India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY)

by Carol K. Carr

  “Let’s move out of the light.” Bonnaire drew me into a foul-smelling doorway. The affable appearance he’d displayed previously had disappeared. He was wary now, his body taut with tension. He conned the passage slowly, first in one direction, then in the other. My skin prickled, and I found it difficult to catch my breath, a condition due, no doubt, to Bonnaire dragging me along at such a swift pace.

  “Is there really a chance we’ve been followed?” I whispered.

  “One can never be too careful,” Bonnaire said, pleasantly close to my ear. “The security services of many countries are active in London. And the English police have become very busy lately, trying to find and disrupt our meetings.”

  Did I imagine that his fingers momentarily tightened around my arm? I took a deep breath and admonished myself to remain calm. All this bobbing and weaving might be nothing more than a shot across the bow, to see how I’d take to a life of clandestine meetings and dangerous associations. It would take more than furtive theatrics to frighten India Black.

  I discharged my own cannonball in Bonnaire’s direction. “I hope your friends can be trusted. I’d hate to think I’m fraternizing with informants.”

  Bonnaire leaned closer, his lips nearly grazing my ear. “So would I.”

  Flerko materialized from out of the fog.

  To Bonnaire’s raised eyebrow, the little Russian shook his head. “There is no one. It is safe.”

  Without a word, Bonnaire seized my arm once more and we traversed a narrow passage, emerging into a dingy street and hence into a dank, rat-infested alley. I could hear their squeaks of alarm, and once my boot made contact with a cat-sized body. I shuddered. I can cope with anarchists, but vermin are another matter entirely. Bonnaire ignored the scrabbling feet, and Flerko flapped his hands in a futile attempt to scatter the disgusting creatures.

  We arrived at our destination then, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. An evening spent trundling through foul streets, dodging rodents and police spies, can provide only so much entertainment. Bonnaire had pulled up short at a warped door leading into what had once been a tobacco shop but was now a vacant storefront. While Flerko acted as sentry, Bonnaire inserted a key into the door and pushed it open. It had been recently oiled, for it swung open without a sound. The Frenchman led the way inside and gestured for me to follow him. Flerko made a final check of the street and then scuttled nervously through the door, closing it behind him.

  “We are going downstairs, Miss Black. Kindly place your hand on my shoulder and follow me down the steps.”

  I fumbled in the dark, succeeding in entangling my fingers in Bonnaire’s beard and poking him in the eye before finally managing to find his shoulder and grasp it firmly. He lurched into movement, his shoulder dropping precipitously.

  “The first step,” he said, unnecessarily.

  We floundered down the staircase, which is to say that I did, Bonnaire moving as gracefully as a man could with a woman tethered to him. It was as black as pitch, and the air smelled of mold and rot. Flerko was right on my heels, pressing against me in what I hope was merely nervous tension at the upcoming meeting and not the precursor to an unpleasant experience for India Black. For a moment, as often occurs to even the most highly trained operative, I wondered how I had gotten myself into this situation.

  We reached the bottom of the stairs. Bonnaire removed my hand from his shoulder and tucked it through the crook of his arm. “It is only a few steps now,” he said.

  He was as good as his word, for we walked only a few paces before he halted and addressed the Russian. “Flerko?”

  A match scraped shoe leather and burst into flame, revealing a foul corridor with paint peeling from the walls and water stains on the ceiling, and a battered door that had once boasted a coat of varnish. Bonnaire turned the handle and the door, like the one into the shop, opened soundlessly. Flerko, shielding the match with a cupped hand, strode into the inky blackness. In a moment two candles were burning and Bonnaire had shut the door behind us.

  I looked around with interest, as I had never been in an anarchists’ den and was curious as to what I’d find there. It was a shabby place, the walls streaked with damp and a distinct odour of mildew, which, I thought with some irritation, would likely penetrate my clothing before the night was out. Anarchists did not appear concerned with creating a cozy environment in which to plan assassinations. A warped and battered deal table of inferior wood and a half dozen mismatched chairs occupied the center of room. The table bore a lantern, which Flerko now lit. I was idly glancing about, wondering why radicals couldn’t spring for something a bit more congenial, when I spotted something I hadn’t noticed until the lantern had produced its feeble light: a second table, covered with alarm clocks, a stack of packets wrapped in paraffinned paper, coils of copper wire, an assortment of cheap vest-pocket pistols, detonators and springs, and screws and nails of various sizes. In short, all the makings of what the press had taken to calling “infernal machines” and the rest of us called “bombs.” I had Superintendent Stoke to thank for my ability to recognize these nefarious tools, as he had provided me a detailed description in my briefing papers. I hadn’t realized until that moment that I might actually encounter these items. I was regarding them with a mixture of horror and fascination when Bonnaire wandered over.

  “Our factory,” he said.

  “Impressive,” I murmured. I noticed that the packets were printed with the words “Atlas Powder A,” and felt the hairs on my neck rise. Well, I don’t know how the rest of you would react when you came face-to-face with lignin dynamite for the first time, but I have to say I found it a bit unsettling.

  “Our bomb maker is quite experienced. He has spent some time on the Continent, and also in Ireland. You will meet him tonight.”

  “Does he have all his fingers?”

  Bonnaire laughed. “You are an amusing woman, but I should warn you that my comrades are serious people. Most of them have spent time with the security agencies of their countries, and that experience has removed any inclination to see the humourous aspects of life.”

  “I’m sure it would. I’ll bear that in mind.” I appreciated the warning; I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with my anarchist pals, and if I had to forego my usual lighthearted approach to life for a few meetings, I would.

  “What about you, Monsieur Bonnaire? Have you been the guest of the Sûreté?”

  Bonnaire’s smile was grim. “I have. But the French police are more civilized than their Russian or German counterparts. I was merely questioned, not tortured. Still, it was an unpleasant experience and one I wouldn’t care to repeat.”

  “I’ve had my own encounters with the local plod. They can be quite nasty if they like. And the whole city is in an uproar over these assassinations. I expect the police might forego their usual courteous habits if they caught a foreigner with a bomb in his pocket.”

  Flerko had disappeared, presumably to keep watch, but he bustled in suddenly with a brutish fellow in tow.

  “Ah,” said Bonnaire, advancing to meet the new arrival. “Thick Ed. How are you?”

  Thick Ed? Well, if it wasn’t polite it was at least accurate. The fellow was built like a bull terrier, short, wide and stout. He’d cropped his dark hair until it was nearly as short as the heavy beard that swathed the lower half of his face. His features were coarse, and wiry black hair sprouted from his nostrils. The enforcer of the group, no doubt. My first impression was that Thick Ed had not been recruited for his intellectual prowess.

  Bonnaire introduced us, and my hand was crushed by a meaty paw. Thick Ed mumbled something in what might have been English.

  “Thick Ed is our engineer,” said Bonnaire. “He designs and constructs the bombs we use.”

  With those thick fingers? I made plans to be elsewhere when Thick Ed was at work.

  Thick Ed produced an incomprehensible noise that might have been an acknowledgment of Bonnaire’s comment, or a belch, and wandered over to his workta
ble. Bugger. Would it be rude to leave now?

  I cast a sidelong and wistful glance at the door and found that my escape route had been blocked by a slim fellow with a ruddy face and a cold eye.

  Bonnaire followed my gaze. “Ah, Harkov.”

  Harkov advanced slowly into the room. He nodded at Thick Ed, who had his face buried in the interior of a clock and therefore ignored him, and at Flerko, who sprang up and kissed his hand with delight.

  “My comrade,” Flerko gushed. “I am so glad you have returned safely. We have been very busy in your absence. You must hear of the attack on Moreland House. There was great destruction and—”

  Harkov held up a hand. “In good time, my friend. All in good time. First, I must greet our new associate. Bonnaire, you will introduce us.”

  Bonnaire nodded obediently. “Miss India Black,” he said, “Pyotr Alexeyevich Harkov.”

  Harkov gave me a firm handshake and a quick appraisal. I can’t say I took to the man. I’m not fond of Russians generally, having been imprisoned in the Russian embassy at one time and carried off across the Channel by the tsar’s agents.

  To date I hadn’t been much impressed with this anarchist lot. Bonnaire seemed a bit cavalier and not overly bloodthirsty. Flerko had passion in spades, but the thought of his twitchy fingers on a detonator was not comforting, and Thick Ed seemed, well, thick. Harkov, however, could have been the model for any theatrical poster featuring Slavic villains. Dark eyes glittered like chips of obsidian above slanted cheekbones. His cheeks were sunken, with two deep lines like sabre slashes on either side of a thin, tight smile. He wore his hair sleeked back, exposing a sharp widow’s peak that plummeted precipitously down his forehead. I could smell the hair pomade from where I was standing.

  There was an air of authority about Harkov that I found puzzling, as my impression of anarchists was that they were all individualists who would rather die than submit to another man’s authority. I hadn’t imagined it, though, for Flerko had danced attendance on Harkov since his arrival and even Bonnaire seemed cautiously deferential. I wondered if Harkov could be the leader of this charming pack and the man Superintendent Stoke wanted, but in the string of names Bonnaire had rattled off during his introductions, he hadn’t mentioned “Grigori.”

  Harkov gestured at the chairs around the table. “Please be seated, Miss Black.”

  Flerko and Bonnaire joined us. Thick Ed remained at the workbench, his attention riveted on a length of wire. I chose a seat with a view toward the bomb maker. If he started fiddling with one of those packets of dynamite, I might need to ask for directions to the lavvy.

  Harkov settled himself comfortably. “I must thank you for the information you have provided to us, Miss Black. It has been of stellar quality.”

  “I’m glad to be of service to the cause,” I said with just a hint of fervor, not wanting to overegg the batter at this point.

  “I am sorry that I was not here to see the results, but I was on the Continent attending a conference.”

  A conference of anarchists? Superintendent Stoke would want to know about that.

  Harkov produced a monocle and a clean handkerchief and began to polish the eyepiece. “Martine has vouched for you, and Bonnaire here believes you would be a useful addition to our group.” He finished cleaning the monocle, screwed it into his eye and scrutinized me through the lens. “However, I should like to hear myself about your interest in our enterprise.”

  The bloke made it sound like I was proposing to buy railway shares from him. There’s nothing like politics to warp the brain and cause people to start speaking in euphemisms. Why can’t they just say what they mean? Nevertheless, I didn’t show my irritation at the uncanny resemblance between this Russian radical and the Tory politicians I’d encountered in my own country, but launched into my soliloquy. I won’t bore you with the details, as you’ve heard it before in this account, but suffice it to say that I threw in all the appropriate phrases at critical points of the narrative, chuntering on about my hatred of the nobs and the desire to strike a blow for freedom and all the rest of the twaddle you might expect from an initiate at a meeting of a secret society when she’s trying to impress the gang. I reeled it off easily; lying is second nature to a whore, or it should be if she means to be a successful whore. You’ve got to learn the knack of telling a portly gent with gout that he’s as strong as Hercules without giggling, or your bank account will be empty.

  I finished my spiel with a resolution to assist the group in any way that Harkov and the others might determine. Harkov thought it over for a minute, those thin lips creased into a straight line, his dark eyes nearly closed. Flerko looked anxious and jiggled his leg under the table, while Bonnaire observed Harkov with a neutral visage. I plastered a pleasant expression across my face, though I was feeling far from comfortable. What would happen if Harkov decided my bona fides weren’t bona? Would he march me out into the alley and put a bullet in my head? Strangle me with some of that copper wire Thick Ed was fondling and toss my body into the Thames? I was berating myself for having failed to reload after firing off that shot outside the Bag O’ Nails and wondering if I’d be able to get the Bulldog out of my purse in time, when Harkov removed the monocle and placed it in his pocket.

  “You can continue to provide us accurate intelligence about the movement and location of government ministers and peers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are prepared to provide financial support for our efforts?”

  Curse Martine and Bonnaire. They hadn’t said a word about money. I had no idea what dynamite cost, but I reckoned I was about to find out. I hoped Harkov was just probing, trying to gauge just how committed I was to the cause. I’d be hanged if I’d fork over any of my hard-earned guineas to this lot; Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke would just have to come up with the cash, if necessary.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Money talks, even among those who affect to despise it. Harkov beamed, directing a satanic smile at me that made my blood run cold. Flerko sighed in relief, and Bonnaire relaxed.

  “What is the topic of discussion tonight?” asked Flerko.

  “We must wait for Schmidt,” said Harkov. “In the meantime, I have brought whisky and we shall have a drink to pass the time.”

  A capital idea, I thought, for by this time my nerves were as frayed as a fishwife’s shawl. So we had a drink and Flerko and Harkov talked anarchist theory (deadly stuff, that; I nearly fell asleep during Flerko’s tirade) while Bonnaire smoked a cigarette, Thick Ed hummed a music hall tune as he tinkered with one of the alarm clocks, and I did my bit to lower the level of the whisky. It was all very cozy, but I hoped this Schmidt chap would arrive soon and we could move the evening along. My tolerance for anarchists was growing fainter by the moment and I was bloody tired.

  My prayers were answered sooner rather than later (a clear indication of celestial favor if there ever was one) when Thick Ed lifted his head and announced, “I hear footsteps. Schmidt is here.” The bomb maker frowned. “And someone is with him.”

  “Ah,” Harkov said smoothly. “So he has brought him tonight. Schmidt also has found a new recruit for our cell.”

  A draft of wind whistled through the room as the door opened, and a professorial type with a shining bald head, gold-rimmed glasses and the beard of an Old Testament prophet bustled in. He looked like a kindly soul, with plump, red cheeks and a dimpled smile, but I spared him only a glance, for the new recruit that accompanied him was French.

  EIGHT

  Our eyes met and French inclined his head politely, just as any gentleman would when entering a room with a single female in the crowd. I acknowledged his courteous gesture with a graceful nod, and then he turned his attention to the men in the room. I would like to have given him the reaction his appearance at the meeting deserved, namely a poke in the ribs and a furious tongue-lashing, for the poncy bastard had surely known I’d be found among the Dark Legion. After all, he’d approved Dizzy’s plan for me to
infiltrate this gang. But I restrained my natural instincts, as any agent worth her salt would do under the circumstances. The tongue-lashing and a bit of physical violence could wait, and they’d feel all the sweeter for the delay.

  Schmidt introduced him first to Harkov, who mustered a parsimonious smile and a reserved handshake. Flerko pumped French’s hand but did not hide his curiosity, and Bonnaire was his usual suave self, extending languid fingers and murmuring “Bonsoir, monsieur.” Thick Ed contributed a grunt from the workbench.

  Then it was time for my introduction to French. His cool fingers enveloped mine, and he bowed over my hand prettily, but his grey eyes were distant, betraying nothing. I matched his demeanor with only a hint of the inquisitiveness I thought any normal anarchist might exhibit. We separated and I slipped away to stand by Bonnaire’s side, a fact that escaped neither Bonnaire nor, I was absurdly pleased to see, French.

  Harkov took charge and motioned us peremptorily to take our seats. I found it deuced odd that everyone deferred to him; this meeting was hardly the democratic exercise I’d expected, but as I was not au fait with the finer points of anarchist etiquette, I reckoned I’d just have to get Flerko alone and find out why Harkov had assumed such an air of authority. I was eager to hear what French had to say for himself, but before Harkov could give him the third degree about his radical views and the size of his purse, Schmidt plumped down opposite me and subjected me to the exacting scrutiny of a small boy examining an adder.

  “I have looked forward to meeting you, Miss Black. The facts you have shared with us have been most interesting.” If the name hadn’t been a giveaway, the accent was. Schmidt was a German.

  “Quite useful, too,” added Bonnaire.

  “But for the damned influenza,” Flerko said, “we’d have struck a mighty blow at Moreland House.”

  “Indeed,” said Schmidt. There was a twinkle in his eyes, but I thought it might be a glint of steel. “And now you have decided to join our merry band.”