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

by Carol K. Carr

  “I wonder if that’s true,” mused French. “I’ll have Stoke verify that he left England and arrived in Lyon.”

  “I’m sure the superintendent will be happy to do that for you, seeing as how he thinks this whole affair has been a cock-up of the first order. I wonder what he’ll tell Dizzy?”

  “Perhaps I should wander round and have a chat with the prime minister before Stoke pays a call. The superintendent will be tied up for a few hours looking for that bomb.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said, rising.

  “I think it would be best if you waited here for Vincent,” French said smoothly. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “It wasn’t the plan that went awry,” I said stubbornly. “How could I have known that someone was going to play silly buggers with that fifth bomb?”

  “There was nothing wrong with the plan, and I shall tell that to the prime minister. Someone in the group has a different agenda than the others, and that makes it more important than ever that we remain with the anarchists and get to the bottom of this. Superintendent Stoke won’t like it, but he can go hang for all I care.” French clapped his hat on his head and stalked out. Ah, there’s nothing more arousing than a resolute chap defending his damsel’s honour.

  I sat for an hour or more, nursing my drink and feeling chuffed at the idea of French stating my case to the prime minister. Then, as I was topping off my glass, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantel, grinning foolishly. The sight brought me up short. Bloody hell. What was I thinking? A week ago French’s chivalry would have sent me into a rage, as India Black did not need a bloke riding to her rescue. I’d have pushed my way into that meeting with Dizzy and informed him that Stoke was a whinging old woman who couldn’t stand the heat and if he wanted to the leave the kitchen, he should do so with speed. I’d have thumped French on the head for presuming that I needed his protection. And I’d have chewed up Stoke and spit him in the gutter. Damnation, I was going soft. Well, it was time to pull up my boots and fight my own battles. I was collecting a cloak and tying on a bonnet when Vincent walked into the foyer, gobbling a piece of cold ham. He shoved the last of the meat in his mouth.

  “Where did French go?”

  And that’s another thing that needed putting to rights: French wasn’t my superior anymore. I’d been called in by Dizzy, and by God, I had as much right as French to direct operations and Vincent could bloody well answer to me once in a while. Whether I had the experience to handle matters was a completely different matter, but I’m not one to concern myself with trifles.

  “He’s with the prime minister,” I said curtly. “What have you learned?”

  “Where were you goin’?”

  “To see Dizzy.”

  Vincent strolled into the study, wiping his greasy fingers on the seat of his pants and selecting one of my upholstered chairs. He plopped down in it and stretched his feet toward the fire.

  “Well, unless you got somethin’ to say to him that French didn’t, I’d save myself a trip.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I seen French comin’ up the street. ’E’ll be ’ere any minute.”

  The front door opened and French came in, removing his hat and shrugging out of his overcoat.

  “Ah, Vincent. What’s happening at the square?”

  “Nuffink, guv. The plods are all over the place, pokin’ at anything bigger than a muffin and everyone of ’em as nervous as a cat around a rocker. Ole Stoke was stormin’ round the place, frothin’ at the mouth and shoutin’ orders, but they didn’t find a fing. They finished a while ago and gone ’ome. Wot did ole Dizzy have to say?”

  French poured himself a whisky and sank into a chair. “He congratulated us and observed that the plan would have been wholly successful but for this unforeseen intervention. We are to stay on the case until we identify Grigori and the whole lot can be arrested. The prime minister will have a word with Stoke, and we are not to take the superintendent’s words to heart, as the poor fellow is under a great deal of stress and may have overreacted.” French looked quizzically at me. “Why are you wearing that bonnet and cloak? Were you going out?”

  “I had thought to join your meeting.”

  “Didn’t trust me to fight our corner?”

  “Something like that.”

  He grinned, fondly I believe, and I granted him a meager smile. Vincent was watching with interest. Too much interest. He’s a shrewd little bugger, but he noticed me staring at him and his expression faded to one of studied indifference.

  “Wot do we do now?” he asked.

  “We find Grigori,” I said briskly, “and put an end to this.”

  * * *

  The morning brought a message from Bonnaire, requesting my presence at a meeting of the cell that night. I’d been expecting our little band would be all aflutter, and everyone would be anxious to discuss the failure of our plan. It was a glum group of anarchists who gathered in the cellar later that evening. To my surprise Harkov was there, presiding over the table with an expression of extreme displeasure on his saturnine features. He must have made a hasty trip from Lyon when he heard the news. Schmidt idly polished his glasses, puffing a pipe and staring sightlessly across the room. Bonnaire and Thick Ed appeared calm, the Frenchman lounging in his chair with his hands laced over his stomach and our bomb maker busying himself at his worktable. Flerko was a bundle of nerves, twitching like a rat in a trap when I walked in. I suppose he had expected a representative of the Third Section. French had arrived before me and sat leaning with his elbows on the table, looking severe.

  Harkov screwed his monocle into his eye and let his gaze sweep the table. “I return from Lyon, expecting to read in the papers of our great achievement and the fall of the British government. Instead, I am greeted with the news that a gang of boys disrupted the memorial service. What’s more, not a single bomb exploded. Grigori—” He stopped to correct himself. “I demand an explanation. Thick Ed?”

  Thick Ed looked up from his examination of a detonator. “Don’t know, comrade. I planted the devices just like we talked about. I armed each one. I don’t know what happened, but I can guess.” He looked meaningfully around the room, without really making eye contact with anyone, before returning to his study of the items on the table.

  Flerko jumped. Harkov’s eyes were moist and dangerous. Most of the air went out of the room, leaving it dank and still.

  “If you are accusing one of us of sabotaging the operation, then it would serve you well to remember that most of us do not have the expertise to build a bomb, much less dismantle one,” said Bonnaire calmly. “Your words accuse only yourself, comrade.” The last word dripped sarcasm. Bonnaire glanced obliquely at French, then at me. “And, I might add, those who helped you assemble the devices.”

  Flerko had just caught up with the rest of us. “Wait one minute,” he said. “Are you accusing Thick Ed and French and Miss Black of being spies?”

  Schmidt stirred. “We cannot ignore the facts, Flerko. It would appear that we have indeed been infiltrated by one or more agents,” he said around the pipe stem in his mouth. “However, I would venture to say that our spy works for someone other than the British.”

  The colour drained from Flerko’s face. “The Third Section,” he whispered.

  “Why do you say that it is not the British?” asked Harkov.

  “Look at the disruption of the service. A group of what, a hundred boys, put a crowd to flight, and in the chaos our bombs are conveniently disarmed and vanish. Had the informant been working for Scotland Yard, they would simply have rendered the bombs ineffective and removed them before the service. Certainly they would not hire a mob of guttersnipes to create a distraction while they collected the bombs. What would be the point? No, I think our friend must be working for another government, and our spy was forced to devise an informal means of thwarting our scheme.” He sucked on his pipe, discovered it had gone out, and frowned at it. “We know how frequently the Sûreté,
the Third Section and the Landespolizei forces of the German states attempt to infiltrate our combat units. I fear they may have been successful in our case.”

  There was silence as we all contemplated Schmidt’s words. My heart was thundering in my chest. I hoped my compatriots couldn’t hear it. I was finding it hard to swallow as well. I’m a dab hand at appearing innocent, having practiced my craft over many years (it’s surprising how many blokes like the virginal type), and I prayed my skill would continue for the duration of the meeting.

  Schmidt had found a piece of straw and was cleaning his pipe. “Quite frequently the spy will urge the group to act. He has no value to his employers if the unit he penetrates does nothing.”

  Flerko’s already pale face blanched. “If you are implying that I am the spy just because I suggested the memorial service as a target, I must protest.”

  Schmidt lit his pipe and stared thoughtfully at Flerko through the smoke.

  Flerko licked his lips and put a shaking hand to his mouth. “You might as well accuse Harkov. Everyone knows that the government agents who join our groups always seem to go missing whenever a dangerous deed is committed.”

  The situation was becoming intolerably tense. At this rate, the group would disintegrate before we found Grigori.

  “You’re all being ridiculous,” I snapped. Harkov opened his mouth. “And don’t tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about because I haven’t had a cigarette extinguished on my arm by the brutes in the Third Section. If we have been infiltrated, then you can bet we wouldn’t be sitting here now accusing one another of treachery. We’d either be dead or in gaol or on our way out of the country in the hold of a ship. You’re seeing ghosts, comrades.”

  “How do you explain the fact that not one bomb exploded?” Schmidt asked.

  “The police might have searched the park again before the service.” I turned to Thick Ed. “You said that our bombs would have less chance of being discovered if they were placed in those boxes from the construction site, but it’s certainly feasible that any container would have been considered suspicious. I think the constables found them. That sounds more likely to me than some fantastical story about one of us hiring a small army of street arabs to break up the memorial.”

  Put like that, it did sound absurd.

  “Why did we not hear of this great triumph of the British police? Surely they would have trumpeted their superior work in the press,” Harkov said.

  “Do you think so? What politician in his right mind wants the public to know that anarchists had succeeded in hiding bombs in Trafalgar Square? I think they’d keep it quiet so as not to alarm people.”

  “There is truth in what you say.” Bonnaire’s forehead was wrinkled in thought, his brows knitted. “It could have easily happened that way.”

  “I remain unconvinced,” said Schmidt.

  Harkov nodded in agreement. “Perhaps we should disband.”

  “Certainly we should remain alert to the possibility that someone is here under false pretenses.” Bonnaire unlaced his fingers and stretched out his hands on the table. “But all we have are suspicions, and those can dissolve our group. I have been involved with cells before where infiltration was suspected. The fear, the paranoia, destroyed those units. I suggest that we continue to operate as usual. If we have been penetrated”—he gave a Gallic shrug—“then we will either catch the villain or bear the consequences. We cannot go running into the hills every time we get the wind up. It is the nature of our cause that we will encounter duplicity and danger.” He looked straight at Harkov as he said this. The Russian met his eyes for a moment, and there was hatred there, but Bonnaire continued to gaze mildly at Harkov until the latter looked away. I was waiting for Harkov to pull a revolver from his belt and demand the right to avenge this slur upon his courage, but apparently our brave leader was anything but.

  “You are suggesting that we select another target? Even though we may have a backstabber in our midst?” asked Schmidt.

  “I am,” said Bonnaire.

  “But if we have a traitor—” Harkov protested.

  “Yes,” Schmidt interrupted. “I believe you are right, Bonnaire.”

  “But—” Harkov said

  “I also agree with Bonnaire,” French spoke for the first time. He’d been deuced quiet over there. I’d been hoping he’d speak up, afraid that his silence might be interpreted by the others as guilt.

  Schmidt lifted a hand. “Let us proceed with a plan. If we do nothing or disband, our turncoat will live to penetrate another cell. If we do have a traitor in our midst, we owe it to our anarchist comrades to deal with him before he infects more combat units.” He challenged us with a look. “What shall be our next objective? Our next prey?”

  There was dead silence around the room, as you might expect when the suggestion of a proposed target had just been mooted as proof of treason. We all sat on our hands, metaphorically speaking, shifting in our seats and finding great interest in the bare stone walls of the cellar.

  “Come, come,” Schmidt said impatiently.

  “I have a plan,” said Flerko hesitantly.

  “Your last proposal failed miserably,” said Harkov. “We should hear what the others have to say.”

  “It is a brilliant plan. I insist we discuss it.” Flerko jumped to his feet. “It is a plan that will shock the European heads of state and send Britain into chaos. The people shall lose all faith in government and flock to our cause.”

  You can always count on Flerko to produce a grand scheme. His mind must be stuffed with plans for exterminating the cream of society.

  Harkov looked at Schmidt. The latter shrugged.

  “Very well, Flerko,” Harkov said.

  The little Russian leaned forward. “I propose that we kidnap the prime minister. We shall try him for his crimes and execute him. We shall cut off his head and place it on a pike on London Bridge.” Flerko’s eyes were luminous and his smile beatific. “It is a beautiful plan, is it not? In one stroke we will demonstrate our ability to reach anywhere into the halls of government. No minister or politician will feel safe. The people will see that their government is feeble and ineffective, and will rise up against their leaders. The Dark Legion will be a legend.” He looked eagerly at each of us, like a pup who’s done a trick and now expects a bone.

  I hoped my face did not register my thoughts at the moment, for what I was thinking was that Flerko was cracked. Smoke dribbled from Schmidt’s nostrils. Bonnaire evaluated the silkiness of his beard. Thick Ed absently scratched an armpit. Harkov looked pained, and French’s right eyebrow was twitching.

  I was the first to speak. “It’s . . . audacious,” I said lamely.

  “Perhaps too audacious,” Bonnaire said, frowning. “How would we get access to the prime minister?”

  “I’ve done a reconnaissance,” said Flerko excitedly. “He lives on the first floor of the Langham Hotel, and in the evening there are only two men on guard, one at the bottom of the stairs and one at the door of the prime minister’s room. Two men! They pose no challenge to us. We can dispense with them easily enough and force the door to Disraeli’s room.”

  I was not best pleased to hear that Flerko had been prowling around the Langham. French and I had visited Dizzy on numerous occasions, and I hoped the pint-sized anarchist hadn’t seen us sauntering in to chat with Dizzy and Superintendent Stoke. But as Flerko was as excitable as your spinster aunt, I felt sure that if he had caught sight of us he would have confronted us then and there.

  “Why not just blow him up and be done with it?” asked Thick Ed. “It would be much easier to do that than grab the bloke and whack off his head. And where we gonna find a pike?”

  “Your bombs have proved ineffective,” said Flerko, though not without some trepidation as he looked at Thick Ed’s massive hands. “Besides, the boldness of the plan will shock the world. I’m afraid the press is getting blasé about infernal machines.”

  “What day were you planning to co
nduct the operation?” Harkov asked.

  “Perhaps three or four days from now. As soon as we are ready.”

  “Ah.” Harkov shrugged. “Unfortunately, I shall be—”

  “At a conference,” Bonnaire concluded his sentence. “How many damned conventions can a man attend?”

  Harkov stiffened. “Grigori requests that I go. I am an important contact between him and other leaders of the movement. He is aware that I may not always be here when operations are conducted.”

  “I find it hard to believe that the prime minister’s security is so light,” Schmidt said, prodding the bowl of his pipe where the fire had gone out again. “Are you sure you didn’t miss anything, Flerko?”

  “I am certain of the details. I have spent many days and nights watching the prime minister’s movements. He shares the arrogance of so many other British politicians. They seem to think that no anarchist would dare attack them.”

  “Have you followed the prime minister since the memorial service?” I asked. “I would have thought the police would have insisted on increasing the number of his bodyguards after we came so close to blowing up half of Her Majesty’s government.”

  “We would surely have to disband after an operation of this magnitude,” Harkov said. “The police would not rest until they brought the perpetrators of such a deed to justice.”

  “Yes, we should all have to leave the country immediately, but what a coup! The Dark Legion would serve as an inspiration to combat units all over the world. What does it matter if we have to flee England and regroup somewhere else?” Flerko had his tail up, all right, bouncing on the balls of his feet with suppressed excitement. I was about to object on the grounds that I was not about to leave Lotus House when it occurred to me that Flerko’s hare-brained scheme just might be the easiest way to round up the members of the Dark Legion. Provided we could convince Grigori to be present at the scene of the crime, that is, so as to join the others in the clink.

  “There is one other thing,” said Flerko. What next, roust Queen Vicky out of bed and force her to parade through the city in her bloomers? I’d draw the line at imposing that sight on the poor citizens of London. “If there is a traitor among us, as Schmidt believes, then this will surely expose him. Or her,” he added hastily, glancing at me and turning pink. “No agent could possibly allow such an important figure to be kidnapped. He, or she, will have to reveal the plan to the authorities.”