Assassin's Creed: Underworld (13 page)

‘Bharat Singh!’

It was late afternoon when his name came down,
bouncing like a ball dropped into the shaft as it was passed from one man to another:
‘Bharat Singh … Bharat Singh … Bharat Singh …’

And though he was conditioned to respond to the
name he’d been given he was too lost in thought to respond until the man next to him,
barely pausing in his work, tapped him with the head of his pickaxe. ‘Hey, Indian,
you’re wanted up top.’

He took to the ladders to find Marchant waiting
for him at ground level. With him were the three punishers, and together they led The Ghost
across the planks, traversing a reservoir of filth to the mobile office on wheels. Inside was
Cavanagh – no Mr Pearson or Mr Fowler today – just Cavanagh, and he sat behind a
wide polished-oak desk that was empty save for a document that The Ghost recognized at once.

Afternoon was becoming extinct, and in the dim
light of the office Cavanagh’s scar shone dully as he picked up the letter for The Ghost
to see. ‘Your name is Bharat Singh,’ he said without emotion. ‘Originally from
Bombay, author of this correspondence?’

The Metropolitan director spoke in a more
confidential
register than The Ghost was used to hearing from the commands
he barked to Marchant and the foremen of the trench.

‘Yes, I did sir,’ The Ghost
acknowledged with a bow of the head.

Marchant had taken a place just behind his
master, wearing the same oily smile he always wore. He stood close to him, as though he wished
to reach out and touch Cavanagh just to draw on some of his master’s greatness. Behind
him, meanwhile, the three strongarms had stepped in and fanned out.

This was it
. This was the moment that,
if Cavanagh had his suspicions, he would act. The Ghost weighed up possibilities. He already
knew which of the men were strongest and which were weakest. Marchant had the honour of propping
up that particular list. At the top, however, was the man behind the desk, a man The Ghost knew
from his dossier to be as ruthless as he was quick in combat.

‘And your father was a sepoy at Jalalabad
in 1842, you say?’ said Cavanagh, allowing the letter to flutter to the tabletop.

The Ghost nodded.

‘Very brave, the sepoys,’ continued
Cavanagh. ‘I knew an especially courageous one once.’

The Ghost looked at him, hardly able to believe
his ears as he thought of the poor nameless sepoy, but Cavanagh had already moved on. ‘And
your father knew me?’

‘Knew
of
you, sir, though he would
have liked the opportunity to become acquainted, I’m sure. I feel certain he would be
envious of me now.’

Cavanagh raised a faintly
bemused eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? And why would that be, exactly?’

‘He spoke very highly of you, sir. He
talked of you as a hero, as the great soldier who survived the march from Kabul, that I should
look out for your name as you were surely destined for greatness.’

‘He thought I was “destined for
greatness”? Why, because I can bear the cold and I’m handy with a sabre? Go out
there and you’ll find a hundred men who fought as fiercely as I did, served their country
just as I did, and did what they could to survive, just as I did. None of them have achieved
greatness. Not unless you consider it a great achievement to have Marchant shout at you day and
night. None have reached my rank. What on earth made your father think I would be the one to
thrive?’

‘He was right, though, sir, wasn’t
he?’

Cavanagh acknowledged the point with a tilt of
the chin, but … ‘The question remains.’

The Ghost swallowed.
Here comes the moment of
truth.
‘He mentioned an organization, sir,’ he said, ‘an organization
that had taken an interest in you because of your talents. A very powerful organization, sir,
and that having this organization’s seal of approval was certainly enough to ensure your
rise.’

‘I see. And does it have a name, this
organization?’

‘The Knights Templar, sir.’

Marchant’s oily smile remained fixed but
his eyes narrowed as the words ‘Knights Templar’ dropped like a stone into the still
pool of the room. Behind him, The Ghost sensed the three strongarms tense. Were they readying
themselves for something The Ghost might do? Or something Cavanagh might?

‘That’s right. Your father was
correct.’ A brief smile flickered on the otherwise impassive face. His scar twisted.
‘How gratifying to know such recognition existed within the lower orders.’

The moment hung as Cavanagh sat back in his
chair, fixing The Ghost with an assessing look, as if trying to decode signals the younger man
refused to send. Whatever decision the director reached must be his alone, a product of trust in
his own instinct. Nothing else mattered now, apart from gaining Cavanagh’s trust.

And then the man behind the desk seemed to relax,
indicating the letter. ‘The second interesting aspect of your missive is this information
you have on an employee of mine you are going to expose as a traitor. I wonder, would that have
anything to do with my employee, Robert Waugh, who was found dead at the dig two days
ago?’

The Ghost nodded.

‘Tell me, how did you make the connection
between him and me?’

‘I saw him visiting your office,
sir.’ At this Cavanagh looked up to Marchant with a meaningful stare. ‘And then when
I saw him in a public house I knew it was him.’

‘And that’s how you knew he was
indulging in, as you say,
treacherous activities
?’

‘That’s when I suspected, sir,
yes.’

‘And what made you decide to report it to
me?’

Another moment of truth for The Ghost. Another
point in his favour or a nail in his coffin, depending on what Cavanagh
decided to believe.

‘After what my father had told me, sir, I
couldn’t believe my luck in seeing you. Seeing your name and seeing the scar, and knowing
it was the same scar with which you had returned from the doomed retreat, I decided that fate
had brought me into your wider circle, but that it was up to me to enter the immediate one. The
Knights Templar once looked upon you as a man of talent, who might be of use to them. I hope,
now, that is how you look upon me.’

‘That’s all very well, and maybe even
commendable, but at the moment, all I have is your word and a dead body, and I’m really
not sure that either is all that much use to me.’

‘It was I who killed Robert Waugh, in the
hope that you would have given me the job eventually.’

Cavanagh snorted. ‘Well, that was rather
presumptuous of you, wasn’t it? Because to return to my first point, I only have your word
that he was a traitor.’

‘He was selling your goods in the public
houses, using a man named Boot to do the dirty work.’

Cavanagh shrugged. ‘It sounds plausible but
it’s still lacking in concrete evidence.’

‘I killed him in the Rookery, sir. I took
from him the evidence. A photographic plate that I have at my home.’

‘At the tunnel?’

The Ghost switched on a look of surprise.
‘You know where I live, sir?’

‘Oh yes. You like your tunnels, don’t
you? We’ve been
there and we’ve asked around, and you are a
little bit more than just an
occupant
of the tunnel, aren’t you? By all accounts
you’re the closest they have to a leader.’

‘I can read and write, sir. I was taught on
my passage from India. I gained some medical knowledge also. For this reason, and the fact that
I have on occasion stood up against the scum who also make the tunnel their home, some of the
people who live there consider me their friend.’

Cavanagh smiled tightly. ‘Even so,
it’s a very resourceful picture of you that is being painted.’

Judging this to be the right moment, The Ghost
let a little eagerness creep into his voice. ‘A man who can be of use to you, sir. I do
not nominate myself to your services lightly, sir. I hope that in me you see something of
yourself.’

‘Yes, well, that remains to be seen.’
Cavanagh gave another tilt of his chin, suggesting he’d reached a decision in The
Ghost’s favour. He addressed one of the strongarms behind him. ‘Smith, go to the
tunnel, retrieve this photographic plate he’s talking about. Oh, and Smith, be nice to the
old lady, won’t you? From what I can gather, she and our friend here are close.’

He looked significantly at The Ghost, who
suppressed a dread thought, before continuing. ‘In the meantime you, Mr Bharat Singh, are
going to accompany Marchant and Mr Hardy to visit the home of the recently widowed Mrs Waugh.
And, Mr Hardy? Given that I’m certain we’re going to learn that our new associate is
telling the truth, you don’t need to worry about being nice to Mrs
Waugh. You can be as unfriendly to that old baggage as you like.’

Hardy grinned, revealing a gold tooth. He spoke
with a voice like the scrape of spades at the tunnel face. ‘It would be my pleasure,
sir.’

‘I don’t suppose you can drive a
carriage, can you, lad?’ rasped Hardy when the three men stepped outside the gates of the
dig to where their transport was tethered.

And The Ghost, who was an excellent horseman, and
who had driven many a carriage back home, and who recognized an excellently sprung, beautifully
upholstered Clarence when he saw one, took pains to look like the clueless bumpkin Hardy clearly
thought him to be, and shrugged his shoulders and looked lost.

‘Good,’ said Hardy with flinty eyes.
He scratched at his stubble then corrected the set of his hat. ‘Because nobody gets to
drive Mr Cavanagh’s carriage apart from me, Mr Smith or Other Mr Hardy. Is that
clear?’

‘I have no problem with that, sir,’
replied The Ghost. ‘Should I just join Mr Marchant inside, sir, where it’s
warm?’

Hardy shot him a look, as though to say
don’t push your luck
, and in the next moment occupied himself with pulling on a
scarf, topcoat and mittens, ready for the short journey to Bedford Square.

The Ghost, meanwhile, stood to the side of the
Clarence, awaiting Marchant, and then opening the door for the clerk when he appeared. Without a
word of thanks Marchant stepped inside before fussily arranging a blanket
over himself and leaving none for The Ghost, who took a seat opposite. When he was settled,
Marchant yanked a cord and then made a point of ignoring The Ghost to stare out of the carriage
window. Up top Hardy shook the reins and the carriage set off for the home of Mrs Waugh.

When they arrived The Ghost watched with
implacable interest as Hardy stepped down from the seat of the carriage, removed his mittens and
pulled on a pair of leather gloves instead, flexing his fingers with a grim and business-like
air and fixing The Ghost with a malevolent stare at the same time.
Watch your step,
I’ve got my eye on you.

Next Hardy reached up to the storage box on the
carriage. From it he took a pair of brass knuckles that he fitted over one leather-gloved hand.
Out came something else: a thick wooden truncheon with a leather loop that he slid over his
wrist before slipping the baton into his sleeve. Lastly he produced a knife from somewhere
within the folds of his topcoat. He twirled it in his fingers, light dashing down the blade, and
all the time he never took his eyes off The Ghost.

Watch your step, I’ve got my eye on you.

And now the three men considered the house across
the road. The shutters were closed, just a dim light burning somewhere within. Otherwise there
was no sign of life, except …

The Ghost saw it: a slight disruption of
ceiling-shadow glimpsed through the window of the front door. With a hand held out –
wait there
– to the other two, he darted quickly across the road, having to
satisfy himself with
merely imagining the outraged looks on the men’s
faces at being given an order by this new recruit. A boy. An
Indian
boy, no less. An
outsider.

Stealthily mounting the front steps, he crouched
to listen at the front door. From inside he heard voices retreating up an interior passage. He
tried the door handle but found it locked and then scuttled back to the Clarence.
‘There’s somebody in there with her,’ he told Marchant and Hardy.
‘Sounds like the peelers.’

‘Been a long time since I bagged myself a
bluebottle,’ Hardy said through a wicked smile. Gold glinted malevolently in the dark.

‘I would guess that whoever’s there
is in one of the back rooms,’ said The Ghost. ‘In the kitchen, perhaps. I say we
assess how many before we go rushing in.’

‘
Assess
, now, is it?’
sneered Hardy. ‘How about we do it another way? How about we knock on the door and take
them by surprise.’ His brass knuckles shone as he performed a quick boxer’s one-two,
just in case they were in any doubt of exactly what he meant by taking them by surprise.

‘We may be outnumbered,’ warned The
Ghost, turning his attention to Marchant. ‘There are only three of us, after
all.’

At last the clerk was spurred into a decision.
‘Right. Hardy, put those bloody things away before anybody sees them. This is a
respectable square. You, Indian, go to the back. Myself and Mr Hardy here will await your signal
that it is safe to proceed. Assuming it is, me and Hardy enter by the front, and you can make
sure nobody tries to leave from the back. Is that a plan?’ The others agreed.
The Ghost demonstrated his owl call, and then made off, finding an alleyway
that ran through the terrace and darting along it until he came to a door to the grounds of the
Waughs’ home. The door would be bolted but The Ghost didn’t even bother trying it.
Instead, with a quick look left and right, he leapt, grabbed an overhang on the wall and nimbly
pulled himself to the top.

He crouched there for a moment or so, a dark
silhouette against the gunmetal night, enjoying a brief moment of pride in a life that was
otherwise shorn of it. He wished he was wearing his robes and could feel the weight of his
hidden blade along his forearm but, for the time being, just crouching here would do.

Moment over, he dropped silently to the other
side, where he waited in the shrubs and shadows for his vision to adapt to the new, less
malevolent darkness. Stretching away from him was a garden – well maintained, evidently
there was money to be made in selling these ‘erotic prints’ – while looming to
his left was the rear of the house. He made his way there now, guessing from the glow of
interior lamps which was the kitchen window, and there he squatted, allowing the night to claim
him.

And then – very, very carefully – he
peered inside.

Standing in the kitchen with their hats in their
hands were two peelers. One was a red-faced plump fellow he didn’t recognize, and the
other was Abberline, the constable who’d come to the dig. The Ghost remembered that
he’d paid close attention to Waugh’s chest wound. It sounded like a contradiction in
terms, but such a clean kill had been careless of Ethan. Abberline’s suspicions had been
raised.

Which was probably the
reason he was standing in the Waughs’ kitchen right now.

He and his mate were talking to a
flustered-looking old maid complete with bonnet and apron, who held a rolling pin like she might
be tempted to use it in anger. This was Mrs Waugh, no doubt. The Ghost couldn’t see her
mouth to lip-read, but she spoke so loudly he could hear her through the glass anyway.

‘I always said he was getting in too deep
there. I always knew he was playing with fire.’

Something caught his eye. There in the kitchen
doorway, hidden in the shadows, was a figure The Ghost recognized as Hardy. The Ghost had no
idea how he’d got into the house, but the reason why was clear from the wicked glint of
the knife he held.

The two constables had their backs to Hardy; they
wouldn’t stand a chance. The woman was too busy gesticulating with the rolling pin to see
him.

None of them stood a chance.

The Ghost had a second to decide: save the
peelers and endanger his mission. Or let them die for the greater good.