Ghosts of Empire Read online

  Sabine beckoned to one of the divans in the center of room, and then sat when Ginny nodded her approval. “Come, now. Let’s not be coy. I think you know.”

  “I want to hear you say it,” said Ginny. She sipped at her drink, still standing by the drinks cabinet, watching Sabine with apparent interest. Her heart was thrumming. “This is all new to me.”

  “I’m a ‘fixer’,” said Sabine. “I fix things. People come to me with a problem, and I help to put it right.”

  “No matter the consequences?”

  “I’m a professional,” said Sabine. “There are no consequences. I do whatever is necessary and I leave no trail. But such a service costs…” She waved her hand at their surroundings. “Not that I expect that’ll be a problem for a woman in your position.”

  “As I explained, I don’t want for anything,” said Ginny.

  “Then I believe I’m in a position to help,” said Sabine. “It would be a simple matter to engineer an ‘accident’. Something quick and painless… unless, that is, you want him to suffer?”

  Ginny had to fight down a rising tide of disgust. She couldn’t believe how casually this woman was discussing the act of murder—the sly expression she was wearing, the playful confidence with which she presented herself. She wondered what had happened to this woman to lead her to this point in her life, to harden her so much that the thought of arranging the death—and potential torture—of an innocent man seemed so amusing. She realized she was frowning. “No… I…”

  Sabine seemed to stiffen, as if spooked by Ginny’s sudden hesitation. “Look, we can stop the conversation right here, and forget we ever met.” She started to rise from the divan.

  “No, no. It’s just a lot to take in, that’s all. For so long, I’ve thought about this day, and now that it comes to it… it’s hard, that’s all. I did love him, once. Perhaps I still do.”

  Sabine was standing, now. “Listen, perhaps I’ve made a mistake.” Her eyes flicked toward the door.

  “No, please, sit down,” said Ginny.

  Sabine paused. She looked uncertain, as if her instincts were telling her to go, but her greed was clinging on to the notion that she might be about to pass up a particularly lucrative job. Her instincts seemed to take over. She could tell something was wrong. She took a step toward the door.

  “Sit down,” said Ginny. “Now.”

  Frowning, Sabine turned toward her, pivoting on the spot, raising her arms defensively, recognizing the sudden shift in Ginny’s tone for the threat it represented.

  A sudden gust stirred Sabine’s hair, causing her to brace herself, gasping in shock, as Ginny raised her arms by her sides and began to rise slowly into the air.

  The lights flickered, as the swirling winds caused the curtains to flutter uncontrollably, sending vases and teacups skittering to the floor, where they were dashed against the floorboards, shattering into a thousand tiny shards.

  Ginny could feel the entity inside her stirring with pleasure. She embraced it, allowing it to flex, to flow out into her body and mind. She gasped, as its cold fingers spread into her limbs; felt its cool anger, its desire to obliterate the little human standing before her. She raised her hands, felt the ebb and flow of the energy swirling around her as she began to shape it, to give it form. She was floating now, her head only inches from the ceiling. She felt vital, alive, in control.

  Below, Sabine was staring up at her in abject terror. Here was a woman who had seen horrors beyond belief—who had perpetrated horrendous crimes against her fellow humans—and yet, faced with this echo of Sekhmet, she seemed to shrink, to become nothing but an insect that deserved to be crushed. Ginny raised her hand, felt the power coursing through her body. All it would take was a single gesture, and she could rid the world of this foul stain. Surely that was righteous? Surely that was what was intended for her?

  She heard a crash from the doorway, and looked down to see three men burst into the suite, all brandishing handguns.

  “Thank God,” said Sabine, shouting over the roaring of the ethereal wind. “Help me!”

  One of the men approached her, raising his weapon. “I think you’re the one who’s going to be helping us,” he said.

  Ginny saw Sabine’s shoulders sag, as she took in her situation. She seemed to recognize the man who had approached her.

  “You.”

  Ginny raised her hand. There was still time to end it. The woman didn’t deserve to live. She could almost hear the snarl of Sekhmet’s lions, ready to burst forth from the ether and consume her prey. If the men were killed too, then so be it—they were only humans, and could easily be replaced by other worshippers.

  “Ginny?” the voice was coming from somewhere below. “Ginny.” She looked down to see a man by her feet, peering up at her, concern etched onto his face. “Ginny, it’s over.”

  She tried to focus on his face, on the meaning behind the sounds he was making. In her head, the goddess was whispering to her, urging her on, bidding her to smite her enemies. But there was something about the man below… something she had to remember.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Ginny closed her eyes and reasserted her control. She felt warmth flooding back into her limbs, felt the fog clearing from her mind. The voice was gone, and all she could hear now was Gabriel, calling her name from below. She lowered her arms, felt the wind around her drop to a gentle breeze. For a moment she was falling, and blackness threatened to consume her. Then all was still, and she was standing once again, her feet firmly upon the floorboards.

  She opened her eyes, overcome with a sudden wooziness, and then Gabriel was there beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders, supporting her as she faltered. He led her over to a divan and lowered her onto it.

  Rutherford was standing over Sabine, his gun leveled at his head. Donovan, also holding a pistol, stood by the door, blocking the exit in case she made a sudden bolt past Rutherford.

  Sabine was openly staring at Ginny, slack-jawed with fear and incredulity. “What are you?” Her voice had lost it cocky, confident edge.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” said Ginny. Her mouth was dry. She glanced toward the drinks cabinet, where her glass still sat upon the glossy wooden surface. Gabriel went to fetch it for her.

  “And you’re in league with that,” said Sabine, glancing up at Rutherford.

  “Whatever is necessary,” said Rutherford. “Although she happens to be a friend.”

  “To be honest, I’m surprised you’re still alive,” said Sabine. “Those Russians were pretty pissed.”

  “Those Russians are why I’m here. You’re going to tell us everything about them. Why they hired you. What they wanted.”

  Sabine smiled. “You know I can’t do that.”

  Ginny leaned forward in her chair, fixing Sabine with a glower. “Oh, I think you will.”

  She watched Sabine swallow. “They’ll kill me…”

  “And yet I’m the one pointing a gun at your head,” said Rutherford.

  The fight seemed to go out of the woman. She pinched the bridge of her nose between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

  “That’s better,” said Rutherford. “Start with the job. What did they hire you to do?”

  Sabine smiled, despite the gravity of her situation. “It couldn’t have been easier. They wanted me to obtain some blueprints for them. That was it.”

  “Blueprints of what?”

  “Of the Underground system. Maps of the stations and tunnels. They were particularly interested in City Road, the disused station out by Islington.”

  “That’s been closed for years,” said Rutherford. “What use could they possibly have for an old Underground station?”

  Sabine shrugged. “I don’t ask questions. I do what I need to do, and then I get paid.”

  “What else did you see or hear, over in that house in Belgravia?”

  “Bearded men in hoods, coming and going. That was it. Until you arrived, of
course, and things went a bit ‘hocus pocus’.” She shot an accusing glance at Ginny.

  “So you’ve no idea what they wanted with the Underground plans?” pressed Rutherford.

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t ask questions.”

  “Do you think they’re looking to establish a base down there?” said Gabriel. The question was directed at Rutherford, rather than Sabine.

  “I don’t see why. They’d already got a stronghold in London, and it was only compromised because they failed to kill me.” Rutherford turned to Sabine. “Alright, I think we’ve got what we need out of you. For now.”

  “You’re not going to let her go?” said Donovan, from across the room. “She’ll go straight to them. She can’t be trusted.”

  “You really think I’d be that stupid,” said Sabine. “If they find out I told you about the blueprints, they’ll kill me on the spot.”

  “Bind her,” said Rutherford, motioning with his gun for Gabriel to come forward. He did so, withdrawing a small coil of twine from his coat pocket.

  “What are you doing?” snarled Sabine, twisting in her seat to stare up at Rutherford, who was keeping the muzzle of his gun pointed calmly at her forehead. “I told you what you wanted to know.”

  “It’s for your own safety,” said Rutherford. There was the faint hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You said it yourself—they’ll kill you if they get the chance. Consider this protective custody.” He watched while Gabriel tightened the cord around her wrists, and then set about doing the same to her ankles.

  “They’ll kill you, you know, Rutherford. They’ll kill all of you. They’re not going to be scared off by a few conjuring tricks.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Ginny. “It worked well enough on you.”

  Sabine looked panicked. “Rutherford, please. You know how it works. I won’t be safe in custody. They’ll have people on the inside. You haven’t seen what they’re capable of.”

  “Quite the contrary,” he said. “And besides, I know some of my colleagues will be very anxious for a little word.”

  “Bastard,” she spat. She struggled futilely against her bonds as Gabriel stepped away, and Rutherford finally lowered his gun.

  “No need to get comfortable,” said Rutherford. “Someone will be along shortly to pick you up.”

  He motioned to the others to follow him as he crossed to the door. Pausing only to down the last of her vodka, Ginny stood, smiled sweetly at Sabine, and then turned and left the room.

  TWELVE

  “Morning.”

  Donovan sat hunched over the breakfast table in the hotel restaurant, wreathed in a pall of cigarette smoke. There were two empty coffee cups on the table before him, and he nursed a third in his right hand. He looked up as Gabriel approached the table, and then used the side of his boot to push out one of the chairs by way of greeting.

  Amused, Gabriel sat, reaching for the coffee pot. It was empty. He beckoned to the waiter. “Where’s Flora?”

  “She’s eaten already. She’s unhappy I decided to leave her out of last night’s little encounter.” Donovan gulped at his coffee as if it were medicinal.

  “She’s a capable woman, Felix.”

  Donovan leaned back in his chair. “I know that better than anyone. Of course I do. But that’s not the point, is it? I mean—why put her in harm’s way if I don’t have to. Why risk it?”

  “You make it sound as though it’s your choice.”

  Donovan sighed. “She says I’m being selfish. The way I see it, I’m trying to protect her.”

  “Have you considered that she might feel the same?”

  Donovan took another sip from his coffee cup, and then reached for his cigarette, which had been slowly burning down in the ashtray. “Maybe,” he admitted, with some reluctance. He looked up as the waiter appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was a tall, lean man, impeccably dressed in a black suit. His upper lip looked as starched as his collar. Donovan took a draw on his cigarette.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the waiter.

  “Morning,” said Gabriel. “Can I get some coffee? And some eggs. Scrambled, with Tabasco sauce.”

  The waiter raised an eyebrow, suggesting disapproval, but nodded curtly. “And for sir?”

  “Just some more coffee,” said Donovan.

  “Very well.” The waiter drifted away toward another table, at which a young family had just taken up residence. The mother was wrestling a menu from the hands of her youngest child, while the father sat looking in the other direction, as if embarrassed to be associated with them.

  “Anyway,” said Gabriel, returning his attention to Donovan. “You can make it up to her this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rutherford’s got another lead. A man named Newbury, a former British agent with experience dealing with this sort of thing.”

  “You mean the Russians?”

  Gabriel shrugged. He lowered his voice. “I’m not entirely sure, but Rutherford thinks he might be able to shed some light on what we saw during the ambush. That strange energy they were throwing around.”

  Donovan stared forlornly into his cup. “Maybe he’ll know where to get a decent cup of coffee around here, too.”

  Gabriel laughed. He reached over and took a cigarette from Donovan’s crumpled packet. “Do you mind?”

  “You know you don’t have to ask.”

  Gabriel placed the filter between his lips and pulled the ignition tab. He allowed the smoke to flood his lungs. The taste reminded him of home.

  “What did you mean, about making it up to her?” Felix pushed the remains of his coffee across the table in front of him, and twisted in his seat, looking for any sign of the waiter. The man had disappeared from view.

  “Well, just that you can spend a little time with her this morning. Do something that she wants to do. Rutherford thought we should avoid descending on this Newbury guy mob-handed. That’s all.”

  Donovan’s lip curled in obvious disagreement. “You can’t seriously expect me to go sightseeing, Gabriel, with all this going on?”

  “Look, we’re supposed to be on vacation. Think about Flora. You said yourself that you wanted to keep her out of it.”

  “Yes, but I’m a goddamned policeman. I can help.” He paused to grind out the end of his cigarette. “And what about that Glogauer woman, and all that talk about the Underground stations? Don’t you think we should be looking into that?”

  “Look, don’t get me wrong, Felix. You know there’s no one I’d rather have by my side. But I think it’s worth finding out what we’re really up against before we go looking for them. We’ve no idea what we’ll find down there, but judging by what we saw during that ambush, it can’t be anything good.” Gabriel nodded to indicate the waiter was returning with their coffee.

  Donovan practically seized it from the man’s hands. He splashed some into Gabriel’s cup.

  “If we don’t act quickly, there’s every chance we’ll miss our window of opportunity. You know how this works. The moment they find out the woman talked, they’ll be gone. It’ll be as if they were never there.”

  “We have to trust Rutherford to handle it.”

  Donovan shrugged. “Look, this is Rutherford’s business. I’m here to help, just like you. And I’m telling you, it’s a mistake to wait.”

  “Alright. He’ll be here soon, so you can tell him yourself.”

  Donovan grunted something non-committal, and then lit another cigarette. Gabriel sighed, leaned back in his chair, and willed his eggs to arrive more quickly.

  * * *

  Donovan’s exchange with Rutherford had, in the end, been brief and to the point. Rutherford maintained that the priority was to find out all they could about their enemies before making their play, and while Donovan protested, Rutherford wasn’t about to be swayed. Like Gabriel, he’d seen first-hand what this faction of Russian occultists—which he’d taken to calling “Koscheis”—was capable of, and he w
as intent on finding a means to comprehensively defeat them. If, he argued, they were establishing some sort of presence on the Underground, then they’d work together to flush them out—just as soon as they understood what they were contending with.

  As a result, Donovan—who’d remained adamant throughout—had taken Flora out for the morning, having agreed to rendezvous with the others back at the hotel after lunch.

  Now, Gabriel, Ginny and Rutherford were across town in Chelsea, searching for the address that Rutherford’s commanding officer had provided him with. They were standing in the correct street, as far as Gabriel could tell, but Rutherford appeared somewhat less certain. Gabriel watched him turn the scrap of paper over in his hand and examine the scrawled address for a second time. He looked up at the house, then back at the paper, as if finding it somehow difficult to correlate the two.

  “Not what you were expecting?” said Ginny.

  “Well… no,” said Rutherford. “It’s just that… well, Sir Maurice Newbury has a certain reputation. I don’t really know what I was expecting. Something a little less traditional, I suppose.”

  Gabriel looked the place up and down. It was traditional in a way only British houses could be—a smart, terraced property, probably built sometime toward the end of the previous century, with large bay windows, a pillar-box red front door, and a small rose garden enclosed by a low wall, which was capped by a row of ornamental iron railings. It looked homely—if a little conservative, and small, for Gabriel’s taste.

  “Well, are you going to knock on the door?” urged Ginny.

  “Yes, sorry,” said Rutherford. He walked up the path to the house. The others hung back. Rutherford smoothed the front of his jacket, and then lifted the knocker and rapped loudly, three times.

  Moments later the door swung open, and a short, thin woman appeared in the opening. Her hair had once been midnight black, but was now shot through with streaks of gray, and she was wearing wiry spectacles, pushed right up to the bridge of her nose. She was wearing a red cardigan and black skirt, with a lace-edged apron tied around her waist. “Hello?” she said, her voice cracking slightly with age. Gabriel guessed she must have been in her sixties, if not older.