Strike a Match 3

by Frank Tayell

  “That’s a diesel locomotive,” Mitchell said. “It’s Rebecca’s new train.”

  Rebecca Cavendish herself was a little further down the platform, in deep discussion with a colonel of Marines. “Wait here,” Mitchell added, and went to join the two women.

  Ruth took in the locomotive. It was newly painted, mostly in off-white with a red cross and blue diagonals that, with a little imagination and a lot of squinting, almost looked like the Union Jack.

  “Personally,” Isaac said. “I’d have gone with camouflage.”

  “Hmm?” Ruth murmured. “Sorry?”

  “For the train,” Isaac said. “Rather than that red, white, and blue design. The train’s going to France.”

  “It is?” Ruth asked.

  “That’s what I hear,” Isaac said. “They’ll use it to get troops ahead of the bandits once they’ve pushed them out of the city. They want that done before Christmas.”

  “How did you hear?” Ruth asked.

  “By listening,” Isaac said. Ruth didn’t press. “Now, tell me again about this pub. Explain again why you were there.”

  So Ruth told him, though she kept her attention on the crowds on the other side of the barrier. Her impression of the station had always been that it was busy, but now it seemed frenetic, and it was only mid-afternoon.

  Mitchell returned. The colonel continued her conversation with Rebecca Cavendish.

  “We’re going to catch a ride with Rebecca,” Mitchell said. “She’s taking her locomotive south in about twenty minutes. She’ll collect a cargo of artillery shells from the depot near Horsham, and then take them through the Channel Tunnel. I’m going to send a telegram to Riley to let her know where we’re going.”

  “You could call her,” Isaac said. “I gave her a tablet.”

  “And I had to stop her from burying it in the garden,” Mitchell said. “Last time I checked, it was at the back of the kitchen drawer.” He walked off.

  Ruth walked over to a bench and sat down. Isaac sat next to her.

  “Riley doesn’t trust you, does she?” Ruth said.

  “She trusts me with Henry’s life,” Isaac said. “Though you’re right, we have a complicated relationship.”

  “There was something I wanted to ask you about,” Ruth said.

  “About Riley? Or Mitchell? Or perhaps about that rather peculiar trip to Walsingham?”

  “No. About Simon. Simon Longfield. What did you do with him? I mean, you said you sent him to Switzerland, but… well, I mean, is he dead?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You don’t know?” Ruth asked.

  “I set him a task. A mission, if you like. An opportunity to redeem himself.”

  “In Switzerland?”

  “It was an odd country,” Isaac said. “You know that they had nuclear bunkers for every citizen, and that every citizen was meant to keep four months of supplies to hand in case of nuclear war? A product of being a small country surrounded by eternally belligerent neighbours.”

  “What’s in Switzerland?” Ruth asked.

  “Now? Probably nothing. Certainly not a functioning state.”

  “Then why did you send him?” she asked.

  “It was a country once famous for many things, but perhaps most famous for its banks and its vaults.”

  “Ah.” Ruth sensed she was getting close to the truth. “And there’s something inside one of those?”

  “That is what I’m not sure of,” Isaac said. “There might be. There might not. If I were certain, I might have gone myself. But even if it is still there, I’m not sure it will help.”

  “Help who? Us, or you?”

  “In the long run, both of us,” Isaac said.

  “This is about that artificial consciousness you created isn’t it?” Ruth said. “And this phone network, that’s not just so you can call Mister Mitchell, is it?”

  “In a way, but only in the same way that everything is connected to the past and leading us towards the future,” he said.

  “After you… after you and Maggie started all of this, after you created that consciousness, after the world was destroyed, she worked in refugee camps and then she became a teacher. Whereas you… I don’t know what you did, but you’re not trying to redeem yourself, are you?”

  “I’ve done nothing that would require redemption,” Isaac said.

  “What are you doing, Isaac? What are you up to?”

  “A lot of things,” Isaac said. “There is a lot of planning, a lot of talking, a lot of thinking here in Twynham. What’s lacking are people who are actually doing.”

  “You won’t tell me?”

  “I’ll tell you about Walsingham.”

  “No, don’t bother,” Ruth said. She remembered what Mitchell had said, and what Riley had once told her. She could only hope that, once this case was closed, the next one wouldn’t involve Isaac.

  When Mitchell returned he was grim-faced.

  “What is it?” Isaac asked.

  “I sent a message to Riley, and got one in reply,” he said.

  “What did she say?” Ruth asked.

  Mitchell glanced around, taking in the crowd, and then the handful of workers moving towards the train. “Not here,” he said. “I’ll tell you when we’re on the train.”

  The door was guarded by a burly man, six-feet-six, broad shouldered, with a tapered waist, and in a uniform that had to have been tailored for him. He saluted Captain Mitchell.

  “Cooper Rehnquist,” he said. “I’ll show you aboard.”

  The carriage was different to those Ruth had previously travelled on. Those old-world passenger wagons had scratched windows, scuffed floors, and hastily re-upholstered seats. This carriage was immaculately clean and looked recently made. It was split into compartments, but with a wide aisle running down the platform-side. Running along the corridor, and underneath the exterior windows, was a polished-oak rail, positioned at the height a woman in a wheelchair could easily grab. Above the rail, the windows were clean and smear-free. Each had a set of heavy green curtains currently held back by a red braid rope. Not a single thread was hanging loose, nor was there a solitary speck of dirt on the floor, or smudge on the polished steel surrounding the compartment doors.

  Judging by the discreet unoccupied sign above the lock, the first door belonged to a toilet. The door to the next was open. Inside was a storeroom and portable telegraph office. The third compartment contained a small galley. The one after that contained two rows of seats facing one another.

  “This is you,” Rehnquist said.

  “How delightful,” Isaac said. “Is the panelling oak?”

  The guard frowned. “I… I dunno. Is it important?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Mitchell said. “Thank you.”

  They went inside and closed the door.

  “Well, this is pleasant,” Isaac said. “Though it’s a little anachronistic, don’t you think? Polished steel rather than chrome or brass, and it’s a diesel locomotive rather than steam.”

  “What was in the message from Riley?” Ruth asked.

  Mitchell took out the slip of yellow telegram paper. “Here.”

  “Ah, it’s a puzzle,” Isaac said. “Two words. Arm, un-broken. Or do you think the hyphen makes it three words?”

  “What does it mean?” Ruth asked.

  Before Mitchell could answer, Rebecca Cavendish opened the door.

  “We’re about to leave,” she said. “The mail train and cargo services will be directed into sidings. It should take us two hours to reach the depot where we’ll collect the artillery wagons. It’ll take another two hours after that to reach Dover.”

  The train juddered. The carriage jolted. They began to move.

  Cavendish took out a pocket watch. She smiled. “Right on time. Now, can you perhaps give me some more information on what this is about, Henry? You said you were chasing a killer. Is it connected with the fire at the courthouse?”

  “It is,” Mitchell said. “It’s connec
ted to a string of crimes, and they are connected to that business with Longfield.”

  “I heard the man you arrested in Dover escaped. Adamovitch, wasn’t it? He’s the one you’re chasing?”

  Mitchell pointed at the telegram. “It seems not. There was one corpse in the courthouse. The coroner has just completed an initial exam. The body was so badly burned we’ll never be absolutely sure, but that message says the corpse’s arm was un-broken. When Ruth stopped the assassination of the old prime minister, she shot Emmitt in the arm, breaking the bone. The man in the cells isn’t Emmitt.”

  “It’s Adamovitch?” Cavendish asked.

  “Almost certainly,” Mitchell said.

  “Emmitt escaped?” Ruth asked. “He killed Adamovitch?”

  “And you think he went to Dover?” Cavendish asked.

  “I think so,” Mitchell said. “I’d thought Adamovitch had escaped and was eliminating all the loose ends. I was wrong. Emmitt escaped, and he’s seeking revenge. Someone in Dover sent that telegram warning the sniper that Adamovitch was on the train, and I can’t think of anyone else Emmitt would want to kill.”

  “Then I’m glad this is your problem and I just have a war to fight,” Cavendish said. “I’ll send someone with some refreshments shortly.”

  She closed the door and wheeled her chair towards the engine.

  “Emmitt’s alive,” Ruth murmured.

  “It seems so,” Mitchell said.

  “Were we wrong about everything else?” Ruth asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Mitchell said. “On balance, I’d say that our theory holds up to the point where the fire began. The incendiary was placed in the courthouse months ago. Possibly that was simply done in case Emmitt was arrested, perhaps there was another motive. Similarly, the assault on Calais was probably part of some other scheme. However, from the moment he was arrested, Emmitt planned to use the fire to mask his escape, and for that attack in France to tie up our resources so there would be few people to search for him. Adamovitch and Makepeace were trying to take over from Longfield and Emmitt. Adamovitch tried to murder Emmitt in those cells, but Emmitt is an assassin, Adamovitch was just a butler. He died. Emmitt escaped.”

  “And then Emmitt went after Makepeace,” Ruth said. “I think that’s who was in his room. I mean, that masked man didn’t make much of an effort to kill me. The only person we know who might deliberately leave me alive is Emmitt.”

  “He killed Makepeace,” Isaac said. “Presumably he then headed for Dover to kill… what did you say his name was?”

  “Mr Watanabe,” Ruth said. “He used to co-own that repair business, but sold his share so he could buy passage to Japan. Now he’s just another employee. I guess he wants to return to his previous level of wealth.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Isaac said. “Yanuck ran a smuggling ring, bringing people and old-world weaponry into Britain. The ammunition was smuggled into Dover in the false bottoms of metal beer barrels that were made in this repair shop.”

  “By Mr Wilson, the painter and first victim,” Ruth said.

  “And under the instruction of Mr Watanabe,” Isaac said. “Okay, these barrels went to Makepeace who sold the ammunition in Twynham. Yes?”

  “And for Longfield and Emmitt, it was always more about blackmail than money,” Ruth said. “Know who’s committed a crime, and you can get them to commit another. But with Longfield dead, Adamovitch and Makepeace, and Watanabe, decided to take over.”

  “Take over what?” Isaac asked. “If the attacks on Calais were central to Emmitt’s plans, and if those attacks were put in place months ago, then surely they knew that the smugglers would be useless the moment that the assault began. Emmitt wanted that smuggling ring shut down. That’s why he picked the pub for that meeting. He and Longfield didn’t want lots of ammunition on the streets, not long term, not when they planned to take over the government from the inside. While the authorities, namely Mitchell and as many Marines as he could muster, were chasing smugglers across Europe, those attacks on Calais would have occurred, yes? And then there would have been a regiment or two fewer to face them. Calais might have fallen, the Tunnel breached, and Dover besieged. That was Emmitt’s plan. With that in tatters, what was it Adamovitch and Makepeace wanted? What did they think they’d gain? There’s no more ammunition coming in from Europe. Neither of them can run for office, and that was how Longfield planned to seize power. Adamovitch was on the run. Makepeace intended to fake his own death. What I’m asking is what was their end game? Where, in all of this, did they see their victory, because the only ending I see for them is death?”

  “Good point,” Mitchell said. He closed his eyes, and leaned back. Ruth waited a moment to see if he’d offer an answer, then looked to Isaac to see if he’d suggest one.

  Isaac shrugged. “It’s a puzzle,” he said. “I’m going to investigate that kitchen.”

  Ruth turned her eyes to the window, replaying the events, looking for the clue that she’d missed.

  They sped through fields and forests, and then through ruins too fast for her to identify whether the people moving about were a work gang, scavengers, or looters.

  Minutes turned to hours. Cooper Rehnquist opened the door to the compartment, informing them that they would be stopping soon to collect the cargo wagons for the garrison. By the time the wagons were attached and the train began the final leg of its journey towards Dover, Ruth realised that the only question that mattered was whether they would reach Dover before Emmitt wrought his revenge on Mr Watanabe.

  Chapter 19 - Run

  Dover

  Rebecca Cavendish slid the door open. “We’re nearing Dover, but since there’s a spy there, I won’t go into the city. I don’t want them to know I’m shipping supplies through the Channel Tunnel.”

  “Spies and supplies for a war,” Mitchell said as he stood. “It’s everything we tried to avoid.”

  “And we managed it for twenty years, Henry,” Cavendish said. “That’s more than at anytime in recorded history.”

  “Only if you narrow your definition of a war,” Isaac said, though only loud enough for Ruth to hear. He picked up his bag. “After you.”

  Ruth followed Mitchell and Cavendish to the rear of the train.

  “When are you going through the Tunnel?” Henry asked.

  “Tomorrow, an hour before dawn,” Cavendish said. “Daylight doesn’t matter underground, but we’ll need it to unload the train. Electric lights would pinpoint our position, and the last thing we want is a mortar to hit the cargo wagons.”

  “They have mortars?” Ruth asked, as they reached the door at the rear of the train.

  “Of course,” Rebecca said, glancing around at her. “I thought you were stationed in Dover. Didn’t you ever hear the barrages?”

  “I thought those were our guns,” Ruth said.

  “Some of them,” Cavendish said. “But they have mortars and rockets, as well as heavy machine guns. They are well armed, but they’re running out of ammunition and have no means to get more.”

  “Good luck in Calais,” Ruth said. The train began to slow.

  “Luck has no place in war,” Cavendish said. “Our lots were cast before the first trumpet blast, our fates decided before the bugle called. We’re the cogs in the machine, waiting to break or be replaced. No, don’t worry about me. After all, the last rumour I heard was that this would all be over by Christmas. This is as slow as we’ll get. Jump.”

  Isaac leaped first, and landed nimbly. Mitchell went second, landing harder, and raised a hand to his side as he straightened. Ruth jumped, stumbled as her feet hit the ground, and almost fell.

  The train sped up. Rebecca Cavendish, still by the door, raised a hand in farewell and salute. Ruth raised hers in return, and then turned to the captain.

  “If Emmitt organised the pirates to attack on the fifth of November, and again the night of the fire, then do you think he also organised their supply of ammunition?”

  “I thin
k he might have controlled it,” Mitchell said. “Through Yanuck or others. And with them gone, then, maybe, for once, this will be over by Christmas. Dover’s that way.”

  They started walking.

  “What I really meant,” Ruth said, “was that Emmitt might try to escape to Calais.”

  “Unlikely,” Mitchell said. “There’s a garrison on this end of the Tunnel and an army at the other side. They’ve a ring of artillery around the city, with a naval blockade positioned off the coast. A narrow corridor has been left so the pirates can flee the city, but that’s as much a trap as the siege is. No, Emmitt would know that, and would look for another way off this island.”

  “Assuming he wants to leave,” Isaac said.

  The sun began to set as they followed the railway towards Dover, though they didn’t need daylight to spot the city. As day turned to night, and streetlights and searchlights came on, their orange glow was reflected off the heavy haze of coal smoke back onto the conurbation.

  “Did you send a telegram ahead to get these suspects detained?” Isaac asked.

  “No, it didn’t seem wise,” Mitchell said. “We might be wrong about Watanabe, and if we are, then the only suspect left is someone working in the telegraph office. The connection is tangential at best, but if I were planning to overthrow the government, the first thing I’d do seek to control the means of communication.”

  “More reason for me to extend the coverage of my network,” Isaac said.

  Ruth looked up, and almost tripped on a sleeper. “You mean the tablets, don’t you? For the phone calls. Is that why you wanted come to Dover?”

  “I’ve come to Dover to assist,” Isaac said. “To assist and hopefully end something that should have been finished when the bombs fell twenty years ago.”

  “I told him about Emmitt,” Mitchell said. “And the hotel.”

  “This is about me,” Isaac said. “It always has been. That being said, I think it’s time that Dover had its own radio station.”

  Ruth didn’t reply.

  “There’s the railway gate up ahead,” Mitchell said.

  There were three gates in the city’s walls. One to the north, one to the west, and one for the railway. The gate, like a large section of the wall, was made of sheet-steel salvaged from the hulls of ships that had run aground along the beaches near the city. The gate was now closed, though as they drew nearer, a light swung onto them. The gate clanged open, and a four-person squad ran outside.