“There was a flap in the lobby as we were leaving.” Thick Ed shoved Dizzy’s legs inside and offered me his hand.
Schmidt made a noise in his throat. “The police?”
“We didn’t stay to find out. And I’d bloody well suggest we do the same thing now.”
I pulled Dizzy upright and straightened his legs for him, which earned me a grateful look. I hoped no one else had noticed. Flerko sprang up on the box with Schmidt to keep watch, and Thick Ed tumbled into the carriage as Schmidt whipped the horses and the carriage shot away from the curb.
Our destination was an abandoned warehouse on the river, selected by Flerko and approved by Harkov and Schmidt as the perfect place to hold a mock trial and an actual execution. Our journey there was made in silence, but for the creaking and rumble of the wheels and the clatter of hooves on brick and stone. Dizzy and I occupied one seat, and Thick Ed sat across from us, staring impassively out the window, though there was nothing to see, and occasionally stealing a glance at the prime minister. I kept my eyes on the floor. I daren’t look at Dizzy for fear that our acquaintance might reveal itself by some gesture or gaze. That left me with nothing to do but think about what was to come, and hope that by dawn my anarchist comrades would be spooning up gruel at Scotland Yard and Ivanov would be contemplating the irony of life as a British prisoner. It was a jolly long carriage ride and one I wouldn’t care to repeat.
Our progress slowed as we neared the water. Dank walls closed in around us, and the only sounds were the rush of water down the streets and the constant patter of rainfall on the cobbles. The air was rank with the smell of human waste and the bitter smoke of thousands of coal fires. I pushed aside the curtain and rubbed a circle in the clouded window glass. Decrepit buildings towered overhead, their windows shattered or boarded shut and the lintels sagging with age. Their exteriors, whether brick or stone or wood, were fouled with soot. It was a fitting place to bring the anarchists’ ill-starred plans to conclusion.
The carriage slowed and then rolled to a stop before our destination. Flerko tugged open the door and made a derisory bow toward Dizzy. “Welcome. Your destiny awaits you here.”
If this portentous twaddle was an example of Flerko’s epistolary style, it’s a jolly good thing he gave up novel writing for anarchy.
Thick Ed helped Dizzy down from the carriage, and Schmidt drove the carriage down an alley and out of view. He returned shortly, bringing the key to the heavy padlock on the massive wooden door. We crowded inside, and Schmidt lit a candle for himself and one for me.
“Harkov, Bonnaire and Grigori are waiting for us upstairs, on the second floor.”
My heart leapt at the news. Ivanov had snapped up the fly like a starving salmon. Of course I realized that Ivanov might have come only to silence me, but I felt a rush of exultation at how close we were to destroying the Dark Legion and capturing one of the tsar’s most trusted agents.
We navigated through a series of chill and clammy rooms and up a warped staircase that groaned alarmingly under our feet until we reached a cavernous room, bare but for a few empty packing cases and tea chests, a few oil lamps and the dim figures of our fellow conspirators. Harkov had been pacing the room but swung to an eager stop as we entered. Ivanov had made himself comfortable on an empty crate and was enjoying a cigar. He did not rise at our entrance. A look of amusement crossed his face at the sight of Dizzy. I had to control the urge to draw my Bulldog and inform the Russian he’d be laughing out the other side of his face soon. It’s all well and good for me to mock my leaders, but I draw the line at any damned display of Russian arrogance. My anger must have been palpable, as Ivanov’s eyes slid in my direction and I saw a fleeting smile before he smoothed his face into impassivity.
Harkov advanced on us anxiously. “You are late.”
“We’re not late.” Thick Ed sucked his battered knuckles.
“And all went according to plan?” Harkov asked.
“Not exactly,” said Thick Ed. “We didn’t have time to kill the guards. A bunch of blokes were shouting down in the lobby. We had to get out of there.”
“The guards saw you?” Harkov’s cheeks paled. “They’ll recognize you. They’ve surely been found by now, and the authorities will be after you.” Bloody observant of Harkov, if only he’d known it, except the police had arrived at the warehouse hours ago. He flitted to the window and prized open a shutter. “They might be out there at this minute, watching.” He whirled round. “Perhaps we should abandon our objective and leave now. We can be on a mail boat this morning.”
Flerko was pushing a great wooden box into the center of the room, panting loudly with the effort. “I shall not leave here until I have cut off the head of this louse and raised it high on London Bridge.” He scurried into a dark corner of the room and emerged with an axe in his hand. Up to that minute, I’d always considered Flerko an emotional but not particularly dangerous chap. Seeing him there with that maul in his grip, the blade honed so that the edge gleamed dangerously in the candlelight, I revised my opinion.
“We were going to try him for his crimes,” protested Harkov.
“There is no reason to do so. We all know he is guilty. And if the police are following us, then we must kill him now.”
“You,” he said to Dizzy, “kneel down and put your head on that crate.” Dizzy cast a terrified glance in my direction. I expect Louis XVI had looked much the same on his way to the guillotine. The Bulldog was halfway out of its holster. Flerko’s mouth was stretched in a rictus of hate, eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked round frantically as if daring anyone to interfere with his plan.
Someone did.
“I’m sorry, my friend. I can’t let you do that.” Bonnaire took a casual step forward. In his hand he held a Chamelot-Delvigne revolver, of the type issued to the French military and police. It was not what I would have chosen to carry, as the bullet lacked significant velocity, but for a small chap like Flerko at this range it should be just the ticket. The unexpected sight of his comrade aiming a revolver at him checked Flerko’s movements.
“Bonnaire?” The little Russian’s face was anguished. “What are you doing? We have waited for this moment for such a long time.”
“Inspector Bonnaire,” the Frenchman corrected him. “Of the Sûreté.” His gaze swept the room. “All of you, move over by Flerko. Lord Beaconsfield, come this way, please.”
Poor Dizzy. I don’t believe he’d ever been as flummoxed as he was now. I could see he was already calculating the odds that the story of his kidnapping by anarchists and rescue by an agent (and a Frog agent, no less) would make the morning papers. I felt rather perturbed myself. This was supposed to be a British operation. What the devil was Bonnaire doing interfering in our business? My temper was not improved by the realization that Bonnaire had successfully deceived me for an extended period of time. Me. India Black, who prides herself on seeing through men like so many gauze curtains.
“I was wondering how long you’d wait before you announced yourself,” I said coolly. “I was afraid I’d have to step in before you had the chance to do so. That wouldn’t have gone down well with your colleagues at the Sûreté, would it? By the way, I’m with the British government. If you’ll remove the prime minister’s gag, he’ll confirm it.” I hadn’t produced the Bulldog yet, but my fingers were firmly gripped around the handle.
Dizzy nodded frantically.
Bonnaire grimaced. “Very well, Miss Black. You may remove the prime minister’s gag and let him speak.”
Schmidt lifted a hand apologetically. “Pardon me, Bonnaire, if that is indeed your name. I shall take it on faith that you are with the Sûreté, but I shall request that you grant me the same indulgence until we may compare documents. I am Gerhard Hoffman of the Berlin Landespolizei.”
“No,” screamed Flerko. “It can’t be true.”
I had removed Dizzy’s gag and untied his hands. Being muzzled is unpleasant for anyone (and I speak from experience), but for a man of Dizzy’
s loquaciousness the last hour must have been sheer bloody torture.
He rubbed his mouth painfully and coughed. “Miss Black speaks the truth. She is employed by the British government.” He cast a baleful eye at Bonnaire and Schmidt. “And I shall demand an explanation from your ambassadors as to your presence in England. As for you,” he said, turning to Ivanov, “you shall accompany Miss Black and me to Scotland Yard, where we shall discuss your employment as an agent of the tsar.”
Harkov clasped a hand to his chest. “Grigori! What does this mean? And you, Bonnaire, and you, Schmidt, you are all traitors? I cannot believe it.” His knees sagged, and he sank slowly until he was sitting slumped on one of the packing cases.
“His name isn’t Grigori. It’s Ivanov, and when I last saw him, he was gathering intelligence for the Russian army,” I said.
“My allegiance is to the tsar.” Ivanov glanced dismissively at Harkov. “Had these other fools not intervened, you and Flerko would be accompanying me to St. Petersburg. As it is, the two of you may wind up back in Russia anyway when Scotland Yard is finished with you.”
“You certainly won’t be escorting them.” The Bulldog was in my hand now, covering Ivanov. “You’ll be staying here. We have some unfinished business.”
Ivanov laughed, a guttural bark that echoed around the room. “You’re still angry about French, aren’t you? I shall never forget the pleasure I derived from manipulating the two of you. And you call yourselves agents? I maneuvered you both like chess pieces. But, tell me, pray, where is Mr. French?”
“Why, he’s dead, of course. Miss Black shot him,” Harkov bleated.
“Of course she didn’t kill him, you idiot. Those two performed an entire drama for you all, and you believed it was real. Miss Black would never harm French. She’s in lo—”
“That’s quite enough,” I cut in. Dizzy’s face was a study; he looked like a young vicar hearing confession for the first time.
“We’ll have many interesting discussions, Major Ivanov.” French strode into the room, trailed by Superintendent Stoke and four men with drawn revolvers and grim countenances. We made an interesting tableau, this group of various representatives of law and order in our respective countries squaring off like a group of boys in the schoolyard on the first day of term. Schmidt and Bonnaire looked uneasy, and I couldn’t blame them. They’d clearly stumbled into something more than a den of anarchists. The tension between Ivanov, French and me was positively glutinous.
French waved his Boxer at Ivanov. “Were you planning to stand by while this idiot Flerko decapitated the British prime minister?”
“Of course not,” Ivanov said scornfully. “I had intended to rescue the man, the rescue unfortunately being preceded by a gun battle in which everyone but the prime minister and I had been killed.”
“So you were going to shoot me, you bastard.” I cocked the hammer of my revolver.
Ivanov grinned wickedly. “Just imagine what the papers would say when it was revealed that an agent of the tsar had saved the life of Benjamin Disraeli. Heads would roll, would they not? Your intelligence services would be decimated, and your ministers would be occupied with domestic political issues, leaving Russia with a free hand in the Ottoman Empire.”
Thick Ed shoved a thumb inside his vest and scratched vigorously. “It’s all up, ain’t it?” He was taking it like a philosopher. Harkov was a picture of despair, sitting with his head clasped in his hands.
When it comes time to write down “India Black’s Rules for Government Agents,” I shall be sure to include the following: “Never forget about the lunatic with the axe.” Flerko had been following the sequence of disclosures with horror. Now he flung back his head and an enraged howl filled the room. He swung the axe over his head and charged, not at Dizzy as I had feared, but at Ivanov.
Several guns, my own included, fired at once, unleashing a hail of bullets that struck Flerko and sent him spinning, arms flailing, until he collapsed to the floor. He jerked once, eyes wide and staring as he glimpsed Utopia. His outstretched hands closed into fists. He took a juddering breath, and it was finished.
The noise had been earsplitting. The silence that followed was even more deafening. Smoke eddied in drifts and billows toward the ceiling. We stared at the crumpled figure of the little Russian. I thought I caught the subtle hint of herring beneath the corrosive odour of gunpowder. I had hated to fire on the little fellow, but one could hardly stand by and watch as he chopped Ivanov into pieces, a decision I was sure I would regret.
Ivanov made his move then, while the rest of us were frozen into immobility. He turned his revolver on us and fired at point blank range. A bullet slapped into one of Stoke’s men and he staggered, gripped his shoulder and collapsed to his knees.
I threw myself at Dizzy, who’d been staring openmouthed at Ivanov. I caught the prime minister at the knees, and we tumbled to the floor. Chaos erupted. Bonnaire, French, Stoke and the Scotland Yard men scrambled for cover in the nearly bare room, emptying their guns as they dived behind empty crates.
Ivanov fired as he ran, but he was angling away from the door and toward the back wall of the warehouse, which overlooked the river. He crashed headlong through a window, shattering the few panes of glass that remained in the frame.
“Cease fire,” shouted French as he clambered to his feet and rushed after the Russian. He dived gracefully through the window, like an acrobat in full flight, and the last I saw of him was the soles of his boots disappearing into a black void.
TWENTY-TWO
You’ll be wondering what happened after Ivanov and French did swan dives out the window of that abandoned warehouse. Stoke’s man had been potted in the shoulder and while the wound was painful, the fellow was in no immediate danger. Stoke and his men rocketed off to find a boat to scour the river for the Russian and our man. I helped Dizzy to his feet. He looked surprisingly fresh, and he bucked up awfully well after the uproar died down. I suppose if you’ve survived dozens of scurrilous political attacks and nasty comments about being a Jew, a gun battle is mild in comparison.
Bonnaire and Schmidt (or Hoffman, as he preferred, but I’ll stay with Schmidt so as not to confuse things any further) introduced themselves more formally to each other, and Harkov began to cry. Though he looked the very archetype of a Slavic villain, I don’t believe his heart was ever in this anarchy business. He’s just the sort of bloke who likes to spout ideological nonsense without getting his hands dirty. Once he gets out of prison, he’ll likely gravitate to a missionary society. Thick Ed went meekly. I don’t think he was committed to assassinating politicos and such; I think he just liked to tinker with dynamite and blow up things. With his mechanical skills, I had no doubt he would be out of gaol before summer arrived.
I was about to load Dizzy into Schmidt’s carriage and enlist the German policeman to drive us back to the Langham when we heard footsteps and shouts on the stairs, and French marched in with a hand on Ivanov’s collar, Vincent trailing in his wake, while Stoke and his chaps brought up the rear with guns drawn. Ivanov, French and Vincent were soaked, their clothes dripping water. They smelled like the river mud at low tide.
French gave Ivanov a brisk shake. “We’ve got him this time, India.”
Vincent’s buttons were about to pop off his coat, his chest had swelled to such an extent. “French tole me this Russian devil might make for the river, and I was waitin’ for ’im in a rowboat down there. When he popped ’is ’ead up out o’ the water, I belted ’im ’ard. All French ’ad to do was grab ’im by the scruff of the neck.”
“Quite true,” said French, grinning with pride at the little sod.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” I asked. “It would have been much more convenient just to kill him and throw his body in the river.”
Ivanov’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “You shock me, India. Where is your compassion?”
“I believe I lost it at sea, on a trip I made once to Calais.” It had been an involuntary journey, cou
rtesy of Ivanov, and it had been a nightmare.
There wasn’t much to say after that, and the superintendent and his lads ushered Ivanov away, along with Schmidt and Bonnaire, who agreed that it would be best if they cooperated with their British counterparts and pooled their knowledge about anarchist activities. French manned the driver’s seat of Schmidt’s carriage, and we ferried the injured policeman to the hospital and then repaired to Dizzy’s room for a medicinal dose of spirits. Stoke meandered in a couple of hours later, and we rehashed the whole affair from beginning to end. He’d had a brief conversation with Schmidt and Bonnaire and had solved the mystery of the missing bomb.
“Schmidt, I mean Hoffman, confessed to taking the fifth bomb, not half an hour after Thick Ed planted the infernal device. He planned to disarm and remove the rest, but then he got nervous about thwarting the plan and decided not to risk it. He wanted Grigori, er, Ivanov, as much as we did, and was afraid to spook him. Bonnaire also chose to let the plan proceed so as to keep the group intact until he could lay hands on Grigori, er Ivanov. It’s all rather confusing, and I’ve instructed those two that we don’t take kindly to government agents from other countries operating here without our consent. They’ll be out of England by the end of the week.”
“And their desire to catch Grigori meant they were willing to stand by while I shot French?” I was beginning to loathe French and German agents as much as Russians.
French shrugged. “Obviously, they didn’t want to reveal their identities as government agents. It’s a wretched business, but things like that do happen. The Third Section has even been known to sacrifice one of its own informants in a cell to protect another.”
“Extraordinary,” Dizzy muttered, “that so many members of the group were government agents.”
“Not uncommon these days.” Superintendent Stoke sucked his moustache thoughtfully. “Almost as many men on government payrolls in Europe as there are anarchists.”
India Black and the Shadows of Anarchy (A MADAM OF ESPIONAGE MYSTERY) Page 28