“Are you ready, Rupert?”
I signalled affirmation and dialled Urban-Smith’s number. I became aware of a mild discomfort and mental agitation, but clearly nothing compared to that being experienced on board The Iron Lung.
From below decks, there came the sound of several gunshots. Shortly thereafter, our well-developed sentinel reappeared on deck, pacing anxiously back and forth and gabbling into his telephone.
“Now!” hissed Urban-Smith, and we headed for the boat, taking pains to keep low. As we approached, the air was filled with shuddering spectres that swayed and flapped about us. We shimmied and shook, waving our arms as we ascended the gangplank and shuffled past the sentry, who eyed us with trepidation but did not challenge us. Dark shapes continued to hound us as we descended below decks to search for Professor Gorshkov.
“You go that way and I shall go this,” whispered Urban-Smith. “We must find him quickly before our friend summons reinforcements.”
We separated and made our way from door to door, peering into cabins and searching for the captive professor. I had checked no more than three cabins when I perceived that the ubiquitous shadowy spectres were looking decidedly translucent. Evidently, the demands placed upon the amplifier’s battery had exceeded Urban-Smith’s estimations, and within a minute, I was alone in the short corridor.
Fearful of discovery, I hurried back towards the deck ladder, but I was too late. The brawny guard slid down the ladder in a fluid, well-practised motion and turned upon me with his eyes blazing and his gun drawn. I came to a halt, looking this way and that for an alternative escape route but seeing none.
“Please remove the sheet,” he instructed me, and I complied promptly. “Karlik,” he sneered. “What kind of game are you playing?”
With a deep sigh of resignation, I held up my hands in submission, but as I did so, I noticed a movement at the end of the corridor. It was Urban-Smith, still clad in his black sheet, coming to my aid.
More than once had my stealthy friend spoken of his mastery of Oshitari Furoa, the ancient Japanese art of shinobi floor-creeping, but this was the first time that I had borne witness to it. Steeling himself for action, Urban-Smith dropped into risu no shisei o yurugasu (crouching squirrel stance) and began his approach.
Urban-Smith moved like a shadow, silently gliding closer, closer, closer until he was within striking distance, yet he could not act, for the guard was in a state of considerable arousal; any startlement could cause him to discharge his weapon prematurely. Clearly, some form of distraction was required on my part.
Letting my hands drop, I puffed out my chest in a show of mock bravado and machismo. “Now look here, my good man,” said I with feigned indignation, “I object to your manners. Surely when greeting a guest on board a vessel, one should extend hospitality and grace, not threaten at gunpoint.”
I raised my fists and circled them towards me to indicate my desire to engage in fisticuffs. “I’m going to teach you a lesson that you won’t forget in a hurry. I suggest you prepare for a thorough drubbing.”
The huge Russian stared at me with the kind of expression one might display if asked for the time by a passing hedgehog, but kept his gun trained upon me. Behind him, Urban-Smith remained motionless lest any intervention should tighten the guard’s grip on the trigger.
“Come on,” I taunted. “Why don’t you put down the gun and fight me like a man?”
“Very well, karlik.” The pistol was returned to its holster, and my opponent readied himself to go the knuckle. “Prepare for beating.”
Urban-Smith hesitated no longer. His transition into jōshō suru nattsukurakkā no pōzu (rising nutcracker pose) was seamless, his leg a mere blur as he stepped forward and brought his foot sharply up towards the big man’s crotch. With a strangled cry, the guard fell to his knees, clutching his traumatised vegetalia, and I ran forwards to deliver a kick to the angle of his jaw, causing him to collapse in a stupor.
“Bravo, Rupert,” cried Urban-Smith, shedding his black sheet.
“Have you found the professor?” I asked, stooping to the fallen man and rolling him into the recovery position.
“Indeed I have.”
“Get him away from the boat. I will join you once I am satisfied that this chap is safe to be left unattended.” I removed the guard‘s gun from his shoulder holster and passed it to Urban-Smith, who retreated out of sight, returning a minute later, leading Professor Gorshkov at gunpoint.
All the fight had gone from the Professor. His ordeal at the hands of the Colonel and then the Pope (not to mention a boatful of dark spectres) had left him rather shell-shocked, and I fancied that the peace and sanctity of a police cell might have appealed to his sensibilities at this point. He offered no resistance as Urban-Smith directed him up onto the ship’s deck.
I hung back until the prostrate guard began to murmur and rouse, at which time I beat a hasty retreat from The Iron Lung.
“The police are on their way,” Urban-Smith informed me. “I have told them that Professor Gorshkov summoned us here so that he could turn himself in. I think we ought to keep the Colonel and the FSB out of it.”
“I agreed whole-heartedly,” said I, recalling Colonel’s Smirnitsky’s threat to use us as fish food. “Do you plan to take credit for the capture of the Gorshkovs?”
Professor Gorshkov started to attention. “You have my wife?”
“She is currently on the Intensive Care Unit at St Clifford’s Hospital,” I replied. “The prognosis is encouraging.”
“What has happened to her?”
“She has been struck down by the LOL curse, but only a short burst of it. The previous victim made a full recovery.”
“How did this happen?” asked the Professor.
“An unfortunate accident.”
“In answer to your question, Rupert,” interjected Urban-Smith, “I think it best that we allow this result to be chalked up to Inspector Gadget. Half a plum each is reward enough.”
*
Inspector Gadget met us at Wandsworth Police Station and immediately seized the opportunity to berate us for not contacting him as soon as we had heard from Professor Gorshkov.
“I’m sorry, Inspector Gad-jay,” said Urban-Smith placatingly, “but the Professor insisted that no police be present at the liaison. He had already arranged transport back to Moscow and was threatening to leave the country if we did not accede to his conditions.”
The Inspector was unconvinced, but once reassured that Urban-Smith had no desire to take credit for the successful resolution of the case, he could not be rid of us fast enough.
“One moment Inspector,” protested Urban-Smith as we were unceremoniously herded towards the door of DI Gadget’s office. “What of The Fervent Fist? What of the infiltration of the mobile telephone network? What….”
“Oh no, no, no!” said Gadget, silencing Urban-Smith with a wave of his meaty hand. “This is an open and shut case. Professor Gorshkov is going to confess, and that is that. I will not be drawn into any of your stupid conspiracy fairy-tales.”
“But, Inspector…”
“No!” Detective Inspector Gadget seized Urban-Smith by his jacket lapels and pulled him in close. “Listen up, loony! This is a big deal for me. It might even mean promotion, and you are not going to mess it up. Understand?”
Gadget projected Urban-Smith towards the door, and I scuttled behind, fearing for my safety. However, my friend and associate was made of sterner stuff. He turned and planted his feet stubbornly.
“Now see here, Gad-jay…”
With an agility that would have impressed in a man half his size, Gadget crossed the room in a single bound and delivered a firm punch to the pit of Urban-Smith’s stomach. Urban-Smith sank to the floor, gurgling and gasping for breath.
“Speak up?” Inspector Gadget cupped a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”
“Good grief,” I exclaimed. “What sort of policeman are you?”
The DI sunk his fingers into my
shoulder and leant in close. His moustache twitched and quivered, and his foetid, tobacco-laden breath rasped across my face like a malignant sirocco. “The sort of policeman that wants you out of his office by the count of five, or so help me, I’ll turn that Dali clock of yours into a Picasso.”
Impressed as I was by the cultured sophistication of his threat, I did not wish to see it come to fruition, and I assisted Urban-Smith to vacate the police station posthaste.
Mercifully, Urban-Smith’s pride was more wounded than his body, and by the time our taxicab reached Chuffnell Mews, he was back to his usual, genial self. I sent him into the living room to recuperate whilst I boiled the kettle and prepared hot beverages.
The living room floor was strewn with Urban-Smith’s brushes, paints and other art paraphernalia, and it was no mean feat to negotiate our coffees through the jetsam.
Urban-Smith sprawled in his favourite armchair, his eyes half closed and his Eton tie loose about his neck. “I am afraid that the last few nights have left me mentally exhausted,” he confessed. “I have decided to spend the week painting and allowing my faculties to recuperate.”
“Do you think that The Fervent Fist will come for us?”
“No,” he replied emphatically. “They have bigger fish to fry. You may rest easy, Rupert.”
Yet I did not, for as I lay in bed that night, I realised that my world had changed forever. Prior to meeting Urban-Smith, I had gone about my business in blissful ignorance, but now I walked different streets, streets that festered with clandestine agents and ruthless assassins armed with weapons that had only existed in nightmares.
And what of Urban-Smith? He spoke casually of ghosts, demons and monsters as if they lurked at every street-corner. Good Lord, if I believed in a fraction of the things that he took for granted, I should never leave my room for fear of meeting some vile, unspeakable abomination intent upon rending me limb from limb, yet he seemed to breeze through life with equanimity. How did he do it?
I tried to reason further, but the day’s exertions were too much for me, and I fell into a restless sleep with dreams of dead singers and vampire popes and a beautiful Russian widow with a smoking pistol in her delicate hand.
◆◆◆
26. ABOUT THE POLE
Over the course of the next week, Mrs Gorshkov recovered from her coma, Detective Sergeant McKendal returned from the north, and Officer Gribble returned to active duty.
However, it was not all good news. Anglo-Soviet relations were destined to take a further blow with the death of former KGB agent, Alexander Litvinenko, who had been admitted to a London hospital at the start of November with a mysterious illness. As his condition worsened, Litvinenko claimed that he was the victim of an assassination attempt by the Russian authorities. He finally succumbed on the 23rd November.
“Look at this,” said Urban-Smith, rotating the following morning’s edition of The Scrump for my perusal.
‘Nuked!’ roared the headline. ‘Murdered spy’s widow orders lead-lined coffin.’
We were at the breakfast table, Mrs Denford orbiting like Sputnik around us, depositing tea and toast.
“Good heavens,” I gasped. “What on Earth is that about?”
“You know of that Russian KGB chappie who died yesterday? It seems that unusually high levels of radioactive polonium have been found in his blood.”
“Polonium?”
“Yes, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith, setting aside his newspaper. “Polonium; the FSB’s assassination tool of choice when Schwarzkröte was still on the payroll.” Before he could elucidate further, his mobile telephone began to tremble, and Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’ blossomed forth from its tiny speaker.
“Very apt,” I observed as Urban-Smith answered the call and set the telephone to loudspeaker.
“Hello, this is Fairfax Urban-Smith.”
“Mr Urban-Smith.” It was Colonel Smirnitsky. “We have matters to discuss.”
“You refer to the Professor?”
“I do. My superiors are displeased.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I felt it my responsibility to deliver Professor Gorshkov to the proper authorities.”
“We are paying for your services. Your responsibility is to us.”
“I agreed to act on behalf of your Embassy in the pursuit of justice for the murder of Ambassador Vishminakov, and nothing more. To that end, I am trying to locate and apprehend the fugitive, Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte. I presume that you are still interested in his whereabouts.”
“I am. You have seen the day’s headlines?”
“I have.”
“It is the opinion of our political analysts that The Fervent Fist is seeking to damage Soviet-Anglo relations, and this latest assassination has had a profound impact in this respect. My superiors are anxious, Mr Urban-Smith. They want results.”
“I am prepared to assist, Colonel, but you cannot question my methods. I must be allowed to conduct the investigation as I see fit, otherwise our partnership is at an end. Do you accept these terms?”
There was a pause.
“I accept.”
“Thank you, Colonel. And in return, you may expect my fullest attention in this matter.”
“Tread carefully, Mr Urban-Smith. Your interest in these events will not have gone unrecognised.”
The line went dead, leaving Colonel Smirnitsky’s warning hanging in the air like so much stale cigar smoke.
“That went surprisingly smoothly,” I observed.
“Well, the enemy of my enemy and so forth.”
“Why does The Fervent Fist seeks to drive a wedge between Whitehall and the Kremlin?” I asked.
“With regard to problem-reaction-solution, the success of a false-flag operation depends on having a scapegoat; in this case, the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. Additionally, I suspect that Schwarzkröte sees the FSB as a more credible threat than our own police and is trying to hamstring them by casting them as the villains of the piece.”
“That seems quite plausible. Do you think that this latest death is a smokescreen?”
“I do, Rupert; but a smokescreen for what? That is the real question. I sense dark clouds gathering, and we are wearing sunglasses.”
At this point, Mrs Denford materialised at the table, bearing two full English’s. “I couldn’t help overhearing that phone call, Fairfax,” she said. “I didn’t like that man at all.” She wrinkled her nose. “He sounds a nasty piece of work.”
“You are an excellent judge of character, Mrs Denford. Fortunately, he is in our corner. I should not wish to have him as an adversary.”
“What about those big gents in the suits?” she asked, her demeanour suddenly brightening. “Will they be coming around again?”
“I sincerely hope not, Mrs Denford. I had occasion to kick one of them in the testicles, and I should not like him to return the favour.”
“What about the other one?” she asked hopefully.
“The other one? I believe there were only the two testicles.”
“No, you great pudding. The other big Russian.”
“Perhaps I should sign you up to ‘Find True Love,’” I offered.
“Och, no,” cried Mrs Denford. “The internet is full of perverts and loonies.” With that observation, she hurried away to flick a duster about.
“Which brings us back to you, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith. “Are you seeing Nell tonight?”
“Not tonight,” I replied forlornly. “She has lost her job at Trasandato Come L’inferno? It’s been a tough year for the fashion industry, and they’ve had to downsize. She is starting a new job this week, but it involves mostly evenings, so we won’t be seeing as much of one another.”
“Oh, well. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”
“Perhaps so,” I conceded, “but it’s murder on the unmentionables.”
*
It had been a week since I had enjoyed the hospitality of The Blue Belvoir, so I pulled on my gabardine slacks and a tw
ill shirt and summoned a taxicab to The Spawn.
I passed through the lobby into the main body of the club and wended my way across the floor to my favourite table, tucked in at the back of the room yet affording an excellent view of the stage. A buxom, blonde lady, whose name escapes me for the moment, gyrated beneath the spotlights’ glare, her ample charms barely contained by her skimpy outfit. This was soon discarded, and as she danced naked, there were ripples of applause and polite compliments from the audience. At the end of her performance she left the stage, soon reappearing clad in a negligee to mingle with the assembled club members, trading banter and accepting tips as is the way of The Blue Belvoir.
A young waitress dressed only in her underwear took my order for a G&T and a club sandwich before scurrying away to the bar with my twenty guinea note tucked into her hosiery.
The lights dimmed and the public address system crackled.
“Gentlemen,” announced our compere, “please raise your glasses and drink a toast to The Blue Belvoir’s newest performer; Nell.”
There were excited mutters of, ‘hear, hear,’ and, ‘jolly good show,’ and Nell slunk onto the stage, dressed as a schoolgirl, sucking a lollipop and swinging a satchel. I was agog; she had not mentioned the nature of her new job, but this was the last thing that I had expected.
Nell jettisoned her lollipop and blazer and began to twirl about the pole, slowly unbuttoning her blouse. There were murmurs of approval from the audience as she slipped her skirt off, shrugged the blouse from her shoulders and pushed out her chest. She continued to dance and spin, arching her back and kicking her legs high, and I watched with fascination as her muscles flexed and strained beneath her pale skin, glistening with sweat under the hot lights. She removed her bra and coyly covered her breasts for a few tantalising seconds before raising her arms above her head, drawing further positive comments and polite applause. She danced for a minute or two more, then discarded her thong, standing bare and proud on the stage.
I looked around me. Every man’s eye was fixed upon Nell’s delicate frame, and I felt an unexpected surge of pride and admiration for her pluck. For a moment, I was seized with the urge to leap from my chair and bellow at the top of my voice, “feast your eyes upon that beautiful woman. She is my girlfriend.”
Laugh Out Dead Page 20
