by Lavie Tidhar
For there was one element left, of course, besides the trivial task of harvesting a whale. The observer had been aware of that for some time. Sooner or later he would have to collect one of the others, he thought. The masters. One of them. That made him a little uneasy. But what had to be done had to be done. There was that still left, to chart and understand.
It was night and Smith was tired, but he'd been used to worse and at least no one was shooting at him any more.
Which was not to say they weren't watching–
Though he tried to shake any possible shadows, following a circuitous route through the city, keeping an eye out for enemy agents.
Which meant, at the moment, just about anyone.
But he needed to get to where he was going unobserved. Keep a low profile, from now on. Fogg was understandably angry. Another public murder and he, Smith, like a fool, smack in the middle of it.
Shadow executives had to keep to the shadows.
He was getting old.
There was no getting away from it. The realisation dawned on him gradually, in stages: he was past it. Mycroft had been right to retire him.
And Alice, he thought. What was she doing still playing the game? She had told him once, lying beside him in a hotel room in – it must have been Prague, or was it Warsaw? Somewhere in that region, in a spring with long bright evenings and the smell of flowering trees – "My one wish is not to die in bed."
Now she was dead and he was still around.
Ahead of him was the church. He was at St Giles, and it was dark there, and the people who moved about looked furtive. Which suited him fine. He went into St Giles in the Fields, the church quiet and welcoming. He stood there for a long moment, as he always did, wondering what it meant, a church, a place of worship; wondering, too, where the dead went, if they went anywhere at all, and if they did, what they found there.
He went and lit a candle. For the Byron automaton. Could you do that? Could you light a candle for a machine that no longer ran? Yet people were machines, too, running on vulnerable fleshy parts that decayed and were easy to harm. People shut down every day. Some – many – had been shut down by him.
What happened then?
Everything. Nothing. He lit the candle and placed it gently in place, in the damp sand, with the others. Goodbye, Byron, he thought. Another name on the long list of Smith's life had been crossed out.
He sighed, then went forward, towards the dais, and sat on a bench but at the end, in the shadows, close to the wall, and waited.
"Mr Smith."
The voice woke him up and for a moment he felt confused, thought he was back in his small house, back in the village, and it was time to tend to the cabbages. Then he remembered the house had burned down, people had tried to kill him, what had been left of the cabbages had been dumped in the rubbish tip, and he was in a church and must have fallen asleep. He shook his head ruefully. Another sign of getting old. Getting careless.
"Mr Smith?"
He turned his head and stared at an old, lined face. It was like staring into a mirror. "Fagin," he said.
"Thought you were dead, like, Mr Smith," Fagin said.
"Retired," Smith said.
Fagin grinned. One of the things that Smith always noticed about Fagin was that his teeth were in remarkably good condition. They were white and straight and looked at odds in that face even as, like now, they had been carefully blackened with coal, to give them a ruinous appearance.
But of course, Smith was one of the few who knew Fagin's secret…
"You lot," Fagin said, "never retire. Die, yes. But never retire."
"And your lot?" Smith said, and Fagin grinned and said, "Tis a matter of choice."
This was the truth about Fagin: his real name was Neville St Claire and he had been, in his younger days, an amateur actor and a newspaper reporter. Faced with a new wife and mounting bills, the young St Claire took to the streets, putting on makeup and transforming himself into a hideous beggar, who called himself Hugh Boone.
The old bee keeper had put an end to that particular scheme, back in the day… but St Claire, unable to give up on the excitement of the streets, or the profits to be made therein, had transformed himself yet again, this time calling himself Fagin, and this time… diversifying. Smith did not like the man, but he had proved himself useful on several occasions.
"I'm looking for a boy," Smith said.
"Oh?" Fagin tried to look innocent, and failed. "What do you need? I've got blaggers and bug hunters, buzzers and dippers, fine-wirers all."
"Yes, I know," Smith said. Fagin ran the beggars and pickpockets, especially young boys. They were his eyes and ears and they did the jobs he no longer did himself. "One of those, I think."
"Only one?"
It was quiet in the church, quiet and dark – and suddenly there was a knife in Smith's hand, and its tip was touching Fagin's throat, almost gently, like a kiss. Fagin, carefully, swallowed.
"I think you know who I mean," Smith said quietly.
"Heard about your friend," Fagin said. "We were all sorry to see Byron go."
"And how, precisely, did you hear?" Smith said.
"Come, come, now, Mr Smith," Fagin said. "Put the knife away and let's talk like gentlemen."
"Why?" Smith said. He increased the pressure and watched blood well up on the other man's neck. "Neither of us is one."
"Quite, quite. Still…"
"Yes?"
"It's a matter of push, of chink, of coin!" Fagin said. "And I'm not talking a dimmick or a grey. I mean soft, I mean–"
"You mean money," Smith said.
"Man's gotta eat," Fagin said, almost apologetically. "Think of the kiddies, what?"
"Do you have the boy?"
Fagin's eyes never wavered from Smith's. A small smile seemed to float on his lips. "Do you have the money?" he whispered.
Smith sighed. There was no arguing with Fagin, nor threatening. He put the knife away. "I'm going to need a receipt," he said.
THIRTEEN
The Angel, or something like it, had sat on St Giles Circus for centuries. Before Les Lézards had outlawed the practice, the Circus had been home to the gallows, providing both death (for convicts) and entertainment (for London residents), and the Angel had been the traditional stop for those about to be hanged, for a final drink and – if they were notorious enough – possibly for signing a few autographs.
It was a low-ceilinged pub, with a fire burning in the hearth, a card game or two in the back rooms, and various other transactions of a not-strictly-legal bent taking place in murmured conversations all around it. Smith knew it well.
He went in with Fagin, through the small maze of the pub and out, to the cold and dismal yard at the back. There, several small boys huddled around a makeshift fire, warming their small, pale hands. "The devil makes work for idle hands!" Fagin barked and the boys straightened to attention, glancing at their employer and the man he was with.
"Living the good life, eh?" Fagin said. He clicked his fingers. "Go," he said, not unkindly. "Go, ply your trade, my little wirers. Bring Uncle Fagin purses and their like, the heavier the better." He looked down at them benevolently. "Go!" he shouted, and the small figures scampered away, swarming past Smith and Fagin on their way to the streets.
"Not you, Oli," Fagin said, snatching one boy's arm. The boy stopped and stood obediently.
"This is the boy?" Smith said. He knelt down to look at the boy's pale, haunted face. "What's your name?" he said, gently.
"Twist, sir," the boy said, looking down.
"A fine thief," Fagin said, which, in his own way, had been a compliment. "Oli here's the one you've been wanting, Smith."
"Let me be the judge of that," Smith said. He pulled the boy gently a little way away from his master. "Here," he said, calling to Fagin, and tossed him a coin in the air. The portrait of a lizard spun through the air and landed with a thwack in the man's palm. "Go buy yourself a pint while I talk to the boy."
Fagin
grunted, but seemed willing. "I'll be back in a bit, then," he said genially. "Mind the boy, Smith. I will not abide broken bones."
The boy's eyes flashed with fear and Fagin, with a snort of amusement, walked off.
Smith and the boy were left alone in the yard. "I won't hurt you," Smith said.
"You're the one from the Bucket," the boy said suddenly.
"You saw me?"
"I saw the machine man!" the boy was shaking.
"Byron? You knew him?"
"I saw you, you passed him in the crowd. You were running, and he moved out of your way."
Smith frowned. The boy's eyes were big and round and frightened. Not speaking, Smith took down his coat and put it around the boy's thin shoulders. The boy sucked in air and sighed. "His eyes," he said. "They were so cold."
"Tell me what you saw," Smith said.
"I tried to pick his pocket," the boy said. "But he caught me. I looked in his eyes. There were things moving behind his eyes. There were ghosts, trapped there. He made me afraid. He made me run. But I didn't run. I went around and watched him. I saw him go to the old Byron thingamee."
Thingamee was what the urchins called the automatons, Smith remembered suddenly. So who was the "machine man" the boy had spoken of?
"He had a knife only it wasn't no knife," the boy said. "It…" He swallowed. "It grew," he whispered. "It grew out of him. He stabbed the old thingamee and the thingamee let him. I don't understand…"
Smith didn't, either.
"I want you to come with me," he said. He needed the boy, and he couldn't leave him with Fagin. Someone had to take Fagin down. He had tried in the past, but always failed. The man had powerful friends. But he could at least ensure this boy, this Twist, a safe haven, for a while, with the Bureau. He was a witness, the only one they had. And Smith needed to know what the boy knew.
"Come with me," he said again, but the boy blinked at him in confusion and sound seemed to slow down to a crawl and there was a flash of blinding white light and the dirt between them exploded, once, twice, three times and Smith grabbed the boy under one arm and rolled – they were being fired at.
Then everything moved very quickly and he saw black-clad figures come streaming into the yard, over the walls and from within the pub, holding guns, surrounding them.
"Harvester," one of them said. The accent was familiar.
Hapsburg.
Again.
"Run," he said to the boy. Then, like a dancer, poised on one foot, he swirled around, and his knives flashed as they flew.
He couldn't hope to kill them all and he knew it: not with knives.
At the Bureau he had stopped by and seen an old friend.
Underneath Pall Mall, below even the level of the Bureau, there was a train station…
A disused station, it had been the diggers' base when working on the underground railway. The Bureau had found it expedient and had taken over the abandoned dig when it moved to its present location.
A dark and gloomy place, with empty tunnels leading off into a maze of blocked-out passages…
Mining equipment still lying here and there, a steam digger, a miner's helmet, downed tools, bags of sand and stones, and broken metal tracks…
Down there Professor Xirdal Zephyrin made his home.
It had been in Paris, in the late seventies…
Smith had been sent to the French Republic on a defection. A notable scientist working for the Quiet Council had contacted the resident Bureau agent. He wanted to defect. The Bureau had been after the man they called Viktor for many years, but the French were keeping him close. This was not Viktor.
He was identified, initially, only as X.
They had met by the Seine, beneath the terrifying vista that was the ruined Notre Dame. The cathedral had been built by Les Lézards, of that same curious green material of which the Royal Palace was made. It had been done long ago, and the cathedral had been destroyed during the Quiet Revolution, when human and automaton took over France. Now lizard boys hung out in the ruins, tattooed creatures trying to resemble the lizardine race across the Channel, their tongues surgically split, strips of colour tattooed across their skins in imitation of reptilian scales. They were lawless and dangerous and deranged. X had been nervous. But the cathedral was an ideal meeting place, dark and abandoned, and they walked along the Seine and discussed X's proposition.
"My name," he had told Smith then, at last, "is Xirdal Zephyrin! You have heard of me, of course."
Smith, who hadn't, nevertheless nodded.
"Of course, of course," Zephyrin said. "I am the greatest, yes. The man Viktor is a hack. A hack! Yet he rises in the estimation of the Council, while I, the great Zephyrin, am overlooked! Yes, yes, quite, you see." He kept muttering to himself, and shading his eyes against the light of the moon. He was tall and lanky with long hairy hands. "I can give you much, yes, yes! I am a great scientist. I make machines for you! You see? I must away to England."
It was the old story: resentment, envy. It would be hard to get Zephyrin over the Channel. Over the next few weeks as Smith watched he realised how hard it had been for the scientist to get away, that first meeting. And never for long. Shadows followed him, those French machines, and human agents, too, ensuring he remained isolated, remained in his lab, somewhere deep under Paris. At first Mycroft was against outright defection. "He can serve us better," he had said, "by remaining in place and feeding us information."
Smith disagreed. "His temper is unstable," he said. "He is not a man comfortable with deceit. I tell you, we must act quickly. Sooner or later, he will give himself away. They are already suspicious."
There had been a woman watching over the scientist, recently. A six-foot-tall woman with a Peacemaker on her hip, with hair like a cloud of black smoke. He knew her by reputation only: Milady, the Dahomey-born, Paris-bred, top agent of the Quiet Council.
She would not let the scientist slip from her grasp.
And, as Mycroft dithered, time had been running out…
How Smith got Zephyrin out of Paris – how he smuggled him over the Channel, and onto British soil, and through the fingers of Milady de Winter – that had been a story still spoken about, in hushed whispers, at the Bureau, and at the training centre in Ham Common. And never spoken of in Paris.
Zephyrin's stolen knowledge had had the scientists in a frenzy, and a committee had been formed – chaired by Lord Babbage, then still present in the flesh – to evaluate, and make use of, the material. When the debriefing of Zephyrin had at last ended, the scientist had been put on the Bureau's own payroll, and installed in that nameless, abandoned station, where he had been provided with material, assistants and space, and which he seldom, if ever, left.
Smith had gone down to see him, after his meeting with Fogg.
"Mon ami!" the scientist said. "I thought you were dead."
Smith said, "I retired," and the scientist said, "Pfft! You cannot retire any more than I can!"
"Still ticking away?" Smith said.
The scientist, almost dancing on the platform of that station, spread his arms and beamed. "I make many many things!" he said. "You would like to try?"
"What have you got?"
"Well…" Zephyrin said. "It depends on the person, does it not so? You, for instance, do not like the guns, do you not. So I cannot offer you the pen-gun!"
"Pen-gun?"
"It looks like a pen," the scientist said, "yet it is a gun!"
"Really," Smith said.
"How about, then," the scientist said hopefully, "a Poison Master One Hundred?"
"What is it?"
"Observe," Zephyrin said, "this simple ring."
He held it hopefully towards Smith. It was an odd, lumpy ring, with many protrusions. "Watch," the scientist said. He twisted the upper part of the ring and it turned, the small extensions moving with it. "It is an old-fashioned poisoner's ring, naturally," the scientist said, "yet it carries up to one hundred distinct poisons and various drugs, which can be del
ivered by direct contact with skin as well as by command, into a drink or perhaps a sweet bun."
"Yes," Smith said. "Impressive. However, I am not much for jewellery, myself…"
"Ach," Zephyrin said. "It is helpless with you, my friend. You have not the love of the technology! For you I make something special therefore. Special, yes. For you are Englishman, yes!" He chortled. "For you…" he said. "I make miniature umbrella."
