The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  Lillian was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate. The cigar smoke was irritating; the pain in her arm was intense. She wanted nothing more than to go home for a hot bath and a hearty meal. But instead she had to listen to news of yet more horrors let loose upon a world already saturated with evil.

  Lillian was thankful when John answered for them. ‘You mean to say that the Majestic I saw at the factory could have been a vampire himself? One of the living dead?’

  ‘It seems a strong possibility, particularly as you say that he commanded the creatures so easily. But understand this: we have had very few confirmed sightings of vampires. In fact, this Majestic represents only the second of his kind that we have ever heard of, the first being so long ago it is barely given a credible place in the Order’s records. And believe me, from what we know, these creatures are not the romantic, blood-sucking revenants of the penny dreadfuls. Beneath the veneer of humanity they are lifeless, soulless, and without compassion or mirth. Isn’t that right, Lord Cherleten?’

  ‘Oh, for the most part,’ the peer replied. ‘Though I wager they take their pleasures in their own particular way. I imagine they made a bit of sport of these two. How fortunate for us that they underestimated the intrepid lieutenant.’

  How long must we suffer his prattling? Lillian swayed slightly.

  ‘These creatures are not merely the blood-sucking undead that the more fanciful stories tell of. And their origins may be somewhat more natural than you would care to believe,’ Cherleten was only getting warmed up, it seemed. ‘Tales of vampires have been told around the world since before the birth of Christ, and indeed the Knights Iscariot claim to be descended from the very disciple for whom they are named—the blood of Judas is said to run in the veins of the creatures who control the ancient order, which makes their treachery against the Crown today hardly surprising. Tales of vampires, however, long predate these so-called knights. The Anglo-Saxons of our own isles spoke of nocturnal, blood-drinking half-men. Across Europe they are the upir, the wampyr, the dearg-due and the strigoi; in Africa the ramanga; in India the vetala. Even in South America, the most ancient cultures that we know of told of vampires called the cihuateteo, dead creatures that would impregnate the living with their spawn. I like that one in particular… so deliciously depraved, don’t you agree? Although I suppose the best of all are the lamia of Greece; for how poetic that our warriors of Apollo should be battling ancient Hellenic monsters?’

  ‘A goodly number of legends, my lord,’ said John, ‘but no evidence to link these creatures of the night with our man in Hyde; beyond, that is, some pickled flesh.’

  ‘And if vampires are indeed real,’ Lillian interrupted, ‘we need only know two things: where they are, and how to kill them.’ From the corner of her eye she saw John smile.

  Cherleten pursed his lips and said simply, ‘Your father’s daughter, I see.’ Lillian winced at that. Lord Hardwick did not react. ‘For now, Agent Hardwick, you will have to show uncustomary patience in this matter, for there is more work in store for the three of you beyond common brawling. But heed my words; it is no coincidence that so many ancient cultures across the globe speak of vampires. These creatures are as real as you or me, and have perhaps been among us since the first man walked the Earth. Some say Adam’s first wife, Lilith, was one of them, and her offspring brought the darkness into the world. Vampires are older, it seems, than womankind.’ He chuckled at his observation. They are real, but you’ll be pleased to know that we are developing weapons in the armoury to combat this new threat. When next you meet our flesh-eating friends, you will perhaps be better equipped. I shall see to it.’

  ‘Please, Sir Toby, may I ask when I am to return to Hyde?’ John cut out Cherleten, who looked unperturbed.

  ‘You are not,’ said Sir Toby. ‘At least not yet. We already have an agent en route to the north.’

  ‘Might I ask who?’ John said.

  ‘If you must know, Lieutenant, Agent Smythe left an hour ago. We need to find out quickly just how far the corruption has spread amongst the industrial towns in the area, and a… lighter touch is required for the task. Besides, Smythe is keen to observe a live specimen of these—ahem—“ghouls”, for study.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake…’ Lillian muttered. This time her father did turn, with a frown that bore more a warning than outright disapproval.

  Sir Toby ignored her, and addressed John directly. ‘You and your sister will be assigned to a lighter duty, though of no lesser importance, while you recover from your injuries.’

  John’s indignation at that spilled over at the same time as Lillian’s. Despite feeling light-headed, she found herself saying, ‘There are questions that must be answered, and justice that must be delivered!’ She tried to sound confident, but Sir Toby looked concerned, ignoring John’s protests and Sir Arthur’s resigned sighs, looking instead straight at Lillian.

  ‘Agent Hardwick, are you well?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfectly, Sir Toby. I am simply eager to receive instruction as to our next objective.’

  Sir Arthur stepped forward and stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I fear we have allowed Agent Hardwick’s status as our equal here to blind us to good manners. She is still a lady, after all.’

  ‘Oh, no, there’s no need—’ she began to protest, but it was too late. Sir Toby had already mumbled an agreement and stubbed out his cigar too, whilst the elder Hardwick propped open a window. ‘Agent Hardwick; Lieutenant,’ Sir Toby said. ‘You have both been injured in the field. There will be no immediate return for either of you, although you will be needed again for this case, I assure you. Take tomorrow to recover; report to the club physician, and be ready to leave on Monday at first light.’

  John looked as surprised as Lillian felt. She knew he’d be angry at being replaced on an assignment he’d made his own.

  ‘Leave? For where, sir?’ John asked.

  Sir Toby reached into his desk drawer and handed an envelope each to John and Lillian.

  ‘Your new orders. While you recover from your last ordeal, you will be assigned together on a diplomatic mission. It is a mission of great import, but should at least be free from unnecessary… exertions. Lieutenant, I would ask that you escort your sister home. We shall resume this discussion upon your return.’

  ‘But… the vampires. The arms deals?’ Lillian said, almost disbelievingly. Another wave of weakness rushed over her.

  ‘We have your reports, and, rest assured, action will be taken. But for now, I suggest you take time to rest before your next mission.’

  It was meant kindly, but it caused a flash of petulance to cross Lillian’s features. By the time she had composed herself, Sir Toby had already turned to Arthur.

  ‘Sir Arthur, if you would stay a while longer, there is a separate matter that requires your attention.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Toby,’ Arthur replied. He glanced at Lillian guiltily.

  ‘Agent Hardwick, Lieutenant—you are dismissed.’

  Sir Toby waved them both away. Sir Arthur opened the door for Lillian and John, sympathy writ on his face as she passed him.

  * * *

  ‘Lillian, there was more to be had from that exchange. Much more!’ John’s frustration bubbled over. ‘How could Cherleten have been working on new weapons without test subjects? What is the relationship between the Knights Iscariot and those creatures? Who is de Montfort and what do we know about—’ He stopped short, glancing furtively around, presumably to ensure no other clubmen were about to overhear his outburst. The pause seemed to bring about a change in his demeanour. ‘Dear sister, forgive me; are you feeling all right? I think sometimes I forget what—’

  ‘What a weak woman I am?’ she finished, sounding far stronger than she felt. A flash of anger had lent her temporary strength, but she felt as though she might be sick.

  John threw up his hands. ‘That is not what I was going to say, and you know it.’

  ‘I
know, it’s just… blast it! This corset is going to kill me, I swear.’

  ‘Well, best not deal with that here, or some of these old fellows will keel over with apoplexy.’

  Lillian steadied herself on the handrail of the grand stair, trying not to laugh despite her discomfort. John looked like he would hug her, but thought better of it.

  She faltered. The prickling sensation behind her eyes, the light-headedness, and the hot pain in her shoulder conspired to almost make Lillian faint. She stumbled forwards, catching sight of the floor of the marble hall over the balcony, which seemed too far away, and caused her to become more disorientated. John steadied her, and looked concerned.

  ‘Lillian, you know there’s no one I’d rather have by my side in a tight spot; but by God, you can be stubborn. You need to rest—we both do—and then we’ll “get back on the horse”, so to speak. I don’t know what’s in these envelopes, but I hope it’ll be light duties somewhere sunny, and you should damned well hope for the same.’

  Lillian tried desperately to compose herself. The pain and nausea passed, and she straightened up, knowing her brother was right. Lillian looked down at the grey-haired clubmen loitering in every nook of the great hall below them. ‘Look at them, John,’ she murmured. ‘They talk of literature, of law and philosophy, and dine on the finest fare. They pretend, as ever, that the club is still just a place for social gatherings, free of Apollo Lycea, that they can continue as they always have, in a world that has changed beyond recognition.’

  ‘I envy them their fantasies, sis. You should too. You’re in the real world, where they don’t have the heart to live.’

  ‘Perhaps… I can’t change everything at once,’ she said, with a half-hearted smile.

  He offered her his arm. ‘Dear lady, let me escort you to a carriage. The hour is late, and the weather is dreadfully inclement.’

  With the best smile she could muster, she accepted, and together they descended the sweeping marble stair of the Apollonian. She leaned on her brother more heavily than she’d have liked, but was safe in the knowledge that he would never tell anyone about her moment of weakness. He was her true ally in the club—the only man who saw her side of things, and who could honestly understand what it was to bear the Hardwick name.

  SEVEN

  Lillian had not returned home as instructed. Instead, she had gone with John to his home in Hackney. John knew only too well the worry her condition would cause their dear mother, and so became complicit in the deception, sending a message to Dora Hardwick informing her that Lillian was in rude health, but was to be retained for several nights on investigative duties. John fussed around Lillian like a mother hen. He made her comfortable, and prepared a light supper of soused herring and bread.

  Lillian perused John’s bookshelves, which groaned under the weight of hundreds of volumes, from poetry and great literature to the latest sensational stories. John had fancied himself a writer in his youth, even having a few poems published in The Graphic, before he had given up such aspirations to follow in their father’s footsteps and join the Order. She turned from the books and surveyed the unkempt flat, dozens more books tossed around the living room beside piles of dirty linen and unwashed dishes. John lived the life of a carefree bachelor, but his abode was more like that of a scatter-brained academic in his senior years.

  ‘The state of this flat is… unseemly,’ Lillian said, picking up a crumpled shirt from the chaise before taking a seat.

  ‘You know you’re always welcome here, dear sis, but I am a bachelor, and must be afforded certain allowances. Besides, the maid doesn’t call again until Monday.’

  ‘And you wonder if your antics will shock me?’ Lillian needled her brother. ‘I do not think you are quite the scandalous spy you aspire to be… not yet, anyway.’

  John laughed. ‘It seems I’m doing a better job than you of staying out of mischief. What is this now? Four assignments, and wounded in three of them? I think perhaps you should try the subtle approach from time to time, like I do.’

  Lillian looked at him gravely for a moment, and then forced a smile. ‘You are as subtle as a coster’s call,’ she replied. ‘Too much of a popinjay for subterfuge.’

  ‘I resent that, madam!’ he said, feigning injury. ‘With one look at my honest face and impeccable wardrobe, the enemy simply spills his secrets into my ear. Which is a damned sight better than trying to tear it off.’

  Lillian scowled at that. He referred to her last ill-fated assignment to pursue a foreign ambassador with a criminal bent. It had resulted in an altercation with a burly punisher, during which the man had twisted Lillian’s ear so hard it had needed stitching back into place. The man had received a sharpened hairpin to his manhood for his trouble, but the ambassador had escaped the scene. She blamed Beauchamp Smythe for that; the surgeon had been blindsided, and in a bid to save him from his own carelessness she’d paid a painful cost.

  ‘It still pains me in the cold weather,’ she replied, ruefully; more ruefully still upon taking another mouthful of herring that tasted of little other than vinegar.

  ‘Hark at you, like an old, wounded soldier. Father would be proud.’

  Lillian tried to ignore that.

  ‘Anyway, have this.’ John tossed a small parcel across the room, which she caught deftly. ‘Got you a present. Didn’t have time to give it to you before they packed me off to Hyde.’

  Lillian unwrapped the coloured paper to reveal a jewellery box. ‘John, you shouldn’t have.’ She opened it up, to reveal an ornate silver locket, quite large. Clicking it open, she was a little dismayed to find a small portrait of her father staring back at her. Her mother graced the other side, but it was Marcus Hardwick’s stony features that made Lillian’s heart sink. ‘You really shouldn’t have.’

  John snorted back a laugh. ‘That, my dear sister, used to be grandfather’s best pocket-watch. He gave it to Father on his twenty-first birthday, who gave it to me on mine. I’ve rather broken with tradition by not having sons of my own first… anyhow, that’s not important. I had a chap on Bond Street remake it into something a bit more to your taste.’

  It was not really to Lillian’s taste at all, but she forced a smile. ‘You had a family heirloom… remade?’

  ‘Yes, especially for you. But that’s not the best part. See it still has the watch-winder? Give it a twirl.’

  Lillian looked again at the locket, bemused by John’s idea of an appropriate gift for her. All the same, she twisted the winder, which clicked and came loose. Pulling it, a thin wire unfurled from within the locket, extending to almost eighteen inches as she pulled it taut.

  ‘A garrotte!’ John beamed. ‘That’s an extra special modification courtesy of a pal in the armoury.’

  ‘Oh, John,’ Lillian said, smiling genuinely now. ‘You do know me after all.’

  ‘Just want to see you equipped for any eventuality. It seems fitting, given what happened yesterday.’

  ‘There is something seriously amiss, John. You feel it too?’

  ‘Yes and no. I mean, it’s an awful business, but just because these cases are connected doesn’t mean we’re on the brink of Judgement Day. I mean, the world doesn’t revolve around us, much as I’d like it to.’

  ‘It’s more than that, though. I mean, Father’s recent trip, the secrecy around it… aren’t you worried? Or in the least bit curious?’

  ‘Well, I… um…’

  ‘You know something!’ Lillian gasped.

  ‘Not really. It’s more something I… overheard.’

  ‘Which is?’

  John sighed. ‘Father spent some time in Alaska, at a research facility in the middle of nowhere. He also travelled to the Confederacy, to strike some deal with President McClellan, and meet with some top scientists over there. I don’t know much beyond that, except that it’s to do with the Rift.’

  ‘Has he found a way to close it? I can’t believe it! And why treat with the Americans first? Why would he not—’

  John h
eld up a hand. ‘I don’t know, sis. Probably not, or I’m sure he’d be making more of a song and dance about it. No, you’re right that there’s something going on, but beyond what I just told you I have no idea—the fellows at the card table had no further gossip, and Father said nothing more.’

  ‘Really, John, the one time I need you to… oh, never mind. I don’t suppose you know if this new mission is related to Father’s secret dealings, do you?’

  John shrugged. ‘Maybe. I try not to ask too many questions. Protocol and integrity and all that—you really ought to try it.’

  ‘But why are we to go to Portsmouth?’ she said, looking again at the orders she had received. ‘I have to believe there’s more to it than just nannying a foreign dignitary. Is this what it has come to?’

  ‘Ah, careful, sis,’ John said. ‘The orders do not expressly say “dignitary”. It could be a political prisoner, an undercover agent, or Sir Toby’s favourite hunting hound for all we know. The most telling part of orders, I always find, is the part that is omitted.’

  Lillian scowled at the papers, an expression that was becoming a fixture of the evening. John was right, of course. He only had a couple of years’ more experience as an agent, but his successes spoke for themselves. His misadventure at Hyde was probably the only time he’d put a foot wrong in the field, so far as Lillian knew.

  ‘Who is this “Tesla”, anyway? And why on earth are we delivering him to Cherleten and not to Sir Toby?’ That the orders were signed by Lord Cherleten was a source of much indignation, and she was aware that her protests against this had been perhaps too ardent on the ride home.

  John shrugged. ‘Engineer? Scientist? Surgeon? Must be one of those if Cherleten needs him. Undoubtedly an Intuitionist. And if they’re sending two agents of our great notoriety, I’d say he’s important.’

  ‘Now you’re making assumptions. It might be a woman.’ Lillian poked at her meal, before observing, ‘Father’s name is on here too.’

  ‘Well, like it or not, it is Father’s doing that Cherleten swaggers about so much. He’s made himself invaluable to the War Office, and so Father’s influence protects the spiteful old fop. I imagine Sir Toby is looking forward to the day when Cherleten slips up, so he can bring him down a peg or two.’