“I should hope so,” said Chekhov. “I’m a physician by trade.”
“A doctor and a newspaper writer? You’re a man of many talents.”
“Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress; when I get tired of one, I spend the night with the other.” Chekhov grinned as he tightened the bandage. “Plays and short stories are my true passion, but writing for Russia’s largest newspaper is what pays the bills.”
“Is that why you happened to be lurking in that alley? You wanted to write a story about me?”
“Why would you be surprised? A British agent who is admitted at the Winter Palace, and yet so unsubtly seeks to connect with the revolutionary underground? That’s a fascinating story, even if I don’t have all the facts yet. I don’t suppose you’d care to fill in the blanks?”
“Sorry,” said Wells. “I’m grateful for your help, but I’m not at liberty to divulge the details of my mission. Part and parcel of being a secret agent, you understand.”
“Of course,” said Chekhov. “Every person lives his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy.”
“Can I talk you out of writing about me altogether?”
“Sorry,” said Chekhov. “Part and parcel of being a newspaper man.”
“There may be a way for us to help each other,” said Wells. “You said that writing fiction is your true passion. The Ministry has contacts in Russia, as we do elsewhere. We can place your plays and stories in front of all the right people. By this time next year you could be an award-winning author.”
“You claim to wield quite an influence in literary circles.”
“We must. Censoring classic works of fiction is often necessary in order to remove certain details we’d rather people didn’t question. For example, the Ministry has worked diligently over the years to strike all mentions of the undead from books such as Pride and Prejudice.”
“I do have a collection of short stories releasing soon…” Chekhov stroked his chin. “And all I’d have to do is avoid writing about your misadventures?”
“That. And there is one other thing,” said Wells. “Help me get in touch with the People’s Will.”
It took Chekhov only a couple of days to make contact and set up a meeting.
The horse-drawn carriage took them past the factories and the working class neighborhoods of the city, past the sort of places where Wells might have expected to meet with the leaders of a terrorist group, and arrived on the campus of St. Petersburg University.
“Don’t be surprised,” Chekhov whispered as they entered the bowels of the Chemistry building. “Students are always on the front lines of whatever revolution is brewing.”
They were led into a classroom where a group of young men sat around a pair of school desks that had been pushed together to create a makeshift table. It was littered with papers, beer and vodka bottles, and plates filled with an assortment of pickled herring, boiled eggs, and sliced rye bread. The smell of cigarette smoke permeated the air.
One of the men beckoned Chekhov and Wells over to the table and motioned for them to sit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Welcome to the resistance. Would you like some potato chips?”
Wells studied the group of students gathered around the table. They reminded him of his classmates who spent many a late evening in groups such as this one, arguing about politics, philosophy, and women.
“We’d love to stay and chat, but we have an appointment to keep, with your leaders.”
The students laughed.
“Relax, British,” said the same man who spoke earlier. “You are meeting with them now.” He was tall, gaunt, and possessed of a sort of manic energy usually induced by drinking too much coffee. He offered his hand to Wells. “Aleksandr Ulyanov, at your service.”
Wells shook his hand. “You’re the one in charge of the People’s Will, then?”
“Why the surprise? It’s all right for a Ministry agent to be very young, but not for a revolutionary leader?” Ulyanov leaned back, balancing his chair on its hind legs. “In politics, as in science, progress is the domain of the young. We embrace the modern ways of thinking, and devise stratagems that older generations are too rigid to appreciate.”
You blow up innocent people with dynamite, you pompous prig. Wells kept his expression neutral and let Ulyanov pontificate.
“I understand why the Ministry reached out to us,” said the terrorist. “Although your organization exists to prop up a rotting monarchy, your ranks are filled with bright young men and women, and you embrace the latest technologies in ways most of your countrymen do not. Your leaders understand that we’re the future government of this country and, naturally, you want to ally yourself with the winning side.” Ulyanov popped a potato chip into his mouth. “Question is, what is it that you can offer us?”
“This.” Wells retrieved a vial filled with an oily, colorless substance from the inner pocket of his jacket. “The latest development from Alfred Nobel. This compound makes nitroglycerin seem safe and stable. What’s more, you need only add a few drops to your dynamite in order to double the force of the explosion.”
Wells handed the vial to Ulyanov who lifted it up to the light, studying the liquid within.
“Have this tested.” Ulyanov passed the explosive to one of his men. “There are technological marvels in our arsenal that far surpass mere bombs now,” he told Wells. “Still, old methods are occasionally best.”
“There’s enough in that vial to supercharge a handful of bombs,” said Wells. “If we reach an agreement, I can deliver a great deal more.”
“You’ve chosen the right side, for now.” Ulyanov’s cold eyes stared through the British agent. “But the global revolution is coming. My kid brother, Vladimir, and all the other children will live to see the worker’s paradise rise from the ashes of European empires, and that includes England. The Ministry will have to choose a side again, and I hope they make the right decision. We don’t show mercy to our enemies.” Ulyanov closed his fist slowly over the potato chip he was holding, crumbling it to dust.
Chekhov, who remained quiet during the meeting, was making up for it on the ride back from the university.
“This is not what I expected,” said the playwright. “You’re walking a dangerous path, trying to play both sides. And I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to help you if I knew you were going to put powerful explosives in the hands of radicals.”
“Don’t panic,” said Wells. “I’m not a villain. The compound I gave them will indeed strengthen the dynamite, but only temporarily. After a few hours, it will break down the glycerol molecules and turn any dynamite treated with it into duds.”
“That’s your plan?” asked Chekhov. “Once they figure it out, they can rid themselves of the spoiled dynamite and make more bombs.”
“The chemical brew will work as advertised, long enough for them to conduct tests and become impressed,” said Wells. “They will schedule another meeting, eager to receive a larger supply. Then all we have to do is to pass the information on to the prince. He can send the secret police to sweep them up.”
“You seem awfully certain of your ruse.”
“Dear Anton, a terrorist hasn’t been born yet who could outsmart the strategic planners at the Ministry. All we have to do is to wait at the embassy, and maybe enjoy some supper. The People’s Will shall take the bait soon.”
Wells was right. A messenger delivered a note with the time and place of another rendezvous before they’d finished dessert.
Wells and Chekhov arrived at a luxurious villa on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. A well-manicured lawn surrounded a colonnaded two-story mansion. The prince was hiding out in style.
As soon as Nicholas had learned of their success, he’d summoned the pair to report to him directly. There was only a pair of military officers stationed inside the front entrance. A butler led them past the guards and through the mostly empty house. Nicholas opted for anonymity over heavy security to protect him a
gainst the People’s Will.
“Well done,” the tsarevich exclaimed upon hearing Wells’s report. “I knew I could count on you to flush out and unmask my enemies. I shall order the arrest of this Ulyanov character immediately.”
“I think not,” someone said from behind Wells.
The British agent spun around, but found no one there.
“I warned you about what would happen were you to cross us, Wells.”
The British agent recognized Ulyanov’s voice, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.
“Fortunately for us, your betrayal was well anticipated.”
Wells’s eyes widened as he watched a small vase float into the air from the mantle it was on, then fly across the room and shatter against the back wall.
“You thought yourself so clever, offering us a Trojan horse.” A marble statuette followed the vase’s trajectory and landed by the back wall with a dull thud. “But all we really needed you for was to lead us to whatever hidey hole the princeling used, so that we could kill him.”
The next item to float was an elaborate gilded clock. And instead of the back wall, this one flew straight at Nicholas’s head. The prince ducked and the projectîle missed him by a hair. The clock landed behind him, splitting open and spilling fine gears onto the floor.
“What sorcery is this?” demanded Nicholas. “Are they employing some manner of poltergeist?”
“They’re quite corporeal,” said Chekhov. “The way the items are lifted, and the arcs they’re thrown at, suggest there’s human muscle behind it. We’re being attacked by invisible men!”
“You’re a clever Judas,” said Ulyanov. “But there won’t be a bag of silver in this for you. This is the only reward you deserve.” There was a dull thud of an impact and Chekhov fell backward onto the floor. He sat up, dazed, a trickle of blood forming at the corner of his mouth.
“Take them!” ordered Ulyanov. Wells heard the sound of multiple pairs of feet closing in.
Nicholas produced a Smith & Wesson Model 3 revolver and quickly unloaded the entire cylinder in the general direction of the incoming attackers. There was a scream and a thud. A pool of blood began to form on the floor, materializing in the air as it escaped from a still-invisible body.
Chekhov grabbed for a crystal vase and shattered it on the floor. “They’re barefoot,” he shouted.
Wells nodded and edged closer to the broken glass, pulling the prince along. It seemed the assassins couldn’t make weapons or any other items invisible, not even clothes or shoes. He was glad of any advantage, however small.
Nicholas, Chekhov, and Wells fought back-to-back, absorbing blows and swinging wildly. Ulyanov must not have counted on Nicholas’s military training and Wells’s Ministry skills, because the outnumbered trio was holding its own. There were shouting and footsteps outside as the tsarevich’s security force arrived, drawn by the sound of gunfire.
Two officers burst in with rifles, but could find no targets. Then Chekhov dove for the fireplace and grabbed fistfuls of wood ashes. He threw the ashes up in the air and some of the residue settled on the invisible assailants, exposing their silhouettes. The officers did not need an invitation; they opened fire as soon as viable targets presented themselves. Wells and Nicholas followed the playwright’s lead, throwing more ashes.
With tables turned against them, the remaining revolutionaries burst through the balcony doors and out of the building. Wells could swear he heard Ulyanov shouting curses as the terrorist leader scrambled away across the lawn, with armed men in pursuit.
The room, once again quiet, was littered with corpses, made visible by the layer of soot.
Nicholas kicked at the nearest body. “Rebel scum. The house of Romanov has ruled Russia for nearly three hundred years, and will surely continue to do so for three hundred more. It’ll take far more than their parlor tricks to take down the future tsar.”
Chekhov leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. “It seems Ulyanov wasn’t merely bragging when he talked about having access to advanced science.”
“Yes, I must make a report to the Ministry immediately,” said Wells. “They’ll want to know about this new threat. They’ll want samples.” He waved at the bodies.
“They can have the lot,” said Nicholas. “I know my enemy now, even if I haven’t seen his face. Every policeman in the Empire will be looking for Aleksandr Ulyanov. They’ll question his known associates, friends, classmates – anyone he has ever exchanged a pair of sentences with. My operatives will root out the People’s Will once and for all.”
“It didn’t go according to plan, but I’m glad to hear that you’re satisfied,” said Wells, breathing a sigh of relief. “I believe there’s still the matter of the weather machine?”
“About that. You’re welcome to examine the machine, just as I promised, but it’s not here. I hope you enjoy long journeys; Siberia is beautiful this time of the year.”
Sue Ann MacLean paced back and forth in her office, the typed copy of Wells’s report clutched in her fist.
“This is a disgrace. A disaster. An utter embarrassment.” MacLean squeezed the report, crumpling the pages. “I send you on a simple diplomatic errand, and what do you do? Poke at the beehive of Russian politics and very nearly get the heir to the throne killed in the process!”
“If I may, ma’am, I did accomplish the mission,” said Wells. “I spent weeks traveling by Russian railroad, coach, and mule, all the way to the Central Siberian Plateau, near the border of Outer Mongolia. Prince Nicholas’s letter granted me full access to the weather machine. I studied it thoroughly, and drew up blueprints, which I submitted to you as part of my report—”
“Damn the report,” said MacLean. “I want to hear the answer from you. Tell me just how useful you think this technology is to the Ministry.”
“It’s not very useful to us,” Wells admitted. “It’s an impressive machine, a very large installation powered by steam and water current from the nearby river. But it was built in the 1700s and holds no new technologies that could be of immediate use to the Ministry.”
Wells shifted his weight. MacLean hadn’t invited him to sit down. “The machine is able to influence Western Russia’s weather patterns because of its unique location. All they have to do is stall the invaders until winter, and then crank the gears up to eleven for extra cold and snow. Napoleon got to experience it personally in 1812. Russian winter truly is their secret weapon.”
“And is there, in your opinion, a way for us to weaponize this technology?”
“Not that I can see, ma’am. Not unless the future battles are to be fought in the European territories of Russia.”
“That’s right. Your mission has failed to produce any useful results,” said MacLean.
“I can hardly be blamed if the device you sent me to study wasn’t all you expected it to be. And besides, what about the invisible men I had shipped to you from St. Petersburg?”
“By the time their bodies arrived, whatever chemical the People’s Will scientists used had worn off. Our best people are still studying the cadavers, but they haven’t found anything concrete so far.”
MacLean quit pacing and poured herself a shot of brandy. “Under ordinary circumstances, this kind of a spectacular failure, on your first assignment no less, would be enough to end a career,” she said. “You’re very fortunate that we’re short-handed.” MacLean sipped from the glass and resumed pacing. “Nightingale recently retired, Stoker and Wilde are entirely consumed by a melodramatic rivalry over some woman, and Kipling is on a long-term mission in India.”
MacLean sighed and finished the contents of her glass in one gulp. “So I can’t afford to fire you, and therefore I shall do the next worst thing. I’m sending you to France.
“You’re to oversee the giant space transceiver which Gustave Eiffel is building for us in Paris. This should keep you out of trouble for a few years.”
“Yes, ma’am. As you wish, ma’am.” Wells always wanted to visit Par
is, but it wouldn’t do to appear relieved in front of MacLean lest she change her mind and devise a less palatable punishment.
MacLean dismissed Wells with a wave. Wells headed for the door, but paused and turned around. “A question, ma’am, if I may?”
MacLean nodded.
“The weather machine. Are we going to let the Russians keep it? We may not be able to use it ourselves, but who knows, what if we end up on different sides in some future conflict and they use it against us?”
MacLean smiled at the question. “Now you’re thinking like a true Ministry agent,” she said. “But there is no reason to worry. I studied the blueprints you made and believe there is a fatal flaw in the design.”
The Ministra of Preternatural Affairs refilled her glass and declared: “In my estimation, the Tunguska weather machine will blow itself up in the next twenty or so years.”
THE CASE OF THE DIRIGIBLE HEIST
Special Agent Wells watched his French counterpart approach with a group of wealthy Parisians in tow. Pierre Curie ushered a trio of stone-faced men past the throngs of people enjoying a sunny afternoon and a chance to gawk at the pavilions and exhibitions in the final stages of being set up for the 1889 World’s Fair. Curie chatted up his charges who seemed somewhat out of their element, lost in the frantic energy of people and events surrounding them, until finally the group joined Wells at the base of the colossal lattice tower recently constructed by Gustave Eiffel.
“Mr. Wells, meet the representatives of the Committee of Three Hundred,” said Curie. “Monsieurs de Maupassant, Gounod, and Bouguereau.”
The Committee of the Three Hundred, so named after the height of the Eiffel Tower, was the group of artists and influential socialites opposed to its construction. Wells faced the trio of the Committee’s most outspoken members: Paris’s most celebrated writer, composer, and painter.
H. G. Wells, Secret Agent Page 2
