“But how will we know which one of us is the snitch?” Thick Ed asked.
“Perhaps,” Bonnaire ventured, “we should meet again tomorrow night and discuss Flerko’s proposal in more detail, along with the matter of the turncoat in our midst. It is difficult to concentrate tonight.”
“The threat of an enemy agent among your rank should focus the mind,” a voice said drily.
Schmidt rose. “Grigori! Welcome, brother.”
Flerko sprang to his feet; Bonnaire stood up gracefully and bowed his head briefly. The legs of Schmidt’s chair screeched along the stone floor, and even Thick Ed deigned to rise. French and I sat frozen to our chairs, for I had recognized that voice and so had he. His hand had disappeared beneath the table and was no doubt resting, at this very minute, on the handle of the revolver he wore tucked into his boot.
SEVENTEEN
Into the room strolled Major Vasily Kristoforovich Bloody Ivanov, last seen by yours truly off the coast of Calais, floating facedown, arms outstretched, his body bobbing on the waves. There could be no doubt about that lean, wolfish face with the predatory smile and the glass green eyes, hard as emeralds. During the period of our previous acquaintance, he’d been serving as an agent in the military intelligence department of the Russian army, not in the least concerned with domestic security issues. What the devil was he doing here? Well, explanations would have to wait, or indeed might never be given, as Ivanov had a hand in his pocket and I doubted that it was because his fingers were cold. He spared me a glance and his mouth quirked, but his eyes returned immediately to French, who had risen to his feet. If there was going to be a battle, then I was going to contribute my shilling’s worth. I moved my hand cautiously to my Bulldog. Ivanov saw the movement and a frown creased his forehead. He shook his head, an almost imperceptible motion. Very slowly, eyes flitting between French and me, the Russian agent’s hand emerged from his pocket, and he turned to Harkov and extended it to his minion. Harkov grasped it quickly, babbling like a bloody serf caught pilfering the vodka. Ivanov grimaced at the flow of words, cut Harkov off midstream and acknowledged Schmidt with a quick nod.
Ivanov’s arm swept the room. “Introduce me, Harkov. I have not yet been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of our friends here.”
It was all deuced polite as Harkov led the treacherous bastard around the room, introducing each of us with a brief description of our reasons for joining the cause. I waited for my turn, fear turning my bowels to ice as Ivanov worked his way down the line. I wasn’t sure what the man was up to, but I reckoned “no good” covered most of the options. Then his eyes were inches from mine and he was smiling cool as, damn it, as if we’d just been introduced by a mutual friend on a Sunday afternoon in Hyde Park. Hard to believe that mere months ago he and French had shot it out aboard a wretched, leaky boat and I’d been prepared to exterminate Ivanov if I’d gotten the chance. Now we were smiling at one another, though my smile was as rigid as a corpse’s. Ivanov was more relaxed. Indeed, he looked as though he were enjoying himself. I’m sure he said something, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember what it was. I was too preoccupied wondering whether French would be able to shake hands with a man who’d once put a bullet in his chest. As much as I loathed the green-eyed spy, French hated him more, and who can blame him, really? Of course, French had returned the favor by plugging Ivanov with a bullet from a Remington .41 rimfire derringer, which had knocked the Russian rogue overboard and left him bobbing on the ocean swell where I’d last seen him. But by the time I’d tended to French’s wound and dispatched some of the thugs Ivanov had hired and gone chasing after Ivanov’s female accomplice (with no luck, confound it), Ivanov had disappeared. I had hoped he had purchased a one-way ticket to Davey Jones’s locker, but here he was in the flesh and clearly planning some fresh mischief.
Ivanov stepped up to French and met his eyes squarely. I fancy no one else in the room could see the smoldering rage behind French’s bland smile. I had to applaud the chap, for he seemed positively cordial as he shook hands with the fellow who’d shot him.
“So this is Mr. French, our patrician convert? Pleased to meet you, sir.” Smooth as silk, our Ivanov.
“The pleasure is all mine,” French purred. The two old adversaries shook hands, smiling grimly. A look of wary understanding passed between them. I hoped that if the others had noticed, they’d chalk it up to that unspoken camaraderie that exists between gentlemen of a certain class. Well, it appeared we had a truce on our hands, but for my part it would be an uneasy one. That Russian bugger was about as trustworthy as a crocodile, and I had no intention of lolling about on the sandbank while he was in the water.
* * *
Neither, it transpired, did French. We’d endured a hellish half hour, sitting across from that wicked devil Ivanov while Harkov fluttered about like a crazed moth, trying to impress the boss with a load of codswallop about our future plans and the heroic deeds we’d commit in the name of international anarchy. It had all been a bit awkward, really, and I even felt a little sorry for that stick Harkov, for though I didn’t like the fellow, it was rather humiliating to see him boasting like a schoolboy with an overactive imagination. Ivanov had sat silently most of the time, inscrutable as a Buddha, breaking in only to question Harkov, which flustered him so that he tied himself in knots trying to answer. Eventually Schmidt would interject a calm observation, which Ivanov listened to with interest, and each of us contributed a comment or two, so as to demonstrate our commitment to the anarchist cause. We talked mostly of our next campaign, which proved a lively discussion as everyone wanted to weigh in with a suggestion since our sponsor was present. But lurking in the room was that rather sizable elephant, Schmidt’s assertion that we had been infiltrated. I don’t think I could have stood it if we’d embarked on that conversation while Ivanov was present. I’d kept a cool head until now, but it was going to be jolly difficult playing the dedicated radical while Ivanov lurked nearby. To my great relief, the meeting had broken up without anyone raising the subject of betrayal, and I’d hightailed it back to Lotus House where I had a restorative glass of whisky while I waited for French.
As I expected, he soon appeared with Vincent (who’d been following me, ready to prevent an attack from Mother Edding’s hooligans) in tow.
“Blimey!” Vincent exclaimed. “Hivanov’s back.”
We huddled down before the fire with whisky in hand to talk over the Russian agent’s appearance.
“I’d like to get me ’ands on ’im,” growled Vincent. “I almost froze to death chasin’ ’im to . . . to—”
“France,” I offered helpfully.
“Right. France. Knew it was one of them foreign places where they talk queer. Wot’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”
“God knows,” I said. “But I don’t want to. He’s bound to be trouble. I say we wait for him before the next meeting and grab him. I’d enjoy visiting him in one of Her Majesty’s prisons.”
French stared moodily into his glass. He shook his head morosely. “Who knows if he’ll be at the next meeting? If we’ve seen the last of him, I’ll regret it. I want to know what he’s playing at. Has he transferred from military intelligence to the Third Section? Is he trying to sabotage the group, or does he want it to succeed?”
“Don’t the British and Russian governments cooperate when it comes to hunting down anarchists?” I asked.
French took a deep draught from his glass and grimaced at the strong spirits. “Theoretically, they do share information. But agents from every nation are working to infiltrate these combat units and they don’t always bother to inform the British government when they’re operating on British soil. I wouldn’t be surprised if the anarchist community isn’t riddled with government agents. I admit to being shocked when Ivanov walked in the room, though.”
“Christ, so was I. I thought I’d keel over and pass out when that bugger came through the door. He’s a cool one. He must have known we were there.”
“Of co
urse he did. Confound the man, he took a huge risk in popping up like that. We could have given away the game, and then the three of us would have been in a hell of a tight spot.”
Vincent scratched an ear in bewilderment. “I still don’t understand, guv. You said Ivanov might want to ’elp them anarchists? Why would ’e do that?”
“The Russians are no friends of ours, Vincent. A British government distracted by domestic problems is much less likely to interfere with Russian plans for the Ottoman Empire or India. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Russians aren’t behind the whole affair.”
“But if this is a Russian scheme to destabilize our government, why would Ivanov show his hand?” I asked. “Surely he’d hide in the shadows. And if he wanted to create some deviltry, all he has to do is throw us to the wolves. Dizzy would be horrified to lose two agents.”
“You are charmingly naïve, India. Our places would be filled quickly. Governments do not mourn their dead.”
“Oh.” I must say, I found that attitude rather appalling. I must take a moment someday soon and think about why I’m risking my neck for such an ungrateful bunch. “If that’s the case, then the tsar probably doesn’t care a fig about Ivanov. I say we just kill the brute and be done with it.”
French frowned censoriously at me. “Really, India. You’re becoming as bloodthirsty as Vincent. There’s more to Ivanov’s actions than meet the eye, and I intend to find out what the fellow is doing. It could be of vital interest to the prime minister.”
“So we just go to the meeting tomorrow and if Ivanov shows, we have a friendly game of whist and forget all about the gunshots we’ve exchanged? This espionage game has strange rules, French. I don’t like playing about in the shadows, trading polite nothings with a cove who tried to kill us and wondering if he’ll try it again. It’s not natural.”
French seemed hurt at my depiction of his chosen profession, but I soothed him with more whisky and then we nattered on about Ivanov and his intentions. An hour later, we were none the wiser. Vincent had nodded off on the floor, and French yawned and stared at the dying embers of the fire. I nudged Vincent with the poker.
“Let the boy sleep,” said French.
“He’s not sleeping in my study. Do you have any idea how long it takes to clear the stench if he’s here for more than an hour?” I bestowed upon French my most bewitching smile, which usually scythes down men like ripened oats. “I could do with some rest myself. I don’t suppose—”
French blushed. “Regretfully, no. Not with Vincent around. And not when I’m exhausted from all this late night palaver. And not when I’ve been mucking about in Seven Dials. I’m filthy. I need a bath and my bed.”
I must have looked petulant (and who wouldn’t—what kind of a man turns down an offer like that?) for French tilted his head and gave me a rueful smile.
“You know how I feel, India. It’s just that . . . just that—”
“Don’t stutter, French. And don’t stew over it.”
He brushed a dark curl from his forehead. “This isn’t a good time, for a number of reasons. But I promise you, when this affair is finished—”
“Right,” I said brusquely. “When we round up these radicals, we’ll—”
What would we do? French and I exchanged a glance. Confound that blond lass in Mayfair. She was going to prove a difficult hurdle for French to jump.
“It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the meeting.” I prodded Vincent with my toe. “And take this one with you when you go.”
French nodded, looking uncharacteristically downcast, and for a moment I thought of taking his hand and assuring the poor fellow that I wasn’t a succubus and not to fret. But I steeled myself and watched from the front door as he and Vincent trudged away, until they were lost in the darkness. In truth, I was just as grimy and exhausted as French, and it would be a relief to fall into my bed. I lit a candle, extinguished the lamps in my study, picked up my revolver and staggered up the stairs to my bedroom. It felt grand to shut the door behind me, sealing off the world of rabid radicals, double-crossing agents and explosions for a bit. I put the candle and my Bulldog on the bedside table and opened the door to the wardrobe.
I don’t know about you, but there are certain times of day when I prefer to be attacked. Midmorning is capital, as I’ve had my breakfast and some coffee and I’m full of vim and vigor then. Just past teatime is also prime. And in a pinch, I can hold my own after dinner, though I’d rather settle before the fire and count my earnings. But I definitely dislike being ambushed at the end of a long night, when I’m wrung out and haven’t had a bite to eat and have imbibed rather too much whisky. It’s a damned shame that louts don’t bother to consult you on your preferred time for a contretemps, but they’re inconsiderate creatures and generally have the manners of ill-tempered ruminants. Goats, for example.
This fellow even smelled like one. When I opened the wardrobe door, a hand shot out and encircled my wrist. Then the chap was on me, his weight taking me to the ground (though the smell might have laid me out flat eventually) as he wrenched my arm and covered my mouth with a horny hand. We fell on the carpet with a thud that shook the house and should have woken anyone within the building, provided the occupants did not include a group of bints sleeping off the evening’s work and a drunken housekeeper. I concluded that I could not rely on any immediate assistance.
My attacker was sprawled over me, his dirty palm shoved into my mouth. I gnawed at the thing like a crazed rat, but he was pressing it so firmly against my face I couldn’t close my jaws and get a grip. All I succeeded in doing was dislodging a fair amount of filth into my mouth. I must have inflicted some damage, though, for he swore quietly and vehemently, and removed his hand long enough to punch me in the jaw with his fist.
“You shut up,” he hissed, and reared back to deliver another blow. He still grasped my right wrist, but my left hand was free and I brought it up forcefully, leading with the heel of my palm and catching him under the nose with as much force as I could muster, which, on account of my being right-handed, was not as strong as I had hoped. I’d wanted to break his nose, you see, and I don’t think I succeeded because I didn’t hear the satisfying snap of cartilage. But any blow to the nose hurts like the devil and so this one did. My assailant’s head snapped back and he swore again, more loudly this time. He scrambled to his feet, still holding my arm, and yanked me up after him. Most men seem to think that sheer strength is all they need when dealing with a woman, but despite being such strong brutes, men have some curiously vulnerable parts and one well-aimed blow can leave them gasping on the ground, staring up at you in astonishment, as if to say, “That ain’t fair.” No it ain’t, my lad, and don’t you forget it. The way I see it, those tender bits are the Big Bearded Bloke’s way of making up to us ladies for that serpent-and-apple business. But I digress.
As the chap hauled me up by the wrist, I stiffened the fingers of my other hand and jabbed him viciously in the eye. Mother Edding’s messenger let out a muted howl, but he hung on to my wrist. He pulled back his arm and prepared to deliver a roundhouse that would have knocked me in to next week. Silly man. As long as he persisted in hanging on to me with one hand and trying to strike me with the other, I had free run of his defenseless appendages. I balled my hand into a fist, crouched to avoid his own swinging fist and caught him with an uppercut in the tallywags. I’m a great fan of rattling a chap’s bollocks when he gets feisty. You don’t have to be an Amazon to lay a bloke out flat, just be sure you catch him square. He won’t have much appetite for shenanigans after that.
Some fellows are more resilient than others, however, and my assailant proved to be made of sterner stuff than most. True, he did fall over as if he’d been poleaxed, but as I brushed past to fetch the Bulldog, he managed to kick out a leg and sweep my feet from under me. I crashed to the floor, and he grabbed a handful of my hair, pulling hard. He was wicked strong, and I yelped. My hair felt as if it was being torn from the roots, and my scalp bur
ned. Now the bugger had done it. I’ve beautiful black hair, you see, soft and thick as sable, and if the bastard had pulled a single strand of my crowning glory from my head, he’d bloody well pay for it. Not to mention that hair pulling is a woman’s trick and any thug who resorted to it deserved the punishment that I was about to mete out.
The blow to his testicles had weakened him, but he staggered to his feet, dragging me upright with him. Instead of trying to wrench myself from his grasp, I took a half step to the right and drove my fist into his unprotected ribs. It wasn’t a hard punch, but it was strong enough to make him flinch and curse, and loosen his grip on my locks. Then I lifted a foot and kicked him hard in the kneecap. He uttered a feeble cry and collapsed, but the bugger still wouldn’t let go of my hair, dragging me down with him. Enough was enough. I used my knee to pound him sharply in the ribs, and finally the ruffian called it a night. He lay on his side with his legs drawn up, moaning piteously. I fetched the Bulldog and drove the butt of the revolver down onto my attacker’s skull. The moaning ceased, and it was a damned good thing it did, for the fellow was beginning to get on my nerves by this time and I had been tempted just to dispatch all five rounds from my gun into his head.
Mrs. Drinkwater opened the door, yawning belligerently. “When you wants your tea, all you have to do is ask. No need to throw a barney.”
* * *
When my visitor regained consciousness, I served him tea and buttered toast and attempted to have a civil chat with him regarding his employer. You’d think that after these courtesies he’d have been forthcoming about her identity, but the fellow proved to be either excessively loyal or exceedingly stupid, claiming he had picked up the job at a pub in Seven Dials from a stranger and knew nothing more than that the bounty on my head was five guineas. That news only increased my anger. For a woman like me, five guineas was an insultingly paltry sum, although to a man from the rookery of Seven Dials it must have seemed like a fortune. I dismissed the fellow from my presence with a warning that if I saw him again, I’d part his hair with a bullet.
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 22