Black Butterfly (11 page)

I
sweltered in the leathery stink of the vehicle, squeezed uncomfortably between the twin Scouts Heathcoat and Amory. A third Scout, Mexican and as impassive as his fellows, was driving. The city rolled by, serene and ordinary. Just another warm Kingston evening, the harsh chirrup of the cicadas in the monkeyfiddle trees, the sun going to its scarlet ocean grave.

But my mind was racing.
Fetch was alive!

It was incredible, impossible! Yet, as I’d succumbed to the wretched Black Butterfly, I’d recognised his voice. I would know those arctic tones anywhere, even after all these years. But how could my Nemesis have survived?

In my mind’s eye, I saw again the slender, elegant frame in velvet frockcoat, the sparse, straw-like hair, the cold, bleak eyes. And the hand, of course, fashioned from celluloid, clicking mechanically as Fetch wrapped his digits about my neck…

This, though, was not the time for reflection. I risked a look at my captors, their brawny bodies pressed against my sides.
The Scouts should have looked absurd, hulking great brutes in silly uniforms, but their muscular frames and grim, set faces brooked no argument.

I sighed. Playfair had been completely duped. A.C.R.O.N.I.M. wouldn’t have to worry about getting past Lord Battenburg’s security. A.C.R.O.N.I.M.
were
his security!

Minutes ticked by. We passed rusty cars drawn up outside apartment blocks, their blue shadows lengthening; phone booths like bars of gold, glinting with the last of the sunshine. I kept my own counsel, staring down at Heathcoat’s huge red knees, unsure as to whether the Scouts would follow through Playfair’s orders and deliver me to the airport, or whether they had a nice little detour planned: ending with a bullet in the back of my neck.

If only Kingdom Kum had believed my rambling story! But, no. Once again, I was on my own.

A sign for the airport flashed by. This was my last throw.

‘Might I smoke?’ I asked.

Amory, on my left, only shrugged and tossed his blond fringe from his narrow eyes. I reached for my cigarette case but his burly chum grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll get that,’ said Heathcoat.

He slipped his hand inside my jacket and pulled out the battered old fag case.

‘Thanks,’ I said, grinning foolishly. ‘Bit shaky, to be honest. Not nice to have Mr Playfair tell one off, eh?’

The boy grunted and busied himself lighting my cigarette.

‘You know,’ I continued, ‘I didn’t mean all that guff about your lovely Movement. You do realise that, don’t you?’

Still no response. I looked him quickly up and down. Was he armed? Did Scouts carry knives? But then these were hardly ordinary Scouts. Heathcoat might well be packing a Walther P38 inside his jockey shorts for all I knew. The burly creature took a long, self-satisfied drag on the cigarette, then passed it over. I took it with a trembling hand.

I drew on it and as I did so, feigned a violent spasm of coughing, bringing down my elbows sharply onto the webbed belt that ran around the inside of my trousers. At once, I felt Whitley Bey’s emergency rehydration packs rupture and begin to bleed out onto the cloth.

Amory noticed at once and smiled.

I gave a little wail of distress and glanced down at my crotch. ‘Oh God! Oh no…’

Both Scouts looked down at my crotch and horrid little grins crept across their smooth young faces.

I closed my eyes in despair. ‘Oh Christ. How shaming.’

‘Hur-hur,’ chortled Amory. ‘He’s bleedin’ wet hisself.’

‘Wet hisself,’ chimed Heathcoat.

I gestured helplessly. ‘I’m so sorry. The…the smell and sweat of my trousers,’ I said, ‘is nauseating at three in the afternoon.’

Instinctively, the Scouts drew away from me. It was all the chance I needed. With all my strength, I threw a punch and got Amory under the firm line of his jaw, my knuckles cracking like tinder in a bonfire. His square head rammed into the window and he fell back at once, out cold.

The car swerved.

Immediately, I swung over and chopped the edge of my
hand into Heathcoat’s windpipe. The lad rasped in agony. Spit flew from his snarling mouth and he flung his weight onto me, but I managed to get the heel of my hand up and smashed it into his nose. Blood gushed down his tawny shirt. He roared in fury and tried to get his hands round my throat but I was all over him, scrabbling for any kind of weapon. Suddenly my fingers fell on a knife, the fleur-de-lys design on the hilt flashing in the last embers of sunlight.

Heathcoat tried to twist out of the way but I jabbed the dagger towards his face.

‘No!’ he yelped. ‘Don’t! For God’s sake—’

Without further ado, I grabbed hold of his blond locks and smacked his head against the window. The tinted glass was suddenly bright with blood and he rolled over to join his friend in the Land of Nod.

The car veered again alarmingly and I saw the Mexican driver’s startled eyes in the mirror as he took in the chaotic scene. ‘Pull up!’ I shouted, jabbing the knife at the back of his neck as though pricking a sausage. ‘Now!
Now!’

He screeched over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. The car mounted the pavement and collided with a road sign, the bonnet wrapping itself around the rusty pole like a concertina. I fell forward but managed to whack the Mexican on the back of the head with the hilt of the dagger and he collapsed over the wheel. The car was a write-off.

I took a panting, excited breath and clambered out. It was, I knew, all a matter of self-belief. The things I’d done when I’d thought myself young again! My whole body might ache, shriek its aged protest–but it was possible, it was all possible!
If I could just get to the Summit in time…

Night had closed like a fox-stole over the city. I jogged as swiftly as I could along the hot black road, thinking of what Kingdom Kum had said. I still
had
it!

I turned my step towards the brand new conference centre that I had passed only forty-eight hours before. Thanks to Kingdom’s espionage, I knew this was where A.C.R.O.N.I.M. intended to strike. Allan Playfair might be smugly complacent that no one could possibly attack Lord Battenburg, but I knew better. Dr Cassivelaunus Fetch was capable of anything.

As I walked swiftly along, I thought back to the strangely muted end of our long-running duel. Back in 1908, A.C.R.O.N.I.M. had launched Operation Sikh and Destroy–an audacious scheme to use mesmerised Sepoys to assassinate the Viceroy. Though I’d thwarted them, as I’d thwarted them so often before, Fetch himself had eluded me. Until, that is, I’d found him, cowering and wounded, inside a Maharajah’s knicker closet.

After that, the Royal Academy had taken him into custody with a promise from the then Joshua Reynolds (little fellow–remember him?) that Fetch’s fate would be a fitting one. And yet there had been no great trial, no proper reckoning for the death and destruction A.C.R.O.N.I.M. had wrought. Some months later, I’d simply heard that Fetch had passed away in some grim asylum for the criminally insane.

But I had heard his voice. Fetch lived!

I snapped out of my reverie. I was hot, sweaty, exhausted and without a dollar to my name. But there was no other option than to keep on going, half-running, half-stumbling
until the conference centre suddenly loomed up out of the night like a great beach ball: its exterior floodlit, the palm trees that ringed the place waving in the soft breeze. Tonight, the leaders of the free world would be assembled there. God only knew how he intended to do it, but there was no doubt in my mind that Fetch was the architect of this murderous campaign.

I stole around the perimeter of the conference centre, keeping well away from the floodlit driveway, and then lost myself in the scrubby bushes that occupied the lower slopes of the surrounding hillsides. The driveway bristled with dozens of burly, suited men, whispering into radio sets, suspicious-looking bulges under their armpits. Madly athletic Americans, their white teeth dazzling even from where I was crouching, stood out, but my distinguished successor was nowhere to be seen.

I had to keep a cool head. As Mr Playfair had made abundantly clear, no one was likely to believe my story about the New Scout Movement. Yet, if I failed to act, they were certain to strike Battenburg down.

And then I saw my opportunity. A little to my left, going almost unnoticed because of all the hoo-hah out front, stood a flotilla of trucks. From it issued a steady stream of tuxedoed men, hefting crates, bottles and crockery. Caterers! Thank God!

I glanced down at my ruined black suit and said a silent prayer of thanks that I was still wearing it–purely for the wonderful anonymity it provided. Over my long career, I have extricated myself from many a tricky predicament just by acting as if I own the place. So I simply stood up, hoped no one would notice the absence of a dicky-bow in my ensemble,
and joined the queue of waiters, picking up a crate of plonk and passing inside completely undetected.

Whistling insouciantly, I carried the crate through into a starkly white kitchen. Once my cargo had been clattered down, I slipped through a side door into a gloomy, scarcely completed maintenance corridor, thick with wiring.

The distant murmur of voices caught my attention at once and, gripping hold of cold, metal banisters, I climbed a stained concrete staircase–two, three, four floors–until I came to a thick steel door. The buzz of conversation here was much louder.

Carefully I turned the handle and opened the door just a fraction, gaze darting up and down as I tried to drink in all the details with which the narrow strip of light furnished me.

I was standing at the very top of a vast steel dome, lights twinkling in its ceiling like captured stars. Pushing the door open, I stepped out onto one of the narrow gantries that ringed the dome.

Far below, long, semi-circular tables had been erected, behind which the delegates were beginning to take their seats. The bespectacled, green-uniformed Chinese. The smooth-faced Americans. The grim-looking Russians with their iron-grey hair, bad teeth and even worse suits. And, yes, there was the British contingent: the dependable old PM, fat as a Buddha in his pinstripe, casually making small talk with the sun-tanned, distinguished–and doomed–Lord Battenburg.

Before the delegates’ tables was grouped a ring of bulky television cameras of the type I’d once seen at Ally Pally during the heady climax of the Bakelite Gorilla Stranglings. These cameras were unmanned, however; bolted into place, pointed
at a spot-lit dais. Curiously, close by the cameras was ranged an enormous bank of television
sets
, humming gently, their oval screens currently showing nothing but some kind of geometrical test-card.

I was puzzled. The cameras I could understand. The opening ceremony was to be broadcast across the world. But why the individual sets? Was there to be some kind of transmission for the benefit of the assembled delegates?

Encircling the round room were the New Scout bodyguard, the buttons on their uniforms shiny as gold nuggets. I counted eighteen burly young men, of various races, unsmiling to a man. Their hair was neatly parted, their arms at their sides. Patient as snakes. Allan Playfair–looking immensely self-important–stood nearby. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the ceiling. What the hell was he expecting? Ninja warriors to descend from the roof armed with poisonous jam butties?

What could I do? If I tried to warn Lord Battenburg, Playfair would have me carted off again. If I tried to disrupt the ceremony, the Scout bodyguard might strike elsewhere. My God, for all I knew, they were slipping the Black Butterfly to his Lordship right now!

I looked down again at the Scouts and frowned. Playfair had said there would be twenty of them. I’d accounted for three in the car. So why were there eighteen remaining? I peered myopically at the youths but they remained little more than a multi-racial blur of shorts and woggles. Damn my failing eyes!

I was about to move forward on the gantry when I became horribly aware of a presence behind me.

‘Well, well, well,’ came a purring, contralto voice. ‘You’re like the proverbial bad penny, aren’t you, Mr Box? Now, I’d like you to turn round and face me very, very slowly.’

I did as I was instructed, and stared, not only into the face of the lethally lovely Melissa ffawthawte, but also the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

The girl was dressed in the deceptively conservative garb of the New Scout Movement, a yellow neckerchief around her pale throat, a buff skirt clinging to her shapely hips and thighs. I was once again reminded of that lovely young thing I’d met on Armistice Night. What
was
her name? I flashed ffawthawte my most disarming smile and said: ‘I must warn you that if you attempt to tickle me again, I shall be very cross.’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘I underestimated you. None of our victims has yet managed to survive the exquisite delights of Black Butterfly. I should be most interested to hear how you succeeded in regaining your sanity.’

‘And I’d love to tell you,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps over dinner. Do you have anything on tonight? It’s a lovely evening.’

A mocking smile curled at ffawthawte’s minutely scarred lip. ‘I’m afraid we both have an appointment, Mr Box. A most pressing appointment.’

She gestured ahead with the Magnum and, putting up my hands, I looked down, but the various occupants of the room were far too preoccupied to notice an elderly waiter and a Scout mistress making their way along a gantry thirty-odd feet above them.

We continued our vertiginous progress around the perimeter of the dome, until Miss ffawthawte ordered me to stop by
another narrow door. Keeping the gun trained on me, she leaned over and pushed it open.

The high-ceilinged room beyond resembled some species of Modernist cathedral of the type city councils had been lately throwing up to replace the Gothic beauties flattened by the Luftwaffe. Huge arched windows looked down onto the hall below, and comfortable-looking black chairs were positioned alongside them. Against one wall stood a bank of television screens just like the ones in the main chamber. Otherwise the room appeared to be empty.