Is it right what they say Ella did, that she opened the Boundary Layer and saved all those items trapped in the Ghetto?’
‘S’right, she let two, maybe three million people escape into the Great Beyond.’
‘Hot diggity-dog. Heydrich must be really pissed off about the Lady IMmanual vacating the Bastille. That’ll be why everyone and their brother’s out looking for Ella.’
‘But she’s okay?’
‘Chill, Vanka baby. Some goodniks have got her holed up in the Convent of the Sacred and All-Seeing Order of Visual Virgins here in Paris. They’re gonna be sneaking her out to Venice real soon.’
‘Then I’ve got to get to her—’
Josephine shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, Vanka. You gotta keep a real low profile. Man, you’re hotter than a two-dollar pistol. There’s a real big reward on your head.’
Vanka lapsed into a worried silence, anxious about Ella being able to keep out of the clutches of the Checkya and wishing he was there to protect her. With an effort he tried to pull himself together; worrying wouldn’t do Ella any good. To do that he needed Josie’s help to get to Venice and that meant turning on the charm. ‘So, Miss Baker … Josephine … Josie …’
‘You can moniker me as “Miss Baker”, Vanka baby, until I diggeth exactly what you want.’
‘As we’re such old friends and business partners, is there any chance that you would let us hide out here until the heat has died down, and then help us cadge a ride to Venice?’
‘You gotta real fucking nerve, Vanka Maykov. You waltz in here pouring on the oil, after you got me kicked outta the ForthRight …’
‘You were leaving anyway.’
‘… and then ask me to help you rip and run to Venice.’
‘Ah c’mon, Josie, don’t be such a grouch.’
‘A grouch!’
‘Yeah. Look, Josie, I’ve got to get to Venice. If that’s where Ella’s going, then I’m going there too, to make sure she’s okay. Somebody’s got to look after the Lady IMmanual. I’ve got to get to Venice to protect her.’ Vanka adopted his very best puppy-dog look, the one that had been so effective in luring so many rich widows into his bed. ‘C’mon, Miss Baker … Josephine … Josie … you’ve gotta help us.’
‘You know, Vanka, I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you, but I gotta admit, that was a real neat stunt the Lady IMmanual pulled in Warsaw.’
‘You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t help her.’
‘Some of the nuJu cats are making a lot of noise that the Lady IMmanual is the Messiah.’ Josephine made the statement in an offhand sort of way, but there was something – just something – in her tone that indicated to Vanka that it wasn’t a statement she’d made idly.
‘Yeah,’ said a suddenly very cagey Vanka, giving Norma a surreptitious kick under the table. The last thing he wanted was her spilling the beans about what Ella had told Torquemada. ‘People got a little overexcited about her opening the Boundary, and they started calling her the Messiah. But it’s all moonshine.’
‘That’s not what I hear, Vanka. Word is that she’s the real deal, the One and Only sent by ABBA to lead us all onwards to Revelation. That’s real dangerous jive … real dangerous. Lotta badniks will be out and about trying to murderalise that little lady.’
‘Like I say, Josie: it’s all smoke and mirrors.’
‘Maybe, maybe not, but I’ve got a mind to see for myself. Okay, I’ll take you and Norma to Venice, but we’ve gotta make our move tonight. A little bird’s been whispering in my ear that the Quizzies are gonna be making a house call on yours truly and when they do, I wanna be residing on the Rialto. You dig?’
Vanka didn’t dig. ‘Why would they be trying to arrest you, Josie? The way you dance, I’d have thought you were the epitome of ImPuritanism.’
‘That’s the whole point, ain’t it, Vanka? ImPuritanism ain’t flavour of the month in the Medi no more, not after the Rapprochement with the ForthRight. Anyhows, there’s more to it than Robespierre’s nose being dejointed by my doing a hoochie-coochie number with a bunch of bananas. Seems Heydrich’s got real excited about the lobbying I did in Venice on behalf of those Warsaw cats. Thanks to moi, the Venetians ended any ForthRight trading on the Bourse and forced the devaluation of the ForthRight guinea. Right now money’s too tight to mention in the ForthRight.’
Vanka gave her a sideways look: he knew when he was being blown smoke. ‘What else?’
Josephine laughed. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now, Vanka. I think that after tonight my cover’s blown.’ The girl held out her tiny, elegant hand. ‘Vanka Maykov, may I introduce you to Josephine Baker, agent of the Code Noir.’
That explained how Josephine knew so much about what was going on in Paris: the Code Noir – the secret organisation operating out of the JAD which aimed to protect WoeMen from the worst excesses of HimPerialism – was reputed to have one of the best intelligence networks in the whole of the Demi-Monde.
‘… and mambo extrordinaire.’
Now that was a straightener. ‘You’re a WhoDooist!’
‘Sure am, Vanka, and now we’ve been pronounced Enemies of the Revolution by Robespierre, it’s time I headed for the tall timber. That cat’s too keen on using his guillotine for my liking.’
‘Mambo? What’s a mambo?’ interrupted Norma.
‘A woman who practises WhoDoo magick in the JAD,’ Vanka answered reluctantly.
The truth was, he wasn’t feeling comfortable with the idea that Josephine Baker was mixed up in WhoDoo. WhoDoo had a bad rep. But for Norma’s sake he tried to sound as matter-of-fact about it as he could; the last thing he wanted to do was alarm the girl, she’d had a bad day. But sounding matter-of-fact about what Josie Baker had announced was one thing and being matter-of-fact was quite another. All that business about WhoDoo dolls and zombis was enough to give anybody sleepless nights.
‘You dig WhoDoo magick, Vanka?’ asked Josephine Baker.
‘Yeah. Ella played a WhoDoo mambo when we freed Norma from Crowley. I learnt a lot about it from her.’
‘Ella played a mambo?’
‘Sure, and she was bloody good at it too.’
‘And did she give herself a handle when she performed as a mambo?’
‘Yeah, she called herself Marie Laveau.’
Josephine Baker started, as though she’d just been stuck with a pin. ‘You certain?’
‘Sure. Why, is it important?’
‘No, not really …’
Bullshit.
… it’s just that the tag Marie Laveau is real famous in WhoDoo circles. She was a powerful mambo in the olden days.’
Now Vanka was sure Josephine Baker was blowing him smoke. Since he’d mentioned the name Marie Laveau, her whole attitude had changed. She’d become a lot more serious. The trouble was that Vanka didn’t understand why. He had thought that this Laveau character had just been dreamt up by Ella, but the way Josie was talking he had the worrying suspicion that she had been very real … and real unpopular.
Suddenly Josephine stood up from the table. ‘Okay, cats and kittens, it’s time to hit the cobbles. I got a steamer puffing and panting outside and a gondolier with real big cojones ready to take us across the Grand Canal. Yeah, I’m looking forward to getting to Venice.’ She gave Vanka a smirk. ‘And I’d like to meet and greet with Miss Ella Thomas when I’m there too, and get to talk over old times … very old times.’
18
The Convent of the Sacred and
All-Seeing Order of Visual Virgins: Paris
The Demi-Monde: 14th Day of Spring, 1005
This newspaper is delighted to report that Hero of the ForthRight, Comrade Colonel Archie Clement, has been released from hospital where he had been undergoing treatment for gunshot wounds. As our readers will know, the Colonel was the victim of an attempted assassination whilst on a diplomatic mission to the Coven. The perpetrator, the renegade Royalist Trixie Dashwood, was arrested by the Coven’s author
ities but efforts to have her extradited to the ForthRight have been rebuffed. It is hoped she will languish in Rangoon’s Insane Prison for many years to come. It is understood that Comrade Colonel Clement, after a period of recuperation, will return to active service in the Summer.
Extract from The Stormer, 23rd day of Spring, 1005
‘A brilliant idea, de Sade,’ chortled Machiavelli. ‘Tomorrow is the fourteenth day of Spring and even someone as remarkable as the Lady IMmanual will be lost in the mayhem that is the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts.’
‘You must forgive me, Abbé Niccolò,’ said the Lady IMmanual, ‘but I’m not familiar with Fleshtivals.’
‘Fleshtivals are the means by which all good ImPuritans celebrate the joys of the body and search for communion with ABBA through the rapture of the ultimate orgasm, JuiceSense. By indulging in such pleasures, we in the Quartier Chaud praise ABBA and demonstrate our belief in HisHer reincarnation in the form of the Messiah.’ Machiavelli laughed. ‘And with you being the Messiah, my Lady, what could be more appropriate than you escape the Medi by losing yourself in a Fleshtival?’
‘But what is the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts?’
‘It’s the art students’ ball and, even by the unrestrained standards of the Quartier Chaud, it’s a wild and untrammelled saturnalia. The Fleshtival takes place in the open streets surrounding the École des Beaux-Arts and celebrates the coming of Spring. For two days and nights the hedonistic inclinations and the artistic talents of thousands of excitable art students are put on public display.’
‘Artistic talents?’
‘Each Fleshtival has a theme which is open to artistic interpretation by the students, and for this year’s celebration the one chosen is “Daemons and all their Works”.’ Machiavelli gave a wry chuckle. ‘In your case, my Lady, it is a most appropriate motif, is it not? Especially as amidst all this lunacy and debauchery we will be able to slip you out of Paris, through Rome and Barcelona and then on to Venice.’
‘There is still the problem of my being a Shade,’ the Lady IMmanual protested. ‘Even in a crowd as large as the one you suggest I’ll still be very noticeable.’
‘Then you will need a disguise. Tomorrow we’ll provide you with a costume to conceal your ethnicity and which will allow you to blend into the crowds celebrating the Fleshtival. Don’t worry about a thing, my Lady, we’ll make sure everything is ready, and anyway, remember that you won’t be alone when you make your escape, both Sister Florence and the Marquis de Sade will be acting as your escorts.’
The Lady laughed. ‘And I guess there’s no one better qualified to accompany me to an orgy than the Marquis de Sade.’
The dresser – a vision in checks and velveteen – arrived at the Convent on the stroke of noon on the following day. The boy – and he was a boy, being perhaps less than twenty years of age – performed a bow of greeting so deep and so extreme that de Sade feared for his back. Straightening up with a rather over-elaborate flourish, the boy handed the Lady his pasteboard. ‘I am Jules, senior dresser at the House of Monsieur Worth,’ he announced. ‘I have been instructed to create a costume to be worn when you, the beauteous Lady IMmanual, attend the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts.’
Once pleasantries had been exchanged, Jules was all business.
‘Could I ask you to pose for me, my Lady?’ Jules asked.
It was an odd request, and one which de Sade thought might embarrass the Lady. But he was wrong: the girl stood up and did just as she had been asked.
Jules nodded his appreciation of both her beauty and her willingness to pose. ‘You are fortunate, my Lady, for you are both wonderfully tall and possessed of a figure which is remarkable in its perfection. It is unfortunate that I am instructed by the Abbé Niccolò to disguise the colour of your skin, as I have never seen such a wonderful mélange of hue and texture. You are blessed by ABBA, my Lady, and hence I am confident that we will be able to create a costume of the required devilishness.’
Jules took a scrapbook out of his portmanteau and placed it on the table. ‘I have brought with me a number of pictures of the costumes that I might create for you. Perhaps you would do me the honour of selecting one?’
For several minutes the Lady IMmanual flicked through the book, until she finally alighted on a picture that took her fancy. ‘This one,’ she declared.
De Sade couldn’t resist; he rose from his chair to peek over Jules’s shoulder. The picture the Lady had selected showed a young woman, her head and face concealed behind a cowl made from filigree gold, wearing a floor-length, diaphanous skirt and a tight leather gilet that barely contained her breasts. But perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the image was that her skin appeared to be painted a blood-red colour, with tattoos of snakes covering her body. ‘That looks a little extreme,’ he observed.
Both the Lady and Jules ignored him.
‘Oh, bravo, my Lady,’ chortled Jules. ‘This is a picture of the Dark Temptress herself, Lilith. It is the perfect choice for the Fleshtival, especially as your skin, my Lady, will be so effectively concealed by red dye and by snake tattoos, these created by the use of décalqueurs. It will, undoubtedly, be a daring … a risqué costume, but one perfect to display your glorious body and all its wonders.’
For some reason he couldn’t really understand, de Sade found himself quite disturbed by the selection of Lilith as the Lady’s muse. But then Lilith was the mortal enemy of his kind, so the thought of her once more loose in the Demi-Monde was an unsettling one. ‘A little too perfect?’ he queried. ‘Students are not famous for the sophistication of their costume and the last thing we wish to do is draw attention to the Lady.’
Jules gave a sniff in de Sade’s direction. ‘If, my Lady, you favour the advice given by the Marquis, I will, of course, provide a more respectable costume. But I warn you, the Fleshtival des Quat’z Arts is no place for either subtlety or modesty.’
The Lady IMmanual gave an imperious toss of her head. ‘No, Jules, I will attend the Fleshtival as Lilith,’ she said firmly, and the look on her face made de Sade understand that any further objections would be worthless.
‘Then to work,’ announced Jules. ‘And have no doubt, my Lady, when Jules has completed his work, Lilith will once more walk the Demi-Monde!’
And for some peculiar reason the Lady IMmanual found this remark incredibly amusing.
Andrei Zolotov enjoyed the hour or so he whiled away in the café situated across the road from the Convent. His window seat afforded him an excellent view of the comings and goings of the Convent’s visitors; the gateau he had just enjoyed was of a very passable standard; and the pretty little waitress who had been so attentive to his needs seemed very amenably disposed to a late-night assignation.
Yes, Zolotov was in excellent spirits. That Beria had been as good as his word and extinguished his troublesome debts, and thus called off his equally troublesome creditors, had had a marked effect on his mood. Being debt-free meant he was in an excellent position to acquire new and larger Medi debts – Medi debts that he would adroitly renege on when he returned to St Petersburg. And with this return in mind he’d invested several hours that afternoon in the important task of ordering five new suits and two pairs of boots – these latter items urgently needed to replace the troublesomely tight ones he was now enduring. Once he had his new boots, life for Andrei Zolotov would be almost perfect.
Almost …
Perfection was marred by the unfortunate incident the previous evening when that ruffian Burlesque Bandstand had refused Zolotov’s invitation to die. This failure rankled, but as he was determined that Beria would never learn of this faux pas – least said, soonest mended, was Zolotov’s motto – then there was little harm done. He would just have to be more careful of Bandstand in the future. The man was obviously more intelligent and resourceful than he looked.
Fortunately, though, events had connived to make this imbroglio with Bandstand seem like very small beer. The PigeonGram he had received from Beria had been very
clear. Everything had to be abandoned in favour of assassinating the Lady IMmanual, who since she’d escaped from the Bastille had been elevated to number one on Beria’s People I Would Most Like Dead list. And that was why Zolotov found himself enjoying a pleasant afternoon spying on the Convent of the Visual Virgins.
Beria’s informant had indicated that the girl would try to escape to Venice while disguised as a participant in that evening’s Fleshtival. This was very good news since during the chaos of a Fleshtival assassinating her would be a very simple undertaking, and once he had killed her and dealt with that oaf Bandstand, Zolotov would be free to meander his way slowly and expensively – Beria’s expense, of course – back to St Petersburg to resume his place in society and between the ever-open legs of the Lady Irma Dolgorukov. There was nothing in this mission that troubled either Zolotov’s conscience – what little there was of it – or the supreme confidence he had in his ability to execute it.
As he brought the coffee cup to his lips Zolotov’s hand paused in mid-air: the Lady IMmanual, if he was not sorely in error, had just exited the Convent. Even enveloped in a wonderful scarlet cloak, even with her face covered by a mist of filigree gold, she was unmistakable: there couldn’t be more than a handful of women in the whole of Paris as tall or as beautiful as she was. She matched Beria’s description perfectly, but while Beria had catalogued her features accurately, he had failed to convey just how breathtakingly lovely the woman was. Beria, Zolotov decided, must be devoid of even the smallest vestige of a poetical soul if he couldn’t better communicate the Lady’s physical perfection.
There was a gust of wind and just for an instant the woman’s cloak was blown back, allowing Zolotov to witness how delightfully her body rippled as she stepped into a steamer, and to admire those long, long legs, which seemed to have been coloured a very ImPure red and embellished with what appeared to be tattoos of snakes.
How intriguing.
Andrei made a little pact with himself that, one way or another, this was a woman he would possess. Achieving this ambition would, he realised, necessitate having to combine murder with a little gentle pre-assassination seduction, but that, with a woman of the Lady IMmanual’s beauty, would be no hardship. And if she resisted his charms, then maybe he’d have to indulge in a little less than gentle rape. It was all one to Zolotov.
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