"You keep saying that. But a war with whom exactly?" Quatermain said, irritation and curiosity coloring his tone.
"Everyone. A world war."
Instead of reacting with shock, the old adventurer nodded slowly, digesting the information. "And that notion makes you sweat, Mr. Reed?"
"Heavens, man! Doesn't it you?"
"This is Africa, dear boy. Sweating is what we do." Quatermain turned from Reed and picked up a copy of The Strand Magazine lying beside a deck of worn playing cards on the adjacent table; the issue was several months old, featuring a new story by the imaginative young writer H. G. Wells. "It's been almost interesting talking with you, Mr. Reed. Good day. Have a nice trip back to England."
Reed just blinked at him in disbelief. "Where's your sense of patriotism, Quatermain? Even though this is godforsaken Kenya, we're in the Britannia Club, for heaven's sake."
Quatermain stood, snapped to comical attention, and turned to his fellow drinkers as he raised his glass. "God save the Queen!"
Everyone in the bar responded with automatic enthusiasm, like windup toys. "God save the Queen!" A moment later they fell back to their drinking and card games and snoozing.
"And that's about as patriotic as it gets around here, Mr. Reed," Quatermain said as he sat down.
At the front entrance to the Britannia Club, he noticed more new arrivals, one of them carrying a leather case. The valet stepped up to the four travelers, who asked him what was obviously a familiar question by now. The adventurer sighed and turned back to Reed, who remained oblivious.
The young bureaucrat insisted in a low voice to keep the man's secret. "But you're Allan Quatermain! Stories of your exploits have thrilled English boys for decades."
"That I know. Nigel does a grand job of reminding me."
Predictably, the four new travelers approached jovial Nigel, who sat up on the sagging leather couch where he had gone to rest. One of them carried a brown satchel, which he tucked under a small table near the bar before stepping in front of the red-faced "adventurer."
Smiling, Nigel prepared for another performance. Quatermain's stand-in had already finished the drink he'd ordered upon Reeds arrival; these new visitors would no doubt buy him a new one.
Quatermain sighed sadly. "With each of my past 'exploits' those English boys find so entertaining, Mr. Reed, I have lost friends. Dear friends, white men and black— and more besides. I am not the man I once claimed to be. Maybe I never was."
In the background, Nigel spoke now-familiar words, putting his heart into the act. "Yes, indeed. I'm Allan Quatermain. Sit down — fill a seat, fill my glass." He signaled the bartender for his usual. "Bruce—"
Suddenly, one of the travelers pulled a handgun from his vest. In a single smooth movement, he shot Nigel in the chest. The florid-faced stand-in adventurer slammed backward into the leather sofa, then he slumped down, seeping red from the deep wound. His empty gin glass clattered to the floor.
FOUR
The Britannia Club
Time seemed to stand still. Quatermain stared as his friend Nigel slumped dead.
Then the Britannia Club erupted into utter chaos as the other three newcomers also drew weapons. The old dregs of the empire — men who hadn't moved with such speed for decades — now dove for safety behind chairs and under tables. Cards and checkers and magazines scattered in a flurry. One potbellied man cowered behind a stuffed water buffalo; a bald veteran yanked a Zulu war shield from the wall and held it in front of him.
Quatermain, though, did not hide. He pulled an old but well-oiled Webley revolver from his jacket, pulled back the hammer, and fired. A single shot to the head took out the first assassin before the other three had time to realize what was happening. The man fell dead on top of Nigel.
"Wrong Quatermain," the old adventurer said.
The other assassins turned to see Quatermain coolly cocking his Webley, then realized their mistake. "That's him!" They dove for cover, returning fire even as the famous hunter shot again.
The room became a hail of bullets that chewed the club's already-battered paneling to pieces. Bottles shattered, and stuffed animals exploded. Quatermain dashed over to take cover behind Nigel's sagging leather sofa, dragging Reed with him. As he ran, ducked low, he took perfect shots at his attackers. His aim was accurate from a lifetime of practice — but the bullets ricocheted off their chests.
"They're indestructible!" Reed stared in amazement from behind the sofa, until Quatermain pulled him back down. The assassins returned fire, and bullets tore through the upholstery, popping out coarse hemp stuffing near Reed's ear.
"No. Just armor-plated." Quatermain cautiously reached around the couch to check Nigel's nonexistent pulse. "Remember what I was saying about losing friends every time someone wants me to get involved in another adventure?" He sighed with utter world-weariness. "Nigel was one of the last friends I had."
As the young bureaucrat huddled against the continuing gunfire, Quatermain grabbed a handy wicker chair and heaved it over the back of the bullet-riddled sofa. Using the chair as a distraction, he leaped up and over the couch.
The three bulletproof assassins fired with new weapons now — fully automatic machine rifles, far more modern than Quatermain's Webley revolver. After the thrown wicker chair exploded into splinters and dust, the killers turned their noisy, deadly weapons at the new target.
Shocked to see the automatic machine rifles cause faster and more thorough carnage than he had ever imagined, Quatermain realized he was caught in the crossfire. He dove for cover so frantically that his trusted revolver went skittering across the debris-strewn floor of the club. He ducked a stuffed lion that was shot to pieces, then took cover next to an elderly hunter, who was clumsily loading his shotgun.
"What in God's name! Automatic rifles?" he said.
"Dashed unsporting, if you ask me," said the elderly hunter. "They're probably Belgian. Shouldn't be allowed in the Club." Indignant, the old man stood up and fired his shotgun, winging one of the assassins. Quatermain was glad to see that their armor protection did not extend to their arms as well.
A second assassin coolly shot the elderly hunter dead, using at least a dozen more bullets than was necessary and expending the last rounds in his automatic machine rifle.
Furious, Quatermain snatched up the elderly mans fallen shotgun and blasted with the second barrel. His shot sent the assassin diving for cover, then he waded in, his anger endowing him with more confidence than the bulletproof plating gave his attackers.
Recovering from the shock, the downed assassin crawled across the floor, clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. The second killer struggled to reload his empty automatic rifle. The third assassin wrenched a thick paw from the ruined stuffed carcass of a lion; the taxidermist had extended the lion's claws to make the trophy look more ferocious. Using the stiff paw as a club, he slashed at Quatermain with the hooked claws.
But the old adventurer was faster. He smashed the man with a liquor bottle he grabbed from the bar, shattering it over his unprotected head. "Wicked waste of good scotch."
Finally finished reloading his machine rifle, the second assassin raised his weapon to fire — but Quatermain crashed into him with a rattling tea trolley. He sprawled with a yelp, and the famous adventurer lifted the cart and broke it over the man's head. Cakes and china cups went flying in all directions.
The distinctive click of a gun being cocked made Quatermain whirl, ready. His heart pounded, his blood flowed, his muscles worked — just as they had in his younger days. But instead of another enemy, he saw pallid Sanderson Reed nervously aiming the old Webley, which he had retrieved from the floor.
"You're liable to hurt someone with that," Quatermain said.
"I–I just wanted to help—"
"Allan!" Bruce the bartender called out. "Heads up, man!"
Quatermain whirled and barely dodged a swarm of sharp silver throwing knives. With a staccato patter, the blades thunked like arrows up the fa
ce of a wooden pillar in the middle of the gathering room. The last few knives stapled Quatermain's collar to the mahogany.
The man who had been grazed by the elderly hunters shotgun blast looked badly wounded, his right shirt sleeve soaked with blood. But he was still coming, and he could throw with his uninjured arm.
Quatermain grimaced. "Just my luck the bastard's left handed."
Bending awkwardly, he tried to pull the knives loose, but the thick material of his sweat-damp shirt would not tear free. He succeeded only in slicing his callused hand. Seeing his victim pinned like a moth to a specimen board, the wounded assassin brandished a big gutting knife. He smiled as he stabbed at Quatermain's head.
Though he had limited mobility, the old adventurer thrashed and evaded the wicked strikes. So the assassin gripped the big knife and tried for his victims gut, using an underarm swing.
Amazed at his own resilience after being so long out of practice, Quatermain squirmed his hips and hauled his body up out of the way, just as the assassin's blade stuck into the wood, driven by all his force.
Coming down from his agile move, Quatermain whacked the man on the head. The assassin grunted, and his own weight finally succeeded in pulling the wedged blade free — just in time for him to fall onto the point of his own gutting knife.
Then, covered with cream and jam like a monster from a mad bakers nightmare, the last assassin broke from beneath the tea trolley, where he had lain stunned. He lunged forward, frothing frosting, and picked up his own gun.
Quatermain spun, now that he was free of the knives. With a roar, he hefted a table as a shield, scattering checkers. He charged the pastry-clotted killer at full hitting the man hard and driving him back toward the trophy-covered wall.
The blow spiked the assassin on a curved rhino horn mounted for show over the fireplace. The man's eyes bulged and he coughed powdered sugar, then oozed a bright red that was definitely not raspberry jam.
The impact knocked loose a large British flag hanging overhead; it floated down, smartly shrouding the assassin in his final death throes.
"Rule Britannia," Quatermain said, standing back and lifting his chin in satisfaction. He wiped perspiration off his forehead, catching his breath.
Reed shook his head, amazed by what he had just seen. "Well, Mr. Quatermain, I believe that only verifies—"
Impatient and still angry, the adventurer looked around. "Wait. Wasn't there one more of these buggers? I don't think I lost count—"
The black valet gestured at the door, calling out in high-pitched alarm, "Mister Quatermain!"
He looked to see the last killer running for his life. He'd been wounded in the scuffle, but that hadn't slowed him in the least. The assassin had already left the Club grounds and sprinted some distance down the dirt street toward the milling villagers, vegetable stands, shacks, and rickety cattle corrals.
"Bloody jackrabbit," Quatermain said, and turned to the bartender. "Bruce, it's time for Matilda."
The barman reverently pulled an elephant gun from behind the bar. "Matilda, sir." He tossed the long weapon to Quatermain, who caught it in mid-stride on his way to the Club doorway.
Quatermain glanced down at a small leather case that he thought one of the four assassins had been carrying when they'd entered the room. He frowned, wondering why the killers would have tucked it under a small table by the bar — but he turned his attention to the immediate problem at hand. The last of the four assassins was getting away.
Eyes gleaming, Reed followed him through the doorway onto the shaded porch of the Club.
"Our bolter may have answers." Quatermain inspected and then shouldered the elephant gun.
"But he's so far away," Reed said. "You'll never hit him."
Quatermain ignored the remark, taking aim. He squinted, shook his head and lowered the gun.
"Yes, I thought he was—" Reed said, nodding with a trace of smugness.
But Quatermain wasn't finished. He took a pair of wire glasses from his shirt pocket. "God, I hate getting old." He put the glasses on, adjusted them, and took aim again. The elephant gun belched a roar like a cannon, and Reed flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears.
The bullet covered the distance to its target at incredible speed. The wounded assassin glanced back, thinking he'd gotten away — and the projectile slammed into his unprotected shoulder, shattering bone and flesh. He yelped and fell to the ground, sprawling on the trampled dirt of the road.
Quatermain lowered his gun and put his glasses away. He cracked his neck, surprised and exhilarated. "Well then, let us see what that fellow has to say for himself." He went to the hitching post and swiftly untied one of the waiting horses. He handed the reins of a second to Reed. "Nigel wont mind if you borrow his horse."
The two men approached the downed assassin, riding hard. Many locals had already left their market stalls and huts, gathering to stare at the bleeding killer, who was dressed as an Englishman.
Reed shook his head, his face paler than usual. "They must have learned I was coming for you. They wanted to kill you before you could offer to help."
"Obviously," said Quatermain.
They dismounted, striding forward like conquerors. The wounded assassin looked at them with fanatical determination, then used his one good arm to fumble desperately in his pockets. His other shoulder was a smashed and bloody ruin from the elephant gun.
"It's no use, man," Reed told him. "We'll get you to a doctor, and then to jail."
Finally, the assassin found a pill in his rumpled pocket and pulled it free with blood-spattered fingers.
Quatermain rushed forward. "Step him! We need the information!"
He grabbed the mans wrist, but it was too late. The assassin bit down on the pill with a smug smile that instantly transformed into a pain-wracked grimace as he died.
Cursing, Quatermain dropped the man's wrist in disgust. The crowd looked at him in awe, but the old adventurer wanted no part of them.
After all that had happened, Reed did not forget his primary mission. He cleared his throat. "You may have no love for the empire, Mr. Quatermain, but I know you love Africa." He gestured around him, as if there might be something admirable to be found in Nairobi. "A war in Europe will spread to its colonies—"
Suddenly, behind them, the Britannia Club exploded.
Flames erupted through the door and roof; windows shattered. Splinters flew up into the air. The support beams toppled, and the whole structure groaned, then collapsed into an inferno.
Quatermain stared, his lips curled downward in a frown.
No longer interested in the assassins motionless body, the crowd of natives turned their attention to the explosion. Shouting with excitement, they rushed toward the Brittania Club to help, or at least watch from up close.
Quatermain's eyes were steely as he watched his home burn.
"It appears the war has already arrived here," Reed finished. "You cant hide from it, Quatermain."
"All right. I'm in," the old adventurer said. "Damn…"
Reed smiled. "Excellent. Pack for an English summer."
With a smug look, the young bureaucrat strode away to the waiting buggy. The driver hadn't moved from his seat, watching all the excitement with bemused interest.
As he took two steps to follow, Quatermain hesitated, then looked back toward the African veldt, with its open skies and waving grasses. Thunderheads were gathering over the windswept plains.
Near the burning wreckage of the old Britannia Club, the forlorn, crumbling graveyard stood against the magnificent vista, and Quatermain thought of all the friends, acquaintances, lovers he had buried there.
It was time to leave.
FIVE
London, Albion Museum
Tottenham Court Road
Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was pr
oof against the downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and down his trouser legs into his shoes.
Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as he called down into the cab at his fare. "Nice day for doing, eh sir?" As if anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.
"Yes… absolutely idyllic," said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing on the whole street.
The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.
But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.
The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened the cab's door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. "You made good time getting here, Mr. Quatermain."
"Not as good as Phileas Fogg." The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and stood in the rain, taller than Reed's umbrella. "Fellow went round the world in eighty days."
He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity, cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour simply turned the grime into muck.
"No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir." Reed paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella's protection for himself, even if Quatermain didn't want it. "This way, please. Your contact is waiting."
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Page 3