by David Bishop
"Three days," Dante calculated. "Plenty of time to get the truth from this bastard."
A chime sounded. The portly steward appeared beside Dante in the doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen, that is the first bell for dinner. Would those staying in the sleeping compartments at the far end of the train like to make their way back? You'll find the evening meal awaits you there."
Dante became aware of his empty stomach rumbling and realised a day had passed since his last meal. The rotund steward whispered politely in Dante's left ear. "Your wife is waiting for you in that dining car, sir. I suggest you do not delay joining her - she seemed less than pleased you left her to cope with all the luggage."
"Ahh! Yes, indeed, I have been rather remiss," Dante agreed. "I'd better pop along and soothe the old girl's furrowed brow, eh?" Dante set off, eager to re-establish his acquaintance with the delectable Penelope. I wonder what her last name is, he thought idly.
Are you forgetting something?
"Like what?" Dante replied under his breath.
Your manhunt for the assassin? The quest to clear your name of murder, saving Spatchcock and Flintlock from the executioner?
"You said it yourself, Crest - I've got three days to find this sniper and make him confess. One night of pleasure with Penelope won't prevent that."
Your friends could be executed at any time.
"They can look after themselves," Dante insisted. "Besides, I have my honour as a ladies' man to uphold, and you know how I feel about the importance of my honour."
This from the man whose personal motto is "Honour be damned!"
"No, Your Highness, I don't think you need fear for my virtue. If anyone should be afraid, it's Nikolai Dante. The fool doesn't seem to realise the danger he is in." F listened to the intercepted transmission, her stern face evidence of a growing anger. "Thank you, ma'am, I'll deliver him to you before dusk tomorrow. Agent Goodnight, signing off." The recording clicked to a halt. F sat back in the high-backed swivel chair behind her desk of pine and glass, glaring at the meek messenger standing opposite.
"Why am I only hearing this now?" F demanded.
"Ma'am, the transmission was intercepted a few minutes ago. It took our cryptographers time to decode the scrambler signal on the line," Agent Golightly replied quietly.
"Not good enough! From now on I expect all of Goodnight's communications with that bitch princess to be relayed to me in real time - is that understood?"
"I'm not sure that will be possible-"
"Is that understood?" F repeated.
"Yes, ma'am. I'll pass that on to the code breakers." Golightly turned to leave.
"Wait!" F rose from her chair, strolling round the desk toward the trembling, terrified agent. "Tell me, what do you think is the significance of this communication?"
"M-Me?" Golightly stammered. "You want my opinion?"
"Obviously, otherwise I would not have asked for it, would I?" F stopped behind the young woman. "Give me your assessment - dazzle me with your acumen."
"It seems clear that Agent Goodnight-"
"Traitorous bitch!" F snapped.
"She has been suborned into reporting directly to Princess Marie-Anne. Her royal highness has assigned Goodnight to find and bring back the fugitive Dante - alive, by the sound of it. This message was transmitted from aboard the Flying Scotsman, so it's clear Dante remained on board. Someone - possibly Goodnight herself - lied to the police about seeing him flee the train."
"Yes, yes, all that is obvious," F said. "What I wanted to know is your interpretation of this betrayal's significance. Does the heir to our monarch intend claiming control of my intelligence service for herself? Perhaps the royal bitch has plans to install Goodnight as her puppet in my place." F stepped nearer Golightly, close enough for the beautiful young agent to feel the commander's breath on the back of her neck. "Would that be your interpretation?"
"It would fit with the ambitious behaviour patterns the princess has previously shown."
"Quite," F agreed, allowing herself a cruel smile of anticipation before activating the intercom on her desk. "I want a squad of Rippers despatched immediately."
"Yes, ma'am," a voice responded. "Target?"
"The Flying Scotsman. It should be over the Watford Gap in the next hour or two. The Rippers should find Nikolai Dante - his DNA records are still on our system from his last visit to Britannia. He is to be executed on sight."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Agent Penelope Goodnight may well be with Dante when the Rippers kill him. I do not want her eliminated - yet. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very good. I am not to be disturbed for the next hour. After that I will leave for my house in the country. You may contact me en route or at my home when I get there." F switched off the intercom and glared at Golightly. "I'm sorry to say I'm disappointed in your performance in this matter. You will have to be disciplined." F undid the leather belt from the waist of her tweed skirt. "Bend over and touch your toes."
SIX
"Eat the honey but beware the sting."
- Russian proverb
"The Rippers are covert assassins attached to Britannia's secret service, often used in a death squad capacity. They are genetically engineered for maximum stealth and sadism, with olfactory nerves designed to literally smell the DNA of their intended victims. Rippers always maintain a particular look: black cloaks lined with red silk; black stovepipe hats; black suits and ties; white shirts and pallid faces. This sinister appearance is carefully choreographed to strike fear into the underclass of Britannia, tapping into hereditary memories of the original Ripper murders that terrorised London almost nine hundred years ago. For this same reason they are armed with viciously sharp blades as their weapons. Rippers usually fly into action on single-seat aerial mounts fashioned like black hornets with bulbous red eyes."
- Extract from The Files of the Raven Corps
"Well, this is cosy, isn't it?" Flintlock remarked, his voice dripping with irony. "Only yesterday I was thinking to myself I never get to spend enough quality time with my good friend Spatch - and now look at us. All the time in the world, just the two of us, as close as close can be."
"Shut your mouth," Spatchcock urged. The two men were manacled together in a dungeon at the Tower of London, their hands clamped to each other's ankles. The cell was cold, damp and dank, the stench of rat droppings and fear seemingly impregnated into its ancient walls. They had been shoved into this hovel within hours of the king being shot. The only facilities provided were a bowl of brackish water, a single straw-filled mattress and a metal bucket for urine and faeces. Forced to huddle together for warmth overnight, Flintlock had spent most of the following day complaining to the sentries about the lice Spatchcock had given him. After several hours of listening to this persistent whining, a guard came in and manacled the prisoners together. When Flintlock protested this would make the lice infestation worse, not better, the guard replied the shackles were a punishment, not a treatment.
"I will not shut my mouth, as you crudely put it!" Flintlock snapped indignantly. "I reserve the right to say what I please whenever I please and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" His words came to an abrupt halt as a sulphurous stench filled the air. "My word, what is that? It's as if the very bowels of Hell have opened to release their noxious gases."
"Close enough," Spatchcock smirked.
"That vile stench emitted from your posterior?"
"I told you to shut your mouth."
"Like most civilised people, I sense smells through my nostrils, not my mouth."
"Oh, stop whining for once in your bloody life. Nothing's ever good enough for high and mighty Lord Peter Flintlock, is it? You're no different from me or Dante - just another scoundrel, trying to stay one step ahead of trouble. You stink as bad as the rest of us at the end of the day."
"Only when I've been shackled to a foul-smelling wretch and denied decent facilities in which to carry out my daily ablutions. It must be twenty-fo
ur hours since I've had anything to eat. I feel weaker than a kitten," Flintlock said.
"You are weaker than a kitten."
"You know what I mean. We are being denied our basic human rights."
Spatchcock shrugged. "Since they've got us down for murdering the Queen Mother, I don't think the powers that be are much bothered about our rights - basic, human or otherwise."
"I fear your summation is accurate."
"Come again?"
"I think you're right," Flintlock replied. "Don't you understand the King's English?"
"Of course I do," Spatchcock smiled. "I wanted to hear you say I was right again, that's all."
"You are the most tiresome of creatures."
"Here he goes again," the ruddy-faced runt snarled, before twisting round to shout at the narrow metal grille in the cell door. "Guard! Guard!" A sour-faced sentry appeared on the other side of the bars. "When's our execution planned for?"
"The date hasn't been finalised yet."
"When are they thinking of having it, then?"
"A week from today, give more people the opportunity to watch."
Spatchcock grimaced. "Any chance they could bring it forward? I can't stand seven more days being manacled to this whining turd, listening to all his pissing and moaning."
"Shut your mouth!" the guard said before walking away.
Flintlock aimed a kick at his fellow prisoner, eliciting a yelp of pain. "You might be in a hurry to die, but I've no wish to meet my maker yet, so don't speak for me in such matters."
"I wasn't," Spatchcock explained. "I was trying to find out how long we've got to wait before Dante comes to rescue us."
The Britannia native laughed bitterly. "We're in a basement cell inside the Tower of London, one of the world's most infamous prisons. There hasn't been a successful escape from this place for centuries and it is guarded by a small army. Dante will not be coming to rescue us. If he does try, he'll be dead long before he reaches our cell door."
"He'll come for us," Spatchcock insisted.
"Your faith in our former commander is touching, old boy, but I fear it is also misplaced. If Dante has any sense he'll have managed to get out of the country before the borders were sealed."
"Shut your mouth!"
"I'm telling you the truth," Flintlock insisted. "We're doomed, quite doomed, both of us."
"I meant shut your nostrils," Spatchcock replied, as another waft of vile air escaped from his anus.
"What? Why- Oh no, not again!"
"Well, this is cosy, isn't it?" Dante said as he sat down opposite Penelope in the first class dining car. Around them a selection of wealthy, well-dressed passengers were studying the Flying Scotsman's extensive menu and lengthy wine list. Like the rest of the hover-train, the dining car was sumptuously furnished and decorated. Gentle, sympathetic lighting cast a gold glow over everything, turning each table into a oasis of dining splendour. Penelope was already waiting for Dante when he came in, seated' an intimate table for two in a corner of the carriage, her back to the wall. She had smiled and waved, beckoning him towards the vacant chair across from her.
"You'll be happy to know I have taken possession of a rather grand compartment near this end of the train, where the steward has promised I will not be disturbed," Penelope said, smiling playfully at Dante. "There's a wonderful dressing room and I even had time to change before dinner." She held out her hands to display the plunging neckline of a black velvet gown that struggled to contain her jutting breasts. "Sadly, the magnificent bed looks far too large for me to fill on my own. I was wondering if you had any suggestions how I could resolve that problem?"
"Let me think... Were you expecting to be joined by another traveller later on the journey north? Your partner, or a lover?"
Penelope sighed theatrically. "I have no husband, nor a long-term companion to help fill the lonely evening hours. I am quite alone at present."
"Then I think you should take a lover," Dante said. "Being alone at night is most unhealthy. What if you should take ill and need someone to soothe your troubles away?"
"Are you suggesting I organise an infidelity?"
"Certainly."
"With someone on board the train, perhaps?"
"With me, for example."
Penelope appeared almost shocked at Dante's boldness. "Why, sir, I hardly know you."
"You seemed to have a firm grasp of my particulars earlier."
She smiled at the memory. "That's true. I have always favoured the hands-on approach."
"I'm much the same myself," Dante agreed.
"Yet before you left me to fend for myself with all that luggage."
"I apologise. Sometimes my manners leave a little to be desired, but what I lack in sophistication I more than make up for with... enthusiasm."
Penelope smirked. "I always applaud enthusiasm, as long as it is well directed."
"I aim to please." The cut and thrust of their flirtation was interrupted by the arrival of an obsequious waiter with the menu. Dante rashly chose a dozen Caledonian oysters, followed by a braised haunch of Aberdeen Angus beef, to be washed down by a rich red wine. Penelope was more circumspect, preferring the risotto with truffle shavings and a cheese soufflé. "Are you a vegetarian?" Dante asked once the waiter had left.
"In all places but the bedroom," Penelope replied.
"How interesting," Dante said, rearranging the linen napkin over his bulging crotch.
Try thinking with your brain instead of your genitals, the Crest interjected. You don't even know this woman's last name, yet you are behaving like a lust-crazed animal. Find out something about her so I can check it against the Imperial Net.
"Yes, indeed," Dante said. "After I got your invitation to dine from the steward, it struck me that I don't even know your last name. You know who I am, therefore you have me at a disadvantage. Perhaps you would care to even the balance?"
"Perhaps," Penelope teased. "To be honest, I find my family name something of an embarrassment. People always take it the wrong way."
"Well, I promise to keep an open mind."
"Very well. My name is Goodnight - Penelope Goodnight."
"Really?" Dante asked, trying to keep a straight face. He was aware of movement between his legs and glanced down to see his napkin being expertly moved aside by a probing female foot clad in a black silk stocking. The foot began massaging his groin, toes working their way into the folds of his ever tightening trousers. Dante realised the waiter was returning with their first course and hastily rearranged the napkin to conceal his embarrassment. "I can't imagine why your name would give anyone the wrong idea."
Penelope smiled at him, licking her lips hungrily as their food was placed in front of them. "You'd be surprised. Some people are apt to misinterpret anything as a sexual overture."
A second foot joined the first between Dante's legs, coaxing and cajoling the contents of his trousers. He struggled to keep a straight face, both eyebrows popping upwards in surprise and delight at the movements beneath his napkin. "I pride myself at being able to... recognise and appreciate the difference between innocent flirting and the more intense cut and... thrust... of a genuine invitation to act."
"I do hope so," she replied, putting a spoonful of creamy risotto into her mouth and savouring every morsel. "Misinterpretations of one's motives can be so... disappointing."
"Absolutely. But I always try to... rise... to the occasion." By now beads of perspiration were forming on Dante's forehead, but he did not dare remove the napkin to mop his brow.
Penelope gestured to the neglected plate of oysters. "You've hardly touched your starter. Has your appetite deserted you?"
"Quite the opposite," he said. "I feel rather ravenous, but these aren't what I had in mind."
She nodded at his glass. "What about the wine? Does that not excite your palate?"
Dante's eye bulged slightly as a wave of pleasure surged through him. "I prefer something with a bit more... body."
"I know what
you mean," Penelope agreed. "There's a fully stocked drinks cabinet in my compartment. We could retire there and see if there's anything that's more to your taste."
"That would be... delightful," Dante gasped. He stood up abruptly, using the napkin to hide his groin. "If you'll excuse me for a minute, I need a few moments to... compose myself."
"Of course. I'll be waiting right here."
"Good. Don't go away." Dante strode from the dining car, not meeting the eye of any other passengers. He brushed past their waiter, ignoring inquiries about the quality of the meal. Only when Dante was out in the corridor did he breathe again, panting excitedly as pleasure flushed his features. "Bojemoi, that woman has toes that could out-crush a boa constrictor!" he gasped.
She may be dangerous in other ways, the Crest observed dryly. I can find no trace of a Penelope Goodnight on the Imperial Net. The name she gave you is an alias or else her identity has been deleted from all public records. Either way, this woman is not to be trusted.
"I gave her a false name when I got on the train," Dante countered.
Yes, but you're accused of trying to assassinate the king. What is she hiding?
"A husband, or maybe an entire family. I don't know and, to be honest, I don't care," Dante insisted. "She is willing to give me a place to spend for the night-"
Between her thighs.
"-and I need a place to lie low."
I could not have put that better myself.
"Thank you."
That wasn't a compliment. Dante, how many times must I warn you against tumbling into bed with strange women?
"I'll take a wild guess and say two hundred." The Russian renegade grinned. "Am I close?"
As always, you are your own worst enemy.
"I know what I'm doing Crest, so leave me in peace, okay?"
Fine.
"Good."
But don't say I didn't warn you.
"Whatever."
Agent Goodnight smiled as she studied her reflection in the dining car window. With her strawberry blonde hair pulled back from her face in a delicate arrangement, she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Mary Goodnight had been a top operative for Britannia Intelligence, also specialising in the age-old art of the honey trap. That was how Penelope's parents had met, when Mary lured an unsuspecting spy from the Imperial court into bed. Danilov defected to be with the woman he loved, but a Makarov assassin had killed him before Penelope was born. The daughter of two spies, Agent Goodnight often felt her career had been all but inevitable, a hereditary legacy. Unlike her mother, Penelope was determined to remain aloof, unaffected by any feelings for the men and women to whose seduction she was assigned.