Ghosts of Empire Page 8

  Gabriel glanced at Flora, to see the corner of her lip curl in amusement. “Well, it’s about time you brought me on one of your little adventures.”

  Donovan glanced at her, frowning. “Now hold on a minute…”

  Flora looked at him expectantly. “Go on…?”

  “Well, it’s not safe,” blustered Donovan.

  “Exactly,” said Flora. “So for once I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.” She turned to Gabriel. “So what’s the plan? How do we help this friend of yours?”

  Gabriel caught sight of Donovan’s helpless expression, and downed the end of his brandy to hide his amusement. “The key has to be this ‘Sabine’ character, the woman Rutherford met at the Russian’s house in Belgravia. Apparently she’s a lone agent, a sword for hire, and for some reason the Russians needed her. If we can get to her, perhaps we can find out what they’re up to.”

  “What about the house itself?” said Ginny, causing all of them to look round. “It seems a logical place to start. We might be able to pick up the trail from there.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Too risky. They’ll be watching the place. And if they’ve any sense, they’ll have already cleared out. The address is compromised.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s the first place the British agents will go. Rutherford still doesn’t know which of them he can trust, and they seem intent on bringing me in for a ‘debrief’. I’d rather keep out of their way.”

  “Alright. So this Sabine woman,” said Donovan.

  “Glogauer, Sabine Glogauer.”

  Donovan waved a hand, as if the details were the last thing on his mind. He peered at the end of his cigarette, and then flicked another heap of ash into the tray. “We’re talking about a needle in a proverbial haystack. People like that—they know how to lose themselves in a city like this. Not to mention, we’re on her territory. It’s not like it’s a case of going bar to bar asking if anyone knows where she is.” He took a draw from his cigarette. “If we were back home I’d get uniform on it, send them out to scour the city with a description. But there are four of us,” he gave Flora a quick sideways glance, “five if you include Rutherford. We don’t even know where to start looking.”

  “That’s just it, Felix. We’re not going to go looking. We’re going to get her to come to us.”

  Donovan frowned. “And how do you propose we do that?”

  Gabriel let the curtain drop, casting the room back into shadow. Still holding his empty glass, he leaned against the back of an empty armchair. “Look, Rutherford says this woman is a known agent for hire. So I say we put word out that we’re in the market.”

  “You mean we hire her?” said Flora.

  “No. That’s how we get her to stick her head above the parapet, to lure her in. We contrive some tantalizing job, get word out around London that we’re looking to hire someone with the right sort of reputation, and then we reel her in and get some answers out of her.”

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Donovan. “The word will already be out amongst the Russians that Rutherford’s working with an American man. It’s too risky. If either of us puts ourselves out there like that, we’re liable to get ourselves killed.”

  “I’ll do it.” Gabriel turned to see Ginny slipping down off the side of the bed. She walked over to stand before him. “Felix is right. It can’t be either one of you. It’s too suspicious. But you can use me as the bait. She won’t expect a woman from New York to have anything to do with Peter or the Russians.”

  “No,” said Gabriel, bluntly. “You’ve been through enough. I know you want to help, Ginny, but I can’t let you put yourself in harm’s way again. Besides, what could you possibly want with a hired gun?”

  “To have my rich American husband succumb to an ‘accident’ abroad?” she said, with a look that left Gabriel in no doubt which of them she’d already cast in that particular role. “And besides, you know I can look after myself.”

  “I think perhaps you should listen to her,” said Flora, reaching over to put a hand on Donovan’s arm to silence his inevitable protest. “It sounds like a viable story: a pretty young woman who’s trapped in a loveless marriage to a rich heir. She’s been looking for a way out—she can’t afford a divorce, which will ruin her—and now she’s found herself in a foreign city, where people might ask fewer questions… To someone like this Glogauer woman, that must surely seem an attractive prospect; a quick, easy assassination, with a big pay check waiting at the end of it. All she has to do is make it look like an accident, or a street mugging gone wrong.”

  Gabriel found himself looking at Flora through new eyes.

  “It makes sense,” said Ginny, from beside him. “Look, don’t get me wrong—I don’t want to do this. I’m not overjoyed at the idea. But if we’re going to make this work, it needs to be a credible story. You and Felix would both arouse too much suspicion.”

  “They’re right,” said Donovan, with a sigh. He crumpled the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. “It does make sense. Not that I like it.”

  Gabriel turned to Ginny. “Are you sure?”

  She chewed the corner of her lip for a moment, in a disarming manner that made Gabriel want to sweep her up in his arms, and then nodded, her decision made. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Alright. I’ll talk it through with Rutherford when he calls. He’ll know what to do about putting the word out. It might take a couple of days.”

  “And what do we do in the meantime?” said Donovan.

  Gabriel grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a damn long night.” He walked over to the sideboard and placed his glass beside the near-empty brandy bottle. “Why don’t you take in some of the sights like we were planning. The Tower of London, the British Museum… You might not get another chance. I get the feeling things are about to get a whole lot busier around here.”

  “Alright,” said Donovan, heaving himself up out of the armchair. “We’ll check back this afternoon, when you’ve spoken to Rutherford.” He glanced at Ginny. “You coming?”

  She shook her head. “No. I think I’d rather stay here. But you go and have fun.”

  Donovan mumbled something incoherent as he crossed to the door. Flora offered Ginny a wan smile, and then they were gone.

  Ginny waited until the sound of their footsteps had disappeared down the hall, then crossed to Gabriel, slipping her hand inside his dressing robe, running her fingers over the silvery scars on his chest. They were cold against his bare flesh. “You don’t have to protect me, you know.”

  “We protect each other,” said Gabriel. “More than you know.” He pulled her closer, and kissed her hard upon the lips.

  EIGHT

  “That’s the address Rutherford gave us,” said Regina.

  She was standing in the shadow of a sweeping terrace of four-story houses, their facades rendered in smooth white plaster, remarkably unblemished by the foul air of the surrounding city. She supposed that wealth had its advantages.

  Neat rows of iron railings divided the entrance to each property, and tall sash windows looked out upon the street below. Everything looked peaceful, well maintained, and quiet. It was growing dark now, and there were no other people in the street.

  She turned on the spot, taking in the surrounding buildings. Similar rows of houses were arranged around a small area of managed parkland, which formed a communal square for the local residents. Somewhere, she mused, for the nannies to bring their charges. It was all terribly exclusive, and an order of magnitude above what she could ever dream of affording on her Service salary.

  Perhaps more pressing was the fact the house in question wasn’t particularly sheltered from view; an interested party in any one of the surrounding terraces—not to mention the park itself—could easily have the property under observation. She couldn’t help but wonder why—or how—the Russians had secured the use of a building here. How did it fit into their plans? What were they hoping to achieve? She supposed it was a uni
versal truth that fewer questions were asked about people with money, so perhaps it was simply that: in choosing such an exclusive address, they were elevating themselves above suspicion. Either that, or the location itself had some significance she was yet to discern.

  The whole matter was alarmingly opaque, and Absalom had proved little to no use either, listening dispassionately as they’d delivered their report that morning, before sending them on their way. And then Rutherford had failed to turn up, and a cursory check of his house suggested that neither he, nor any uninvited guests, had been back there since the previous day. He was out in the cold, and no one seemed to know exactly where. She had half a mind to try to track down the American. Even if he wasn’t able to point them toward Rutherford, she’d at least have the option of bringing him in, and perhaps currying a little favor with Absalom for her trouble.

  “Where is Rutherford?” said Hargreaves. “You don’t think he went and got himself into more trouble after you saw him at the safe house, do you?”

  Regina shook her head. “No. He said he was going to get a room in a hotel, get some rest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still there, sleeping it all off. After everything he went through yesterday…” This, of course, was the most likely answer. His wounds had been grievous. Perhaps they’d have to give him the night, and then if there was still no word tomorrow…

  Hargreaves grimaced. “The state of those wounds.” He paused. “Have you ever had to, you know, pay a visit to the Fixer?”

  “Once or twice,” said Regina, with a shrug. In truth, she’d had reason to suffer his ministrations on four separate occasions over the years, and even now, the ghostly remembrance of the pain from those nights still haunted her from time to time. No matter the miracles he might work, no matter that many of them owed their lives to the man, no one survived an encounter with the Fixer psychologically unscathed.

  Hargreaves shuddered. “Well, here’s hoping I never need to cross his path. At least not on the operating table.”

  Regina had returned to observing the house. There was no evidence of any habitation inside. The curtains were partially drawn, but she’d seen no flicker of movement from within. No one had come or gone since they’d arrived, and no lights were on, despite the dull quality of the evening light. “Which way do you want to go in?”

  Hargreaves seemed to consider his response. “We can try round the back, but the houses around here are well fortified. It may be difficult to scale the wall.”

  “Well, the front door is out. It’s too exposed.”

  “Agreed. And remember, this is supposed to be a reconnaissance. In and out, and report back to Absalom. We need a good escape route if it looks like things are going down the drain.”

  Regina pointed at one of the lower sash windows, which had been hastily boarded over with irregular-edged planks of wood. Beneath it, on the pavement, tiny fragments of shattered glass still sparkled where they caught the light from the nearest streetlamp. “We could take a leaf out of Rutherford’s book.”

  Hargreaves grinned. “Not likely. I suggest we go in through the basement. We’ll probably have to force the door, but I’m not anticipating any resistance. If they’ve any sense they’ll have already cleared out and moved on. Even if they’d succeeded in seeing Rutherford off last night, the place would still be compromised. We get what information we can, and we move on.”

  Regina nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  Together they crossed the road, Hargreaves keeping a watchful eye on the house, Regina scanning the road around them. It was eerily quiet.

  “Clear,” she said, as they approached the house, boots crunching on the broken glass.

  Hargreaves stepped around the railing, and onto the iron treads of the steps leading down to the basement. She followed after him, feeling for her gun in the back of her waistband. She drew it, hefting it, reassured by the weight of it in her grip.

  There was nothing but detritus down in the lobby area at the bottom of the steps—the decaying remnants of newspapers, a dead pigeon, food wrappers that had blown in from the street above. The door to the cellar was peeling, red paint blistered and curling. The handle was rusted and brittle. It didn’t look as if it had seen recent use.

  Regina provided cover, while Hargreaves crept forward and tested the handle. It was either locked, or rusted shut. He glanced at her, motioning for her to step back. He levelled his gun, and for a moment she thought he was going to shoot the lock, but then, with a sudden, unexpected jerk, he kicked out at the door. His boot connected, and the wood around the lock burst with a splintering crack. The door yawned inwards, revealing a dark void beyond.

  Without glancing back, Hargreaves edged cautiously into the basement of the house, weapon trained before him, left hand cupping the right. He went left, and Regina followed, darting right, adopting the same pose, slowly rotating her shoulders to cover the shadowy void before her.

  The room smelled of damp and mildew. She edged forward, peering into the gloom, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was almost unnaturally dark, as if the shadows themselves were slithering around to smother all traces of light.

  She had little sense of what else might be in the room, other than her and Hargreaves. She could hear him breathing—the soft whistle of air escaping through pursed lips. He was tense. She couldn’t blame him.

  Her foot struck something and she danced back, lowering her gun. When it didn’t move, she dropped into a crouch, trying to discern what it was that she’d almost tripped over. It was a coal scuttle, long abandoned and dusty.

  “You okay?” whispered Hargreaves.

  “Yeah, fine. It was just a—” She stopped suddenly short at the sound of scuffing feet.

  “What? What is it?” hissed Hargreaves, urgently.

  “There’s something here. Something else in the darkness.” She stood slowly, her heart pounding. She passed her gun in a wide arc through the darkness, but still, her eyes were refusing to adjust to the dim light. She could hear that breathing again, whistling in the shadows, but this time, she knew that it wasn’t Hargreaves. It was coming from somewhere up ahead.

  Another scuffed footstep. And then a deep, ferocious snarl. “Watch out!” She squeezed the trigger of her gun, jolted by the sudden recoil. Light flared. Her nostrils filled with the stench of cordite. Close by, Hargreaves was saying something, urgently, but her ears were ringing.

  And then she was falling backwards, wildly waving her hands before her to fend off the massive brute of a dog that had leapt at her out of the shadows. The sheer momentum of it carried her over, and she struck the floor hard, knocking the breath from her lungs.

  The beast was a hulking mass of muscle and sinew, and its jaws were only inches from her face. She could feel the spittle flecking her cheeks as it barked. Somehow she’d managed to get her hands around its throat as they’d gone down, and she jammed her elbows against the ground, trying her best to pin it in place. She wasn’t going to be able to hold it for long.

  Panicking, she fought for breath. “Har… Har…”

  “I can’t see you!”

  The dog shifted, raking her stomach with its hind legs. She cried out in pain. It rolled its head to the side, then jerked its body, trying to squirm loose. She squeezed her thumbs into the soft tissue of its throat, felt her nails break the skin, but she knew it was already too late.

  And then the dog jerked. Once, twice, and a third time, and she felt it go limp in her grip. Trembling with adrenaline, she heaved it off, shoving it to one side. She started to get to her feet, but lurched away when she felt something brush her shoulder.

  “It’s alright. It’s me.”

  “Hargreaves.” The air was beginning to flood back into her lungs.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No… I… a little. But I’ll be fine. How did you know where to shoot?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You could have—” she started, but he interrupted.

  “I figured you’d rathe
r that than be mauled to death by a rabid dog.”

  She sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. Thanks.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  “I lost my gun.”

  “No matter. Follow me. We need to get out of this cellar.”

  Regina reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and together, they edged forward into the darkness. After a moment, Hargreaves stopped abruptly. “This is the wall. If we follow it along… here! It’s another door.” He dropped his shoulder as he felt for the handle, and then slowly stood back as he pulled the door open toward them.

  The sudden light from the small chamber on the other side stung her eyes. The cellar had clearly been subdivided, and this secondary room had, at some point, been used for the storage of tools and equipment. A single electric bulb, hanging on a wire from the ceiling, lit the room. Against the far wall, a staircase led up to the floor above.

  Regina glanced back at the room behind them. The light from the doorway didn’t extend across the threshold. There was nothing but thick, swirling gloom. “We need to watch our step,” she said, as Hargreaves crossed the room toward the staircase. He was keeping his gun trained on the doorway above. “There’s something not right about this place.”

  “There’s something not right about any of this,” said Hargreaves. “Now, find yourself a weapon amongst those tools, and let’s get this over with. I don’t want to spend any more time here than necessary. He put his boot on the first tread, and started up toward the floor above.

  NINE

  It was cold by the embankment that evening, with a frigid wind blowing in off the Thames, ruffling Rutherford’s hair and stirring the lapels of his jacket. He shivered, and folded his arms across his chest, wishing he’d thought to procure an overcoat. He’d have to see to that in the morning. At least, he mused, the rain had abated, and his clothes had had time to dry. Despite a long soak in the bath at the out-of-the-way bed and breakfast place he’d visited, however, he still felt grimy and tired.