Mission to Love (Brothers in Arms Book 14)

by Samantha Kane

  “He needed the ship,” she said in a rush. “He was bloody angry when he had to unload it and run.”

  “Did he?” Sir Barnabas looked as if they were gossiping over tea. He took a sip as he watched her, giving her all his attention.

  “Yes, sir. They was plannin’ to put the ship somewhere and blow it up. But now he’s got to find another way to do it.”

  “They?” Sir Barnabas asked casually. “Who is they?”

  “I…I don’t know,” she said miserably, shrugging as best as she could with her hands tied behind her back. “Some nobs, I think. And a Russian,” she said in a rush. “Yeah, he was Russian. I heard him talkin’.”

  “Russian? Are you sure?” Robert asked. “Do you know Russian?” he sounded skeptical.

  “I don’t speak it,” she said, “but I know what it sounds like. I do. Had some Russian sailors come in from time to time. It don’t sound like no other language.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Simon said for argument’s sake. “It sounds a bit like Polish.”

  “Does it?” Robert asked. They turned to each other and ignored her. “Do you speak Polish?”

  “I knew a Polish officer in the war. Or perhaps he was Hungarian.” Simon tapped his finger on his chin. “No, I’m mistaken. He was German.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Deystvitel’no?” Sir Barnabas asked them with a raised brow. “Really?”

  “That’s it,” the woman said. “That’s what it sounded like.”

  “That’s Russian all right,” Barnabas said. “What else can you tell us?”

  Like most suspects, once she began talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “There’s an Englishman for sure, he’s rich as can be but he ain’t no gentleman, leastways not titled, if you know what I mean. Comes from trade or somethin’, I heard her say.”

  “Her? You mean Mrs. Gaines?” Barnabas asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Fat Linnie. She’s the one what introduced him to the Dutchman. Anyway, he says he can get them more explosives. They ain’t got enough for the job now. ’Cause they lost the ship, like I said. They were goin’ to smuggle more in.”

  “I thought they were going to blow it up,” Simon said, acting confused.

  “They are, I mean, were,” she said. “But not before they used it to get more explosives.”

  “Interesting,” Barnabas said. “What else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” she cried. “I’m starvin’, I tell you! I can barely talk I’m so parched!”

  Robert took another bite of sandwich and spoke with his mouth full. “Well, I daresay I wouldn’t be eating or drinking at all if you had managed to slit my throat.”

  “It was Fat Linnie what told me to do it,” she said, whining. “I didn’t want to, you being the law and all. But she said you were gettin’ too close. So they were goin’ to take care of that one at the hotel and we was to take care of you three.”

  “Hastings?” Barnabas said. He didn’t actually move, but Simon could sense the tension in him. He turned to the agent at the door. “Has he checked in?”

  “No, sir,” the agent said.

  “Find him.” Barnabas turned back to her. “Who are they trying to kill?”

  “Well, you three and that other one,” she said, confused. “I told you.”

  “No,” Barnabas snapped impatiently. “Pay attention. Whatever they are going to blow up, they are going to kill someone. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” she said. “I s’pect they’ll kill a lot of people with an explosion like that.”

  “Just how much explosive is the Englishman giving the Dutchman?” Barnabas asked.

  “Not sure exactly,” she said. “But I heard him say it will light up the sky so they’ll see it clear to St. James.”

  “When?” Robert asked.

  “Well, they were right angry about that, too. I guess it wasn’t supposed to be for a very long while. Years even. But now they’ve got to do it soon because you’re breathing down their necks. I heard the Dutchie say next week. It won’t be as big of a dust up as they planned, but it will still make noise, he said.”

  “Years?” Barnabas put his teacup down and rose from his chair. “That narrows our search, gentlemen.” He waved away the tea tray.

  “No!” the prisoner cried as it was wheeled out of the room.

  “You shall eat the same fare as the other prisoners,” Sir Barnabas said coldly. “And for the time being, count yourself lucky your head is still attached to your shoulders.” He headed for the door and signaled Robert and Simon to follow him.

  Chapter 25

  “Mr. Naismith,” Barnabas said pleasantly as they entered another interrogation room. “How nice to see you again.”

  They came straight to Naismith from the assassin. He’d been brought in quietly as soon as he’d left his meeting with Van de Berg. They’d left him to stew in the room for hours, but Naismith looked unperturbed. Simon could well imagine he’d endured such harsh conditions and boredom before, having spent so much time in Africa as a leading member of the African Company of Merchants.

  “I told him no,” Naismith said without being prompted. “He wanted a backer for some sort of harebrained scheme, and I said no. That’s all I can tell you.” He sat at the table, his legs crossed, tapping a calling card against the scarred, wooden top impatiently. Perhaps he wasn’t as unperturbed as Simon thought. “What has that idiot Dutchman dragged me into now?” he asked in disgust. “Something that will cost me my head, no doubt, if Sir Barnabas James is taking a personal interest in it.”

  “What was his harebrained scheme?” Barnabas asked, taking the seat across the table from Naismith. “Whether you and your head part company depends on the particulars.”

  “You don’t know?” Naismith asked in surprise. “I don’t either. I wouldn’t even let him tell me. I knew it was trouble. I have been working very hard to regain my reputation since that African business and I won’t risk that now over this Dutchman’s asinine plans.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us exactly what Van de Berg said to you?” Simon asked him. “Beginning with how he got you to agree to a meeting in the first place.”

  “Fine,” Naismith said, eager to cooperate. Simon wished all witnesses were this helpful. “He sent me a note that said he was in London on business and he was looking for investors. That was his word for it. That it was an opportunity involving a situation here, in London, which he knew would appeal to me. Everyone knows I’ve been avoiding foreign investment, for obvious reasons.”

  “Of course,” Barnabas murmured sympathetically.

  “And so I went. It’s been hard to get my foot back in the door here in London. So when opportunities arise, I can’t pass them by. But as soon as he started to talk, it didn’t sound like investment, it sounded like trouble, and so I left. Immediately, despite his pleas.”

  “How so?” Robert asked. “What exactly did he say, if you please?”

  “Of course,” Naismith said. “He said that he was looking for money to purchase explosives and that he already had a contact, but he wouldn’t tell me what they were for or what exactly my profit would be. He just asked, wouldn’t I like to get back at them all for that mess in Africa, and I said no and walked out. Into the waiting arms of your men.”

  “Them? Who is them? Who would you be getting back at?”

  “I have no idea,” Naismith said. “There were too many names to count involved in that fiasco.” He shrugged. “I will say I got the impression that he already had investors. I was to be another, not the only one.”

  “And if he contacts you again?” Barnabas said.

  “Naturally, now that I know you’re after him, I’ll try to get as much information as possible and contact you immediately.”

  “Naturally,” Barnabas said. “You might be interested to know that he’s joined forces with a rather notorious madam who runs a gang of female assassins.”

  Naismith sat there and blinked
at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “You must be joking.”

  “No, indeed we are not, Mr. Naismith. You should be careful,” Simon told him. “There’s nothing else you can tell us?”

  “No,” Naismith insisted. “Unless—he did mention something about foreign involvement as well, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t get particulars on that, either. He’s Dutch, after all. I assumed there would be a foreign component.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Barnabas said. “About this, or perhaps other problems about which you might have useful information.”

  Naismith froze in the process of getting out of his chair and glared at Barnabas. “I see,” he said. “That’s to be the price of making a foolish mistake, is it? Informing for the Home Office?” He sighed and picked up his hat and gloves from the table. “So be it. I have nothing to hide, James. And if I can be of assistance to the Home Office, I will gladly do so.” He put on his hat and left the room unimpeded.

  “Do you trust him?” Robert asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Barnabas asked. “But I believe him. He fell into a bad situation, but he’s no fool.”

  “And now you have another victim under your thumb,” Simon said.

  “I like to think of it as another lamb to the fold.”

  “Said the hungry wolf,” Simon muttered to Robert, who quietly chuckled as they followed Barnabas out.

  Robert tossed another paper down on the table with a frustrated sigh. “I can’t make head nor tails of your secret codes, Sir Barnabas.” He ran both hands through his hair and rubbed his scalp. He looked out the window at the moon halfway through the night sky. He’d sent yet another note to Christy telling her they’d be late.

  Sir Barnabas got up from his desk and walked over to the table he’d had set up in his office. Robert, Simon and several other agents were going through papers and calendars trying to figure out the Dutchman’s target while Sir Barnabas went about his usual business. His absence earlier in the day had put him behind on his paperwork.

  He picked up the paper Robert had discarded. “Pic is obviously Piccadilly. MPD w/sp is clearly military parade with speakers. Really, constable, it’s not that difficult.”

  “Well, that sounds like something that might be a good target,” Robert said. “And that’s next week, June 18th, the tenth anniversary of Waterloo.”

  “But they were supposed to blow it up years from now,” Sir Barnabas argued. “That was always planned for next week.”

  “Yes, but they’ve got to settle for a secondary plan, haven’t they? Whatever they were going to blow up won’t be ready by next week, so they’ve got to find something else,” Robert argued right back.

  “He has a point,” Simon said.

  Robert was tired and hungry and short tempered. He was in his shirtsleeves, disheveled and overheated in the stuffy office. And upon their arrival they’d learned that Thom Longfellow had been attacked. He had fatally wounded his attacker—another one of Fat Linnie’s operatives. Luckily Thom would live. But they were all on edge now wondering where the assassins would strike next.

  Robert looked out the window. London never truly slept, but it was as close as it got tonight, quieter than he ever remembered. Probably because of the heat. No one wanted to be out in it.

  Simon was tired, too. Robert could see it in the shadows under his eyes and the ache in his voice. He couldn’t sit in his chair for long, and so he paced the room, picking papers up as he passed the table, alighting briefly on the windowsill and then taking off across the room again. He looked so exhausted Robert was sure he’d rather sit still than walk around, so it must be his back.

  “How, exactly, were they going to get a ship to Piccadilly?” asked Barnabas.

  “No one said anything about getting a ship to Piccadilly,” Robert snapped.

  “She didn’t say they were changing the target,” Sir Barnabas said. “Her exact words were ‘It won’t be as big of a dust up as they planned, but it will still make noise.’ That to me indicates the same target, but an earlier timeline. Correct?” He looked at Simon.

  “Yes,” Simon said with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Robert, but he’s right. They have an agenda, a very specific goal in mind. We heard assassination. That was what Alice Gaines said she intercepted in the communiqués taken from the original victims.”

  “Yes, what about those victims?” Robert said angrily, standing and confronting both of them. “I have not forgotten them. My original task was to find their killer, or killers. We have at least one, if not two, in custody. Will they be prosecuted for those murders?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Barnabas’s simple reply took the wind out of Robert’s sails. “Oh,” he said. “Well, then, that’s all right.” He sat back down.

  “Are you ready to listen to reason?” Sir Barnabas asked.

  “I am always a reasonable man,” Robert said. “Why have we not received any word on Hastings? It’s been hours.”

  “Because there is no word on Hastings,” Sir Barnabas said. He sighed, and Robert realized the spymaster was as worried about his young protégé as he and Simon were. “In this instance I choose to believe no news is good news.” He paused and pinched his nose in that gesture he made when he was unhappy with something. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but they’ve found two more of the female assassins not far from your house, Manderley. Dead. Their throats slit.”

  Robert stood up so quickly he felt lightheaded and had to grab onto the table. Now that he knew more about them, he understood the danger to be tenfold what he imagined it to be when Christy was attacked.

  “Sit down,” Sir Barnabas snapped. “I said they were dead. That means either they are turning on one another or we have another party at play. Either way, they seem to have shut off access to your house for the time being. I am hoping what- or whoever it is will keep Hastings from harm as well.”

  Simon came over and put a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Do we still have agents in place?” Simon asked.

  “Yes,” Barnabas said. “I’m not moving them. But I believe all of that is merely a distraction. They can’t afford to lose more operatives. By my count they are down at least five. Two from the Manderley house, two from the attack on us, and one from the attack on Mr. Longfellow. It is more imperative than ever that we deduce their ultimate goal and stop them before more damage is done.”

  “My family’s well-being is more than damage,” Robert said. His insides churned with worry for Christy and Christian. He had not meant to put them in danger. He’d had no idea a simple murder case would turn into this.

  “Of course it is, and you know that’s not how I meant it,” Sir Barnabas replied impatiently. “This bickering does no one any good. We must focus, and figure this damn thing out. Now, if they are keeping the same target, and it would not be ready for years—” He stopped suddenly. He began to search through the papers, tossing them aside.

  “What are you looking for?” Simon asked.

  “The bridge,” Sir Barnabas said. “The plans for the bridge.”

  “The bridge? Oh, you mean the new London Bridge?” Robert sorted through some papers in front of him. “Here.” He handed them to Sir Barnabas. “Why? Do you think they mean to blow the old bridge? Wouldn’t it make more sense to blow up Waterloo Bridge? It’s newer and considered one of the finest bridges in the world.”

  “Perhaps,” Sir Barnabas said. “But the Duke of York is not going to be at Waterloo Bridge next week. And he is going to be at London Bridge, laying the first stone of the new bridge with the Lord Mayor of London, on Wednesday. They requested security for the event.” He held up the paper. “They were going to blow up the new London Bridge. But now, they are going to blow the old one, and assassinate the Duke of York.”

  When Hastings burst into Sir Barnabas’s office half an hour later and declared, “They’re going to blow up London Bridge!” it was rather anti-climactic.

  “Yes, we know,” Simon told him.

  “Damn it,” Hastings sa
id angrily. “What is the use of snooping around, risking my life, I might add—there’s two more of those godawful women from Fat Linnie’s downstairs in a cell—when you lot are just going to sit on your arses here and come up with the same information?”

  “That makes seven down,” Robert said.

  “Because now our information has been confirmed,” Sir Barnabas told Hastings without looking up from his paperwork, ignoring Robert’s comment. He signed yet another order of some kind and added it to a pile of signed papers and then picked up another paper and scanned it while talking. “We deduced the target. I assume you overheard the Dutchmen and his accomplices talking about it?”

  “I did,” Hastings said. “And I was about to grab him and some Russian, name of Demetriev, when those two she-devils showed up and tried to—”

  “Slit your throat?” Robert guessed.

  “How did you know?” Hastings was beginning to look quite put out at not getting the reaction he’d expected to all his dramatic news.

  “Same thing happened to me,” Robert said dismissively. “This Demetriev must be the foreign contact Naismith told us about.”

  “You ought to think about starting a club or something,” Simon told them. “A very small club, I guess. They actually seem to be very good at that sort of thing, so not many members, you know.”

  “Not amusing, Simon,” Robert told him.

  “No, but true,” he said. He felt a pang of guilt at the frown Robert sent his way. “Sorry.”

  “Now what?” Hastings asked. He threw himself down in a chair in front of Sir Barnabas’s desk. He casually put his feet up on the desk and crossed his ankles.

  Sir Barnabas finally stopped working to stare at his dirty boots. “I have had men killed for less,” he said in a dangerously low voice.

  “I know,” Hastings said, blithely unconcerned for his well-being. “I’m hungry. This snooping business is hard work. I haven’t eaten for hours.”

  Simon felt as if he was looking in a mirror. Hastings reminded him of himself, not just when he was younger, either. It was how he’d been living his life for too long to remember. Good God, he’d been that devil-may-care only a year ago.