Nahush pulled from his lapel pocket an envelope. He slid it across the table’s surface while placing the suitcase by her chair. “I need you to travel to Jal Mahal and prepare it for our arrival. You leave tonight.” He glanced at a clock in the centre of the Terminus. “In fact you have twenty minutes to catch your train.”
Sophia fought an urge to shake her head. She was used to being asked to do the dirty work of men, but she was curious to see how that would sit with this fledging agent.
Vania stared at the small bag as if it were a snake. “You’re actually answering to Jekyll?” she asked softly.
“We had an arrangement, and while I do not trust him, I do trust his technology. Especially, as on this voyage, he is accompanying us.”
“I cannot believe you are actually granting him anything.”
Sophia observed Nahush’s eyebrows draw together. “You are a foot soldier in our struggle, Vania, so I don’t owe you any explanation of my plans.”
“I have read the Ministry reports on Jekyll. He is a monster.”
“Then perhaps you should return to the Ministry, seeing as they are better judges of character than I am. After all, they opened their hearts to you, didn’t they?” Nahush took up his cane and hat. “I wouldn’t worry about their resourcefulness in deducing where your loyalties lie. And if they do, you are more than capable of protecting yourself.”
Vania toyed with her teacup for a moment, and Sophia could read, even at this distance, the distrust on her face.
Nahush’s gaze slid around the tearoom, and the assassin made herself busy with the newspaper. When he found his voice again, it was so soft that even her device had a hard time catching it. “You now have fifteen minutes to catch that train, Vania.”
Neither of her two targets moved, frozen in a tableau that could go either way.
When the woman opposite him didn’t move, Nahush leaned forward. “This is a war. We have all been called upon to do distasteful things, my dear. Tell me you are up to the task.”
He drank the last of his tea while Vania contemplated her answer. Her reply finally came in the form of a curt nod.
“Well then,” Nahush said, getting up from his seat and executing a small bow. “Your train leaves shortly. I suggest you hurry.”
Her little gasp of outrage at this abrupt remark was lost on Nahush as he had already strode away back into the crowd. Sophia recognized it for a trick; something to hurry the young agent along. He didn’t want to give her time to think, only to do. Vania paid her bill and hurried out shortly after.
The assassin folded her newspaper, dropped some coins on the table for the handsome waiter, and followed at a discreet distance. Out among the crowd her surveillance cloak was a little harder to manage. It worked best when stationary, as well as with less people milling about and breaking clear sightlines. She watched as Vania presented her ticket to a porter, was directed as to which platform was hers, and then made a mad dash for the train and her latest mission for the Ghost Rebellion.
For Vania, it had been easy. No remorse, no regrets. She walked away from the Ministry.
“Target on the move.” Sophia looked up at the split-flap display chattering overhead. “She is boarding the last train to Jaipur, and she is carrying the electroporter’s targeting device.”
“We know,” came Braun’s voice. From behind her.
Sophia whirled about and fired the cog from her gauntlet, but the razor-edged disc merely sailed up into the rafters of the Terminus. She was also stunned, if not impressed, to find her arm held down by her side by Eliza Braun.
“Jumpy, are we?” Braun asked.
“You were here all along?”
“We both were,” Wellington said, standing back up to his full height. He straightened his bowler as he added, “A good thing all three of us have fast reflexes.”
Braun cast him a sideways glance. “You didn’t hit the floor too hard, did you, Welly?”
“I might be a bit tender in the morning.”
Sophia looked from Braun to Wellington, and then back to Braun. “When did you get here?”
“We managed to get here in time to see you leave the café,” Braun said, releasing Sophia. “No sign of Nahush, sadly.”
“You would have missed him easily.” The Ministry agents looked as if they were insulted. Sophia groaned softly, and said, “He knows how to blend into his surroundings, is what I meant.”
Wellington looked over her shoulder in the direction of the platform. “You didn’t pursue Vania?”
She glared at him. “My instructions were to observe only. Besides, we know where she is going.”
“And the doctor will be there.” Braun’s jaw twitched, and Sophia wondered if she were thinking of the child lost to Jekyll’s terrible experiments. The assassin recognised vengeance.
“So we follow her to this Water Palace, and wait for him to show his face.” Sophia smiled at them. “What an adventure for the three of us.”
“Three of us?” Wellington exclaimed. Braun rapped him hard in the arm, and he then became aware of where they were. Glancing around he cleared his throat and asked in a tone more pianissimo than fortissimo, “This is our mission. Why on earth would we take you with us?”
“What, you think I work for free?” she said with a little laugh, stripping off her gloves. “My presence is the cost of my services.”
“A heavy cost, indeed,” Braun muttered under her breath.
“I could be much more useful to you, especially if things go wrong. Besides, I know Jekyll, and I know his weaknesses.”
“You could tell us now,” Braun suggested, “or I could make you tell us.”
“Oh preziosa bambina, what would be the fun in that?” Her stiff smile melted away as she glared at Braun. As much as she could see the woman’s desire to punch her, Sophia knew she wouldn’t. Despite Braun’s devil-make-care reputation, she was not one to destroy an opportunity for revenge on account of their irreconcilable differences.
“Are we going then?” Sophia said, keeping her tone light and conversational, even though she knew her fate hinged on this moment.
Wellington and Braun shared a look, and this look embodied their outrage, apprehension, distrust and disgust. It was apparent the two of them were, at that point of their affair, where they could hold entire discussions without a single word spoken.
“I’ll grab us a table then while we wait for Director Smith,” Wellington finally spoke. “However, it goes without saying, any wrong move on your part and I will not stand in Eliza’s way.”
Sophia gave him an exaggerated pout of her lip. “Not even to play the gallant and rescue me from the clutches of…”
“If the words ‘ugly, evil dragon from the mountains’ leave your lips,” Braun stated, “you will lose a tooth or two.”
Sophia gritted her teeth, and managed a smile, hoping it looked sincere. She then gestured to her fine outfit. “Best then I stop. Getting blood out of this would be such a bother.”
Eliza’s brows lifted. She well understood the implication.
Sophia del Morte was entirely unsure how a knife fight between her and Eliza D Braun would go; their one time at the opera had been a bit of a draw.
Still, if she was helpful, polite even, perhaps it wouldn’t come to that.
Perhaps.
Interlude
Wherein the Ministry’s Finest Experience a Taste of the Local Culture
Bruce looked over to Brandon. He was adopting the “Find a fixed point and make that your world” discipline, which he’d adopted from time to time when captured. There were several strategies when facing interrogation. Brandon’s fixed point was one. Another was the “West End Method,” where you act like you’re in a panic, ready to talk, and you string along your interrogators while working them for information and casing the cell for any possible vulnerabilities. What Bruce was employing, however, was a method reserved for a select few: The Achilles Method. He would look around their cell, maybe make eye c
ontact with the on-looking Houseboy, which could risk further interaction between one’s face and a hostile’s rifle butt. His expression needed to remain constant. No fear. Total defiance in light of what appeared to be a hopeless situation.
While appearing insolent, Bruce took full note of where they were being held. Any little detail could help. A set of wide windows. Tempered glass covering most of the window while the top third appeared to be simple panes. Hinges by the smooth panes insinuated that those could be opened, maybe to vent out any access heat. Granted, in this winter those windows probably stayed shut. Aside from the two chairs where he and Brandon were secured, there was one other chair in the far corner of the cell, two modest electric lights on either side of the door.
One door. One way in, one way out.
The Houseboy watching them wore black, no surprises there. The weapon of choice looked like an 1891 Mosin-Nagants, using interchangeable bolt heads like the Lee–Enfields. No visible modifications for these M1891s, so the House was keeping it simple. Made sense after seeing those monster-tanks lumbering into their respective maintenance bays. They were focused on committing resources into building those Bears. A very practical, very reasonable strategy from the House of Usher.
That Bruce found utterly terrifying.
His concerns scattered as locks began disengaging at the door. It was time to meet those in charge or, at the very least, a liaison to the big boss.
He cast another glance at Brandon. Fixed point. Completely in a different world than from where they were, at present. Guess he would be doing the talking.
The door swung open, revealing a Houseboy that was familiar to Bruce. Could this be Iliad? He was flanked by another guard and a tiny, rotund woman, her head protected by a kerchief that was as traditional as her fashion. Among the giants dressed head to toe in black, she was a strange contrast of bright colours. In fact, she looked like the cliché of a typical Russian grandmother. She was pushing a properly set tea trolley with a gleaming copper samovar in the centre with a teapot sitting proudly on the top. The tall container was making bubbling noises, indicating the water was very hot; and the tray on which it sat had several small glasses, and a bottle of what could have been water, wine, or some other libation.
Bruce didn’t fool himself. He was in the Russian Empire. He knew exactly what was in that bottle.
Iliad towered over them all. Even if Bruce were not secured to a chair, Iliad would have at least five inches on him. The man was a walking testament to his country—massive, rugged, and harsh. Bruce knew from a few tangles in Norway and Finland that these blokes were never to be underestimated. Certainly, it was better to be either behind the Russian throwing the punch, or nowhere in the same country if a Russian punch was coming at you.
“All right then, Iliad, right?” The mountain of a man blinked, surprised to be addressed by his name, or maybe it was the fact that it was the captured, not the captors, that were starting off the interrogation. “Been wondering just how long it was gonna take before I got to sit down with those in charge and have a heart-to-heart. So, how about we formerly introduce ourselves?”
“Da,” the old woman said as she straightened the trolley, and poured two small tumblers with a few shots of vodka for each. “We should get to know one another, understand each other’s minds. I think that would be good start.”
Bruce looked up at Iliad, whose gaze immediately hopped from the crone up to a point on the far wall. The other guards, like Iliad, were all now stock still and at attention.
“You’re the one in charge of this operation?” Bruce asked, turning back to the old woman.
“You seem surprised,” she said, as she poured some of the teapot’s contents into a cup. “Little old Russian lady not what you think leadership material?”
Bruce guffawed and eased back into his chair as much as his restraints allowed. “You strike me more as better off in a kitchen somewhere, baking gingerbread cookies and knitting scarves. You know, all Hans Christen Andersen and the like.”
He snickered, but his laugh faded on hearing one of the Houseboys groaning softly. He cast a glance at the other one, just behind Iliad. The guard looked at Bruce and ever so slightly shook his head.
The woman’s face wasn’t “aged” so much as “chiselled,” no doubt by many harsh winters. Her eyes, dark as they were, sent a slight tingle of fear through Bruce when they met. She was sizing him up within seconds, and every flight instinct in him was screaming to run fast, run hard. A tiny voice in his head also chided him for not employing Brandon’s approach to this interrogation.
She glanced at Brandon, his own stare still fixed forward, and shook her head. “Arrogance. Caustic manners. You must be part of British Empire.” Her eyes narrowed. “New Zealand?”
“Australia,” Bruce said, feeling his hackles rise a bit.
“You are long way from Great Barrier Reef.” The old hag was certainly not what she seemed. She turned the spigot on the samovar and poured hot water into the teacup. “What brings you to my beloved Russia, Australian?”
“Well, it’s bleedin’ hot this time of year in the Land of Plenty. I was lookin’ for cooler climates. That’s how I came across your lovely corner of the world here.”
“Really?” The old babushka motioned to Iliad who moved the remaining chair in the cell to a spot before them. Taking up the cup of tea, she hopped up into the chair, her feet dangling above the floor as if she were a small child. “And you come in to see what we make in factory out of curiosity? We have saying in Russia. I will translate: The more you know, the closer you are to death.”
It was a shame; Bruce could have done with a cuppa right at this moment.
“Seeing what the different corners of the world have to offer has always been a fascination to me,” Bruce said, working up his courage with each thought. “In India, you got all them fine silks. In America you got manufacturing of all kinds. I tell you, the things I have seen in Detroit? Amazing. And now, with all the sciences Old Blighty has brought to the world, it looks like you all here in Poland are embracing it.”
“We in Russia are believed to be, how you say, behind times? As you see, we are stepping into brave new world now.” She took a long sip of her tea and smiled. “So, Mister World Traveller, what should I call you?”
“Acquaintances call me Mister Campbell. Seeing as we are getting to know one another, why don’t you call me Bruce?” Bruce gave the old woman his best smile. “And what should I call you, beautiful?”
“I am not permitted to give real name,” she said, her words sounding a little sad that she could not afford the same intimacy. “You call me Mama Bear.”
“Mama Bear?” Bruce repeated, nodding. “Well, all right then, Mama Bear, how are we going to handle this rather sticky wicket we find each other in?”
“We?” She motioned for lliad and murmured something. Her Russian was soft but clear in its intent. With a quick nod from Iliad, the soldier disappeared. “I do not think you understand problem, Bruce.”
“Aww, now come on, Mama B, I understand the problem all too well. You all are up to no good out here in the woods. My mate here and I are having a butcher’s on behalf of curious parties.” He gave a shrug of his own massive shoulders. “And something tells me if we were to not let our superiors know of our well-being, your little operation here will warrant a lot of attention.”
“I see,” she said, with an incline of her head. “Perhaps I should let you know a bit more of our operation then?”
Bruce allowed his smile to brighten a bit. Didn’t matter the age, he could always charm the ladies.
His attention jumped from Mama Bear to the door as both the Bloke and the Yank, immediately followed by Iliad, all entered the cell. The two guards’ faces darkened on seeing the stoic Brandon and him sitting there, but their simmering anger lasted for only a moment as they suddenly noticed the old woman sitting in front of them.
“Gentlemen,” she said, putting her teacup back on the trolley �
�you recognise our guests here, yes?”
“Tha’ I do, Mama Bear,” the Bloke growled. “Got scores to settle with the both of ‘em.”
“Indeed, you do, but first—” and she motioned to the tea and vodka by her side, “—what would you prefer?”
“I’m not one for tea, Mama Bear,” the Yank said, “so I will gladly partake of the vodka.”
“The same,” said the Bloke.
She turned to the tray and took up the glasses, passing one to each of them.
“Ta, mum.”
“Da, nyet,” the old lady said, chuckling. She motioned for the two of them to come closer. “I give you drink—good Russian vodka—and you say ‘Ta,’ when you should say ‘Nosdrovia’ which is Russian ‘Cheers’ when drink offered. Come, come,” and she waved her hand, beckoning them even closer.
The two men lowered themselves to one knee in order to accommodate Mama Bear. She took up the bottle and toasted to the two men, and much to Bruce’s surprise, tipped the bottle back and enjoyed a good-sized gulp of the spirit.
The Bloke forced a smile and repeated, “Nosdrovia.”
The American followed suit. “Nosdrovia.”
They were in mid-drink when the old woman switched her grip on the bottle’s neck and shattered it against the leg of the seat she occupied. The jagged edge of the vodka bottle sank into the Bloke’s neck, but it was the twist Mama Bear gave the glass that proved fatal. Blood was now gushing into the bottle fragment, pouring out of the still-intact glass neck. Bruce then watched Mama Bear, calm as you please, reach into a compartment of the tea trolley and produce Bruce’s own Remington-Elliott.
The Yank stumbled back to find himself trapped in the corner of the cell. “Mama Bear, please—” was all he was able to say before she fired off a single shot, decorating the dark corner with a think texture of skull and brains.
“Perhaps House of Usher could equip us with such fine sidearms, da?” she asked no one in particular as she studied the light pistol in her hands. “You say you understand problem when there really is no problem.” She hopped back into her seat and looked at Bruce. He could see it in her gaze—she was talking to a dead man. “You see what you should not see. You die. Secret kept.”
The Ghost Rebellion Page 22
