by David Bishop
I've scanned through the files for every attempt ever made. This task is almost impossible. I don't know why you persist in setting yourself such unobtainable goals; it's irrational and self-destructive.
"I like a challenge," Dante replied. "Besides, I have an advantage that none of my predecessors ever possessed, Crest. You."
Flattery's the food of fools. Jonathan Swift said that, a thousand years ago.
"Spare me the quotations, Crest. Can you open this vault or not?"
It won't be easy.
"I have every confidence in you."
Stop smirking when you say that, it'll be far more convincing. Dante did his best to comply. The Crest sighed in mild exasperation. Now place your hands against the vault and cede control of your cyborganics to me.
"How do I do that?"
Empty your mind of all thoughts - hardly the work of a lifetime.
"Just get on with it, Crest, we haven't got all night." Dante flattened his hands against the vault's door and tried to think of nothing. Tendrils of cyborganic circuitry emerged from his fingertips, a mixture of purple and silver, part flesh and part machine. The tendrils crept between the edges of the vault door and its housing, working their way into the locks.
"Getting anywhere yet?"
Have some patience! I'm trying to concentrate.
"Sorry." Dante pursed his lips and whistled a tune, the notes sliding carelessly from one key to another. The Crest sighed loudly inside Dante's head. "Sorry, sorry. Just passing the time."
Let's hope you never have to make a living with your musical talents.
"My mama said I had a beautiful singing voice as a child!"
Parents frequently lie to protect the feelings of their untalented offspring. Now let me concentrate! The Crest continued its investigation of the vault's locking mechanism. Nearly got it-
"So you're saying I don't whistle very well?"
Dante! For once in your life stop prattling and let me do what I do best!
A stony silence followed for the next thirty-seven seconds, until the vault's locks undid themselves one after another, each retracting with a heavy thunk. When all were disabled, Dante removed his hands, the cyborganic circuitry already being absorbed back into his fingers. The massive door swung open to reveal a circular chamber, all burnished brass and gleaming silver. The thief stepped inside the vault and examined the rows of sealed boxes set into the walls. "I can whistle as well as the next man," Dante muttered under his breath.
I estimate you've less than thirty seconds before the central alarm is triggered and the vault flooded with nerve gas. Even I can't override that.
Dante tapped a box with the numbers 027 etched into its front. "This is the one." He opened the container and removed a slim wooden case from inside. "Funny, I didn't think it would be that easy."
Presumably the owners believed their external security system and the vault door were enough to keep that safe, the Crest ventured.
"I guess so." Dante wedged the wooden case inside the waistband of his trousers and shut the door to box 027.
Suddenly sirens and flashing red lights filled the vault. A noxious yellow gas billowed from grilles set into the floor, flooding the confined space.
Dante, get out. Now!
"I know, I know, evasive action," the thief replied, already running for the exit. The door was closing but Dante squeezed through the rapidly diminishing gap, just getting his trailing arm and leg out before the vault was sealed once more. "Phew!"
Phew indeed. Now you've just got to get past all the Berez Enforcers, cybernetically enhanced attack dogs and the laser defence grid again. But this time, they're expecting you.
Dante was already sprinting away from the vault, retracing his earlier steps. "Got any good news for me Crest?"
All this vigorous exercise might help you stave off incipient middle age spread for another day or two.
"Thanks!" Dante replied as he ran round a corner to find three Berez Enforcers blocking his escape route. "I'll bear that in mind!"
Spatchcock shrugged helplessly when the Imperial Mint's alarms started rending the air. "And it was going so well," he said with a heavy sigh.
"What should we do?" Flintlock asked querulously.
"You heard him - stay here and keep the motor running." Spatchcock turned to glance at the vehicle parked nearby. "But it beats me why he wants a limousine as the getaway car. Hardly inconspicuous, is it?"
Dante ducked, dived, dodged and wove his way past more than a dozen Enforcers, outran a pack of attack dogs and somehow eluded everything else the mint's security contingent threw at him, aided and abetted by the Crest's imminent threat warnings and motion sensors. Trapped between two oncoming squads of Enforcers, Dante had taken refuge behind the nearest doorway, ignoring the Crest's protestations.
No, don't go in there, it's-
"Trust me Crest, I know what I'm doing!"
Dante was surrounded by mops, brooms, buckets and shelves laden with cleansers, bleaches and disinfectants. "I'm guessing there's only one way in or out of here?"
Genius, pure genius. With such intelligence it's a wonder you need my help at all.
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Crest."
Now who's spouting quotations?
"Save it. I need an escape route, not smart-ass remarks!"
You could say you popped in to do a little late night mopping?
"Hmm... I've got a better idea." Dante opened the cupboard door and stepped out, smiling at the seventeen Enforcers crowding the corridor. As one they turned and aimed their pulse rifles at the intruder.
You call coming out of the closet a plan? the Crest spluttered.
"Gentlemen, I believe you've been looking for me," Dante announced grandly. "Congratulations - here I am!"
The Enforcers looked at each other quizzically, nonplussed by this development.
Dante bowed grandly before pulling a rectangle of card from inside his waistband. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. As you can see from my business card, I am Quentin Durward, Imperial Security Consultant."
One of the Enforcers snatched the card and examined it closely.
"All of you have been taking part in an exercise to test the security systems of this building and may I offer my thanks for your part in this. A most able and commendable display by all concerned," Dante continued, smiling broadly at the scowling Enforcers.
I don't think they're swallowing your story, the Crest whispered.
Dante ignored the voice inside his head. "It just remains for me to say something I have always wanted to utter: take me to your leader!"
The alien guard holding the business card dropped it on the floor and ground the card beneath his feet.
Dante's smile faltered slightly. "Is that a refusal?"
The Enforcer pulled back his weapon and swiftly smashed its butt into Dante's forehead. The thief staggered backwards into the broom cupboard, blood coursing from the wound below his hairline, eyelids fluttering weakly.
"That's no way to treat an accredited consultant to the... to the..."
Blackness closed in around Dante and he never finished the sentence.
"Spatch, it's been three hours. Surely he can't expect us to wait here much longer?" Flintlock was standing beside the limousine, his legs crossed, a pained expression on his face.
"How long have we known Dante?"
"Since the war."
"And has he ever let us down?"
"Not yet," Flintlock conceded.
"So we can wait a little longer for him, can't we?"
"I suppose."
Spatchcock noticed the Englishman's unhappy posture. "What's the matter with you? You look like you've been sampling my purge juice."
"If you must know, I need to relieve my bladder."
"You mean you want to take a piss."
"Must you be so crude about it?"
"You want to piss? Then piss. I couldn't care less," Spatchcock said.
"Out here, in the
open? That's hardly seemly."
"Bugger that. I pissed my pants an hour ago."
Flintlock's face crumpled with distaste. "I wondered what the smell was."
The hum of an approaching vehicle cut short the exchange. Spatchcock watched intently as a stately silver flyer stopped outside the mint. Two Enforcers used electronic overrides to create a corridor in the laser grid and the flyer moved inside the perimeter. Once parked, a trio of middle-aged men in collar-less jackets emerged and strode into the building.
"I recognise one of them," Flintlock said, the call of his bladder forgotten for the moment. "Eugene Jamieson. He used to run the Bank of Britannia. Refused to extend my credit after an unfortunate flutter at Royal Ascot went awry one year. The arrogant sod!"
"Could be governors of the Imperial Mint. They look like merchant bankers. But what are they doing here, at this time of night?" Spatchcock wondered.
Dante opened his eyes to find three concerned men in suits peering at him. "Mr Durward? Are you alright?" one of them asked, his extra chins wobbling slowly.
"I've felt better, I must admit." He tried to stand but the pain stabbing through his skull persuaded him against such movement. Instead Dante sunk back into the plush, upholstered chair. He was sat in the centre of a large, richly furnished office. Portraits of stern-faced men lined the walls, each adorned with a gold plaque noting the past contributions to the Imperial Mint. "What happened exactly?"
The fattest of the three men stepped forward, his hands held open in apology. "I regret to say one of our alien guards was overly enthusiastic in the application of their duties. You received a blow to the head and were rendered unconscious. It was only after the members of the board were contacted about the apparent intrusion at the mint that this mistake was uncovered. I called the number on your business card and was reassured of your bona fides by the President of Imperial Security Consultancy, Lord Spatchcock."
Somebody had been doing some fast-talking, Dante realised. "Very well. In the circumstances, I'm sure my firm shall be willing to set aside any legal action that might otherwise follow from such a violent and painful incident."
"That would be most kind of you," the obese man replied. "Most kind."
Dante held a hand to the throbbing contusion on his forehead. "Forgive my asking, but the blow seems to have clouded my memory a little. What was your name, sir?"
"Sharapov, Sergei Sharapov. I am Governor of the Mint. And these are two of my directors, Boris Onegin and Eugene Jamieson." Sharapov's offsiders nodded at Dante, who acknowledged their presence.
"Well, gentleman, my report on the mint's security systems is mostly positive. Your laser defence grid can be penetrated, by only by an exceptional athlete such as myself," Dante said with a wry smile. "The locking mechanism on your external windows needs improving, but that should not cost you more than half a million roubles. The main area of concern is your so-called Vault of Doom. For such a fabled and supposedly unbreakable safe, it was all too easy for me to gain access to the valuables stored within."
Onegin stepped closer to Dante. "If I might ask, how is it you were able to defeat the vault when so many others have failed?"
"You may ask, but I must decline to reveal my methods. Trade secrets, you understand, must remain secrets, of course. Even when I deliberately triggered the final alarm sensor within the vault-"
Ha!
Dante did his best to ignore this outburst from the Crest. "Even when I deliberately triggered it, I was still able to escape the chamber - removing this with me." He reached into the waistband of his trousers and extracted the slim wooden case taken from box 027. "I doubt you would wish the printing plates for the million rouble note to fall into the wrong hands."
Sharapov's eyes widened with horror. "No, indeed not! Thank the Tsar you were able to uncover these flaws in our security perimeter, Mr Durward!"
"Don't thank me," Dante replied. "All part of the service. Of course, if you felt the urge to add a little extra to my fee as a bonus, I would be most grateful for any such consideration."
"Of course, of course!" Sharapov glanced at his colleagues, who nodded hurriedly. "An extra ten per cent on top of your fee?"
Dante coughed.
"Fifteen per cent, I meant fifteen per cent," Sharapov continued. "Sorry, slip of the tongue there. A fifteen per cent bonus."
Dante smiled. "Most generous. You may be assured of utter discretion. It would not do if the real Gentleman Thief or those of his ilk should learn of the vulnerabilities in your defences."
"I wanted to ask why you wore such curious garb," Onegin said.
"You haven't heard of the Gentleman Thief?" Dante asked. "The most famous cutpurse and cat burglar in all the Empire?"
The three men shook their heads.
"Thank heavens I arrived when I did! He would have robbed you blind. Imagine the consequences if that happened. Imagine facing the Tsar himself and trying to explain such a calamity!"
The trio swallowed simultaneously, their discomfit all too evident. Having had sufficient time to recover, Dante stood. "Well, if you'll just make out a banker's draft to the Imperial Security Consultancy, I'll be on my way. With any luck my limousine will be waiting to collect me outside."
Flintlock pulled the peaked cap down over his eyes, not wanting to be recognised by Jamieson. Fortunately the three men from the Imperial Mint were too busy ushering Dante to his limousine to notice the identity of the uniformed chauffeur holding open the passenger door.
"Well, gentleman, it's been both a privilege and an honour to do business with you. One of my associates will be back sometime in the next year to carry out a spot check, as a way of ensuring the mint undertakes the necessary upgrades and keeping your security forces on their toes."
"Excellent," the Governor replied. "I hope our next intruder is far less successful than you were, Mr Durward!"
"Absolutely. Thank you again for the banker's draft and the bonus. All that remains is for me to bid you farewell." Dante began climbing into the limousine but a concerned whimper from the Governor made him straighten up again.
"Sorry, Mr Durward, but you still have the plates in your possession!"
Dante smiled. "Dear, oh dear, what a forgetful fool I am! You wouldn't want me wandering off with those now, would you? Ha, ha, ha!"
The three men from the mint laughed along with him, their voices cracked with nervous hysteria. Dante produced the slim wooden case and handed it over to the governor.
"Here you are, Make sure it stays safely locked away from now on."
"I will, don't worry about that, I will!"
"Good. Then my work here is done. Good day to you all." Dante entered the vehicle, Flintlock shutting the door politely after him before hurrying round to the driver's side. Within moments the limousine was rolling away, leaving the three directors to heave a relieved sigh.
The Governor looked at his colleagues. "That was too close. My life wouldn't be worth living if the-" He stopped abruptly, colour draining from his face. "I-I-"
"Sergei? What is it? What's wrong?" Onegin asked. He followed the Governor's gaze down to the wooden case. Sharapov had opened the box to find the printing plates were missing. Instead a rectangle of card was nestling on the vermilion velvet lining, a single line of text visible on it: "Congratulations, you have just been robbed by Nikolai Dante, the Gentleman Thief."
"How will I ever report this to the Tsar?" Sharapov spluttered. "I let Nikolai Dante walk out of the Imperial Mint with our most valuable asset?"
Onegin read the card again. "This can't be happening. It can't!"
Jamieson wrung his hands in desperation. "Perhaps we can still get offworld before the loss is discovered?"
Sharapov shook his head helplessly. "It's too late. We're already dead men." He turned and began walking towards the mint's laser defence grid.
"Sergei! What are you doing?" Jamieson shouted.
But the Governor did not reply. He kept walking, never uttering another word, n
ot even when the lasers began slicing his body apart.
"You realise you've condemned those men to death, don't you?" Spatchcock asked. He was sat in the front passenger seat of the limousine, his presence in the vehicle having been hidden by the tinted windows.
"The Tsar will order their executions, not me," Dante replied. "Besides, when you work for that bastard, you deserve what you get. Everyone knows the Tsar's price for failure."
"What about the banker's draft?" Flintlock looked at Dante in the rear-view mirror as he drove. "You can't be planning to cash it?"
That would be both foolish and suicidal, the Crest commented dryly. Sounds just your style.
Dante crumpled the draft into a ball and threw it to his accomplices. "You two can keep it as a souvenir. The only thing that piece of paper is useful for now would be wiping your backside."
Spatchcock smiled. "You better have it then, Flintlock, in case you get caught short again."
"You might have a mind permanently residing in the gutter, but some of us still aspire to higher things," the former nobleman said. "Where to now?"
"The black market at Tsyganov," Dante replied, removing two thin sheets of metal from inside his trousers. "I know a counterfeiter there who'll pay well for these. The mint will have changed the million-rouble note by tonight but the old ones will stay in circulation for a few weeks yet. The sooner we can sell these plates, the better the price we'll get."
THREE
"He that is feared cannot be loved"
- Russian proverb
The Imperial flyer re-entered the airspace above St Petersburg shortly before dawn, the majestic city sprawling below like some bejewelled, black velvet gown. But Jena paid the magnificent vista no heed. She had seen it countless times from such a vantage point and her thoughts were elsewhere, still mulling over what she had witnessed in the laboratories on Fabergè Island. The pilot had to clear his throat several times to get her attention.
"Yes, what is it?" she said testily.