Assassin’s Creed®

by Oliver Bowden

  And then, Aubrey’s eyes opened.

  46

  Months passed. In May the Chancellor of the Exchequer Gladstone declared himself delighted after taking the first full journey on the new underground railway. He and various other Metropolitan dignitaries, including John Fowler, Charles Pearson and Cavanagh, had travelled the entire length of the line, all four miles of it, from the Bishop’s Road station in Paddington, through tunnels and other half-built stations – Edgware Road, Baker Street, Portland Road, Gower Street, King’s Cross – and lastly to Farringdon Street in the city. A journey of some eighteen minutes or so.

  Gladstone’s seal of approval was important to the Metropolitan, especially as the Prime Minister, Palmerston, had always been rather sniffy about the project, declaring that at his age he wanted to spend as much time as possible above ground, thank you very much. But Gladstone’s approval gave a boost to a project that was otherwise greeted with at best mild suspicion and apathy by the general public and at worst outright hatred and hostility.

  However, the railway’s reputation was dented further when, the following month, the Fleet sewer burst. The brick pipes through which London’s ‘foul black river’ flowed had been weakened and eventually broke, water and filth flooding the tunnel to a depth of ten feet, putting the project back by months while remedial work was carried out.

  And then, early one morning in late July, the Clarence belonging to Mr Cavanagh of the Metropolitan Railway left the site, bearing its owner to St Katherine Docks.

  There the carriage waited for a ship to discharge its cargo, which in this case was three Indian men in brown suits, two of whom were escorting a third man, who they delivered to the Clarence, taking their leave with a bow and returning to their ship.

  The new arrival took a seat across from Cavanagh, who had loosened his jacket but otherwise made no concession to the July heat.

  ‘Hello, Ajay,’ said Cavanagh.

  Ajay looked at him flatly. ‘I was promised money. Lodgings. A new life here in London.’

  ‘And we were promised the full benefit of your knowledge with regard to Jayadeep Mir,’ said Cavanagh, and then pulled the cord and sat back as Hardy shook the reins and they made their return to the site. ‘Let’s see if we can both abide by the terms of the agreement, shall we?’

  A short while later the carriage came to a halt outside the rail works and Ajay was directed to look out of the window. As arranged, Marchant brought the unsuspecting Bharat Singh to a designated spot some one hundred yards away on the other side of the fence, close enough for Ajay to see.

  ‘That’s our man,’ said Cavanagh.

  ‘And what does he call himself?’ asked Ajay.

  ‘He goes by the name Bharat Singh.’

  ‘Then that must have been something of a comedown for him,’ said Ajay, who pulled down the blind and settled back into his seat, ‘because that man is Jayadeep Mir.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Cavanagh. ‘Now, how about you tell me everything you know about him?’

  There was a trick the gangs used when they wanted information. ‘Two birds’ they called it. Gang members would take two unlucky souls to the roof, throw one of them off and make the other one watch.

  Two birds. One of them flies, one of them sings.

  Ajay had been outside the door when Kulpreet died her honourable death. He had seen what lay in store for him: either the world’s most painful manicure or death.

  And then he made them his offer. They could torture him, and good luck to them if they tried, for he’d do everything to resist, and if their questioning was successful they’d get what they needed to know but nothing else besides, and they’d never be sure if it was the truth or not.

  Or … if they met his demands, then he would tell them everything they needed to know and a lot more besides.

  So the Templars had it put about that Ajay had died in the alley, and the Assassin – now an ex-Assassin, a traitor – was given passage to London.

  And there outside the railway he upheld his side of the bargain and told Cavanagh everything. He told them that the man they knew as Bharat Singh was, in fact, Jayadeep Mir. He told them that Jayadeep had been imprisoned because of a failure of nerve, and Cavanagh had been most interested in that particular aspect of the story, before Ajay went on to tell him that Jayadeep had been delivered into the custody of Ethan Frye for a mission. More than that he did not know.

  ‘A mission?’ mused Cavanagh, staring with interest at The Ghost, seeing him anew. ‘An undercover mission, perhaps?’

  Cavanagh’s mind went to the information relayed by the punishers. The two Hardys and Smith had returned from questioning Constable Aubrey Shaw with news that a man in robes was responsible for killing Robert Waugh, and now, with this latest piece of information, things had finally fallen into place.

  How ironic. Their newest recruit, who had curried favour with them by killing a traitor, did so with treachery on his own mind – and was not even responsible for the kill.

  All in all, thought Cavanagh, it was a delightful outcome. He had long since decided that when he killed Crawford Starrick and wrested the position of Grand Master from him, when he had the artefact and was the most powerful man not just in London but in the known world of the Knights Templar, that his first order of business would be to smash what remained of the Assassin resistance in his city.

  Here, though, was a chance to do both simultaneously, an opportunity to ascend to the rank of Grand Master with a feather in his cap as well as the artefact to prove his suitability for the role. In one fell swoop he would secure command of the rite as well as the respect of its membership. Oh yes, this was most opportune.

  ‘And now for your side of the bargain,’ said Ajay.

  ‘Yes, my side of the bargain.’

  The door to the carriage opened, and there stood Hardy. ‘I promised you riches and lodgings in London, and you shall have them, on one condition.’

  Guarded and ready for the double-cross, with an escape route in mind, Ajay said, ‘Yes, and what is that?’

  ‘That you continue to tell us everything you can about the Brotherhood.’

  Ajay relaxed. They would keep him alive that long, at least. Plenty of time to make his escape.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

  47

  Months passed, during which Aubrey stayed in Freddie Abberline’s rooms and Freddie nursed him back to health. Aubrey had fewer teeth and spoke differently, as though his tongue was too big for his mouth, and there were other injuries besides, but he was alive. And there was a lot to be said for that. And he was a good companion, and Abberline soon found that there was a lot to be said for that too.

  One night, a fortnight or so after the beating, Abberline had brought Aubrey some broth, leaving it on a bedside table, and thinking him asleep was about to depart when he looked at his friend’s face and saw it wet with tears.

  He cleared his throat and looked down at his stockinged feet. ‘Um, are you all right there, me old mate? You getting a bit of the old bad-memory gubbins, are you? Thinking back to what happened?’

  Aubrey winced with pain as he nodded yes, and then through broken teeth said, ‘I told them everything, Freddie. It weren’t a lot, but I sang like a bird.’

  Abberline had shrugged. ‘Good luck to ’em. Hope it means more to them than it does to either of us.’

  ‘But I told them. I told them everything.’ Aubrey was wracked by a sob, his bruised face crumpling with the shame of it.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ said Abberline, perching on the edge of the mattress. He reached fo
r Aubrey’s hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, mate. Anyway, you had no choice. And look, something tells me that our friend in robes can look after himself.’

  He sat like that for a while, in silence, grateful for the comfort they each provided. And then Abberline had helped Aubrey with his broth before taking his leave, telling his friend that he needed his rest.

  Meanwhile, Aubrey was listed as missing. ‘Missing, presumed bored of police work and retiring to the Green Man for good’ was the rumour, but Abberline knew different. He knew that the point of the attack was to send a message, and to all intents and purposes, he heeded the warning. No more site visits for him. By complete coincidence the division sergeant had assigned him a different beat, one that took him nowhere near the rail works. ‘Just in case you get tempted,’ was what he’d said as he delivered the news.

  You’re in it up to your eyeballs, aren’t you? was what Abberline had thought, staring with concealed fury across the table at his division sergeant. But he walked his beat, and when his shift was done he went home to peel off his uniform, check Aubrey was all right and then ignored the other man’s warnings and returned to the rail works. Every night, hidden in the shadows. A lone vigil of what, he didn’t know, but a vigil nevertheless.

  Aubrey was up and about by now, albeit with limited locomotion, and later the two men would sit before the fire, having a chinwag. Abberline would talk about the case. He was consumed by it. Aubrey talked of little else but his family and, more to the point, when he would see them again.

  ‘No, Aubs, I’m sorry,’ Abberline told him, ‘but those geezers left you for dead and if you turn up alive they’ll want to finish the job. You’re staying here until this thing is over.’

  ‘But when will it be over, Freddie?’ said Aubrey. He shifted painfully in his chair. Though his face showed no signs of his ordeal apart from the criss-crossing of scars left on his cheek by the brass knuckledusters, his insides had taken a pummelling, and there was a pain in his hip that seemed in no danger of going. It made it difficult to walk; it even made it difficult to sit still at times, and every time he winced with the pain of it, his mind went back to an anonymous darkened room and the relentless thump of fists ramming into a soft body that belonged to him.

  Aubrey would never walk the beat again, but thanks to a combination of the punishers’ carelessness and Abberline’s care he was alive, and he never forgot to be grateful for that. On the other hand, what was life if it was a life spent without his loved ones?

  ‘Just how do you think this whole thing – whatever this “thing” is – is going to end?’ he said.

  Abberline reached towards the fire and gave his friend a mournful smile. ‘I don’t know, Aubs, is the truth. I don’t rightly know. But you mark my words, while I can’t lay claim to be on top of the situation, I’m there or thereabouts. I’ll know when it’s time, and I promise you we won’t lose a second getting you back to your family.’

  They had decided for safety’s sake that his wife and children couldn’t know he was alive, but it meant all four of them lived in purgatory. One day Abberline and Aubrey took a police growler out to Stepney and sat in the street so Aubrey might catch glimpses of his family through the windows. After two hours or so it had been too much for him and they had left.

  Abberline went to them with money and gifts. He took them Aubrey’s uniform. There was no light in Mrs Shaw’s eyes now. The visits were traumatic for her, she said. Every time she saw Abberline standing on the doorstep she thought the worst. ‘Because I know if he was alive he’d be with you. And when I see you alone, I think he’s not.’

  ‘He may still be alive.’ Abberline told her, ‘There’s always hope.’

  It was as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘You know the worst thing? It’s not having a body to bury.’

  ‘I know, Mrs Shaw, and I’m so, so sorry,’ said Abberline, and then left, happy to escape the weight of grief for a man who was not only alive but enjoying the relative comfort and warmth of Abberline’s rooms. Taking with him the guilt of having to lie.

  It was for the greater good. It was for the safety of them all that Cavanagh and co. thought this particular loose end had been tied. But still. The guilt.

  48

  ‘You are to be inducted into the Knights Templar,’ said Cavanagh. He, Marchant and two of the punishers – Hardy was missing – had taken The Ghost away from his duties and to a corner of the excavation site, to all intents and purposes conducting an impromptu works meeting.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said The Ghost. He bowed his head low, hating himself at that moment. When his eyes returned to Cavanagh he saw something unreadable in the man’s eyes, like a distant mocking.

  ‘But first, I have a job for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied The Ghost. He maintained a blank expression but inside his mind raced and he felt his pulse quicken, thinking, this is it.

  Indicating to his men to remain where they were, Cavanagh took The Ghost’s arm and began to lead him away from the group, towards the perimeter fence. There The Ghost could see Cavanagh’s Clarence. Tending to the horse was Hardy, who looked up at them briefly and then returned to brushing the nag’s mane.

  Away from the noise, Cavanagh no longer needed to raise his voice. ‘What I’m about to tell you is information known only to members of the Knights Templar. You are yet to be inducted and so, by rights, I shouldn’t be revealing this, but you’ve proved yourself an asset to my operation and your task is what we might call “time sensitive”. In other words it needs to happen before the Council can meet to ratify your induction. I am a man of instinct and I prefer to act on it. I have faith in you, Bharat. I see much of myself in you.’

  The Ghost allowed himself a feeling of triumph. Everything he had done, the months of living in the tunnel, of building a life as Bharat Singh, had all been leading to this moment.

  Cavanagh continued. ‘This dig you’ve been involved in, perhaps you might have guessed, given my involvement, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. The railway will of course be finished, and it will of course be a success, but there is, believe it or not, an ulterior motive behind its construction.’

  The Ghost nodded.

  ‘The Knights Templar in London are in search of an artefact believed to be buried along the line. Pinpointing its exact location has proved to be a demanding task. Let’s just say that, in my opinion at least, Lucy Thorne’s exalted position within the Order is not fully deserved. Certainly not on this showing.’

  ‘Lucy Thorne, sir?’

  Cavanagh shot him a quick look and The Ghost had to suppress a nervous swallow. Was the director trying to catch him off-guard?

  ‘All in good time,’ said Cavanagh. ‘You have the delights of the ruling council to come. For the time being all you need to know is that Lucy Thorne is among a cadre of high-ranking Templars whose job it is to locate the artefact.’

  ‘This … artefact, sir, what does it do?’

  ‘Well, you see, this is the trouble with scrolls, isn’t it? They’re so damnably ambiguous. The details are left to the imagination, I’m afraid; the scrolls simply say that great power will come to whoever has it in their possession. And it may not surprise you to know that I intend to be the one in possession of it. Who I have at my side when that day comes will very much depend.’

  ‘I hope it will be me, sir,’ said The Ghost.

  He glanced over to where the Clarence was tethered. Hardy was replacing the horse brush in the carriage stowage box, but as The Ghost watched he took something else from the box and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Well
, as I say, that will very much depend,’ said Cavanagh.

  The two men walked a few more paces, The Ghost keeping an eye on Hardy. The punisher seemed to have finished grooming the horse. Now he checked the harness buckles. And now he was leaving the carriage enclosure and making his way towards the gate, shouldering a match girl out of his way and kicking awake a navvy who leaned on the gatepost with a railwayman’s cap pulled over his eyes.

  ‘On what will it depend, sir?’

  ‘On how well you perform your task.’

  Hardy was crossing the mudflats some fifty yards away.

  ‘And what task is that, sir?’

  ‘You are to kill Charles Pearson.’

  Lately they had judged it too risky to meet; The Ghost, in particular, wanted to leave nothing to chance. But this was different. This represented a major escalation of events and he needed Ethan’s counsel, and so, after an exchange of gravestone positions in the Marylebone churchyard, the two Assassins convened at Leinster Gardens.

  ‘Why?’ asked Ethan. ‘Why kill Pearson?’

  ‘The rite commands it, so Mr Cavanagh says.’

  ‘Too much of a philanthropist for their taste, eh? Christ, they won’t even let him see his beloved railway open.’

  ‘Cavanagh has the details worked out, master. Now that work has resumed after the Fleet sewer burst, he wants to demonstrate to Mr Pearson that the line between King’s Cross and Farringdon Street is fully operational. What’s more, he has a new enclosed carriage to show off, and he plans a train ride to Farringdon Street and back. But at the end of the journey, when Mr and Mrs Pearson make their way back to their carriage, I am to kill him.’

  ‘But not Mrs Pearson?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a long silence, and then The Ghost spoke. ‘What do you think?’

  Ethan took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s not a trap, not in the sense that they want to do you down; they could call you into the office for that. What it is, is a test.’