Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Page 7

  He could, just about, see Tally in his shirtsleeves, his back to Nathaniel by the fire. A gentle sizzling and the sweet, salty smell of bacon wafted temptingly into the room. Nathaniel sat up to greet the heady aroma, and Tally turned around.

  “Ah, top o’ the morning to ya,” he grinned. “And just so’s you know, nobody really says that here.”

  “Duly noted,” said Nathaniel.

  “Thought I’d whip us up a bit of fry,” said Tally, turning back to his pan. “Bacon and white pudding, the best Dlugacz’s Butchers had to offer. You hungry? Kettle’s on too.”

  “Marvellous,” exclaimed Nathaniel, stretching his arms and rising. “What’s our plan of action for the day?”

  “Well,” said Tally slowly, prodding at the crisping meat, “I’ve a little business to take care of, but that works well as we don’t want to get to the zoo ’til later. No point in us hanging around the park all day anyways, reckon we’ll be best making our investigations under night’s sultry cover, eh, Professor Stone?”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” nodded Nathaniel. “And, ah…if it’s not to impertinent a question, Tally, what is it, day-to-day, I mean, that you actually, ah…do?”

  “I get by,” said Tally glibly as he tipped their breakfast onto a couple of plates. He turned around and passed Nathaniel his share of the thick, delicious-looking rashers.

  “Tell me,” he continued, folding up a piece of bacon with his fingers and pushing it into his mouth, “with all them degrees and book learning and what-have-you, have you ever cracked a safe?”

  Nathaniel let his fork drop down with a clink and stared, slack-jawed, at Tally. The Irishman stared back at him with steely, serious eyes.

  “Well, I, I mean, Tally…”

  But Tally could compose himself no longer, burst into a huge peal of laughter, and doubled up. “Ah, the look on your face! Priceless. Don’t be worrying your head, Professor. It’s just a couple of acquaintances I’ve gotta see. May not be strictly above board, in the truly legal sense, but we ain’t harming a hair on no innocent’s head. Like I say, just getting by. No need for either of us to run off to confession any time soon.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Ain’t it just? Do you have milk with your tea? Only I can’t afford milk.”

  4.

  THOUGH FULLY AWAKE, sleep being a commodity Folkard found himself increasingly untroubled by, the dispossessed captain nevertheless ignored the knock on his cabin door. He was lying in bed, wrapped in a rough grey naval blanket, as Sovereign made its way through low orbit to the ice sheets of darkest Russia. The knocks came again, and Folkard drew the blanket around his head tighter still, turning his back to the door.

  “Folkard,” came Enderby’s voice. “Folkard!” He rapped again, louder. Like a child in the dark startled by shadows on a window pane, Folkard scrunched his eyes tightly shut and pulled the pillow close over his head. And in the same way this action cannot stop the terrors of the night assailing the imagination, so it did not stop Enderby from opening the door and entering Folkard’s cabin.

  Folkard feigned being roused from a deep and heavy slumber, raised himself up on his haunches and slowly rubbed his eyes.

  “Mister Enderby,” he groaned sarcastically. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “To your continued absence on board, for one,” sniped Enderby. His tone was curt. “We’re beginning our descent on Severnaya in just over forty minutes. It’s time to get up and get ready.”

  “Very well.” Folkard swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his temples. His eyes felt red. His whole body ached. “Allow me some coffee and I’ll be right with you.”

  Folkard had intended this to implicitly suggest that Enderby should leave him be, but the agent merely stood with his hands behind his back. He eyed Folkard suspiciously.

  “Are you enjoying your return to the Sovereign, Captain?”

  “It’s just Sovereign, Enderby, not the. naval tradition. And I’m no longer a captain, at least not of this ship. But yes, I can’t deny a certain…nostalgia.”

  “You like this ship then? Are you proud of it?”

  Folkard bristled. “What kind of a question is that, Enderby? Barely warrants an answer. Of course I am. In many ways, I still consider this my ship, irrespective of the current situation. We adventured many times, this old girl and I. More of a home than a ship, and more of a friend than a mere means of transport.”

  “Good. May I sit? There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Folkard idly waved him to the seat next to the cabin’s desk. Every move careful, Enderby pulled out the chair, twisted it around, and sat to face Folkard directly.

  “It is time,” he said, “that you learned of the true nature of the threat we are dealing with, and the extent of the conspiracy that digs its foul roots into our most treasured and distinguished institutions. To their very heart.”

  Folkard winced at the use of the word. Noticing this but not commenting, Enderby continued.

  “As was made clear in our briefings, it appears that the Russians are compiling and experimenting with sets of technologies that may pose the single greatest threat that the Empire has ever seen. What has been kept from you, up until now, is that the basis of this threat is inexorably linked with this very ship, the ship that you hold so dear.” Folkard snapped his head up to look Enderby straight in the eyes.

  “How so?” he asked. Enderby returned his gaze, and the glib, slightly mocking tone the agent usually commanded was all but undetectable. This was all business, and serious business at that.

  “Are you aware,” said Enderby, “of the mineral deposits we believe the Russians have been searching for and mining, throughout the inner planets?”

  “Of course,” replied Folkard. “I’ve read the files. Rumours and scuttlebutt, by the sound of it. But it’s of little surprise that they got wise to the mission of Esmeralda 2 and her gallant crew.…”

  “Very true, very true,” observed Enderby. “And there’s the rub. Oh, it pays for us to keep an eye on what occurs in the Siberian climes, and while the Russians are certainly antagonistic, and expanding, their capabilities concerning the art of espionage are, shall we say, somewhat lacking compared to our own. Jackboots and rifle fire is much more their style, though I hardly have to tell you that.”

  “Quite,” frowned Folkard.

  “So we are left with a conundrum. It’s certain that the Russians lack the kind of intelligence network that helps keep her Majesty’s subjects sleeping so soundly. And yet how, should these unsettling reports turn out to be true, could they possibly undertake such a task without us ever getting any real, solid evidence? Like you say, rumour and scuttlebutt. But they’re certainly looking for something. The same minerals your own “gallant crew” were searching for. From what we have since learned of the situation on Ceres, they got there before you. And almost certainly followed a path similar to your own crew. But why? And why, Jacob Folkard, have we also discovered that the Russians have a full set of blueprints for Sovereign?”

  Folkard was silent, dumbfounded. Enderby’s gaze bored into his brow. The answer was obvious, but Folkard could not bring himself to voice it. Enderby had no such problem.

  “They are building their own version of the Empire’s flagship, Folkard. And what’s more, they’re imbuing it with the power of these mysterious minerals, in order to create a vessel far more powerful than the one in which we currently sit. While our own scientists toil away with refining the minerals brought back from your previous mission, it would appear the Russians are ahead of us.…”

  He forced Folkard, through sheer force of will, to look into his eyes. “There is a spy, sir,” he said gravely. “Someone loose with secrets in the heart of the Admiralty. And treason is a crime Her Majesty’s Secret Service Bureau takes very, very seriously.”

  The hum of Sovereign’s engines changed momentarily in pitch, a lowering in tone that signalled preparations for descent. Folkard knew i
t well.

  “A crime,” Enderby said coldly, “that they will happily hang you for.”

  5.

  RUSHING, GEORGE HELPED Annabelle up the short ladder back into the train’s first carriage. He hopped up after her, followed by the driver and the two engineers. The raiders were perhaps half a mile away, and closing fast.

  “You!” yelled the engineer Annabelle had previously—and so successfully—emasculated. He turned to the driver, who had just clambered up. “Billy, this hellcat caught me straight in the family jewels!”

  “Shut yer yap, Ignatius,” snapped the driver. “Would you rather have your balls ache or the top of your head cut off? Hmm? Have you looked out the window?” Ignatius duly shut his trap.

  “Weapons,” said George. “I’m assuming you have weapons for this sort of contingency?”

  “That we do, sir,” said Billy. “Maybe a half dozen Winchesters, an’ fifty shells to go with ’em.”

  “Excellent. Bring them. Mister Boon?” Boon smiled and reached into his jacket. With a flourish he produced an elaborate revolver quite unlike anything either George or Annabelle had seen before. A large clockwork housing was bolted on top of the chamber, with a brass belt that automatically fed fresh shells into the cylinder. As well as that, thin copper pipework ran up the length of the barrel, presumably to facilitate an increased and more deadly velocity to the bullets.

  “I call her Elizabeth,” said Mister Boon. “Strictly speaking, wasn’t meant to take her from the prototype lab, but well…no-one was looking, and I was a Boy Scout.”

  “Well I’m glad you came prepared,” said George with a smile. Billy and one of the engineers quickly returned, awkwardly carrying the seven Winchester Repeaters between them. One was handed to George, another to Ignatius, while Billy held on to his own.

  “But…but…I don’t know how to shoot!” whined Ignatius.

  “I thought you said you were brought up on a farm, son!” said Billy.

  “Yeah, but I just milked the cows, boss! I never shot ’em!”

  “Good grief,” muttered Annabelle, yanking the rifle from his hands. She took a handful of cartridges from the engineer and began loading the rifle with a precision and alacrity that had the poor farmhand stunned. She cocked the rifle and aimed down the barrel. “It’ll do,” she said.

  “Lord have mercy,” muttered Ignatius.

  “Right, how do we do this?” said George.

  “If they’re just here for a raid,” said Annabelle smartly, “they’ll generally surround the train and shoot in until we’re subdued. Speaking of which, you, the milk maid.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Head down the train and tell everyone to keep their heads down, then get back here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ignatius waddled off as fast as he could go, happy to be at least moderately useful.

  “Fifty shells should be more than enough to send them running,” said Annabelle. “These kind of attacks are rarely more than scare tactics, perhaps a little thieving off terrified passengers. It’s a protest more than anything else. I doubt they’ll even fire at us.”

  As soon as Annabelle had said this, the glass window closest to them exploded in a shower of shards.

  “Well, bang goes that theory,” said George, before adding, “Darling.” Annabelle frowned at him. They quickly took their places to fend off the attack.

  6.

  ARNAUD’S JOURNEY TO the heart of Calcutta was proceeding apace. The rickshaw containing himself and the taciturn agent had passed through a huge shanty town on the southern side of the banks of the river Hooghly. The wide expanse of the waterway, its flow sluggish with the effluent and detritus of the displaced thousands, stretched to their right. On the other side of the river more of the same sad, decrepit patchwork shacks jutted and grew from the plains almost as far as the eye could see. Studded into these like islands were larger structures, crudely but at least semi-competently built, the municipal buildings and permanently-manned watchtowers at the eastern end of Britannia’s reach.

  “Black Town,” said Coyne. “The arse end of the armpit of the Empire. After this lot decided to rattle their shackles back in ’57 it’s been growing day by day. Didn’t have a lot of trouble here in Bengal, but that didn’t stop ’em piling in and claiming a home wherever they could stick a tent peg. Rest assured, Fontaine, if there’s trouble brewing in Calcutta that’s where we’ll end up.”

  Arnaud pondered the possibility. Right now it didn’t look too unappealing, the souks and vendors looking like something out of Byron or The Arabian Nights. It would be a very different story, he knew, when night fell.

  “Still,” smiled Coyne thinly. “We’ll dredge that sewer when we come to it. White Town will, I’m sure, be far less trying on your soft French sensibilities.”

  Arnaud frowned. Was it treason to punch him? He tossed the thought aside. As the rickshaw zig-zagged up the haphazard track, the river curved out of view before looming back in again, at some points so as the wheels were almost up to the waterline. The water was fetid, bobbing and thickened with God-knows-what. Arnaud, reluctant to demur to Coyne’s stereotyping, gazed into the water unflinching for several minutes. That’d teach this reprobate, he thought stubbornly. Yet when he finally turned around, he found himself confronted by the side of Calcutta that had felt the improvement of a European presence: White Town.

  The streets were spotless. The architecture was a mix of blocky, almost Georgian-style housing with trim and fittings in the local style, lots of white and latticed windows in the shape of minarets. There was a needle-shaped cenotaph in the centre of a plaza, and the sudden clang of the bell of a tram startled the driver, who veered towards the pavement so as not to get them killed. Arnaud wondered why they could not have dispensed with the old man’s pedalling and boarded the tram quite some time ago.

  “Where are we headed?” he asked, trying to hide his annoyance.

  “Where else would one find a world-renowned geologist?” replied Coyne, with a sneer. “The university bar, of course.”

  7.

  NATHANIEL HAD FELT the need for another two cups of milkless tea and another helping of white pudding, just to make sure he was feeling his best. He would have been quite happy reclining on the divan—with which he had by now formed something of a bond—and pondering this whole affair until Tally had returned from whatever twilight deals he was in the process of completing. But Tally had insisted that the air would do him good, and that a nod was as good as a wink to a blind horse, and by the time he had his shady meetings done with it would be time for them to head west to Phoenix Park anyway. Nathaniel reluctantly agreed, and grabbed his jacket.

  It was another fine day in Dublin, a fact that had been hidden from Nathaniel up until that point by the rough cloth Tally had tied to the top of his curtain rails. Grinning, Tally lit a cigarette and offered Nathaniel one, with the latter declining on the pretext that he could smell the tobacco before Tally had even removed the packet from his pocket. The Irishman shrugged, lit his Woodbine and sucked on it deeply. He pointed towards the city centre and started walking, leaving behind a trail of smoke for Nathaniel to follow in the glorious midday sun.

  And yet that same warming sun was not the only thing obscured by Tally’s makeshift curtains. It had also hidden a black hansom cab, utterly unnoticeable on any street, looking slightly unkempt with the paint peeling at the edges. The driver tended to draw the eye, though. A huge man, he wore a bowler hat and huge, thick black gloves that held the reins steady and tight as telegraph wires. He only ever looked forwards, unfazed, slightly bored through smoked welder’s goggles, while in the cab his comrade watched Nathaniel and Tally head towards town. The cab’s occupant smoked a cigarette from a long ebony holder. In his head, the seconds ticked down towards the big bang, a glorious, gorgeous expression of his art that had already been set in motion.

  Chapter Seven

  The Secret of Phoenix Park

  1.

  NOT ONLY HAD
Annabelle been mistaken about the attacker’s use of firearms, she had also been disastrously wrong about their tactics. She had expected them to fan out a few metres from the train, moving around to take the carriages from both sides. Yet they had stayed as a fairly close-knit group, ploughing on relentlessly towards the engine. Something, she thought, was terribly amiss.

  Of course, it was dashed generous of them to stay so close together, as it made them a far larger target. Bert had winged one of the horses with his incongruously-named pistol, sending the rider head first into the sun-baked soil, where he lay still. But the riders were sending up so much dust and were approaching at such a pace that finding and keeping a target proved difficult.

  As the attackers yanked back on their horse’s reins, the wave of dust they had brought with them hit the carriage and spilled in through the open window, making Annabelle and Billy gasp for breath. They heard muffled shouts from outside, and with an alarming crack the lock was shot from the carriage door.

  “Everybody, quick, backwards,” said George, glancing to check Annabelle’s progress as he made his way to the next carriage down. “We can set up defences, pick ’em off!”

  The door was kicked open and a bullet whizzed into the space, making everyone duck instinctively. Bert had already crouched behind a table to cover their retreat, and as the first silhouetted assailant boarded the train he took him down with a deadly shot between the eyes. That would give them pause for thought! George ushered Annabelle and the others through, then took his place in the booth opposite Bert. The two men nodded at each other.

  “The others will get everyone out and make sure we’re safe to follow them,” said George. “Annabelle knows what she’s doing.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” said Bert, and saying this he narrowed his eyes and raised Elizabeth towards another assailant’s face. In a split second he had taken aim and pulled the trigger.

  Momentarily deafened, George wheeled around to see where Bert had shot, and caught a glimpse of one the riders falling from his saddle into the dust. A neat bullet hole sat at the centre of the window.