercover for days on end.

  "Just do your best, okay?" Dante watched as the double-headed eagle disappeared beneath his skin again, merging into the muscle. "Thanks."

  Now, if you'll excuse me-

  "Since I've already disturbed you," Dante interrupted.

  Yes?

  "How's the decryption coming along?"

  I should have something for you before dawn.

  "Good. Well, get on with it."

  The Crest muttered a curse into Dante's mind and then fell silent again.

  "Don't let your mother hear you talking like that," Dante replied before pulling his shirt and jacket back into place. After one last groom of his hair and stroke of his beard, he departed for the twins' room, whistling tunelessly.

  In the kitchen Spatchcock had almost finished preparations for the next day's meals. All that remained was washing down the work surfaces and disposing of the scraps. Tired from a long day's labours, Spatchcock stared sourly at a massive tub laden with leftovers and other swill. Scullion insisted it be pushed through a grinder twice and then poured down a garbage disposal unit, both backbreaking jobs. But Scullion was still in bed.

  "There's got to be a quicker way," Spatchcock muttered. "Just this once." He remembered the walkway that stretched over the waters surrounding the island and grinned. Nobody would ever know if he just emptied the scraps into the sea, would they? No sooner had the thought entered his head than Spatchcock was dragging the tub towards the walkway.

  Outside a cold wind was slicin
g through the air, chill and bitter. Spatchcock got the tub halfway across the walkway before his energy and patience were exhausted. He fleetingly contemplated lifting the tub to tip its contents over the side railing, but his small frame could only raise it a few inches off the metal walkway. "Guess we have to do this the old fashioned way." Spatchcock dug both hands into the sloppy mess and scooped out the top layer, hurling over the rail and into the water. It splattered loudly on contact but soon sank into the inky black depths. Satisfied with his choice, Spatchcock continued lobbing kitchen scraps into the sea. "Much, much easier," he muttered. "Why doesn't Scullion do this all the time?"

  His question was answered by a roaring sound from below. A shape burst from the water, vaguely humanoid but unlike anything Spatchcock had seen before. He cowered back in terror, aware of flailing limbs, rows of gnashing teeth and cold, dead eyes staring at him. The little thief fled for his life, screaming and shrieking, the slops bucket abandoned.

  Dante bounded up the circular stairway, two steps at a time. At the top of the west tower he paused to catch his breath, then strode purposefully towards a heavy wooden door. It had to be the twins' room, as it was the only opening on this level. Adjusting his jacket one last time, Dante knocked twice. Footsteps could be heard padding towards the entrance and then the door swung open.

  Storm was standing inside wearing a revealing black leotard. She mopped sweat from her forehead and chest with a towel while looking disinterestedly at Dante. "Yes, Mr Durward?"

  The new arrival turned on the charm, giving her the benefit of his most winning smile. "Your sister asked me to pay a visit this evening."

  "Did she?"

  "Yes." Dante peered past Storm, not an easy task when the two-metre tall woman nearly filled the doorway. Beyond her he could see Tempest stretched out on a large square of padded matting. Like her sister she was dressed only in a leotard, its fabric stained with sweat from exertions. "And there she is!"