Conflagration

by Mick Farren

  “Jack! Jack! Oh no! No! No! No! Jack! No! No!”

  Then she realized the screaming voice was her own.

  CORDELIA

  “Are you telling me that you’ve never taken money to change loyalties in mainstream, Captain Conrad?”

  Conrad shrugged and smiled. “I wouldn’t say never, Lady Blakeney. No one could accuse Joe Conrad of not seizing fortune by the forelock.”

  Cordelia smiled. “I always thought the phrase was ‘fortune by the foreskin’?”

  Conrad looked rueful. “I believe you’re right. I was modifying my language, seeing as we had a lady on board.”

  “But you won’t take a higher price to turn the boat around and take me back to England?”

  “The freebooter must always, first and foremost, look out for himself and his crew. I won’t say the offer isn’t tempting, but in your case, m’lady, such a thing would present a few too many problems. For a start, and meaning no disrespect, you don’t have any actual money. Only promises to pay later.”

  Cordelia had to concede he had a point there. “You’re saying you don’t trust me?”

  “It’s hardly a matter of trust, now is it, m’lady? A deal has been made and we’re out on the water making good on the transaction. It’s a little late to be putting about on just your say-so.”

  “My say-so can carry a good deal of weight.”

  “That’s as may be, but we also have to face the fact that someone has sold you out, Lady Cordelia, and someone else is willing to pay a pretty penny for your warm body. I’ve already trusted you enough to bring you up out of the chain locker when my orders were to not so much as speak to you, but I fear that’s about the limit.”

  Joe Conrad was completely correct about how he had trusted Cordelia sufficiently to unfetter her, allow her to exit her cramped confinement, and join him and the crew of the Mary Belle up in the fresh air on deck. It had taken logic, begging, all the high-born authority she could muster, plus a garnish of mildly seductive flirtation, before Conrad had finally produced a key and freed her from her leg irons. The flirtation part had not been hard considering that Cordelia was almost naked through the conversation, to the point that, as Conrad had unlocked her shackles, he dryly advised her, “You’d do well to wrap that blanket around you, Lady Blakeney. The wind off the Channel is brisk and frisky this fine day.”

  Emerging onto the deck of the Nancy Belle, Cordelia had discovered that it was indeed a fine brisk day, and that the Nancy Belle was a small battered sailing vessel with patched red sails, perhaps a two-masted sloop; she was not exactly an expert at identifying types of ship. In addition to Conrad, the boy, and the Caribbean whose name, as it turned out, was Reuben, the Nancy Belle’s crew of five was completed by a Frank called Marcel, and Lars, a squat Swede who hardly ever spoke. Her mission had been to find out where exactly she was, why she was there, and who was behind it all. Conrad had no problem answering the first question. They were in the English Channel, marking good time, and waiting for the arrival of the small Mosul herring fleet that worked the North Sea. The fishing boats were an odd assortment of craft with which Conrad could mingle, after a minimal change of the flags, and use as enabling cover under which to slip into the port of Boulogne without attracting the attention of either Mosul patrol boats, or Imperial customs officers and Zhaithan harbor police. He had even revealed that Cordelia had been delivered to him as part of an entire cargo of contraband that had included machine parts and parabiotic medicines denied the Mosul by the Norse trade embargo: the inevitable benodex, some boxes of the brand-new Bergman parabellums, so highly prized by Teuton officers, cases of aquavit and Scotts whiskey, bundles of London pornography and other publications prohibited in the Empire, but also craved by the Zhaithan, boxes of Caribbean cigars, plus a quantity of small individual items privately ordered and sent as sealed packages. For all practical purposes, Cordelia herself fell into the latter category since Conrad professed to having no knowledge of where she had come from, or what her ultimate destination might be. Seemingly the Nancy Belle quite regularly transported women prisoners from England to the occupied lands of the Franks, and usually they were young, pretty, and destined for the upmarket brothels in the provincial capital at Lyon or to be some general’s concubine. Conrad therefore claimed to have believed she was just another of these high-priced unfortunates when she was carried aboard unconscious, and to have thought nothing of it. “I swear, m’lady, if I’d known you were some important Americano out of Albany I would have asked a few questions and probably have upped my price.”

  “But you’d have taken me anyway?”

  “That I would. A man’s got to earn a living.”

  Once the Nancy Belle was in Boulogne and had off-loaded the cargo from England, the sloop (or whatever) would take on a new one; Frankish champagne, Hispanian vintage sherry, and cases of other wines, cognac, opium, bolts of Egyptian cotton and Damascus silk, plus three Norse agents making a covert getaway from the Mosul. Once back in Rye, with Norse customs either bribed or outwitted, Conrad would show a handsome profit. Cordelia thought about this. “From what you say, you’d be hard-pressed to turn around, even if I had a secret belt of gold sovereigns under my knickers and I offered you all of them.”

  “You’re probably right, ma’am. But you don’t, do you? The question is wholly hypothetical.”

  “Talking of hypothetical, do you know what happened to my hypothetical clothes?”

  Conrad was a picture of innocence. “You were delivered to me just as you are, except of course for the blanket. I threw that over you.”

  “You seem a bright man, Joe Conrad, but this seems a highly complicated way to make a living.”

  “I’m a seaman, Lady Blakeney. Maybe it’s my downfall, but I like the feel of a ship under me.”

  “So why didn’t you simply enlist in the Norse Navy?”

  At this Reuben and Marcel laughed out loud, and even Lars and the boy smiled. “I don’t like officers, ma’am. I don’t like to serve them, and I’ve certainly never wanted to be one. I like to master my own ship, and that’s the start and finish of it. Up until about a year ago, I was privateering in the Caribbean, but since the Corsairs made their damned treaty with the Marley administration, and went legal, it hasn’t been a fit place for an honest man.”

  Conrad was able to talk all he wanted because the Nancy Belle had nothing to do right there and then except mark time, hold her position, and wait for the fishing fleet to come through the Straits of Dover. The worst that could happen was that a Norse warship or customs boat should happen by and decide to board them, but there seemed little chance of that, since no example of either was anywhere in sight, and the Nancy Belle was still flying the flag of the Norse Merchant Marine.

  “This embargo-running still seems like a very complicated business.”

  “That’s Il Syndicato for you. They take care of every detail.”

  Cordelia blinked. “Il Syndicato?” Both Raphael and Jesamine had dismissed Il Syndicato as “thieves and pimps and smugglers, degenerates and cutthroats,” but Gideon Windermere had indicated that, although on one level, they were an extensive criminal network, based in Naples, but operating throughout the occupied territories, they were also part of the resistance in the lands across the English Channel, whose members were risking death and worse to bring the Mosul Empire to ruin. If Jeakqual-Ahrach had organized her kidnapping, Her Grand Eminence had gone about it in a very strange way, unless Il Syndicato was playing both sides against each other and simply reaping the benefits.

  Joe Conrad treated Cordelia to a very direct look. “That’s another reason I wouldn’t take your money, even if you had it. Only a fool crosses up Il Syndicato, because that fool is almost immediately a dead fool.”

  The idea that she might, for the moment, be in the remote de facto hands of Il Syndicato opened a whole new door of fear, worry, and confusion, not least in that Cordelia had no idea exactly what Il Syndicato really was, and what being their prisoner r
eally meant. A part of her simply wanted to sink to the deck of the Nancy Belle and start sobbing like a child. It was all too much for her. She had never asked for any of this and now it had become so much more than she could handle. Cordelia simply wanted to give in and give up, but, of course, she couldn’t. It would obviously do her no good at all, and destroy even the slight sympathetic rapport that she seemed to have established with Joe Conrad. Also, on a much deeper and more basic level, she had been schooled from birth that her greatest responsibility was to keep up appearances come what may. It didn’t matter that come-what-may had turned out to be disastrous and life threatening. An upper-class upbringing accepted no excuses. Not that she was allowed any time to make excuses, or so much as to think through all the fresh information that the conversation with Conrad had provided. Two totally unrelated happenings pitched Cordelia’s world into another round of upheaval and motion. While she had been talking to Conrad, the boy has been dispatched to the top of the taller of the Nancy Belle’s two masts to keep a lookout for the Mosul fishing fleet, and, shortly after Conrad informed Cordelia that he was freebooting for Il Syndicato, the youngster shouted a warning.

  “Ship ahoy, Skipper! Sail on the starboard bow.”

  “Is it the fleet, boy?”

  “I dunno, skipper. But it’s a sail, not a motorboat or steamer, so it’s not a Norse patrol.”

  “Well thank the gods for that.”

  Conrad pulled a telescopic spyglass from under his coat and looked where the boy was pointing. “Off the starboard bow? Damned if I can see a thing.”

  “I see two more, skipper. It’s gotta be the fleet.”

  Cordelia suddenly felt herself struck by a burst of negative mental energy. It hit her like a thunderclap, and she was hard-pressed to stop herself from reeling across the deck. Fortunately Conrad and his small crew were too busy scanning the horizon to notice, and Cordelia gritted her teeth and righted herself. She was certain that whatever it was had emanated from England, although she was not sure how she knew that, and equally it meant something terrible was happening, possibly to the rest of The Four. Conrad hadn’t known anything about any other Americano kidnap victims being spirited across the Channel, and so she had to suppose that Argo, Raphael, and Jesamine were still in London, and, as far as Cordelia could estimate time, they should have been taking part in the ceremonial procession for Jack Kennedy. She could not, however, worry about the others. She had more than enough troubles of her own, and they seemed about to enter a new phase. Those on deck could now see the same ships as the boy at the masthead, and Conrad immediately busied himself. “This is it lads. It’s the herring boats. Time to mix and mingle and look innocuous. Haul down the Norse Star and hoist the bloody Mosul Flame. Jump to it, or they’ll be on us before we have our disguise on.” He turned quickly to Cordelia. “And you’d better get below, m’lady. No one’s going to believe we’re a fishing boat with a fine young woman like yourself on deck.”

  “Are you going to put me back in irons?”

  “Not if I have your word you won’t be causing any trouble.”

  “You have my word, Captain Conrad. I mean, what trouble could I cause in the middle of the Mosul fishing fleet?”

  ARGO

  Argo did his best to restrain Jesamine while, at the same, trying to work out exactly what had happened. He had grabbed her round the waist and swung her round as she’d rushed forward plainly intending to throw herself on Kennedy’s bullet-ridden body, as though, by pressing his corpse close to her, she could infuse the life back into it by an effort of will.

  “They’ve killed Jack!”

  As Argo struggled with Jesamine, he found he had nothing to say to her that could be of any effective comfort. Yes, they had killed Jack Kennedy, and Argo was also in shock. The ugly and too obvious truth could not be denied, but, right then and there, he had no idea who they were, or why they had done it. The obvious conclusion was that the killing was the work of Zhaithan assassins, but that might be too easy. Gideon Windermere, Anastasia de Wynter, and even Jane Tennyson had mentioned isolationist political groups inside the Norse Union like the Sons of Thor, the fundamentalist Crom worshipers, and even unashamed Mosul sympathizers like the Iron Thulists, who were violently opposed to the alliance between the NU and the Kingdom of Albany. Maybe some hardcore group of them might have been willing to go as far as public murder to achieve their ends. Okay, so Jesamine had just come from Kennedy’s bed, and her lover was sprawled dead in front of her, but she couldn’t just let go her grip. They were in the middle of a war, too much was at stake, and, now, it would seem, the stakes had been raised even higher. He needed help, and all he could do was to yell at Raphael, who was standing transfixed, his pistol held down at his side, “Get over here and help me, man! This may be the deepest shit we’ve been in yet.”

  Raphael pulled himself out of his own shock, tucked his revolver into the flap of his dress tunic, and moved quickly to Argo, taking Jesamine’s hands in his, and talking to her in the kind of low and gentle tone that one might use to calm a frightened horse. “Easy, girl, easy. This is exactly the wrong time to come apart.”

  She snarled angrily at him. “What would you do?”

  Raphael remained calm. “Probably the same, but you have to hold it together.”

  Raphael’s technique seemed to work. Jesamine had stopped struggling and was at least talking. “I was with him just a few hours ago.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Argo tentatively put Jesamine back on her feet and let go of her, but Raphael still held her hands. She stood forlornly for a few moments, and then looked back at Jack Kennedy. “Are they just going to leave him there?”

  A press photographer had eased though the confusion, and was starting to aim his bulky camera at Kennedy’s body when Jesamine spotted him. She let out a shriek of fury, and, before Argo or Raphael could stop her, she threw herself on the man, alternately beating on him with her fists, and trying to claw the camera out of his hands. “Leave him alone you bastard! Leave him the fuck alone!”

  Most of the police and soldiers in the immediate area were either waiting for orders, or attempting to secure the assassination scene with less than total effect. Others were trying to clear a path for the first motorized ambulances. Jesamine’s sudden assault on the photographer provided something familiar for them, something with which they were able to cope. Jesamine and the unfortunate photographer were instantly surrounded by uniformed men trying to pull them apart. This was too much for Argo. He lurched towards this new mêlée, shouting angrily, “Leave her alone, dammit!”

  The combination of his uniform and attitude made the confusion part, but two London coppers continued to hold Jesamine’s arms while another two restrained the photographer. Argo gestured irately to the two holding Jesamine. “I said let her go. She was his girlfriend, you idiots. She needs to be sedated, not manhandled!”

  “I think it would be best if you all came with us, Major.”

  Argo turned to see the source of this new voice, and found himself facing a grim knot of what were obviously plainclothed policemen, or the heavyweight agents of some other branch of national security. A man whom Argo identified as being the leader of the group by the more expensive cut of his trenchcoat, held out his hand. “Please give us the gun, Major Weaver. You’re breaking Norse law by having it with you at all.”

  Argo was too furious to be intimidated. “That’s our leader who’s just be murdered. How does that sit with your Norse fucking law?”

  “I appreciate that you’re upset, sir. That’s why it would be best if you came with us.”

  “You’re arresting us? You bastards allow Jack Kennedy to be gunned down in broad daylight with half your fucking army looking on, and you’re arresting us?”

  “No sir, you’re not being arrested. This tragic situation unfortunately requires a swift response, and Sir Harry Palmer would like to hear what you have to say. But first give me the pistol. Everyone is under a lot of stress, and
we don’t want any accidents, do we?”

  The plainclothes men were backed up by ten or more of the Asgard Division, still in their winged helmets, but carrying thoroughly modern Bergman carbines. They hadn’t actually raised their weapons, but they were staring intently at Argo. Argo expelled some of his more reckless anger with a sigh. He didn’t want any accidents either. He turned the pistol in his hand and offered it to the plainclothes man butt first. “Here, take it. It’s one of yours anyway.”

  He refrained from ratting out Jane Tennyson with the detail that the revolver was hers. The man took the gun and dropped it into his coat’s copious pocket. Taking his cue from Argo, Raphael turned over his sidearm. The man gave a formal nod. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you want to follow us…”

  “What about the body? You expect us to just leave him?”

  “Once the injured have been taken out, we’ll be sealing the entire area so our forensic teams can go to work. It’s not the romantic way, Major, but we have to make accurate records of everything if we’re going to nail the bastards who did this.”

  The first ambulance had halted by the wrecked carriage, and Governor Branson and two injured soldiers were being helped into it.

  “But he was our man.”

  “I know, sir, but it’s the modern world.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  The leader of the plainclothes men was making motions to move. “If you and your friends would just come with us, we have transport close by.”

  “Do we have any choice in the matter?”

  “No, sir, none at all.”

  CORDELIA

  “You want me to what?”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get into the crate, m’lady. We can’t have you walking across the Boulogne fish dock in nothing but your underwear, now can we?”

  “You could give me some fucking clothes.”

  Joe Conrad stared unhappily at her. “I’ve done the best I can for you, Lady Blakeney, all contrary to express orders, but this is how it’s going to be. We’re not messing around here. We’re in the Empire now. There’s Zhaithan and Customs to contend with here, not to mention any number of prying eyes. So you can either be a good girl, or we chloroform you. What’s it going to be?”