Flerko gnawed a fingernail and looked anxious. “The Third Section—”
“Quite,” said Harkov quietly. “The Third Section would rejoice at laying hands on me.”
“I cannot go back to Russia,” said Flerko.
For anarchists, they were a pusillanimous bunch. Of course, I’d never been tortured by the tsar’s secret police, so perhaps I should be more forgiving.
“I don’t think we should delude ourselves into thinking that the police will be less diligent in hunting us down if we kill a baronet rather than a duke,” French said quietly. “Any action we take will prompt a public outcry and increase the pressure on the authorities.”
We all sat and contemplated those sobering words. Trust French to put a damper on the party.
“If that is the case,” said Flerko, “then we should aim to inflict as much damage as possible with one blow, and plan an escape that will allow us to leave the country and regroup elsewhere.”
Damn these radical types. Flerko might be happy floating from country to country, living on scraps and dreams, but I’m fond of England and do not plan to spend the prime of my life scraping a living in some ghetto populated by grubby foreigners who exist on cabbage soup and dumplings. I hadn’t signed up to Dizzy’s scheme in order to flee the country after a spectacular (and possibly suicidal) gesture. And if we all put up our tails and scattered to the four winds, who’d find the elusive Grigori for Superintendent Stoke? Speaking of Grigori . . .
“What would Grigori prefer that we do? Assassinate an important leader or plan a grand stroke that will terrify the public?” I asked.
Harkov squared his shoulders and sat up straight at the mention of our sponsor. He was a self-important bastard, and here was his chance to condescend to the rest of us through his connection with Grigori.
“Have you spoken with him about possible plans?” asked Schmidt.
“Naturally I have consulted with him,” Harkov said sulkily.
“And what did he suggest we do?”
“His general view is that we should seek to cause as much confusion and fear as possible. It is all very well to exterminate the odd aristocrat, but that act does not create sufficient apprehension in the public mind. Only when the citizens of the city are themselves at risk will we generate the kind of mass hysteria that undermines the government.”
I didn’t dare meet French’s eye for fear of giving away the game, but I quailed at the prospect of trying to prevent bloodshed at some sort of public gathering. French and I could easily have thwarted a plan aimed at an individual (though it might have been deuced difficult to do so without revealing ourselves as British agents), but a plot on a larger scale would be hard to circumvent.
“We might attack a conference of the Conservative Party,” said Bonnaire. “Or a public address by a party leader. Politicians never miss a chance to appear before an audience.”
“A football match?” suggested Schmidt.
“Football?” said French. “We want people to join our cause, not hang us from the nearest lamppost because we blew up their favorite sporting club.”
Flerko was bouncing in his chair, emitting muted shrieks. “The memorial! The memorial!”
“What memorial?” asked Harkov.
“On the twelfth of the month the government is holding a public memorial service in Trafalgar Square, marking the twentieth anniversary of the Indian Mutiny. That is this Saturday.”
I vaguely recalled seeing the service mentioned in the papers, but it had slipped my mind. Why anyone would want to remember that particular sequence of horrors was beyond me, but we English love to wallow in the darkest moments of our history. Just mention the massacre at Sati Chaura Ghat to any chap on the street and watch his spine straighten and his jaw jut out. It won’t be a minute before he’ll be looking for a Hindoo to wallop. A commemoration of the poor sods who perished in the mutiny would likely draw a fair crowd, eager to shed a tear at the thought of English innocence and Indian perfidy.
A murmur of interest ran round the table.
“The prime minister will be there,” said Flerko, beaming. “And a whole host of cabinet ministers and generals and admirals. What a blow to the state. Boom! Just like that. All gone.” He flung up his hands in glee. Lord, but he was an excitable chap. I made a mental note to stand as far as possible from the little Russian at the memorial service. The chap was deuced twitchy.
Harkov rooted in his pocket and found the cigar stub he’d placed there earlier. He popped it in his mouth and sucked it contemplatively.
“A large crowd,” he muttered. “Prominent figures. A bloody great explosion.” He whipped the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Thick Ed. “No! Not one explosion. A series of explosions!”
“How many?” asked Thick Ed.
“A dozen,” Harkov said firmly.
Thick Ed shook his head. “Impossible. I only have the materials for five.”
Harkov sulked. “Well, it shall have to be five, then.”
Flerko chortled. “And I shall help you arm the bombs and place them around the square.”
“Um,” said Thick Ed, “appreciate the offer, comrade, but it might be best if I handled things myself.”
Flerko looked downcast at missing the opportunity to plant a device that would eviscerate several dozen innocent bystanders.
“I plan to be in the crowd to observe the effects of our plan,” said Bonnaire. “At a safe distance from the bombs, of course. You can join me, Flerko. In fact, we should all attend.”
Harkov avoided our eyes. “I shall be in Lyon on the twelfth.”
“Another conference?” There was a soupçon of venom in Schmidt’s voice.
“A meeting on syndicalism and socialism. Grigori has asked me to attend,” said Harkov defensively.
“No matter. We shall manage by ourselves,” said Schmidt. He looked around placidly. “Shall I assume responsibility for coordinating our plans?”
I had no difficulty in letting Schmidt take the lead. When the memorial went off without a hitch, it would be easy to point the finger at the man who’d been in charge.
We talked strategy first, agreeing that our objective would be to destroy whatever grandstand or speaker’s platform might be erected for the notables in attendance, with secondary explosions to be situated so as to kill and maim the most spectators. Nobody blinked an eye at this proposal; apparently anarchists don’t flinch at the prospect of slaughtering innocent bystanders if the end result will be freedom for the survivors. The slaughtered innocents would no doubt disagree.
After that, we got down to tactics. I volunteered to use my sources to obtain a list of attendees and a schedule (which French acidly pointed out could be found in any newspaper—not the least bit helpful, that). For his part, French agreed to suss out the exact location of stands and bunting and so forth. Thick Ed would have a look at the square and plan the location of the infernal machines. And Flerko and Bonnaire would check train tables and sailing schedules, for those inclined to take to their heels after the big show.
“An event of this magnitude will bring the Yard down on us,” said Harkov. “I think Flerko’s idea of planning an escape is a wise one. Perhaps we should agree to disperse after the service and fix a time and place to meet again, say in six months’ time.”
“You’ll find me at Lotus House,” I said. “I don’t care to go abroad. And if everyone keeps quiet about our plans, there’ll be no need for anyone to go anywhere.”
“You’re an inspiration,” said Schmidt drily, but he smiled when he said it. “However, I shall pack my bag and be ready to leave London, if necessary.”
“As will I,” Flerko said.
“And I,” said Bonnaire. “You don’t understand, India. Most of us have been guests of the authorities before. We do not have faith in your English law. We are not used to having any rights. I’ll have a ticket in my pocket, just for peace of mind.”
Their pessimism didn’t bother me in the slightest. I reall
y didn’t care whether all the rats fled the ship, except one, the biggest rat of all. Grigori. But how French and I were to get our hands on him was unclear.
We scheduled the date for our next meeting and then dispersed. Outside the shop, I watched Harkov slink away, head tucked between his shoulders. I trusted Vincent would soon be on his tail. Schmidt’s soft footsteps had already faded into the night. Bonnaire insisted that he and Flerko accompany me to the cabstand.
“I am grateful, but that won’t be necessary,” I said. “Since Mr. French will be going there also, I think I shall be safe enough in his company.”
French started. “But I—”
“Thank you, Mr. French. It’s most generous of you to offer.”
He wasn’t best pleased, grudgingly presenting his arm for me to take and stalking off at a rapid pace.
“I was not planning to hire a hansom tonight,” said French. “What the devil do you want?”
“Don’t be such an irritable bastard,” I said. “When you want to talk, we meet. When I need to see you, you act like a feral cat.”
“Shh. Someone may be watching us. Keep your voice down. Is there something you want to discuss?”
“Of course there is. Why else would I inflict my company upon you?”
“What is it?”
Now you might think this was the perfect time to bounce French about the pretty blonde in Mayfair, but I had matters of more importance to chat over.
“You do realize we’ve just spent a few hours planning to kill a lot of innocent people, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound all that worried by the conversation.”
“I’m not. One gets used to these sorts of things. As an agent, you’re liable to end up in some strange situations.”
Pompous bugger. “I suppose we should alert Superintendent Stoke.”
French frowned. “Yes, we must. But I’m afraid he’ll jump the mark and arrest our comrades before we have a chance to get our hands on Grigori. We must have more time.”
“We surely can’t let those bloody idiots explode five bombs in Trafalgar Square,” I said.
“Oh, no. That would never do. The plot will fail. But our friends must never suspect that you and I had a hand in that failure.”
“Have you any ideas as to how to arrange that?”
“I’m mulling over a few options.”
I waited, but French seemed to think that was enough information for the enlisted ranks. Damn him.
“I’ve a few ideas of my own,” I informed him.
“Have you?” He sounded amused.
“I’ll let you know when I’m finished mulling them over. Now I have another question for you. Do you know a Charles Goodwood?”
“The Earl of Clantham? Good God. Where did you run across him?”
“I haven’t met the man. I’ve only heard his name mentioned at Lotus House.”
“You would have heard it there,” French said. “He’s a wastrel of the vilest sort. Cheats at cards but has still managed to run through his family’s fortune. He’s hardly ever sober, and he consorts with a wicked crowd. He keeps a stable of slatternly strumpets and has even lived openly with one or two of them.”
French caught himself then. I heard the quick intake of his breath. “I say, India. I didn’t mean to—”
“Tell the truth?” I laughed. “I’m not a fragile bloom that has to be sheltered from the harsh wind of reality. I do find it interesting, though, that the first of Goodwood’s sins is fleecing his fellow gamblers. The sluts come third.”
French cleared his throat. Before he could apologize for his lack of sensitivity, I cut in with a question. “Does Goodwood live in London?”
“He has a home on Eaton Square. Why are you so interested in the man?”
I had an answer prepared. “I thought that if we had to sacrifice some toff to the bloodthirsty anarchists, Goodwood wouldn’t be a great loss to society.”
French halted in his tracks and turned to face me. He gripped my arm tightly. “Don’t get carried away with your role. You’re getting deuced enthusiastic about suggesting candidates for assassination.”
I shook off his hand. “Why shouldn’t I? If we know the target, we can easily protect him. Subverting this memorial plot isn’t going to be easy.”
“And if our suggestions are followed by failure, our friends in the Dark Legion may put together the pieces of the puzzle and conclude that you and I are in league with the authorities. It’s quite common for the police to plant agents provocateurs in anarchist cells for the purpose of suggesting particular attacks, only to have the cell members arrested or killed when they attempt them. It’s far better for us to work behind the scenes. Let Flerko suggest the targets. We’ll find a way to protect them.”
I do so hate being lectured by French on the role of a prime minister’s agent. I’ve never been good at taking instruction, even if it’s in my best interest to do so. There’s just something about receiving a lecture that grates on my nerves. It’s doubly annoying if it’s the poncy bastard delivering the sermon.
I felt a childish desire to irritate the man. “I hope you’re right, Peregrine.”
“Oh, not that blasted idiocy again. Listen, my name is—”
“Don’t tell me. I prefer guessing. Is it Aethelstan?”
“No.”
“Baldaric?”
“I’m afraid not.”
We had reached the cabstand by then, which was just as well, as I know that I was feeling disposed to clout French on the head, and from the tone of his voice, he’d have returned the favor. He handed me up into the cab and closed the door behind me.
“Good night, India. I shall contact you soon.”
“Good night, French. Give my regards to the ball and chain.” I thumped the roof of the cab, and we sprang away from the curb. It was too dark to see French’s face, but I was sure I’d hit the target with my parting shot.
I had much to ponder on the drive back to Lotus House. I had an address for Charles Goodwood, and I planned to pay a call upon the scoundrel. It sounded as if the old boy were susceptible to feminine charms, and I had no doubt I’d wangle some information from him about my mother. His reputation didn’t concern me, though French the gentleman clearly had strong opinions about his character. How typical, and quaint, of French. That attitude would never do, not in my line of work. It’s the bounders and cads who pay the bills, you see, and I’ve yet to see a bloke of that type I can’t handle.
Of more immediate concern was our jolly band’s plan to bomb the Indian Mutiny memorial service. I hoped French had a background in bomb making, and more important, in disarming the bloody things, though I don’t know how he would manage to neutralize five of the infernal machines, all timed to explode at the same minute. Unless he was thinking that I might assist him in that endeavour. Dear me, I should have to put some thought into avoiding that situation, as I was averse to leaving bits of myself all over Trafalgar Square.
An inkling of a scheme was bubbling in my brain by the time we reached Lotus House. Lost in thought, I paid the driver and stood for a moment staring sightlessly into the murky gloom. I should arrange a meeting with French, Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke soon, to get my stratagem on the table before the same ploy occurred to French. To those who would say that it matters not who receives the credit for an idea, I say, “You’re a bloody idiot.” Icicles will be forming in hell before I let French get a leg up. I permitted myself a smile as I dashed up the steps to the door and inserted my key. I was imagining French’s face when someone threw a sack over my head.
TWELVE
It was made of hessian cloth and, by the smell of the thing, had once contained turnips. It was not a pleasant sensation, but hessian cloth is loosely woven and I was in no danger of being suffocated. The more frightening aspect of the affair was the fact that a pair of burly arms was wrapped around my torso, squeezing my arms against my body so that I couldn’t reach the revolver in my purse
. The fellow’s grip was so tight, in fact, that my nerveless fingers slipped open and the purse tumbled out of my hand. I confess I was disappointed in myself. I’d been so preoccupied with sharing my ingenious plan with Dizzy and French that I’d neglected to keep a sharp eye out for villains.
I lowered my head and then snapped it back as hard as I could, straight into my attacker’s face. He grunted loudly when my skull struck his nose and staggered a step or two, which gave me the time I needed to execute the second part of my plan to escape. I prayed I was still facing the front door of Lotus House, but even if I wasn’t, I had a fair chance of catching the rogue off guard. I sagged against the bloke who’d seized me, lifted my feet and extended them. To my utter joy, I planted them against the hard surface of the house. Then I pushed off with all my might. My captor and I reeled backward, teetered precariously at the top of the steps and then tumbled down them to the pavement.
When it comes time for me to write my manual for female agents of the Crown, I shall be sure to include the instructions for this form of escape, along with a proviso that it hurts like billy-o when you hit the ground. The ruffian’s arms loosened, and I rolled to one side, eluding his searching hands. A dandy move, that, and it would have succeeded except the fellow who’d bagged me had brought along a second chap, who now fetched me a clip on the ear that prevented me from hopping to my feet. Then the first fellow scrambled to his feet and yanked me upright, enveloping me again in his fierce embrace. Rough hands seized my legs and lifted my feet into the air. I was being hauled away from Lotus House like, well, a sack of turnips. I tried to scream (little good that would have done, anyway, as the local plod was more inclined to arrest me than come to my assistance), but the chap who had clamped his arms around me was as strong as an orangutan and I struggled just to draw breath.
The two brutes who had nicked me were moving at a shocking pace, and I knew if I didn’t do something quickly I’d soon feel the sharp end of Mother Edding’s pigsticker. I began to wriggle like an eel in a basket, twisting my upper body and trying to bend at the waist to loosen my captors’ grip. It worked a treat, and I heard two sharp expletives as I slithered from their grasp.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 15
