Ghosts of Empire

by George Mann

  The other agent, whom Gabriel now knew to be called Hargreaves, was standing by the door, leaning against the wall, thick forearms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Gabriel since they’d left the laboratory area below, and Gabriel could tell he was spoiling for another fight. It wasn’t just his throat that had been injured, Gabriel mused, but his ego, too.

  “Not exactly,” said Gabriel, with a quick glance at Regina. He sipped hesitantly at his tea. It was pungent and unsweetened. He still wasn’t entirely sure how far he could trust these people. He was, after all, a foreign national—and an American at that—who had managed to involve himself in a Secret Service operation. More than that, though, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only seeing a part of the picture. Rutherford had chosen to involve him in this by coming to the Savoy. He still had to ascertain to what end—and he’d have to wait until he could get some time alone with Rutherford to do it.

  “Gabriel is more of a… lone operative,” said Rutherford, with a grin. “But he’s on the side of the angels. I can vouch for him.”

  Hargreaves pointedly cleared his throat.

  “A lone operative?” said Regina. “So you’re unsanctioned?”

  “I work with the police department,” said Gabriel. “I get things done.”

  Regina nodded, but he could see she wasn’t entirely placated.

  “Listen, do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Go ahead,” said Regina.

  Gabriel reached into his jacket and saw Hargreaves bristle. He smiled playfully, and slowly withdrew his silver cigarette case. He flipped it open and offered them around. Rutherford eyed them enviously, but shook his head.

  Gabriel placed one calmly between his lips and pulled the ignition tab. He drew heavily, and then allowed the smoke to stream in ribbons from his nostrils. The others watched him with interest. He had the sense of being on trial, and supposed that, in a way, he was.

  “You’re going to have to come with us,” said Hargreaves, after a moment. “We’re taking you in.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gabriel. He took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked ash into the half-empty teacup. “I followed you here to ensure my friend’s safety. I know nothing of your operation, and I don’t want to get involved.” He glanced at Rutherford. “Whatever’s going on here has nothing to do with me. All I want is a half-decent steak and the company of an old friend.”

  Hargreaves stepped away from the wall, unfolding his arms. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You’re an unauthorized foreign agent operating on British soil.”

  “I’m a New Yorker on holiday,” said Gabriel, but he could already see the way things were going. They weren’t going to give him a choice in the matter, and Rutherford was in no position to intercede. “Anyway, that can wait—you still haven’t explained what we’re all doing here.” He looked to Rutherford. “You should be in the hospital. Your injuries…”

  Rutherford leaned back in his armchair, causing the ancient leather to creak. “This place… it’s where we bring any agents who are injured in the field.”

  “So they can report in before they die?” said Gabriel. “That seems a bit cold, even for Brits. Takes ‘stiff upper lip’ to a new kind of extreme.”

  “No. We bring them here to be healed,” said Rutherford. “The man who runs this place, he’s a surgeon.”

  “Rather more than a surgeon, actually,” said Regina. “We call him ‘the Fixer’. He has certain… methods at his disposal. Ways of accelerating the healing process. He probably saved Rutherford’s life. Those wounds weren’t inflicted by any normal animal.”

  Gabriel frowned. He’d sensed something odd about the wounds back at the Savoy. “What do you mean?”

  Someone entered the room, and Rutherford turned to see the third agent, the other man he’d seen at the hospital, standing just inside the doorway.

  “I think we’ve heard enough,” said the man. “Don’t you?”

  “Boyd. You’ve put in the call?” said Regina.

  “Yes. Absalom is expecting us.” He glanced at Gabriel. “All of us.”

  Gabriel shot a glance at Rutherford, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. At least this way, Gabriel supposed, he might be able to find out a bit more about what was going on—and keep a watchful eye on Rutherford at the same time. “Alright,” he said, holding out his wrists in mock surrender, his cigarette drooping from his bottom lip. “I guess you’d better take me in.”

  * * *

  It was still raining. The van’s tires hissed over the slick asphalt. Gabriel sat in the back beside Rutherford, hemmed in by Hargreaves, who’d made a point of sticking close to him as they’d left the house. He had the sense that Hargreaves was looking for the opportunity to pay him back for the beating in the basement. Gabriel would have to be on his guard—the man might be British Secret Service, but it didn’t mean he was above personal vendettas or reprisals.

  Despite the thawing of the post-war tensions between Britain and America, many—on both sides of the Atlantic—still harboured deep misgivings. Not least Queen Alberta herself, who seemed intent on sabotaging her government’s attempts at peace, by insisting on a hard-line stance, continuing to refer to the American people as “upstart colonists”, “separatists” and “traitors”.

  It wasn’t unusual for agents such as Hargreaves—so deeply indoctrinated to defend his country against external threats—to adopt a similar hard-line approach. He clearly didn’t approve of Rutherford’s trust in, or friendship with, an American such as Gabriel. Not least, Gabriel imagined, because he had threatened to slit the man’s throat with a rusty blade. Whatever the case, despite Rutherford’s assurances, Gabriel was very much aware that he’d effectively been taken into custody by British agents, and was currently being transported—most uncomfortably—to a more secure location for questioning.

  “Hang on, what’s that?” said Regina. She was sitting in the front passenger seat, straining against her seatbelt as she leaned forward, peering out of the windscreen and into the inky blackness beyond. It was late, and the road ahead looked utterly deserted.

  “What’s what?” said Boyd, from behind the wheel.

  “That light, up ahead. Didn’t you see it? It kind of… flickered in the road.”

  Boyd shrugged his shoulders. “Are you sure you didn’t take a knock to the head back there as well?”

  Gabriel felt Hargreaves stiffen in the seat beside him, unappreciative of the jibe. Rutherford remained silent, slumped on Gabriel’s other side, his head resting back against the seat. Behind them, something rattled in the empty storage compartment of the van.

  Gabriel peered between the front seats, searching the road as it swam toward them out of the darkness. “There!” he said, a moment later. “I saw it too. A sudden flash of pale light; a circle, with a bluish tinge.”

  “That was different. The first one was on the other side of the road. Boyd, I think you’d better slow down.”

  Gabriel felt Boyd step on the brakes, dropping the speed of their approach.

  “It’s probably just some malfunctioning streetlamps, damaged by the storm,” said Boyd.

  “No, it looked more like…” Regina trailed off, as a glowing blue circle appeared in the air before them, about a hundred yards further down the road. It was about the size of a car wheel, and contained a second, concentric ring, along with a five-pointed star, and a series of unfamiliar symbols.

  “…a symbol,” finished Gabriel.

  Boyd pulled the van to a sudden halt, rocking them all forward in their seats. As they watched, the brilliant light of the symbol began to fade, while a series of similar, smaller circles appeared in the air around it.

  “What is this?” snapped Hargreaves impatiently. “Can’t we just go around them?”

  As Gabriel watched, more symbols began to appear, flanking the others. These were vivid reds and greens, describing further intricate patterns in the air. He felt his pulse quicken. He’d see
n Astrid studying similar eldritch symbols back in her abandoned church in New York, or scrawled onto slips of paper and placed inside the shells of animated golems. There was something particularly otherworldly about what he was seeing. “There’s something wrong,” he said. “Go back, quickly. Those symbols… they’re unnatural.”

  “Unnatural?” said Boyd. “What do you mean? Look, if you know something about this, then you—”

  He was cut off, suddenly, by a shrill howl from outside, as the van was buffeted by a sharp gust of wind, which threatened to tip the vehicle over onto its side.

  “What the hell?” said Rutherford. He was suddenly alert, peering around Regina’s headrest, trying to see what was going on.

  Boyd had slammed the gearbox into reverse and was hastily gunning the engine, backing away from the strange lights at speed, but the howling gale was now pummeling the side of the van in a relentless barrage, causing it to rock dangerously on its axles.

  “Boyd!” shouted Regina. “You’re going to tip us over!”

  “It’s not me,” barked Boyd, fumbling the pedals.

  For the second time that night, Gabriel wished he’d been more prepared. If he’d brought his goggles, he might have been able to get a better idea of what they were up against. Instead, he was forced to squint into the darkness, searching for any clue as to who was behind the mysterious lights. They were still swirling in the air, but now he thought he could just make out the silhouettes of people moving amongst them. “It’s an ambush!” He leaned forward, stabbing in the direction of the lights with his finger. “Look. There are people there, amongst the lights.”

  “He’s right,” said Regina. “There are at least four, maybe five of them. Someone knew we were coming.”

  “It’s the Russians,” said Rutherford. “I’ve seen this before. The hounds that attacked me…”

  Russians. So that’s what this was about. Russian operatives were here in London, and they had some kind of axe to grind with Rutherford, or other members of the British Secret Service. And Gabriel had gone and wound up in the middle of it all.

  “Russians, I can deal with,” said Hargreaves, reaching for his holster. “Magical lights, not so much.” He drew his gun and checked the safety catch. “Stop the van, Boyd.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Boyd. He hit the brakes, shoved the stick shift into first, and slammed his foot to the floor. The engine screeched, and the van shot forward like a loosed bullet.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” said Regina, bracing herself against the dashboard.

  “Hold on!” said Boyd, by way of response, as the vehicle careened across the wet road, windscreen wipers still battling the downpour, ethereal wind still threatening to send them crashing into one of the nearby houses. Boyd battled the steering wheel, intent on seeing his missile strike home.

  As Gabriel watched through the windscreen, one of the circles of light began to break apart, teasing itself into wispy tendrils that seemed to billow in the air, like it was being disturbed by the breeze. The figure behind it—now partially lit by the backwash of light—drew back his hand, and then punched forward, and the light seemed to obey his command, surging out to meet the van, growing in scale and magnitude as they screeched along the road toward it.

  “Incoming!”

  They struck the ribbons of light as if entering a strange, warping tunnel, and the whole van seemed to shift suddenly, twisting onto its side as it shot forward, its wheels lifting entirely from the ground.

  They came down hard on their side, the steel frame buckling and screaming as they continued to scrape across the asphalt, hot sparks and fragments of broken glass peppering their exposed hands and faces. Gabriel grasped for Boyd’s seat, trying desperately to hold himself steady as his weight shifted, crushing Rutherford and causing the seatbelt to bite painfully into his upper chest and neck. Beside him, he heard Hargreaves grunt in pain.

  They skidded for another twenty or thirty yards, before coming to a sudden, screeching halt. The engine was still burring, the front wheels spinning but finding no purchase. Gabriel could smell burning. He heard Regina calling to Boyd, but didn’t register Boyd’s response.

  Carefully, he pushed Hargreaves off of him—noting the streaming blood from under the man’s left eye, where a fragment of glass had buried itself in the soft flesh of his cheek—and twisted in his seat, jamming his foot in the foot well.

  “Rutherford?”

  Rutherford looked up at him, pained and disorientated. “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

  “You can worry about that later,” said Gabriel. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m alright, I think.” He winced, reaching for his side and the site of his recently repaired wounds.

  “Boyd’s dead,” said Regina. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Gabriel watched her draw her gun and undo her seatbelt. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, and another on her arm. The blood was trickling down across her knuckles, dripping onto her pants. “Hargreaves?”

  “I’m alright,” he said. “The door’s buckled, but I think I can get out through the window.”

  Regina twisted around, fixing Gabriel with a glare. “You. Stay here with Rutherford until we’re back.”

  She dropped forward out of her seat and began wriggling through the misshapen aperture left by the shattered windscreen. Hargreaves, on the other hand, had planted his boot firmly on Gabriel’s thigh, and was using him as a platform to gain height as he tried to worm his way through the window. Gabriel gritted his teeth and decided the jagged shards that still jutted from the window frame and were currently raking Hargreaves’s chest were probably payment enough.

  Outside, he could hear footsteps. He watched Regina’s feet disappear through the hole. Seconds later, he heard the report of gunfire as she snapped off a round. Hargreaves, who had now managed to haul himself up through the window so that now only his waist and dangling feet were inside the van, gave a sudden cry of alarm, and opened fire too, loosing three shots in quick succession.

  There was a soft thud as, presumably, his assailant hit the floor.

  Seconds later, Hargreaves had scrambled up and out, sliding across the ruined body of the van and dropping to the ground.

  Gabriel felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Rutherford looking up at him. “Get out there,” said Rutherford. “They need you.”

  Gabriel gave a curt nod. This wasn’t his war. He didn’t owe these people anything. Worse, he was unprepared for a battle of this kind. But he couldn’t stand by while the other British agents got themselves killed. Besides, it was a case of self-preservation. If the Russians did manage to finish off Regina and Hargreaves, Gabriel was in no doubt they’d come for him and Rutherford, too. They wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses.

  He heard a noise just outside the van; the scrape of a boot on wet asphalt. He motioned for Rutherford to remain silent, while he scrambled forward between the two front seats, until he was resting against the dashboard, close to the hole through which Regina had previously disappeared.

  He glanced over at Boyd. The man was slumped forward in his seat, the belt straining to hold his weight. He’d bashed his nose on the steering wheel, and it was spread awkwardly across his face. Dark blood streamed down his chin, soaking the front of his stark white shirt. One of his eyes was swollen and bruised, and Gabriel could see that his left arm had been broken, his fingers mangled.

  Gabriel reached over and felt inside the front of Boyd’s jacket until he located the man’s holster, and then quietly slid the gun free. He weighed it in his fist, popped the chamber, and saw that it was loaded and full. “I guess you won’t be needing this,” he mumbled, beneath his breath.

  The footsteps outside were now coming around the front of the van. Gabriel could hear both Regina’s and Hargreaves’s weapons discharging further down the road. It had to be one of the Russians.

  Gabriel pressed himself flat on his back, angling his shoulders toward the hole. He raised the gun, clutchi
ng the butt in both hands. He took a deep breath.

  “Cover your face,” he said, just loud enough for Rutherford to hear, before reaching inside his jacket and yanking a thin cord stitched into the inner lining.

  The tiny rocket canisters strapped to his ankles ignited with a roar, and suddenly he was surging forward, sliding out on his back through the hole, his jacket shredding on the wet road. He squeezed the trigger, unleashing a hail of bullets at the hooded figure who was lurking just outside the ruined vehicle, causing them to jerk suddenly and fall back across the van’s hood. The three symbols of light that had previously surrounded them dimmed, and then faded to nothing.

  Gabriel rolled onto his front, and then leapt to his feet, his back screaming in pain where the uneven road had scraped his skin through the torn remains of his suit. He scanned his surroundings swiftly, trying to get a measure of the situation.

  Up ahead, Regina had ducked behind the low front wall of a garden and was taking pot shots at two further hooded figures that were lobbing what appeared to be waves of pure, fiery light in her direction. The ghostly missiles were bursting harmlessly upon the grass behind her, dissipating into the air—although Gabriel suspected that if any of them struck their intended target, the effects would be entirely different. A third was leveling some kind of weapon at her—a large gun, adorned with glowing sigils, which projected a withering ethereal fire, translucent and blue. Where it struck the wall, all the plant life in the vicinity blackened and crisped, while the fabric of wall itself remained unmolested.

  Hargreaves was standing over a fourth hooded figure, smoke curling from the end of his gun. Raindrops were spraying off his head and shoulders, plastering his hair to his face. He looked up to see Gabriel watching, and nodded once, before taking off down the road to lend his support to Regina.