Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2)

by P J Thorndyke

  “With us, Longman,” the face said brusquely. Lazarus immediately knew who they were and why there were here; the unadorned carriage, the two men who knew his name and had undoubtedly been waiting for him, following him even. These were men from the bureau.

  He felt his feet walking him over to the carriage without remembering giving them the instructions to do so. The last thing he wanted was to get drawn into more entanglements with the government. He felt as if he had only just been released from their clutches, after narrowly avoiding a prison sentence or a swift departure from the world at the hand of a state-employed assassin. In fact, how could he be sure that these men in their carriage weren’t just that? But no, why wait two years to kill him?

  Two years had passed since he had returned from Egypt in disgrace. Not only had he failed in his mission to return the French Egyptologist Eleanor Rousseau to her fiancé in England, but he had directly disobeyed orders and greatly endangered British relations with the Confederate States of America. The C.S.A.’s ignorance of his involvement in the devastating crash of its dirigible, the CSS Scorpion II, was the only thing that had saved Lazarus from being thrown to the wolves. All aboard had been killed but him and Katarina Mikolavna; the Russian agent whom he had fallen in with.

  Or was that fallen in love with?

  Two years—and he still thought about her every day. Two years since she had left him gawking on the platform at Gare Montparnasse in Paris like a foolish schoolboy. He had accepted that he would never see her again. His brain knew that. But his heart still hadn’t received the news.

  “Where would you take me?” he asked the men in the carriage.

  “To see the Gaffer,” said the man who had spoken.

  They both wore grey suits. One had a moustache and the other wore spectacles. They had the bored airs of those who rarely left London and spent their lives passing correspondence between others with vastly more exiting lives. Lazarus knew the type.

  “I don’t suppose either of you know what he wants to see me about?” Lazarus asked. “Or doesn’t he tell his lackeys that much?”

  Their faces soured and for a moment Lazarus thought he was going to receive a fist in his face. But these two were probably more used to pushing piles of paper around than actual people.

  “Just get in, Longman,” the man with the spectacles said. “No need to be bloody-minded.”

  Lazarus did so, and soon they were clattering along Regent Street towards Charing Cross. They headed down Whitehall and turned into an unassuming courtyard beneath a brick arch. There were some other carriages in the yard, their drivers tending to their horses. A casual passerby might have thought the place a mere coach yard. Only a trained military eye would have spotted the camouflaged pillboxes high up on the balconies of the surrounding buildings.

  They entered a small tradesman’s entrance and climbed a narrow carpeted stair that led onto a landing with three doors. A portrait of Queen Victoria hung opposite a rectangular window, the light breaking her severe face into a criss-cross of bars.

  One of the doors led to a long corridor that extended deep into the unknown depths of whatever building they were now in. Portraits of prime ministers going all the way back to Sir Robert Walpole peered down from the walls. A secret serviceman in a plain dark suit sat by a door with his legs crossed, reading the Times. He looked up at Longman, did not smile, and returned to his paper.

  “You know where you are and what to do,” said one of Lazarus’s escorts.

  “Aren’t you going to hold my hand when we go in?” Lazarus asked him.

  “You’re on your own, treasure hunter.”

  The two men departed, leaving Lazarus to open the door and walk in. The secretary rose from her desk and ushered him into the office beyond with a customary knock and opening of the door. She closed it behind him.

  Morton sat behind his inordinately large desk and did not rise. Lazarus needed no invitation to occupy the plain chair set before the gargantuan mahogany slab, and sat down.

  “Good of you to come, Longman,” said Morton, rising to pour them both some cognac.

  “Had I a choice?”

  Morton smiled and handed him his glass. “I’ve missed you, old fellow.”

  “I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual.”

  “Yes, I understand you’ve been keeping yourself busy. Lectures at King’s College, talks at the British Museum and a book on the Akan people, that sort of thing. Not to mention further pursuits in archaeology and anthropology. Something to do with Siam now, isn’t it? Going back to your roots?”

  “It’s perhaps time that I did.”

  “Well it’s all very commendable. Can’t pay all that well though, I’d imagine.”

  “I do all right.”

  “And your father? Is he still living in that house in Edmonton?”

  “Guardian,” Lazarus corrected him. “Yes he is.”

  “Ill, I heard.”

  “Pneumonia.”

  “Second time?”

  “Third.”

  “You know there are some very fine doctors at Guy’s Hospital.”

  “You know I have not the means. Are you suggesting that I work for you again? Is that why I’m here?”

  “You’re needed. All of our agents are. Difficult days are ahead.”

  “Except I’m not an agent anymore. You damn near had me thrown in prison after my last assignment.”

  “And with good reason. Your blatant disregard for orders nearly caused an international crisis.”

  “Good job everybody onboard that dirigible perished, eh?”

  “The truth of the matter is that I’ve got far too many agents in the field right now and not enough on home turf, which is where things look set to flare up in the foreseeable future.”

  “What’s the business?”

  “You have no doubt heard of Otto von Bismarck’s visit in two months time.”

  “The Prussian President? Or is he the Chancellor of the German Empire now? I haven’t kept up with the situation.”

  “Both in effect; they have been merged. Since his League of the Three Emperors fell apart, he has been looking for allies against Russian expansion. His visit to London in November is part of a ploy to side with us and absolutely nothing must interfere with it. Relations with Germany have been strained of late, and although Bismarck is concerned with peace above all else, his new Kaiser is an aggressive sod and will think nothing of declaring war on us regardless of what his chancellor thinks. He’s already begun construction on a new navy, and even has colonial desires—which is something new for Germany. The feeling in parliament is that Bismarck must receive British support if only to hold Kaiser Wilhelm by the collar.

  “We’re worried that some sort of trouble during the visit might stir things up between us and the Germans. Bismarck has made himself thoroughly unpopular with leftists all around the world due to his anti-socialist policies. And we have more than our share of reds here in London. You recall that dreadful business last year?”

  “The Trafalgar Square riots? Yes, I was due to give a speech at the British Museum but it had to be called off.”

  “The East End in particular is a tinderbox awaiting a spark. Revolutionist groups, anarchists, labor strikes. The PM is worried that some of these lunatics might try and assassinate Bismarck. We’ve got our fair share of Polish Jews too, another group that despise Bismarck with a passion. None of them can be allowed to get near him.”

  “I assume you have employed all the requisite security measures.”

  “Naturally. But we have something else in mind. We need to sink a man deep into the red hot spots in the East End. A sort of spy who can ferry us information on the movements of these groups and let us know if something big is coming down the pipeline.”

  Lazarus studied his former employer intently. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I might be this man.”

  “It’s perhaps not as exciting as your previous assignments but it’s a damn sight less dange
rous. It’s intelligence gathering. A small job to bring you back into the fold. My trust in you hasn’t been completely swept away, Longman, although there are some in my circles who believe you should have been shot as a traitor. I want to prove them wrong. You’re a damn good agent and I don’t want to lose you. You just need a bit of a chance to prove to us that you’re still our man.”

  “For God’s sake, Morton!” Lazarus exclaimed. “I’m an antiquarian! A treasure hunter as your man outside was so keen to tell me. I’m not a spy or an undercover policeman. Why on earth do you want me for this thing?”

  “For the reasons I have just outlined. And because all my other agents are tied up with more important matters.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  “Come off it, I didn’t mean it like that. I want you back on my go-to list and you need to show us that you’ve still got what it takes. Besides, don’t you speak Hebrew?”

  “I can read Hebrew should the occasion call.”

  “Can’t you apply yourself and see if you can’t get an ear for it? It would be of enormous help in infiltrating the Jewish radical clubs.”

  “Jews in London generally speak Yiddish. Quite different.”

  “Well, I understand Hebrew is still used in some of their pamphlets and propaganda. Anyway, you wouldn’t be working alone. I’ve arranged for a man to accompany you on your journey into the underworld. Sort of a bodyguard. You’d be the one in charge, there’s no mistake about that. I’d like to introduce you tomorrow morning.”

  “Morton, I still don’t think I’m the man. And I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “Giving lectures and chasing down obscure books? This is national security, man! And this isn’t just some plebs beating the war drum. We’ve reason to believe that the socialists are becoming extremely organized. The Russians may be involved.”

  Lazarus’s heart skipped a beat. For all he knew about Russia, its mention only stirred up one thought in his mind these days. Katarina.

  “The revolutionist movement is even bigger in Moscow and Saint Petersburg,” Morton went on. “And intelligence says that the reds over there have been shipping hardcore rabble-rousers to London to influence and stir things up even more. Something’s got to be done or we’ll lose control over our own bloody city!”

  “And am I to identify these Russians?” Lazarus asked.

  “If you have the chance. But you are to report on all developments in socialist circles, Russians, Jews or anybody else.”

  Russians, thought Lazarus, remembering Katarina’s pale breasts and the scent of her perfume, crumpled sheets smelling of their sweat in a Parisian hotel room. Of course it was ludicrous to think that by coming into contact with some of her countrymen he would somehow be drawn closer to her. As the niece of a high-ranking member of the Okhrana, Katarina was no revolutionary. But for some reason, the mention of Russians made the whole business seem not altogether unappealing.

  “Who is this fellow I’m to be working with?” he asked.