Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost

by George Mann

  Donovan took another long pull on his cigarette, relishing the sound of the crackling paper as the tip glowed a bright crimson. He allowed the smoke to plume luxuriously from his nostrils, wreathing his head in rings of ethereal blue.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching his desk. Mullins was there, brandishing a mug of steaming coffee.

  The sergeant was red faced and his small, beady eyes darted back and forth as he stood nervously looking down at the inspector. He was a large man, in his late thirties, and always looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. Today, his brown suit was crumpled and his shirt clearly hadn't been ironed. Donovan knew the man's domestic situation was unenviable—his wife had left him recently and he was sharing an apartment with one of the constables—so he'd cut him some slack. Mullins's was yet another example of a marriage pulled to pieces by the force. He was a good man, and an even better sergeant. He'd sacrificed a lot for the good of the department. More, perhaps, than any one man should be expected to.

  “I brought you a coffee, sir. You looked like you needed it.”

  Donovan smiled and accepted the mug gratefully. “You know, Mullins, that's exactly the sort of thing that'll help you go far in this department.”

  Mullins frowned. “Bringing you coffee, sir?”

  Donovan laughed. “Don't be ridiculous, Mullins. Reading people. That's what I was talking about. You seem to have a remarkable knack for seeing to the heart of a matter, for understanding what a person wants. It'll stand you in good stead.” Donovan took a swig of the coffee. “See? You were right. I did need that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Donovan sighed heavily. “I don't suppose there have been any new developments?”

  Mullins shrugged. “One of the men did take a call from a woman this morning while you were out. She asked for you by name. Said one of the brass things had tried to abduct her last night but some man in a black suit had saved her. I figured it must have been that Ghost chap again, sir.”

  Donovan nodded slowly. So this was what the Ghost had wanted to meet with him about. “Call her back, Mullins. Have her come to the precinct. You can take her statement while I'm in with the commissioner. She might have gotten a good look at the thing. It could be our best lead yet.”

  Mullins gave a curt nod. “Right away, sir.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing up his next words.

  “Spit it out, Mullins.”

  “What about the Ghost, sir? Do you think he's tied up in all this?”

  The Ghost had been an ongoing cause of contention in the department during the Christmas season. The commissioner was still as keen as ever to have the vigilante caught and brought to justice, but Donovan had tried to play the matter down, ensuring as far as he could that his friend's activities were kept under the radar.

  As he'd tried to point out to Montague on numerous occasions, the Ghost was a useful tool. His methods might be brutal, but they were effective, and despite what the newspapers decried at every available opportunity, the evidence only demonstrated that the Ghost had the best interests of the city at heart.

  Of course, Donovan had stopped far short of revealing the true nature of his relationship with the vigilante, or the Ghost's involvement in the matter of the Roman and the affair at the museum. Nevertheless, the commissioner—and as far as Donovan could tell many others in the department—felt the Ghost was a menace who should be strung up for his crimes. Donovan suspected that, really, they were more concerned with the manner in which he showed up the police department for what they really were—a law-enforcement agency that spent more time pandering to the whims of the Senate rather than getting on with their jobs.

  Donovan shook his head. “You just worry about getting a statement from that girl, Mullins. Leave the Ghost to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mullins, and he clumped away to his desk on the other side of the office to make the call.

  Donovan stubbed the still-smoldering end of his cigarette in the ashtray beside his notebook and grinned. Perhaps they were getting somewhere, after all.

  Two hours later, Donovan was ushered into the commissioner's office by a desk sergeant who bore an expression of forced jollity and calm.

  The commissioner's office was situated on the floor above the main precinct, and compared to the sparse, economical circumstances in which the rest of the department worked, the room was palatial. In fact, Donovan mused as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, puffing slightly with the exertion, it would be more accurate to describe the commissioner's lair as a suite of rooms.

  Decked out with furniture and fittings that Donovan always felt were more suited to a domestic dwelling—armchairs, coffee tables, portraits in gilded frames—the three connected rooms were more like those one might find in a top-end hotel like the Gramercy Park than anything one expected to find in a police station. He couldn't see how they were in any way conducive to getting any police work done—but then, that assumed the commissioner was still interested in doing any work. Realistically, Donovan knew, the commissioner was far more concerned with schmoozing politicians and showing off his pretty young wife around town.

  Still, someone had to talk to the politicians, and he'd rather it was Montague than him. At least this way, Donovan could keep out of their way while he got on with the real police work.

  At least, that was what Donovan had thought until he crossed the threshold into the commissioner's office and heard the desk sergeant pull the door shut behind him.

  Donovan's heart sank as he saw who was sitting with the commissioner, reclining in one of the armchairs, puffing on a fat cigar. He'd never met the man, but he recognized him from the photographs he had seen in the newspapers: Senator Isambard Banks.

  The man was balding, in his mid- to late fifties, and wore a pinstriped suit and white shirt, open at the collar. He was clean shaven and full faced and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. Pungent cigar smoke hovered in the still air around him, as if concealing him behind a semitranslucent veil.

  Donovan sighed. So, now the Senate was leaning on them again, no doubt instructing them to bring a swift conclusion to the matter of the abductions. Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't trying.…

  “Ah, there you are, Felix. Come in, take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”

  Donovan gave the commissioner a sideways glance. Why the sudden geniality? It wasn't like the old fool to behave in such a fashion. Usually when Donovan was hauled into the commissioner's office it was to be faced with a series of curt commands and sage advice on how he should really be conducting his investigation. He'd never been offered a drink before. Perhaps the commissioner was showing off, attempting to impress the senator. Or perhaps Donovan was being welcomed into some sort of secret clique, and from now on he'd be expected to associate with these people and attend their drink parties and sell his soul to the devil just to keep his job. Well, he supposed he'd faced that problem before.

  Donovan suppressed a laugh at his own expense. He could tell he'd just about reached his limit—he was getting cranky and paranoid and needed a good night's sleep.

  Groaning inwardly, Donovan did as the commissioner instructed. “A scotch, thank you, Commissioner.” Donovan nodded to the seated senator and pulled up an armchair opposite the man. He reached for his packet of cigarettes and realized, with a stifled curse, that he'd left them downstairs on his desk.

  Banks, grinning wolfishly, leaned forward and pulled a large, walnut cigar case from inside the folds of his jacket. He offered it to Donovan, who thanked him and took one gratefully. He didn't much like cigars, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He pulled the ignition patch and watched it flare.

  Montague talked as he set about fixing Donovan's drink, taking a decanter from a small mahogany dresser that stood against the far wall. “You don't know Senator Banks, Donovan?”

  Donovan smiled at the senator. “Only by reputation, I'm afraid.” He was careful to make it sound like a compliment. In reality, however, Don
ovan did only know the senator because of his reputation. His name had cropped up more than once during the investigation into the Roman's crime syndicate, connected to the cabal of corrupt individuals who had funded the crime boss's power station project down in the Battery.

  There hadn't been enough evidence to haul him in on a charge, however, and unlike the other members of that small group, Banks hadn't gone and gotten himself murdered by the Roman's goons. Whether that was because he really hadn't been involved or because he'd been so significantly involved that the Roman had chosen to keep him alive, Donovan couldn't be sure.

  Commissioner Montague, of course, had dismissed all notion of conspiracy, preferring to believe Banks was clean and that it was only to be expected that the condemned men would have had dealings with other, innocent members of the Senate. “Some of them had probably even met the president,” he had said loftily, “and we're not about to bring him in for questioning, are we?”

  Donovan had wanted to respond that, yes, if the president had been implicated in a plot to unleash a dangerous interdimensional beast on the city, he would have absolutely considered it his duty to bring the man in for questioning. Wisely, however, he had bitten his tongue.

  And now Banks was here, in the commissioner's office, and Donovan had to wonder what the hell Montague was getting them involved in.

  The commissioner crossed the room, handed Donovan his drink, and then took a seat in a chair beside the senator. Donovan felt like he was about to be interviewed for a job. Perhaps he was.

  “Well, here's to your health, gentlemen.” He saluted both men with his glass and then took a long slug, enjoying the sharp hit of alcohol, the long fingers of warmth that spread throughout his chest.

  The commissioner cleared his throat. “Felix, Senator Banks is here to discuss some urgent business with us, and I hope that you will listen carefully and give him your full attention.” Montague leaned forward in his chair, his gray mustache bristling. “It's a matter of national security.”

  Donovan blanched at the commissioner's patronizing tone but nodded heartily, sliding his drink onto the coffee table and meeting Banks's gaze. “Of course. How can I be of service, Senator?”

  Here it comes, he thought. About these abductions…They're making our figures look terrible.…

  “We have a spy in our midst, Inspector,” said Banks, his tone ominous. “A British spy. We have reason to believe he is in possession of information that could threaten our national security.” He leaned forward, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “We're talking about the safety of the entire country, here, Inspector. We're talking about war with the British Empire.” He sat back, allowing his words to sink in.

  Donovan didn't know what to say. He took a long draw on his cigar. It tasted stale. A spy? “You mean here, in the police department?”

  Banks shook his head. He glanced at Montague, who nodded, urging him on. “No, Inspector. But here in the city. He's been posing as a young philanthropist from Boston. Quite successfully, I might add. He was able to insinuate his way into various political circles here in New York, and over the course of the last year became quite influential in certain quarters.” The senator pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. “Even had him over to dinner at my own home,” he said wistfully, as if embarrassed to admit he'd ever been taken in by such a dangerous scoundrel.

  “So he's still at large?” Donovan asked, furrowing his brow. He wasn't quite sure where this was going.

  “Quite so, Inspector. Quite so. Yesterday, it seems, he came into possession of certain…facts that could prove very damaging indeed if they were to fall into enemy hands. But he made a mistake, blew his cover. Now he's somewhere in the city, and I imagine by now he knows that we're on to him.”

  Donovan nodded. “What are these…facts, Senator?”

  Banks frowned. “Suffice to say, Inspector, that they would leave this country very exposed if they were to come into the possession of a hostile nation.”

  “And you think the British mean to use them to that end?” Donovan tried to hide the incredulity in his voice. Did they really think the British were likely to invade?

  Banks inclined his head, just a fraction. “I think anything that puts this nation at risk, Inspector, should be taken very seriously indeed.”

  “Felix, what I believe the senator is getting at is that he would like the help of this department in locating and containing the British spy.” The commissioner beamed at him, as if the very thought of such patriotic work filled him with pride.

  Donovan turned to face the commissioner. “But surely, sir, there's some sort of counterespionage unit who'd be much better placed to deal with something as significant as this? We're a local police force, and we have our hands full with this plague of abductions. I'm not really sure how we can help.”

  Montague shook his head. “Donovan, the security of the nation comes first. It must. Of course there are government men already working on the case. How else do you think we're aware of the spy in the first place? All the senator is asking for is some local assistance with containment. Our men know these streets better than anyone else in the city. We can hound this man down. We can close the borders. We can stop him getting off this island and, in doing so, prevent the outbreak of war.” The commissioner took a swig of his own drink. “Once we've got him, we'll simply hand him over to the right government agency and the matter will be closed.”

  Donovan wanted to laugh. Montague made it sound so easy, instilled it with such romance and melodrama. Closing the borders would be nigh on impossible, and while his men did know the city like the back of their hands, they were hardly trained to be able to handle an active foreign agent. Particularly one who knew he was being hunted. The Englishman was probably armed to the teeth and would fight like a cornered animal if any of Donovan's men even got near him.

  Nevertheless, he supposed he had no choice in the matter. And besides, he knew a man who might be able to help. He nodded, glancing at Banks. “What's his name?”

  “Jerry Robertson. An alias, we presume. We don't know if he operates under any other names.”

  “A description?” Donovan prompted.

  “Commissioner Montague has photographs and descriptions for you already, as well as his last known address.”

  “Very well.” Donovan reached for his scotch and emptied the glass with another long pull. He dropped the barely smoked cigar into the ashtray, scattering dust. “I'll get my men onto it right away. Commissioner?” He glanced at the portly old man, who returned his look with a confused expression. “The photographs?”

  “Ah, yes.” He rose from his chair and crossed to a bureau, turning a key in the lid and folding down the writing stand. He withdrew a large, cream-colored envelope from within, holding it out for Donovan.

  Donovan stood, taking it from him. It felt thick with sheaves of paper. Whoever had assembled the file had clearly been doing so for some time. But hadn't Banks said it was only yesterday that Robertson's cover had been blown? Had they been keeping a file on him for a different reason, then? Something didn't add up, but Donovan didn't have the heart, or the energy, to force the issue now.

  Banks also rose from his chair, extending his hand to Donovan. “We won't forget this, Inspector.”

  The thought made Donovan's skin crawl. He took the senator's proffered hand. “I'll do everything in my power, Senator.”

  “Be sure that you do, Inspector,” Banks said dryly. “Be sure that you do.”

  Donovan quit the commissioner's office, pulling the door shut behind him. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He could hear the two men still talking on the other side of the door, but didn't wait around to hear what they had to say. He'd heard enough already. The commissioner was clearly moving in more significant circles these days. It was obvious to Donovan that this was not the first time the commissioner and Banks had met. He only hoped that whatever game Montague was playing, he knew what he was getting himse
lf into. Whatever Donovan thought of the old man, he knew he wasn't a crook.

  He wasn't sure he could say the same about Isambard Banks.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Peter Rutherford was feeling more than a little out of his depth.

  He was alone in a hostile country, his head full of state secrets, and he knew the authorities were on to him. That much had been made clear by the reaction of the British embassy when he'd tried to report in earlier that day. They had denied all knowledge of his existence, refusing to let him in through the doors.

  Just a day earlier, he'd been welcomed in with open arms and ushered to a back room where he'd been encouraged to use the holotube terminal to contact his handler back home. The staff at the embassy—people he'd been working alongside for months—had been proud to play a part in the protection of British interests, proud to welcome him into their midst, clapping him on the back and telling him what a stand-up job he was doing, how he was working on the front line for the good of the Empire.

  Today, however, those very same people had refused to acknowledge him, and that, Rutherford realized, was a very bad sign indeed. That meant they'd been leaned on by the US government and were now trying to protect him, to give him a signal that he needed to get out of New York as quickly as he could. If the US government knew there was an English spy in their midst, the embassy would eventually be forced into giving him up.

  He was under no illusion: he would be sacrificed to prevent a diplomatic incident, and the embassy would deny all knowledge of his actions. He'd be branded a renegade and hung out to dry. They would have no other option. Otherwise, given the tensions that already existed between the two nations, there was the potential for a full-blown outbreak of war.

  The irony was that war was exactly what Rutherford was attempting to prevent. If he couldn't get his warning to the people back home, everyone was in dire danger indeed.