by Andy Emery
‘You’d be surprised. And there’s something else. Something that Flynn obviously doesn’t even know about, because if he did, I’d have been strung up.’
She raised herself up on one elbow, pushing her fingers through his short hair. ‘What’s that?’
‘You know I told you I got my start in photography by inheriting the business from old man Lynam? All the equipment, the studio, some of the clients, too? That was true, but a lot of the stuff was old and decrepit. It had to be replaced. And Lynam had some debts that had to be settled.’
‘What about it?’
‘That money. I stole it.’
She withdrew her hand and fixed him with a stare. ‘Well, I’ve always known you’re not a saint, Leo, but what’s that got to do with Flynn?’
‘I stole it from Flynn, from the gang. Before I left.’
Ruby leapt up, snatching the sheet off the bed to cover her nakedness. She went to the window and stared out onto the dark street, shaking her head, her tousled red locks quivering. ‘Jesus Christ, Leo! You stole from that murderin’ bastard? The man who looks like he controls my future? What possessed you?’
‘It’s alright, Rube. It really is. He obviously doesn’t know about it. If he hasn’t worked it out after all these years, he’s not goin’ to now, is he? He said himself, there’s nobody left in the gang who’d remember me. So there’s nobody who might connect me with the money. We’re safe from that threat, at least.’
She shook her head. ‘So it’s just everything else we need to worry about?’
They looked at each other for a moment, then dissolved into manic laughter. Ruby let the sheet drop to the floor and clambered back onto the bed. ‘I think I know what we both need. It’s time to forget about all this, for a few hours at least. Come ’ere, you bloody idiot.’
23
Western Siberia, Russia
22nd October 1890
The rickety covered cart picks its way along the forest track. The driver weaves to avoid the numerous potholes, moving slowly to prevent the metal tyres slipping on the ice.
Gaunt, forty-feet-high fir trees line the road. Every few minutes, an overloaded branch releases a mini avalanche of snow.
In the cab, the civilian driver sits beside one of the guards. Behind them and separated from them by a wooden partition, the work party is huddled together. Eight prisoners sitting on two low benches facing each other. Each set of four has their legs manacled together. Another bench at the rear of the vehicle bears two more guards, their rifles at the ready.
With their eyes on the prisoners, the guards have been keeping up a stream of complaints and invective, aimed equally at the uselessness of their captives and the harsh conditions of the area. Most of the prisoners are asleep or nearly so, their heads lolling from side to side.
One of the custodians, a sharp featured, weaselly individual, removes a hip flask from inside his padded jacket, and takes a sip. He licks his lips and passes it to the other guard, who grabs it off him and takes an almighty swig.
‘Kamkov, you fat pig! Give it back! It’s mine!’ The smaller man lunges at the other, who holds the flask at arm’s length away from the weasel, chortling and taunting him.
Neither of them see Volkov make his move.
It has been three weeks since they started these wood-gathering trips. Time enough for Volkov to come up with a plan. Finally, he has been fortunate enough to be placed in one of the positions nearest the guards.
Now, with the rifles carried by both guards pointing away from the prisoners, Volkov grabs the butt of the weasel’s gun, and wrenches it from his grasp. Paunchy Kamkov realises the danger quickest, drops the flask, and moves to bring his own rifle to bear.
Too late. Volkov had marvelled that the authorities hadn’t thought to manacle the prisoners’ wrists as well as their ankles, and that poor decision is crucial to his plan. It allows him to swing the gun round and fire straight into the belly of the chubby guard, sending his innards splattering over the canvas behind him. The weasel shrieks and rears back in terror, holding his hands up in supplication, or as some pathetic attempt to stop the bullet. Volkov raises the barrel a couple of inches and blows half of his head off.
The driver spins round, as the guard next to him yells. ‘Keep your eyes on the road! Stop this bloody thing!’
But the horses propelling the vehicle have panicked at the gunshots. They are rearing and bucking, losing their grip on the slippery surface. A patch of black ice, and the wheels lose their grip. The cart slides, hits the edge of a huge pothole, and topples over into the ditch bordering the forest.
A crow flaps down and lands on the logging road. Light snow flurries blow in from the north. The bird pecks at some fragment of a deceased mammal, then cocks its head to one side. A harsh, grating noise emerges from the inside of the truck lying at the forest’s edge.
Inside, Volkov continues to wear away at the manacle with the stolen file. He ignores the groans from several of the other prisoners, who were hurled against the back of the cab in the impact. He'd been fortunate to be at the back. After the truck had come to rest following the crash, he'd had the rifle at the ready, expecting the guard who'd been in the cab to appear. But nobody came; the guard must have been badly injured at the very least.
He continues to rasp away, the fatigue in his hand a minor irritation. Just a fraction of an inch of metal left, and he’ll be free.
‘Me next, Volkov. Yes?’ Cheremukin pleads, still chained and bearing a deep gash across his forehead. Volkov had been forced to accept the scrawny wretch as a kind of ally, after he had stolen the vital file from another prisoner. Cheremukin seemed to have developed a disturbing admiration for Volkov.
‘Yes. You next. You didn't think I’d leave you here to rot?’
The file bites through the last sliver of metal and the manacle slips away, clunking on the floor. Volkov allows himself a wide grin.
He holds up a hand to forestall any further pleas by Cheremukin, and makes his way towards the front, checking on each of the other prisoners. Having satisfied himself that none would survive the hours or days it will take for the vehicle to be found, he pushes the two dead guards out of the way, parts the canvas at the back of the truck and eases himself down onto the road.
He turns to Cheremukin. ‘I’ll be back.’
The two occupants of the cab are both dead, the third guard's head lying at an impossible angle to the rest of his body. In front, a wheezing sound comes from one of the horses; it’s badly injured and trapped in the ditch by a tangle of reins and harness. The other horse must have been able to get free and run off.
The crow screeches overhead as Volkov returns to the back of the cart and climbs inside.
Cheremukin looks up at him. ‘Alright? Safe for us to get away?’
Volkov doesn’t reply. He turns away from his accomplice and bends down.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand about your plan, Volkov. How are we going to get back to civilisation? We’re hundreds of miles from anywhere, in a frozen wasteland. I know you take account of everything, so how are we going to do it?’
Volkov stands up, still with his back to Cheremukin.
‘You’re right. I do take account of everything. Quite perspicacious in your way, aren’t you? Early on I realised that it would be difficult for the two of us to survive out here for long enough to reach some sort of sanctuary. In fact, I believe it’s next to impossible.’
Cheremukin let a nervous laugh escape his lips. ‘But not absolutely impossible, eh? Or what are we doing here?’
After a couple of seconds of silence, Volkov turns. ‘Well, you are here because of this file.’ He holds up the tool. ‘But it has served its purpose.’
‘What do you mean? My manacles! You still need to free me.’
Volkov forms his mouth into a thin and humourless smile. ‘Actually, I have a better idea. My odds of getting out of this wilderness and continuing the war against the Tsar will be immeasurably improved w
ithout you, a man who has never known the outdoor life and, apart from anything else, has so little meat on him, no stores of energy.’
He moves a step closer to Cheremukin, who shuffles backwards.
‘For god’s sake, this can’t be happening! What a fool I’ve been!’
Volkov shrugs, then nods as if in agreement. He steps forward, grabs Cheremukin by the scruff of the neck and raises him off the floor.
‘A few months ago, I wouldn’t have done this. Comradeship, noble sacrifice for one’s brothers. Those were my principles. But your portly friend Maliutin was right. Something changed in the fort. Up here.’ He taps his head, and looks straight through Cheremukin, as though he is seeing a feared adversary clearly, but many miles away. ‘Those principles are luxuries that can’t be justified. Even logic itself breaks down eventually. Everything is subordinate to one’s primal urges. And that’s how it should be.’
‘You’re raving. Please, just leave me here and go. You’re right. You’ll be better on your own. Go now, Volkov.’
Volkov shakes his head. ‘No. In your case I need to be absolutely sure.’
He brings the sharp end of the file around in a curve, thrusting it up under Cheremukin’s ribcage.
He sits and watches the life ebb away from his former co-conspirator, then stands again and looks around. ‘You’re right about one thing, Cheremukin. It’s a long way back, and it’ll be hard to find food. Better if I have a full stomach to start the journey.’
He turns to the body of the fat guard who was the first to die, and searches through his pockets, finding a sharp-looking knife. He unbuttons the man’s coat and rips open his tunic jacket and shirt.
He makes an incision from the base of the guard’s ribcage down through his stomach.
24
Cotter sat up in bed. ‘So, this magic book could be pretty valuable to the right buyer.’
Ruby rolled over and hauled herself upright, plumping a pillow behind her back. ‘How valuable, Leo?’
‘Oh, they say you can’t be exact about it. But they reckon several thousand pounds.’
‘Bloody ’ell! Thousands? For a daft book about stuff that’s not true?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s no accountin’ for some people. But apart from the money, there’s some nutcases who want it for what they think it can do. Conjure up demons or some such. And they’ll kill to get their hands on it.’
In the corridor outside the bedroom door, Michael O’Neill smiled as he listened, with the aid of a grubby glass pressed against the wall. He’d crept up the stairs a few minutes earlier, moving as silently as possible, out of habit. He’d come to see Ruby, but in the near-silent rooming house he’d heard the muffled sound of a conversation coming from her room, and had fetched the glass from a common bathroom at the end of the hall.
At first, he’d been annoyed to hear Cotter’s voice, but the comment about this magic book had intrigued him. He couldn’t care less about the superstitious nonsense, of course, but if its value was anywhere near what Cotter had claimed, it would be a huge feather in O’Neill’s cap to get to the book before anyone else, and sell it to a generous buyer. He had no idea how to identify such a client, of course, but he’d found that a little pressure applied in the right places usually yielded results.
Cotter and Ruby had drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms, and were startled awake as the door was kicked open.
O’Neill stepped in. ‘Ah, the young lovers!’ He surveyed the room and grinned at the couple’s discarded clothing.
Ruby shrank under the sheet and pulled it up around her chin.
Cotter sat up. ‘O’Neill! What the hell are you doing? This is low, even for you!’
‘Calm down, cockney sparrow. I just wanted to congratulate the two of you. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy together. Although for how long…’
Cotter frowned. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just musing on the temporary nature of things. I’m something of a philosopher, didn’t you know that? And this is an interesting situation, don’t you think? Some would call it compromising, but we’re all adults here. Or nearly so, in the case of young Ruby here. More important is what I just happened to overhear you saying about this valuable book. Grimoire, is it? An intriguing object, and no mistake.’
Cotter’s eyes flitted from O’Neill to Ruby and back again. ‘What do you want, O’Neill?’
‘Use your imagination. I’m a bandit, a rascal, some might even say a… criminal. Tends to mean I’m interested in items that are worth a fortune, especially those that not many people know about. But don’t you worry. I won’t tell a soul. Honest.’
A wide grin spread over his face. He doffed his green hat, slipped out of the door and closed it gently behind him.
Gedge opened the front door to find it was Jack Cross who’d been furiously knocking. A constable stood beside him.
‘At last! Get yourself ready. We’ve had a tip-off about a robbery that’s supposed to happen any time now, over near St Paul’s.’
‘Is it to do with the cult?’
‘The location is the Simcox Auction Rooms, and the reason I think you’ll be interested is they’re taking delivery of a consignment of Egyptian artefacts, specially imported to sell on. I’ve seen the catalogue, and it includes a number of shabti like those you’ve described. Seems an unlikely coincidence. And it’s within striking distance for our wolf-headed friends.’
‘You’ve convinced me. And I’ll fetch Darius.’
‘More the merrier. The big man’s contribution will be most welcome. But hurry up. Constable Haddow and I are waiting for you!’
As they took their seats aboard the hansom, Cross turned to Gedge. ‘There’s something else. Demeter sent me a note to say Theodore Levitt wants to see you again. He has something more to tell, it seems.’
Gedge nodded. ‘Things seem to be happening at a faster pace now. Well, he’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’
They covered the mile or so across London through heavy traffic. Darius was agitated throughout the journey, clearly not feeling the hansom driver was making quick enough progress.
Cross announced that they were getting close to the auction rooms.
Gedge took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to get my hands on one or two of those so-called Death Dogs. They seem to be the enforcers. But who’s at the top of this “Mystical Order”?’
Cross shrugged. ‘No idea. But when we do get hold of one of those masked buggers, we’ll sweat him for information, have no doubt of that. Here we are.’
The cab slowed and stopped opposite the entrance to a mews.
Cross looked out. ‘One side is terraced housing, but the other’s devoted to the storage facilities of Simcox Fine Art Auctioneers. Wait here. I’ll take a look.’
He slipped out and crossed the road, returning a couple of minutes later.
‘We’re in luck. The delivery hasn’t arrived yet, and there’s no sign of any miscreants.’
‘Let’s hope they haven’t been lurking nearby and seen us.’
Cross nodded. ‘And let’s also hope this isn’t a wild goose chase. Still, assuming we are in for some action tonight, here’s the good news. The houses opposite the warehouse have tiny gardens in front of them, bordered by a low wall. That’ll be an ideal place to conceal ourselves. Driver, take the hansom round the corner out of sight.’
They took up position in their hiding place. Within ten minutes, a panelled delivery cart pulled into the mews. It trundled to a halt beside the double doors to the Simcox establishment, prompting someone from inside to push the doors open. Two men climbed down from the cart and one opened its rear doors while the other went into the repository.
The inside of the cart was full of packing cases, each adorned with coloured labels.
As the men started to pull the boxes out, Gedge heard a sound from their left, the direction of the entrance to the mews. He gestured to Darius, Cross, and Haddow, and they all peered into the gloom, just bey
ond the glow of the gas lamps on the main road.
The shapes of four men crept into the mews. The heads looked a little too big for their bodies, an effect produced by the Death Dog masks.
Cross kept his voice to a whisper, mainly for the benefit of his nervous-looking constable. ‘Any moment now.’
The Death Dogs let out cries and rushed the cart. Fear washed over the faces of the men doing the unloading, as they looked up and saw the canine faces bearing down on them. One of them was knocked to the ground and the other turned and ran to the other end of the mews. A bigger man emerged from the Simcox premises and looked belligerent, but a Death Dog pulled a revolver out of his coat and aimed it at him.
‘Get back inside, or I’ll drop you. It’s not worth it, mate. We’re going to take what we’ve come to get. You can keep the rest.’
The man did as he was told.
Cross glanced at Gedge. ‘Now!’
The four men vaulted over the wall. Gedge targeted the man with the revolver, who had been facing away, but wheeled round to face him. He grabbed the man’s gun hand just in time, forcing it up as the bullet flew harmlessly into the night sky. They went down, wrestling on the cobbles.
The man was wiry but strong, and it took all of Gedge’s strength to hold onto him as he struggled to bring the pistol to bear again, spewing a string of expletives. Gedge could hear the sounds of his friends involved in their own confrontations, and was vaguely aware of lights coming on and curtains being drawn back in the residences just across the courtyard. He was so focused on the man’s gun that he released his hold on his opponent’s left hand and felt a jerk and a sharp pain in his side. He’d been stabbed.
Summoning up his remaining reserves of strength, he smashed the Dog’s pistol hand onto the cobbles, causing the gun to come free and slide several feet under the cart, then thumped the man in the stomach. His adversary hissed in pain inside his mask and dropped the knife. He looked up and shouted. ‘That’s the one, Joe! Go on, run!’