by Kage Baker
Bell-Fairfax looked away. “I would like to think so, sir.”
“So should I,” said Ludbridge, wrenching the wire from the windowsill with a savage gesture and pulling the curtain shut. “But I’d be a fool to count on it.”
They returned to the room below and kept the fire going, as another hour crept by. Which is to say, Bell-Fairfax kept the fire going, rising at intervals to throw on another shovelful of coal; Ludbridge settled into grim immobility, watching the panel under the stair with a fixed glare. The night without was as silent as though they were camped in a wilderness. In a sense they were, for the house sat at the far edge of the chill splendid city, and though out on Nevsky Avenue lanterns still gleamed and droshkies still carried revelers to and fro, the immediate district could not have been darker or more deserted when it had been empty marshland. Its few denizens huddled by their hearths or stoves, behind curtains drawn against the dank night. No human voices without, not even the cry of a night-heron from the canal.
And then, the sound of hooves, the rattle and jingle of harness, the chime of wheels on macadam, all sounding surreal and distant. Ludbridge turned toward the door. Bell-Fairfax jumped to his feet.
“They’re singing,” he said.
“What?” But now Ludbridge heard it too: voices raised in song, loud and out of tune. A hoarse tenor chanting something in Russian, and with it a pair of baritones warbling nonsense words.
They heard the droshky stop in front of the house. The tenor went on singing a moment longer. Someone was making an effort to shush him. Ludbridge got up, clenching his fists. Bell-Fairfax, looking miserable, went to the door.
“Don’t open it yet,” Ludbridge told him.
“No, sir.” Bell-Fairfax stood back and waited.
The droshky creaked as passengers climbed out, and now staggering footsteps could be heard coming up the garden path. The Russian driver shouted something, presumably a fond farewell, and drove away.
“Always heard Russians were sha-shavages. Couldn’t have been a nicer chap!” Hobson said loudly.
“Shhh. Shh. ‘Member where we are, old man! Old Luddy won’t like this at all. At all. Where’s my key? Oh. Don’t have a key. Oh dear.”
“Open the door and pull them in,” said Ludbridge.
Bell-Fairfax obeyed, grabbing a collar each and dragging them across the threshold. Ludbridge swiftly closed and bolted the door behind them. Hobson and Pengrove stood blinking on the mat, swaying slightly. Both of them reeked of alcohol. Hobson clutched a wooden crate in his arms. He grinned.
“Hallo, fellows!” he said, and hiccuped.
“Look here, I’m really awfully sorry,” said Pengrove. “It took us a deucedly long time to evade the Yankee Doodle chap—and then—and then—”
“Bell-Fairfax, take the crate from him,” said Ludbridge.
“No, no, tha’s the only thing holdin’ me up, doncherknow!” said Hobson, and demonstrated the truth of his statement by promptly collapsing the moment Bell-Fairfax relieved him of the crate. He sprawled on his back, giggling. Bell-Fairfax looked into the crate. His eyes widened.
“It’s bottles of vodka, sir.”
“Now, you see, I can explain that—,” said Pengrove. Hobson pointed an unsteady finger at Ludbridge and guffawed.
“Y’look just like Father! Same drefful frown an’ thunderous eyes!”
“See, we had to step into this shop and wait while he went past, the Yankee I mean, only it was a shop that sold liquor—an’ the chap, the shopkeep I mean, he said we had to buy something if we were going to stop there—at least, I expect that was what he said, he was speakin’ their confounded lingo—an’—an’ we meant only to buy a bottle but I think he misunderstood—so anyway—”
“How many bottles are missing from the case?” Ludbridge asked Bell-Fairfax.
“Four, sir.”
“But two of ’em the driver had all by himself!” Pengrove hastened to explain. “See, we had this big crate then—an’ we thought we ought to hire one of their beastly open carriages, because we couldn’t possibly walk home with it—only the driver, he didn’t speak English either, and he ended up taking us a long way out in the country by mistake—and then he got quite cross with us, so we gave him some vodka.”
“Put the case in the cabinet yonder,” said Ludbridge. “Lock it, and bring me the key.”
“Yes, sir.”
“An’ we had to drink something to keep warm, you see. An’ at first the driver was quite cheerful, only then he grew melancholy and wept about something. So we had to stop while he dried his eyes. An’ then he was going to go kill himself by jumping in the river, at least I think that was what he was going to do, he had to pantomime it rather—so we had to stop him, didn’t we? An’ we drank a bit more to be, you know, companionable and we sang to him—we sang ‘Begone Dull Care.’ So then he was grateful and insisted on singing one for us.”
“The key, sir.” Bell-Fairfax presented it to Ludbridge, who fastened it to his watch chain.
“An’ then he wanted us to sing along, only of course we didn’t understand the lingo again so we just sort of la-la’d at the chorus—it went on for a great many choruses. Do hope the poor chap gets home all right. I say, Ludbridge, I know we oughtn’t to have done it like this but we couldn’t get the chap to leave us at the—the—oh, I don’t think I can say it properly. The museum place, you know. And I’m sorry about the state Johnny got himself in.” Pengrove tugged at his gloves fretfully. Hobson, who had fallen asleep on the floor, began snoring.
“We will discuss it at a more convenient time,” said Ludbridge. “Go to bed.”
“Yes, sir.” Pengrove turned sadly and climbed the stairs.
Bell-Fairfax looked down at Hobson. “Shall I carry him upstairs, sir?”
“No,” said Ludbridge, turning to climb the stairs himself. “Let him sleep where he is. Serve the beggar right.”
There was no explosion next morning. While they were cooking breakfast, Hobson groaned and sat up, green-faced at the smell of frying eggs. Ludbridge blandly offered him some dry toast and tea. Afterward Hobson was obliged to run out to the wash-house at the back of the premises, and returned some minutes later more gray than green. Ludbridge then invited him to go for a walk. They departed together down the tunnel. Pengrove and Bell-Fairfax played cards and waited, somewhat uneasy of mind.
“I say, I don’t think it’s quite fair for Johnny to get a smack with the cane, you know,” said Pengrove at last.
“Ludbridge won’t strike him. He’ll simply talk to him,” said Bell-Fairfax, shuddering. “What on earth possessed the two of you to do it?”
“Well, aren’t we supposed to be behaving like idiots? And I really tried to stop him drinking quite so much. But what was I to do, take the bottle away from him? I ain’t his mother. And it’s what a chap is supposed to do, ain’t it? Get drunk and have jolly adventures?”
“I don’t believe he’s feeling very jolly just now,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Oh! Here they come.”
Pengrove listened, but heard nothing. “That’s your bloody lynx ears again. It’s really not natural, old man. Oh. Wait. Here, let’s look as though we’re terribly preoccupied with our cards.”
Ludbridge and Hobson emerged from the passage in due course, Hobson once again a fearful shade of green. Ludbridge, wreathed in a cloud of infernal smoke, took his cigar from his mouth and inspected their cards, walking behind first Pengrove and then Bell-Fairfax.
“Rotten pair of hands,” he said, amiably enough. “There’s a Patchesi set in the cupboard. Care to have a go? We could all play.”
1850: Cruel Works of Many Wheels I View
After three or four days holed up in quarters, they were paid a visit by Nikitin and his assistant, Semyon Denisovich, who brought them a samovar and news.
“A certain Vladislav Antonovich Dolgorukov returned with the Americans from Constantinople, where he was posing as a minor functionary at our embassy there,” said Nikitin, removing his spec
tacles and polishing them. “You may have encountered him, I think? He arranges certain matters for the foreign policy staff. Rather as you may have done, from time to time.”
“I think we might have seen him,” Ludbridge admitted, remembering the dark house off the Cadde-i Kebir. “Not to speak to, however.”
“No, of course not. I should be rather alarmed if you had. His return is alarming in itself, because, like a sharp knife, he is only brought where he is meant to be used. A meat cleaver in the kitchen is one thing, but its presence in the parlor bears watching. If you had crossed Dolgorukov’s path, I would be a little concerned for your safety just now. And there is another thing.
“I am afraid we have confirmation that your Americans are now honored guests of His Majesty. They presented a letter of introduction from the former president Polk himself. Evidently he wished to assure the Czar of his warm regard for Rus sia. Reverend Breedlove has spoken long and persuasively about the sufferings of the Orthodox Christians in the Holy Land, pleading with the Czar to come to their assistance. I am pleased to note that there has been no offer of arcane weaponry, at least.
“And the last few days they have kept two of their number at the quay by the customs house, watching every ship’s crew that comes ashore. Interesting, no?”
“Interesting, yes, but if they haven’t got the Franklins’ machines to offer him, what does your czar want with Brother Jonathan?” said Ludbridge. “A set of heavily armed Baptists could be useful, I suppose, but I should think Rus sia has enough homegrown brutes in her ranks.”
“His Majesty has an abiding fondness for placing spies in the great capitals of Europe,” explained Nikitin. “We believe he is now considering drafting these gentlemen to be his eyes and ears in the United States. Certainly he is making much of them.”
“But there aren’t any great capitals in America, are there?” said Pengrove. “Lot of forests and swamps and, er, bison. And Red Indians. What do the Americans want with Rus sia?”
“Perhaps an ally against the powers of Europe,” said Nikitin. “The two nations have certain, ah, institutions in common.”
“The Americans keep slaves,” said Bell-Fairfax, with loathing.
“And we keep serfs,” said Nikitin, with a slight bow in his direction. “Not quite the same thing, but equally regrettable. I might add to the similarities a proudly ignorant and deeply religious peasantry, a vast uncivilized interior, and a cultural elite clustered in one city on its seacoast. Add to this a common distrust of Western Europe, and . . . I believe the situation is worth our concern.”
“Hm! Perhaps you’re right.” Ludbridge tugged at his mustache. “We’ll certainly pass the word to London. Any word back from the Franklins?”
Nikitin nodded. “They apologize for all the trouble. They lost two men in Constantinople, apparently, but they assure us that the filibusters know nothing about pyrethanatos or any other advanced weapons. They say they are sending someone to deal with the situation.”
“I should hope so!” said Ludbridge. “Well. See what you can discover with transmitters properly placed? And how is your listening post progressing?”
“There we have better news for you! Tell them, Semyon Denisovich.”
His assistant, a lean sad-eyed youth, cleared his throat. “Our Department of Fabrication has put together six new receivers, sir. We are installing them in the listening post at the cathedral this very day, and would be happy to give your technician a tour of the station in the hope that he will lend us his expertise.”
“That’s you, Hobson.” Ludbridge turned to survey Hobson, who had been sitting listlessly by the stove. “Care to get out and about a bit?”
“I should very much like to.” Hobson jumped up. “I’ve been so dreadfully bored, you know!”
“Well, now you’ve something useful to do. What about placing new transmitters for you?” Ludbridge turned back to Semyon Denisovich, but Nikitin spoke.
“That is somewhat more complicated. I am afraid that the Americans have reported you to His Majesty as possible spies. Members of the Third Section have already sought for you at the Commercial Club and all the other places frequented by the English residents. There is also the matter of whatever Dolgorukov may be up to. Since, under the circumstances, it is inadvisable for you to walk abroad by daylight . . . how well do you see in the dark?”
Ludbridge smiled. “Rather well, in fact.”
“It’s like a perfectly immense wedge of cheese,” said Pengrove in a whisper, peering up at the War Office. They had gone around the building complex twice now, waiting for the few late-night pedestrians to wander out of earshot. At the moment they stood in the shadows of the scaffolding about the cathedral across the street.
“It’s an efficient and rational design for a building on a triangular lot,” said Ludbridge, watching in annoyance as an ancient crossing-sweeper toddled away down Isaac Avenue. “There! Western face of the building, Bell-Fairfax. First target?”
“Western face? Third floor, eleventh window from the left,” Bell-Fairfax replied promptly.
“And of course you recall it with perfect accuracy after having looked at the chart only once,” said Pengrove with resignation, taking aim with the crossbow. He fired and, a second later, they heard the tiny thud of impact as the transmitter-dart embedded itself in the wooden frame of the dark window.
“Well done,” said Ludbridge.
“It’s not as hard as all that,” said Bell-Fairfax, defensive. “You simply convert what you see to a mathematical formula. Same as memorizing charts. I’m sure anyone could do it.”
“Yes, yes, no doubt, but in the meanwhile it’s exceedingly convenient that you can,” said Ludbridge, watching the street. He handed another transmitter to Pengrove, who reloaded. “Second target?”
“Western face, second floor, third window from the right.”
Pengrove took aim and fired, neatly hitting the window frame. “Next?”
“North face.”
“Damn. Less cover over there. Very well, no help for it. Disguises at the ready? Go.” They trudged all three toward the open square between the Admiralty building and the northern side of the War Office. The Kabinet of Wonders had provided them with laborers’ garments and the gear of those squads sent out to repair the streets at night: tools and a net bag full of the curious wooden paving blocks used in certain parts of the city.
Even Nevsky Avenue was silent and deserted at this hour, lit far down by a few lanterns. No one was awake to watch them when they paused midway across the square. “Northeast face, second floor, ninth window from the right,” said Bell-Fairfax.
Ludbridge gave another transmitter to Pengrove, who drew the crossbow from his pocket, loaded hastily, aimed and fired.
“Oh, good shot. Ah-ah-ah, here comes a watchman.” Ludbridge opened the shutter on their dark lantern and held it low to the ground. They were all crouched over, minutely examining the paving blocks, when the watchman strode up and demanded that they identify themselves. Bell-Fairfax looked up and meekly responded, for he had been spending a few hours daily learning Russian from Semyon Denisovich.
The Russian nodded at his reply, said something in an imperative tone of voice, and pointed in the direction of Voznesensky Avenue, on the eastern side of the War Office. Bell-Fairfax dropped his eyes and nodded. The watchman set out across the square, clearly intending that they should follow him, so they did. It took him a moment of casting about on Voznesensky Avenue to find what he sought, but at last he stopped and pointed downward at a particular spot on the paving. Ludbridge shuffled close and held out the lantern. Its strip of light revealed a paving block protruding up from its fellows by a good quarter-inch.
“Da, da!” said Ludbridge, and Bell-Fairfax drew out a mallet. He said something further to the watchman, who walked away, apparently satisfied. Bell-Fairfax pounded the block down. The mallet-blows echoed across the wide empty street. Ludbridge fished out another transmitter and handed it to Pengrove, who reloade
d.
“Target?” whispered Ludbridge.
“Eastern face? Er, third floor, first window on the right,” said Bell-Fairfax. He held the mallet poised to deliver the final blow just as Pengrove fired, and the faint sound of the bolt hitting home was neatly masked by the rolling echo.
“Fortuitous,” said Ludbridge, picking up the lantern once again. “Shall we toddle on?”
They landed bolts in two of the windowsills at the Admiralty, and then ventured east to the vast square dominated by the Alexander column, where they proceeded slowly along in front of the Senate building, choosing carefully among its thousands of windows to sink bolts in the frames of the three specially requested by the Kabinet.
“Any more on the list?” inquired Ludbridge, as they paused at the base of the column.
“Only two, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Rather difficult, however.”
“Eh? Why’s that?”
Bell-Fairfax pointed to the Winter Palace, looming before them on the north side of the square.
“Hell.” Ludbridge rubbed his face with both hands. “They want transmitters planted in the Czar’s rooms, don’t they?”
“Only one, sir. They asked if we mightn’t plant the other in the telegraph station on the roof.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy, won’t it? We’re not breaking and entering, I don’t think.”
“We won’t have to, sir. The royal quarters have windows in the western face of the palace.”
“Jolly good,” said Pengrove, in a sepulchral voice. “Perhaps you can sing a few comic songs to distract the palace guard, Ludbridge.”
They walked across to the park in front of the Admiralty, and lurked under the trees there while contemplating their targets. There was a canister-shaped turret on the northern end of the roof, clearly the telegraph station. Directly below were the windows of the royal apartments. Pengrove giggled helplessly.
“Can’t do it, Ludbridge, not with this little pea-shooter.”
“You’re right.” Ludbridge turned to Bell-Fairfax, who promptly shrugged out of his long coat. Bound to his back underneath was another crossbow, considerably bigger than the one Pengrove had been concealing in his pocket. He unfastened it, swung it over his shoulder and cranked its bow taut. Ludbridge handed him a bolt. He loaded it, took aim at the telegraph station, and fired.