Conflagration (41 page)

“I heard that the last time the Mosul came in here, you poisoned the Seine.”

Now Falconetti actually smiled. “We threatened to poison the Seine. That was enough for them. Plus, we made them aware just how much they needed us. Where else were they going to get their scotch, and their drugs, and the A-list whores?”

At the phrase, “A-list whores,” one of the women in the background giggled. Falconetti glanced at her, but then turned back to Cordelia. “Once, of course, some kind of rough and ready common purpose, and sense of mutual interests had been established in Paris, it only made sense to put out feelers to the other centers where the Mosul don’t have complete control. We’d be fools not to cooperate with the Lorenzo of Naples, or Van Cleef in Amsterdam, or form links with Palermo, and the one who likes to call himself The Sicilian. It has also, on occasion, been to our advantage for strangers and civilians to believe in such a thing as Il Syndicato, but there is no secret society with members spread across the Empire. So you see, Lady Blakeney, you really shouldn’t come walking in here, talking of things you know nothing about.”

Cordelia noticed that Falconetti was calling her “Lady Blakeney” again, and she took this as an indication that her faux pas had been forgiven. On the other hand, she could not fathom Falconetti’s sudden anger, or even if it was real, or part of some devious charade. All she could do was bow her head and wait and see. “I’ll try not to do such a thing again.”

Falconetti seemed mollified, but then proceeded to take her completely by surprise. “I imagine you would like to know why you were brought to me?”

After waiting so long, and having been through so much, with no explanation so much as offered, the sudden blunt statement took Cordelia by surprise and she had to maintain tight control to not blurt the obvious reply. “Very much indeed.”

Falconetti smiled. He seemed to relish keeping Cordelia off balance. “You’re a very popular young woman, Lady Blakeney.”

“That’s flattering.”

“Perhaps not in this instance. When it became known that you and your three companions were coming to England, a price was put on your head.”

Cordelia was suddenly very cautious. “A price?”

“In fact, a number of interested parties made offers for the four of you, both dead and alive.”

“I seem to still be alive.”

“Indeed you are, but that is only because the more deadly offer was vetoed.”

“I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

“Perhaps not. The contract on your life and the lives of your companions was solicited by Zhaithan intelligence.”

“I see.”

“But it was vetoed by Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach.”

“She wanted us alive?”

“She made it an inviolable edict.”

Previously Cordelia had been nervous, but now she was terrified. “So after all the stories and cognac, you’re going to hand me over to Jeakqual-Ahrach?”

Falconetti laughed and shook his head. “Even I am not that gratuitously cruel.”

“You’d go against Her Grand Eminence?”

“That’s the rules of trade. Her offer was more than matched by a party with whom I was far more comfortable doing business.”

“And are you going to tell me who that might be?”

“I can do better than that.” Damon Falconetti gestured to a short man with shaved eyebrows, an upper body covered in tattoos, and a broken nose with a steel spike through it, who stood by the entrance to the room, leaning casually, but definitely on guard.”

“Ask the client to come in, Bonaparte.”

Bonaparte nodded and gestured to somewhere beyond. Then, to Cordelia’s stunned amazement, Harriet Lime walked into the room. She was wearing an extremely sexy and formfitting adaptation of a standard aviator’s outfit, and seemed highly amused by Cordelia’s reaction. “Well, Cordelia, my darling, I would seem to be the one who made the winning bid in the Falconetti auction.”

For Cordelia, this was the final straw. Had she been the fainting type, she would have swooned dead away. As it was, her jaw dropped and she knew she must be babbling. “How can you be here? I left you in London. I left you at Deerpark.”

“And rather rudely, I might add.”

“But how can you physically be here. How did you get across the Channel and through Mosul territory?”

Harriet Lime replied as though the answer was obvious. “The Black Airship.”

Cordelia didn’t want to even speculate what the Black Airship might be. Instead, she half rose. “So am I rescued? Can you get me out of here? I need to get back to the others.”

Harriet Lime gestured for her to sit. “You are perfectly safe here. The Falconettis and I have an understanding. All you have to do is relax and wait. The others are coming to you.”

ARGO

“Cordelia is in Paris and being held by Il Syndicato?”

“Unless what I went through was some bizarre hallucination.”

“It makes no sense.”

Windermere held up a hand. “In some respects, she’s safer there than she might be here.”

Raphael’s expression was grim. “The fact that she’s there clearly proves she wasn’t being protected here.”

Jesamine agreed. “And the same goes for the rest of us. There’s been all this talk about security, and we’ve seen all these shows of force like the gun crew on the back of the damned train, but Jack is dead, Cordelia is in the hands of Frankish gangsters, and no one else seems to know or care what happens to the rest of us. We’re stranded in Norse jurisdiction, and we don’t have a clue what to do about it. If it wasn’t for Cordelia, I’d say we should get on board the
Constellation
or any other ship bound for the Americas, and get the fuck back to Albany.”

Raphael and Jesamine were ganging up on Windermere, and Argo was more than content to let it happen. The only problem was that, in their anger and confusion, they weren’t listening to what Windermere had to say, and leaving him to ask the relevant questions. “What do you mean she may be safer there than she is here?”

This at least stopped them temporarily, and gave Windermere a chance to answer. “I think we’re all agreed that the greatest threat to Cordelia, and the rest of you, is Jeakqual-Ahrach. Apart from a small handful of people, some of whom are in this room, the Norse have hardly heard about Jeakqual-Ahrach, and those who have hardly see her as a threat.”

The room in question was a small sitting room on the ground floor of Deerpark, and in addition to Argo, Jesamine, Raphael, and Windermere, Anastasia de Wynter and a woman called Hortense made up the small private meeting that now followed the ritual. Argo could feel the anger that was building inside Raphael and Jesamine, if for no other reason than it completely matched his own. The greatest frustration was that, with Cordelia missing, they could no longer function as The Four, and they were all starting to see themselves as nothing more than moving targets. These perceptions were closely rivaled, however, by the strong sense that they were at the mercy of a Norse bureaucracy that had already allowed Jack Kennedy to be shot to death, and had little idea of the game that was being played, let alone the stakes that might be involved. Argo knew that it was hardly fair for them to be venting their discontent on Gideon Windermere, but he was, unfortunately, the only representative of the Norse security machine they had to hand. Argo was quite surprised at how calm the man remained as he attempted to explain the background of the latest developments.

“The situation of the Falconetti Family and the other gangs in Paris is complicated. They are an outlaw enclave deep inside the Mosul Empire. The popular wisdom is that the Falconetti, and the rest of Il Syndicato, will do absolutely anything for anyone for a price. What the popular wisdom overlooks is that, at the same time, they, even though they do constant business with the Mosul through smuggling and the black market, are also in a continuous guerrilla war with them.”

De Wynter intervened on Windermere’s behalf, appealing to their different memories of surviving under the Mosul. She sat deep in the room’s most commanding leather armchair, with a Russe lamp beside her. “You’ve all learned the hard way how all these multiple levels of corruption exist in the occupied territories.”

Windermere took a deep breath and resumed. “Let me give you an example. Richthofen, the head of aviation research for Aschenbach, has a standing offer to any pilot who will fly an Odin Mk 5 biplane over to Mosul territory. If Richthofen’s technicians could back-engineer one of those babies, they could go into production, and have their own air power inside of six months. And the day the Mosul have air power will be the day when the NU finally goes to war. Falconetti could have organized the theft of an Odin by now. He more than has the resources. But he hasn’t done it. Why not? Because he knows if the Mosul have aircraft, they can bomb him out of Paris anytime they want. It really isn’t all about the money.”

Jesamine frowned doubtfully. “There are those claiming that Il Syndicato put together Jack’s assassination, so it couldn’t be traced directly back to the Mosul and create an international incident.”

Windermere sighed and nodded. “That’s one of the theories going round. Of course, it doesn’t account for the one whose brain melted; but, if they did, it wouldn’t be the first time that they took a contract for the Mosul that would give the bastards plausible deniability.”

“And these are the people who have Cordelia?”

Windermere was looking tired. “Personally I don’t believe that the Falconetti Family arranged Jack Kennedy’s death.”

“No?”

“That’s not to say that, if they knew the assassination was a done deal and unstoppable, they might not have come up with the weapons or the transport for a price. But to kill the Prime Minister of Albany in the heart of London? I don’t think so. First they wouldn’t go for it, and second they don’t have the organization to see it through.”

De Wynter again helped out. “Or melt one of the assassin’s brains.”

Jesamine was far from satisfied. “If Il Syndicato are happy to work for the Mosul, what’s to stop this Falconetti handing Cordelia over to the Zhaithan if the price was right?”

Windermere shook his head. “I know for a fact he won’t do that.”

Jesamine didn’t believe him. “What do you mean, you know? How can you know? I just made contact with Cordelia.”

Raphael stared angrily at Windermere. “Are you telling us you knew up front that Falconetti was going to lift Cordelia?”

“Before you all arrived in Bristol, a report came in from one of our agents that a price had been offered for one or more of you.”

“What?”

“We had a report that Falconetti had been approached by Zhaithan intelligence to kill or capture the four of you, but he turned it down.”

“But they took her anyway.”

“So it would seem.”

“So if he’s not turning her over to the Zhaithan, who did he lift her for?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Jesamine was on her feet. “What do you mean you can’t tell us? We’re the ones potentially being fucked here.”

Finally Windermere lost his temper. “I mean I can’t tell you because I give my agents the same respect I give you, and I’m out on a fucking limb for you four already.”

Jesamine snarled at Windermere. “You’re the one that left her on her own the night she vanished.”

Now Argo stood up, raising both hands. “Okay, everyone fucking hold it. This is getting us nowhere. What we need to do now is figure out how we rescue Cordelia. How we transport ourselves to Paris with enough intelligence and muscle to get her out of there.”

CORDELIA

Cordelia woke from a sleep that had not been totally dreamless, but in which the dreams had been pleasant and trivial, and not haunted by any wraiths either from her own subconscious, or sent from outside. This came as a considerable relief because it made it easier to handle the lurching instant of disorientation that came with waking in the dark, and having no idea where she was, or how she got there. Then she touched the fur of the bedcover, and it all came rushing back. How, exhausted and more than a little drunk, she had been helped by Sera Falconetti to the stone-walled bedchamber, and into the antique four-poster bed. What proved a little more difficult to grasp was the fact that someone seemed to be sliding into bed beside her, and that this might be what had woken her. The only response was to sit up, blinking, with a bleary demand. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Sssssh.”

“What…”

“It’s only me, Cordelia. Come to show you that there are no hard feelings.”

A naked and definitely female body was moving close to her. “Harriet? Harriet Lime?”

“Who did you think it was?”

A hand was on her thigh and another stroked her shoulder and the back of her neck. Warm, perfumed breath was close to her face. It all felt very sexy and comforting, but Cordelia was too surprised and confused to respond, whether she wanted to or not. She blinked again, just about able to make out Harriet Lime’s face, near to her own in the darkness. “I thought you might feel like finishing what we started at Deerpark. Now I own you, and you can’t run away.”

“You come to me like this, after you made a deal to have me kidnapped?”

“That was just politics, my darling. We had to get you out of London.”

The hand stroking her thigh was very pleasant and comforting, and knew exactly what it was doing, but Cordelia was not quite ready to relax and enjoy it. “I really don’t understand.”

“Everything will be explained to you when Slide and the others get here.”

“Slide is coming here?”

“Of course. And Argo and Raphael and Jesamine.”

“I’m very confused.”

Harriet Lime’s voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “Of course you are, my pet, but you’re also tired and need to relax.”

“Slide is coming here?”

“I just told you he was.”

“When?”

“Very soon. In a day or so. No longer than that, and, until he does, we can make each other extremely happy.”

In the previous thirty or so hours, Cordelia had been drunk, drugged, frightened, terrified, and then drunk again. Harriet Lime’s hand was moving higher up her thigh. Cordelia let out a long surrendering sigh. She felt giddy and breathless, but in need of this soothing touch. Far worse things could be happening to her.