The Strangelove Gambit

by David Bishop

  The man from Sotheby's assured Fabergè these allegations must be spurious. "My firm is utterly scrupulous in checking and rechecking the provenance of every lot it sells, especially one so prestigious as this. What was the name of this individual who claimed to have evidence to the contrary?"

  Fabergè was pacing back and forth in front of the penthouse suite's lift doors. "Dante, Nikolai Dante."

  Di Grizov shook his head. "Never heard of him. He isn't a known authority on the Fabergè eggs. That can only mean he is either a liar trying to dupe you, or a thief with some knowledge of an elaborate confidence trick involving the egg. In either case, you should trust little of what he has to say."

  The scientist nodded hurriedly. "Very well." He strode to the centre of the suite, where the Steel Military Egg glistened behind an elaborate security screen of deadly lasers. That such an exquisite item should be sullied by claims of falsehood and fakery, it made Fabergè's blood boil. Whoever was responsible for this would suffer the consequences.

  Di Grizov noted the lift approaching from below. "He's nearly here."

  Fabergè whirled round, his features spiked with suppressed rage. "Good."

  Dante stepped from the elegant lift straight into a clenched fist. The blow smashed into his nose, cracking the bone and unleashing a gout of blood from both nostrils. The dazed youth staggered backwards, only the closing doors preventing him tumbling into the lift. He cupped a hand up to his chin, trying to stop the blood from staining his tunic. "Why'd you do that?" he demanded.

  Di Grizov stood to one side, nursing bruised knuckles. "I recognise this dolt, Doctor Fabergè. He was the upstart who bid for the egg."

  "Yeah, so?" Dante demanded, the words thickened by his throbbing nose. "That's no reason to punch me in the face!"

  "Should I hit him again?"

  Fabergè held up a hand. "That won't be necessary - yet." The doctor approached the new arrival. "Young man, you claim to have information about a potential fraud involving my egg. Speak up or I shall have this gentleman from Sotheby's strike you again. Well?"

  "Just give me a chance to explain!" Dante cried out.

  "You have one minute." Fabergè retreated to an antique chair and sat bolt upright in it, his fingers forming a steeple in front of his face.

  Dante moved away from the lift doors, still trying to stem the blood flowing freely down his face. "There's a conman here at the Casino Royale who plans to steal the egg and replace it with a copy, a forgery. For all I know he's already done it." The red-faced youth pointed his free hand at the laser grid surrounding the bejewelled egg. "All the security in the Empire won't be enough to stop this fiend from stealing your precious objet d'art."

  Fabergè smiled. "And the name of this terrifying individual?"

  "Di Grizov. He's called Jim Di Grizov. A very slippery thief."

  The scientist laughed. "Hardly a name to inspire fear."

  "He's the best escapologist in the Empire, able to break into or out of any enclosed space known to man. Master of disguise too, you'd never be able to recognise him." Dante pointed at the man in the Sotheby's uniform. "For all you know this thug could be Di Grizov. He's stolen from kings and queens, even-"

  "Enough." Fabergè shook his head. "And why are you telling me all this? Why did you bid on the egg if you had such fears?"

  "Because I'm working with Di Grizov, I'm his apprentice. He wanted me to drive the price up so the egg would be worth more on the black market once he'd stolen it. But when I heard about the curse... I got cold feet. Figured you'd offer me a handsome reward for tipping you off."

  Fabergè consulted a gold pocket watch. "Your time is up. I must thank you for this fanciful little tale but the entertainment is over. Leave now and I won't have you beaten by the casino's security personnel."

  "But what about my reward?" Dante protested.

  "Here's your reward!" Di Grizov replied, driving a knee up into the youth's groin. Dante collapsed to the carpet, breath whistling out between his gritted teeth. Di Grizov aimed a vicious kick into his protègè's ribs, sending Dante rolling away towards the lift doors. They slid open and Dante crawled inside, glaring up accusingly at his partner.

  "Why?"

  Di Grizov smiled. "Got to make it look convincing," he whispered.

  "The fabulous Fabergè Steel Military Egg has been stolen!" Kurt Brockman beamed into the camera, unable to believe his good luck at having the lead story on Channel 88's news bulletin for the second day running. "Yesterday the legendary jewelled item attracted a world record price at auction when its creator's namesake, Doctor Karl Fabergè, won the egg with a bid of one hundred and forty-five million roubles. Now it seems lot forty-two has been stolen from inside the doctor's penthouse suite here at the Casino Royale in Monaco. An investigation has been launched but there are no clues and even fewer suspects for what is already being described by some as the crime of the century!"

  Dante watched the bulletin with dazed resignation. He knew who had stolen the egg but the knowledge would do him no good. After spending the night in a hospital bed suffering from concussion, broken ribs and other injuries, Dante had hurried back to the hotel after hearing about the audacious theft. The suite he had been sharing with Di Grizov was empty but for a message hastily scrawled on headed notepaper of the Casino Royale: "There is no honour amongst thieves - sorry!"

  "Honour be damned," Dante snarled as he tore the note apart.

  Heavy fists began hammering against the outer door of the suite. "Hotel security! Open this door or we will be forced to break it down!"

  No doubt Fabergè told the authorities what Dante had claimed the night before. With Di Grizov gone and the egg missing, that leaves me to take the blame, the youth thought ruefully. Me and my big mouth. The hammering from outside was getting ever more forceful. Dante cast one last, lingering look around the sumptuous chamber. No way of knowing when he would savour such luxury again.

  The doors to the suite began to splinter inwards from a concerted attack. Dante retreated to the balcony, leaning over the railing to see what was below. Another balcony was directly beneath, with its sliding doors open to provide a potential escape route. Even more inviting was the beautiful woman bathing topless on a sun lounger, her voluptuous body bronzed and glistening in the warm sunshine. Behind him Dante could hear the doors giving way. No time like the present to make a new friend...

  Dante swung himself over the railing and dropped to the balcony below, landing on the balls of his feet. He almost overbalanced and fell backwards, but succeeded in throwing himself forward instead. The youth landed unceremoniously on top of the sunbathing beauty's chest.

  "Sorry, m'lady," he said. "Do you need anyone to rub oil into your back?"

  The woman would have screamed but for Dante's groin covering her mouth. Instead she flailed at him with her arms. A shout from above indicated the would-be thief's escape route had been detected.

  "I'll take that as a no then, shall I?" Dante got to his feet, glancing round to see security men climbing down from the balcony overhead. "You'll have to excuse me, I have a pressing engagement elsewhere!" He paused to kiss the startled woman before running inside. Behind him he could hear the shrieking sunbather shouting at his pursuers.

  "Stop that gentleman! He stole a kiss from me!" she cried.

  A gentleman thief, Dante thought. That could be my next career...

  ONE

  "The thief protests his innocence all the way to the gallows"

  - Russian proverb

  Di Grizov opened his eyes and winced. Overhead lighting stabbed at his vision, harsh and unrelenting. An acrid mixture of antiseptic and fear assaulted the nostrils, forcing its way into his lungs. But worst of all was the face looming over him; the features cast a sickly yellow by the brutal illuminations. Di Grizov thought a woman was watching him, but couldn't be sure.

  Her features were broad and ugly - a bulbous nose with fine white hairs sprouting from both inside and out, two small pink eyes set uncomfort
ably close together above grinning lips of flaccid skin. Dabs of rouge suggested where cheekbones should be, while double and triple chins wobbled for attention and a single eyebrow stretched across the brow. All of this was punctuated with dozens of warts, some home to clumps of dark hair, others flecked with red veins. As she leaned over Di Grizov, the woman's dank breath, heavy with the odours of sweat and decay, bombarded his senses. Quite simply, this was the most grotesque creature in the world.

  "Where am I?" Di Grizov was startled by how thin and weak his voice sounded. He had no memory of how he came to be in this place, or why his throat felt so sore. Beneath his neck he felt nothing, just numb weightlessness. The grifter tried to raise his head but could not summon the strength. For now he would have to gather information by questions alone.

  "Your new home," the woman replied, her voice made thick and guttural by its Siberian accent. She stood upright, resting two meaty fists on the rolls of fat where her waist should be. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Madame Wartski."

  Wartski by name, warty by nature, Di Grizov thought. Best not to say so out loud, I doubt this whale would find it funny. There was a dry, humourless aspect to her face that did little to inspire frivolity. Wide as she was tall, Wartski was clad in a navy blue matron's uniform, fabric bulging across her drooping breasts and rotund hips. Her flabby hands sported as many warts as her face, each finger encrusted with a selection of fleshy growths.

  "Di Grizov. James Di Grizov," the grifter replied. "I'd shake your hand but can't seem to feel my fingers at the moment."

  "The anaesthetic is still wearing off," Wartski said.

  "Anaesthetic? I don't understand - have I been undergoing surgery? Was I in an accident?"

  The masculine matron smiled. "Not exactly. The doctor will explain." She moved to the end of his bed and studied a medical chart. "Good, everything's coming along nicely. I'll tell him you're recovering well."

  "Recovering? From what?" Di Grizov tried pushing himself into an upright position, fighting against his body's numb inertia. "Tell me what's going on!"

  Wartski tutted imperiously. "Getting agitated will not help. I suggest you remain calm and get some rest. You'll need it for what is ahead."

  The grifter felt his sphincter contract involuntarily. There was a threat within the matron's words, an unpleasantly sadistic twinkle in her eyes as she spoke. I'm in trouble here, Di Grizov realised, and I don't even know where I am. He decided to keep bluffing, hoping to find a way out of this place.

  "You're probably right," he said in a soothing voice, relaxing back into the pillow. "I'll try and get some more rest. Thank you, Madame Wartski."

  She smiled and left the room, an automatic door closing behind her more than ample posterior. Once she had gone, Di Grizov hurriedly examined his surroundings, searching for any clue to his location or method of escape. The chamber was small, with a low ceiling and obtrusive strip lighting. No windows punctuated the walls, denying any hint of the world beyond. The room was sparsely furnished, just a bare table and chair in one corner - no cupboards; nothing that might contain his possessions or a potential weapon. Even the bed was a bare hospital cot, utterly utilitarian and without adornment. Everything was a queasy yellow colour, accentuating his feeling of unease.

  Di Grizov tried to haul himself into a sitting position, but his arms were still too weak to support any weight. There was a nagging itch below his right knee but he lacked the energy and strength to reach it. If I could remember how I got here, he thought, maybe I'd have a clue about how to escape. The grifter closed his eyes and focussed on pushing aside the blurring in his mind. Last thing he could recall was a New Year's Eve party. The Year of the Tsar 2671 was coming to an end and Di Grizov had purloined an invitation to the richest event in St Petersburg. The Tsar had created three new noble houses as recognition for their help in defeating the Romanovs during the war, and the recipients were celebrating their enhanced status with a joint party.

  Di Grizov had arrived early and begun circulating among the guests, acquiring useful gossip about who was going where for their winter holidays, leaving their homes vulnerable. The grifter saw a familiar face during the gathering but couldn't recall where he had known it before. The man appeared just as startled to see Di Grizov at the celebration. Deciding discretion was always the safest option, the grifter decided to make an early exit; in a life of crime without punishment, he had wronged many people. In his experience revenge was best avoided by not staying around long enough to suffer it.

  He had arrived home safely, but after stepping through the front door everything was lost in a haze. All he could recall was a male voice, sneering and arch. "I thought it was you. I would congratulate you on possessing such audacity, but since it shall be your undoing, there is little to praise..." After that all was darkness until waking beneath Wartski's repulsive face.

  The grifter snapped open his eyes, terror suddenly evident in them. That voice! He remembered where he recognised it from now. "Not him. Please don't let it be him," Di Grizov prayed. "Anyone but him!"

  Jena Makarov looked out of her flyer's window as it skimmed over the Black Sea coastline. Below the water gleamed and rippled, flecks of white and silver appearing as gusts of wind created waves or schools of fish broke the surface. A trawler chugged its way into shore, laden down with another day's catch. Soon the fishermen would be unloading their haul, counting their takings and going home to eat, drink, fight and make love to their partners. How Jena longed for such a simple life. The grass is always greener, she knew that. No doubt the fishermen had just as many cares and worries as she - fruitless catches, dilapidated boats, falling prices. What was the old saying? Expect sorrows from the sea and woe from water. But their lives could not be any more poisonous than hers, trapped amidst the intrigues of the imperial court.

  She had known neither poverty nor hunger; nor wanted for any material object. She had been pampered and privileged beyond all others; yet that was no compensation for a childhood without love or affection. Jena's mother had died long ago, leaving two daughters in the care of their father. But when that father was Tsar Vladimir Makarov, the most feared man in the Empire, happy families were not on the agenda. Any man who bragged about his ability to create ingenious tortures such as the corrosive acid enema was not one to dote on his children. He was a murderous, monstrous creature with ice for a heart. Instead Jena had kept close to her younger sister, Julianna. They argued as many siblings did, fighting over trivial possessions and experiences to distract themselves from the horrors perpetrated in their father's name. All the while he was training them to take his place, to inherit his reign of terror.

  The Tsar's long, bitter struggle with the House of Romanov came to a head in 2669, when decades of sabre rattling became a war encompassing the entire Empire. It was Julianna's murder that provoked the bloody conflict, her life stolen by one of the Romanov siblings. At the time Jena thought this event had hardened her father's heart, forced him to take arms against the pretenders to the imperial throne. But the glee with which he had pursued the war soon persuaded her otherwise. The Tsar had wanted his war and done everything in his power to make it happen. Sometimes she suspected he had deliberately sent Julianna into harm's way, turning her into a suitable target for the Romanovs to assassinate and thus create the justification for war. But Jena did not dare investigate these suspicions. She was the Tsar's sole surviving heir, but even that would not be sufficient protection from his wrath.

  No, it was not Vladimir Makarov's heart that had been hardened by the death of Julianna - it was Jena who lost a little of her soul that day. At the time she was in love with a key figure from the Romanov side of the conflict. After years of fighting and flirting, the pair had finally consummated their passion for each other. But by the time they decided to tell the world of their union, the war had already begun. Jena would not let herself think of her lover's name, let alone say it out loud. Just remembering his face, the touch of his hands on her body, the look
in his eyes as they... No, she would not torture herself with these memories again. Leave the demon behind, lest the mere thought of him conjured his presence into her life again.

  The war had been bloody and brutal. Jena fought like a woman possessed: every victory a memorial to her dead sister, every enemy soldier she slaughtered another stain on her heart. Even during the war she found herself face to face with him several times, forced to confront her feelings all over again. But the Romanovs eventually lost, betrayed by one of their own, and the Tsar swept aside their forces. The Romanov name became accursed across the Empire, with Jena's former lover a wanted man with a massive bounty on his head. Any sensible, sane individual would get offworld, find a quiet corner of the Empire and disappear. Jena could not help laughing to herself. Somehow I doubt he would follow such advice.

  Since the war ended, her father's regime had been crueller and more tyrannical than ever. Purge squads mercilessly took revenge against anyone suspected of betraying the Tsar. Noble houses that had displayed any loyalty or partiality towards the Romanovs were ruthlessly destroyed and new dynasties built on their ashes, fiercely loyal to the Tsar. Amidst it all Jena did her duty, fulfilled her father's wishes. That was all she had left now.

  "Approaching our destination," the flyer's pilot announced, snapping Jena back from her reverie. "Beginning final descent to the island."

  "Very good," she replied. "Once we're down begin preparations for our departure. I don't want to be here any longer than is absolutely necessary."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Doctor Fabergè could not help laughing. To think this was the brigand who had eluded him for a dozen years. The thief lying on the hospital bed was smaller than he remembered, and older - almost wizened. Time had not been kind to Di Grizov. His features were lined and careworn, his hair thinning, his body a shadow of its former strength and agility. Most intriguing were his eyes. Once they had shone with intelligence and bravado. Now they showed terror and foreboding. Yes, I'm going to enjoy this immensely, the doctor decided as he chuckled.