Not Less Than Gods (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “We can obtain these things.”

  “We’d do it ourselves, you know, but the matter of the Yankees strutting about the city with loaded guns makes it so awkward.”

  For the first time since they had entered the room, Nikitin gave a genuine smile.

  “The Americans may not trouble us much longer,” he said. “They have been granted permission to tour the country, in the company of picked guides who would show them exactly what His Majesty wished them to see. It is possible they will leave on their tour. It is equally possible they will not leave at all. In either case, their influence will cease.”

  “My dear chap, you’re far too subtle for me,” said Ludbridge. “You’ll have to speak a little more plainly.”

  “I am not yet at liberty to do so,” said Nikitin, his smile widening. “I am disappointed that you have not asked after the health of Brother Matthews.”

  “I haven’t, have I? Well, how is Brother Matthews?”

  “Very well indeed. We ought to have a copy of his leg’s schematic for you within the next three or four days. The prosthetic arm, however, is even more remarkable than the prosthetic leg. We were quite surprised to learn that it, too, contained a hidden compartment. Before he escaped from Constantinople, Brother Matthews managed to fill it with a number of documents that should prove intensely interesting to His Majesty, when they are brought to his attention.”

  “Really.” Ludbridge looked askance at Nikitin. “I don’t suppose you could make a second copy of them, before we go home?”

  “Since they contain information that would startle a few gentlemen in Whitehall, I am certain a copy could be spared for England,” said Nikitin demurely. “In the meanwhile, we will set our best people to obtaining that other information you require.”

  The next several days were as busy as the previous week had been dull. The Kabinet gathered intelligence dutifully. As soon as reports came back Ludbridge commandeered one of the Kabinet’s briefing rooms and began training Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove for the enterprise at hand. Photographs of the persons whose names were on the list were brought in, each feature analyzed and committed to memory. Their addresses were likewise learned, along with maps of each neighborhood, minutely inspected with an eye to entrances, exits, probable traffic and the presence of dogs.

  “None of them seem to be men of any special rank,” remarked Bell-Fairfax, as they trudged back along the tunnel at the end of the second day.

  “They wouldn’t, would they?” said Ludbridge. “Pretty well scuttles your secrecy if you’re walking about with a row of medals on your chest, don’t it? You’ll notice, though, that four of them are ex-servicemen, like yours truly and, for that matter, you. Number Three and Number Five are former naval cadets who failed—or seemed to—and went straight from school into perfectly dull civilian jobs. Dolgorukov himself is from an old family, even if his official position is very minor embassy staff.”

  “They’re a bit like us, really,” said Pengrove.

  “Except that we don’t presume to make policy,” said Bell-Fairfax.

  “You wouldn’t put a bullet in the Prince of Wales, if it was required?” said Pengrove.

  “Certainly not,” said Bell-Fairfax. “It wouldn’t be required. We’re working on the right side.”

  “To be sure, we are,” said Ludbridge. They had come to the door and he opened it and stepped through. “Bloody hell—”

  The room beyond was dark, the stove cold. Ludbridge flattened himself against the wall, gesturing for the others to stay back. But there was no rush of attack; only the silence of the house. Ludbridge drew a revolver from within his coat.

  “Hobson!” roared Ludbridge, and darted to one side.

  There was a muffled cry upstairs, and then the sound of footsteps descending the staircase hastily. “Sorry! Sorry, fell asleep!”

  “For God’s sake,” said Ludbridge. He re-holstered his weapon, pulled out his lucifer case and lit the lamp. Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove emerged from the tunnel. They beheld Hobson standing at the foot of the staircase, rubbing his eyes.

  “What time is it?” said Hobson.

  “It’s only half past eight. You didn’t sleep through the six o’clock report, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t, got some coordinates for you—” Hobson dug a slip of paper from his pocket and thrust it at Ludbridge. “That’s from London. For going home.”

  Ludbridge took it. He sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking again?”

  “I solemnly swear that I have not,” said Hobson, holding up his right hand. He swayed a little as he stood, however, and the smell of alcohol was evident on his breath. Ludbridge just stared at him for a moment, then turned away.

  “Bell-Fairfax, see what’s in the pantry,” he said shortly. “I could fancy some of that black bread with the cold chicken, if there’s any left.”

  Pengrove laid out the weapons.

  “Must we all carry knives?” he said, looking doubtfully at the service blades. They were fully a foot long excluding the hafts, almost like small swords, with a wicked serration on the lower edge of the blade and a blood channel along the upper edge. He tested the point of one and watched in dismay as a red drop appeared on his fingertip.

  “We must,” said Ludbridge, not looking up from the map table where he was studying the latest intelligence. “The work has to be done quietly. Garrotes first when possible, knives second and possibly used in combination, revolvers dead last. And with silencers, I need hardly add.”

  “Ah. And here they are,” said Pengrove, locating three canisters. He set them out beside the service Colts. “What’s this thing like a shortened rifle?”

  “Dog gun,” said Ludbridge. “Fires darts to put the nice doggies to sleep. Shame to kill a dog that was only doing its job, don’t you think?”

  “So we would be using that at the house by the royal stables?” Bell-Fairfax looked up.

  “Yes. The one with the mastiffs.”

  “And . . . we’re not taking Hobson then,” said Pengrove, having finished the weapons sorting and noting that there were only three piles.

  “No.” Ludbridge took a pencil and annotated a map.

  “He’s quite good with a knife, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t do him a blessed bit of good if he were drunk,” said Ludbridge. “Did I mention that I found out where he’s getting it?”

  “No.” Both Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove looked up.

  “Went into the cabinet to fetch out a bottle of vodka. Poured out a shot and, lo! Like the wedding feast at Cana in reverse, it had been transmuted to water. Opened another; same thing. Someone had picked the cabinet lock and been drinking the stuff and topping up the bottles with water.”

  “Perhaps the fellow in the grog shop cheated us,” said Pengrove.

  “Wouldn’t stay in business long if he got up to tricks like that, would he?”

  A gloomy silence fell. “Poor Johnny,” said Pengrove at last.

  “Poor the rest of us! He might have led anybody to this house, coming in by the door like that. We’re in the first real danger we’ve faced, and he chooses to go to pieces.”

  “He’s not a coward,” said Pengrove.

  “Some men squeal and run when they’re afraid,” said Ludbridge. “Other men pretend there’s nothing at all wrong and tea will be served at four as usual. If there happens to be a lion roaming the parlor, guess which fellow gets eaten?”

  “Did you ask him whether he’d broken into the cabinet?” said Bell-Fairfax.

  Ludbridge gave a short humorless laugh. He shook his head.

  “London confirmed it should be tomorrow night,” said Hobson. It was the night of the sixth day, and they had slept until noon in preparation for what they were to do.

  “Good,” said Ludbridge. He had cleaned, and was now loading, his revolver. “We’ll be back in the morning when the job’s finished; we’ll want our sleep badly. If all goes well, we can sleep until the rendezvous, rouse ourselves and go straight t
here. Your job tonight is to pack for us, Hobson. I want everything closed up and secured. The Kabinet will ship it after us. Pengrove, I know you’ve carried that brass coffee service across half the globe but I must ask you whether it is really essential to your continued survival.”

  “I suppose we could present it to the Kabinet as a gift,” said Pengrove, looking mournful as he pulled on a black wool fishing jersey.

  “Good man. Ready, Bell-Fairfax?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bell-Fairfax had already donned his jersey and was sitting quietly by the door to the tunnel. He was very pale.

  “We’re preventing the murder of an innocent man, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For God and Saint George, eh?” Ludbridge holstered his revolver and stood up.

  “God and Saint George.” Bell-Fairfax jumped to his feet.

  “Tallyho,” said Pengrove.

  They emerged from the other end of the tunnel into the Kabinet’s rooms and made their way to the arsenal. Having signed for their weapons, they proceeded to Nikitin’s office.

  “Hallo?” Ludbridge looked around, stepped into the antechamber and looked there. “Not here. Well, he’ll be along in a minute. Harnesses on, gentlemen.”

  While they were fastening on the scabbards for their knives they heard voices in the corridor without. “. . . the most frightened I have ever been in my life.”

  “Let us hope he does not want to see you again,” said Nikitin, entering the office with Matthews. Matthews’s leg had been restored to him and he walked without any noticeable limp. “If he does, we will need to produce you fairly quickly, so it is probably best you remain here until we can find you passage back to New York. Ah, gentlemen! Gerasim will be along in twenty minutes with your transport. You will perhaps be relieved to know that the Reverend Breedlove and his friends are unlikely to trouble us again.”

  “How’s that?” Ludbridge, buckling on his scabbard, turned to peer at them. Matthews, pale and shaking, took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “His Majesty the Czar has ordered their arrest.”

  “Bravo!”

  “Brother Matthews introduced himself as a courier from President Millard Fillmore,” said Nikitin, going to a cabinet and producing a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “He produced some quite damning information on the group in Tennessee. It was presented as a timely warning from a fellow head of state inspired by brotherly concern.” He poured out a glass and presented it to Matthews with a bow.

  “Was it really?”

  “Of course not,” said Nikitin cheerfully. “But our brothers in Philadelphia were quite happy to transmit everything we needed to produce a believable fake. The substance was true, mind you; the Franklins simply hadn’t had time yet to advise President Fillmore about the conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy?”

  “Why, the grand advance of Manifest Destiny! Making a friend and ally of His Majesty is only the first step. He will go to war with Great Britain (and France too, but that is only incidental) and so the British will lose their most-favored trading status, which the great republic of the United States will be only too pleased to accept instead. Of course Rus sia will win the war—how could it not? We are great and powerful! And so American traders will be free to travel throughout Rus sia, from Arkangel’sk to Petropavlovsk. But they will be selling something more than tobacco or rum or cowhides.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Sedition,” said Matthews. “They will be fomenting rebellion, as filibusters do. Cells will be organized to overthrow the Czar and establish a democratic republic. That succeeding—which God forbid!—they’ll make a grand alliance of the great powers of the Northern Hemisphere.”

  “God forbid, eh?” Ludbridge fitted a silencer on his revolver. “Thought you chaps were all for democratic republics.”

  “Sir, I can’t deny I pity any nation that groans under such a tyrant. But the guarantee held out to the rebels will be that they may keep their serfs,” explained Matthews. “Consider a union of slave-holding nations. What hope has abolition, outvoted by such a majority?”

  “Happily, the specter will remain insubstantial,” said Nikitin, with a chuckle. “When we were graciously granted permission to withdraw, His Majesty was an interesting shade of purple and roaring, positively roaring, the orders for Reverend Breedlove’s arrest.”

  “Well done,” said Bell-Fairfax. Matthews acknowledged him with a half-bow.

  “Ah, here is your driver.” Nikitin turned as a man in the clothing of a muzhik entered the room. “Gerasim Fyodorovich, is the wagon ready?”

  “Ready for the gentlemen now.”

  “Then let’s not waste any time.” Ludbridge took out his watch and glanced at it. “Nikitin, if all goes as planned we’ll return before sunrise.”

  The wagon traveled ponderously along Admiralty Avenue. Its load appeared to be crates of tea; in reality they were the exteriors of crates jointed together to enclose one space. Ludbridge, Bell-Fairfax and Pengrove sat inside on a bench, jostling uncomfortably as the wagon rolled over cobbles.

  “First target,” said Ludbridge, pulling on his gloves. “Personally drew up the orders for the massacre of three regiments of Hungarians, after they had surrendered. First advanced the suggestion that the Czarevich would be more useful as a martyr than as the inheritor of the throne.”

  The wagon slowed, stopped. “Go,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax pushed open the rear wall of their enclosure—it swung on hinges, like a door—and held it as Pengrove and Ludbridge scrambled out and dropped to the street. He followed them and closed the door. The wagon rolled on at once. They ducked into the shadows under a stand of trees.

  They stood on pavement beside a wall, looking into the garden on the other side. Beyond the garden they recognized one of the mansions carefully photographed by the Kabinet’s intelligence-gathering crew.

  “Should be two mastiffs on thirty-foot chains, southwest corner of the house,” prompted Ludbridge in a low voice.

  “I know—” Pengrove unslung the tranquilizer rifle from his shoulder and, raising it, peered through the thermal sight. “There they are! One’s lifted his head. Looking this way.” He took aim and fired. There was a muffled yelp. He cocked the weapon, dropping another dart into the chamber, and aimed and fired a second time. No yelp, but a highpitched keening whimper. Pengrove put the gun back over his shoulder. Ludbridge took out his watch and counted off sixty seconds.

  “They’ve both fallen over, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Wait for it,” said Ludbridge, and went on counting a moment longer. “Right. Circling the house, from the right-hand side. Go.”

  Pengrove attempted to scale the wall. Bell-Fairfax picked him up and set him astride it; he swung his leg over and dropped down the other side. Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax followed him. They strode across the garden toward the house, silent on the damp earth. Ludbridge noted uneasily that, late as the hour was, there was still a lamp burning on the ground floor, and two dimly visible above, though neither shone from the location intelligence had identified as the target’s bedroom. House full of insomniacs, Ludbridge thought.

  They passed the silent dogs and stepped up on the flagstone coping that surrounded the house. Bell-Fairfax approached the lit window—French doors, actually—with caution. A dull red glow, lamplight through drapes, and a single bright bar where the curtains failed to meet. He leaned in sidelong to peer through. He turned to Ludbridge, his face rigid with tension, and pointed.

  Ludbridge came close and looked for himself. He summoned his memory of the floor plans the Kabinet had obtained. This should be the target’s study. The man seated at the desk, therefore, was likely to be the target. His shaven head and build answered the target’s description. He was leaning forward, writing, turning his head at regular intervals to consult something. And the door fastened with a simple catch three-quarters of the way up . . .

  Pengrove had already drawn his knife and, standing on tiptoe, slid the bl
ade through between the doors. Bell-Fairfax flattened himself against the wall on the other side, poised to move. Ludbridge hoped they remembered that the doors opened out.

  Evidently they did. Pengrove slid the blade upward until the catch lifted, but he did not let it drop. Bell-Fairfax swung the left-hand door open and stepped through, drawing out the braided-wire garrote. Ludbridge followed as closely as he could, but a gout of blood had already shot out and struck the wall by the time he stepped through the curtains; the target was slumping backward against Bell-Fairfax, garroted with such force the carotids had been sliced open.

  Bell-Fairfax lowered the dead man to the floor slowly, carefully, and disentangled the garrote. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. Ludbridge stepped past him to glance at the papers on the desk. He grinned savagely. Grabbing up the coded message and the cipher book that lay open there, he turned and saw Pengrove staring in at the dead man, horrified. He struck Bell-Fairfax lightly on the shoulder. “Go,” he muttered. Bell-Fairfax lurched upright and ran out, with Ludbridge close behind him, and Pengrove sprinted after them to the garden wall. Bell-Fairfax recollected himself sufficiently to hoist Pengrove over the wall first, and then they were all three together in the street beyond. The wagon—which had circled around and come past again—rolled on ahead a few yards away. They ran after it. Bell-Fairfax pulled the door open and they scrambled in.

  “God, this is easier when you needn’t attempt to conceal anything,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax doubled over, gagging.

  “One down, five to go, what?” said Pengrove, with a trace of hysteria in his voice. “I say, Bell-Fairfax, are you all right?”

  “Of course he’s all right. Aren’t you, my boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax with a gasp, sitting upright.

  “A damned bad fellow got what he richly deserved just now,” said Ludbridge, sliding the papers and cipher book under the bench. “And the world’s a better place.”