Not Less Than Gods (31 page)

“Probably true,” said Ludbridge. “But a better intelligence system will, at least, put you in a better position to profit when your pupil does come to power.”

“That cannot be denied,” said Nikitin, his smile returning. He reached over and refilled Ludbridge’s glass.

“So that’s Zayachy Island,” observed Hobson, peering across the river. They were walking in a public garden, and for the moment had no audience before whom to behave like imbecile tourists.

“The very place,” Ludbridge said.

“Well, I can see why they’ve got their listening post there.” Hobson pointed at the soaring needle-spire of the Peter and Paul Cathedral, rising from behind the frowning walls of the fortress of the same name. “Run a bit of wire up that and it’d improve reception no end. You could pick up bloody China from there.”

“With a bit of wire?” Pengrove looked doubtful.

“With a bit of wire. Something old Felmouth showed me, before he sent us out. There’s a couple of screw heads at the side of the case, and if you twist a length of copper wire round them and trail it out along a chair or something, you can enhance your signal. It worked in Constantinople.”

“Was
that
why you kept moving that beastly footstool in front of my bed where I’d trip over it every time I got up?” demanded Pengrove.

“I suppose so. You’d all still be asleep and snoring, and I’d have to get up early to send the morning report.”

“But, look here, I very nearly fractured a toe on three separate occasions!”

Hobson drew out his handkerchief and mimed weeping at him. Pengrove pulled off a glove and brandished it at Hobson. “How dare you mock my discomfort, you beast!”

“If you were any kind of man you’d challenge him to a duel,” said Bell-Fairfax, chuckling. A few passers-by had stopped at a distance and were watching them, distinctly unimpressed with British manhood.

“Yes! I shall! Come here, you bounder, let me smite you—” Pengrove swung at Hobson with the glove. Hobson danced away laughing. Pengrove chased him round and round the statuary, giving idiotic little squeals of indignation. Ludbridge lounged back against the base of a statue and, taking out a flask, sipped brandy as he watched them. Bell-Fairfax ran, practically dragging his knuckles, and fetched a couple of longish twigs dropped by a gardener and held them out. Hobson grabbed one on his near circuit and turned to confront Pengrove, waving the twig like a rapier.

“
En garde!
.”

“Will you draw steel on me? How dare you, sir, how dare you!” Pengrove hurled his glove at Hobson and grabbed the other twig. They leaped back and forth pretending to duel, and a few children had gathered to watch, laughing and pointing. Suddenly, however, Ludbridge stepped forth and grabbed each of them by their collars.

“Stop it at once,” he told them, in a low voice. They looked up at him, startled.

“What d’you mean?” demanded Pengrove. He turned and followed Ludbridge’s gaze with his eyes. There on the far edge of the garden were the Reverend Amasa Breedlove and the other three Americans they had seen in Constantinople, staring back at them with the same expressions of disgust on their countenances as they had worn in that city, and something more: suspicion.

“How the deuce did
they
get here?” Bell-Fairfax started forward. Ludbridge let go of Pengrove and grabbed his arm.

“Let ’em be. We know who they are, but they don’t know who we are. What do you want to do, fight the War of 1812 over again and get Russian kiddies caught in the cross fire? We’ll have to get them, but not here and not just now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Too damned much coincidence for my liking. I expect they’ll be thinking the same thing. Turn around, gentlemen; let’s take a walk along the riverbank. I’ve a fancy to go look at the museum again.”

They did as Ludbridge told them. Pengrove looked back once, and saw one of the Americans—Jackson, he thought—following them at a distance, along the wide streets nearly deserted but for the occasional droshky-wagon. He mentioned as much to Ludbridge, who grunted and shrugged.

“Is he? Then I’ve changed my mind. Let’s stroll across to the fortress over there. Perhaps we can find a tavern.”

The American kept after them along the bridge, doggedly following as far as the north bank of the Neva, where they nearly lost him while making a circuit of the magazine.

“Not subtle, but persistent,” said Ludbridge, as they trudged along Bolshoi Avenue. “Must be a backwoodsman. Trained by Red Indians, no doubt. I suppose you wouldn’t mind slouching a trifle, Bell-Fairfax? Thank you. Now, we’re going to part company. Pengrove and Hobson, perhaps you’d toddle off down the right-hand street at the next corner? Bell-Fairfax, go to the left at the following corner. This is the time to remember all those clever tricks you demonstrated in London. We’ll meet back at the house this evening, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.” Pengrove and Hobson nodded, and Bell-Fairfax barely stopped himself from saluting. They did as they’d been told; first Pengrove and Hobson left at the next corner, and Bell-Fairfax struck off on his own. Ludbridge continued along Bolshoi Avenue for a short distance before darting down a right-hand street and stepping into a doorway, where he watched for some few minutes before he was satisfied that the American was not following him.

He made his way to the bridge, and there encountered Bell-Fairfax hurrying across, head down. He waited until they were well across before catching up with him.

“The chap must have gone after poor old Pengrove,” Ludbridge said.

“I expect he recognized him more readily,” Bell-Fairfax replied.

“Where are we?” Ludbridge looked around. “There’s the damned customs house again. Come along; I want to go speak with our friend Nikitin.”

They found him in his office at the Kunstkamera, filling out forms. He pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose and peered at them.

“Americans?” he said. “Ah, yes. You’ve seen them, have you? The four all in black? The ones the Franklins have warned us about.”

“Even they,” said Ludbridge. “We ran afoul of them in Constantinople, I’m afraid, and they recognized us.”

Nikitin gestured that Bell-Fairfax should close the door. When Bell-Fairfax had obliged him, Nikitin spoke quietly:

“They were brought here this morning by a member of the diplomatic corps, and given a tour of the museum. I should explain that it is customary to do this, for any distinguished guest. They were treated as though they were some sort of informal ambassadors. I sent a runner up the tunnel to you, but you were all out when he arrived. This will curtail your activities in St. Petersburg, I fear.”

“Bound to,” said Ludbridge. “Public displays of idiocy, in any case. We can still assist you in setting up the transmitter system before we return to London. But what are we to do?”

“If they have the ear of the Czar, there is a limit to how much we can do,” said Nikitin. “Though, thanks to your generous gifts, we can find out just what exactly they are putting
into
the Czar’s ear. If they promise him something alarming such as unheard-of weapons to give him supremacy, then we will be obliged to do something quite unpleasant, I suspect. It would be charming if the Franklins would send someone to deal with them first, of course.”

“Have you contacted them?”

“I sent them a communication two hours ago. No word back yet. I will let you know, of course, the moment I hear anything. In the meanwhile, you had better avoid the streets, if the Americans recognize you. Use the tunnel to come and go.”

“Excellent advice.” Ludbridge nodded. “Good day to you, then. Come along, Bell-Fairfax.”

“Do you suppose the Americans are really seminary students?” said Bell-Fairfax, as they paced along the tunnel.

“With those pistols? Bloody unlikely,” said Ludbridge. “It’s not outside the realm of speculation that they might be filibusters
and
spies sent to gather intelligence on the weakness of the Ottomans, in which case the prospect of their getting hold of our devices is even more of a catastrophe. I was under the impression Brother Jonathan was too preoccupied with his own affairs to meddle much in Europe’s, but you never know. What does concern me is that they seem to have hooked up with the foreign policy people. I do hope they’re not some sort of unofficial olive branch to Rus sia from their president, what-his-name, Polk? No, it’s a new chap. One of their generals.”

“Zachary Taylor,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Though I’m afraid he’s deceased now, sir. It was in the
Times
. I believe the present gentleman in office is named Fillmore.”

“Eh? In the
Times
? When?”

“I read it on the train, sir. Between Bucharest and Aalborg. Quite a new copy, too, no more than a week old.”

“Well, bully for you for a sharp-eyed lad.” Ludbridge scowled and groped for his cigar case. “And that would mean the government’s shifted about a bit since the Bible class left their home in dear old Tennessee. Well, well. London can eavesdrop on them via the new transmitters and decide if we’re required to sort it all out. Assuming the Franklins don’t arrive in a timely fashion.”

“But weren’t these transmitters for the Kabinet of Wonders’ use, sir?”

“Didn’t say they weren’t.” Ludbridge looked sidelong at Bell-Fairfax as they hurried on. “But Greene thought it prudent that London should be able to listen in discreetly as well. Anything the Kabinet picks up on what we’ve planted for them London will hear too.”

Bell-Fairfax stopped in his tracks a moment. “Sir, is that quite honorable?” Ludbridge stopped too and lit a cigar.

“My boy, d’you recall a conversation we had about the price of this work?” He drew in smoke, exhaled. “I believe I mentioned it was rather steep. I’m quite sure I distinctly said it would cost you your notions of honor
at least
. The work is too damned important to be obstructed by one man’s sense of chivalry. Lives depend upon it, Bell-Fairfax.”

“But the Kabinet are our brothers, sir!”

“So they are. And they are also good and loyal Russians—to their nation, if not their czar. They’re doing their best to make it a less beastly place, but they can’t be expected to hand secrets to representatives of a nation with whom theirs will soon be at war. They walk a tightrope, as do we all, between being patriotic men and servants of a greater cause. One day all this deceit won’t be necessary, but for now we’ll just listen in on the sly and save them the embarrassment of knowingly collaborating with Her Majesty’s agents.”

“It will save lives, then, sir?”

“Of course it must. If we’re to salvage anything from this idiotic war, it’ll be through intelligence. Come along now, son. I only hope Pengrove and Hobson have the good sense not to come straight home.”

They climbed the ramp at the tunnel’s end and entered the house through the concealed door in the paneling under the staircase. They were quartered in a modest residence of two stories, set far back in its thinly greened garden on Anglisky Avenue. The house was fairly new, clean, furnished comfortably but without any particular character, and the windows were heavily curtained. The site had been chosen for the emptiness of the neighborhood—striking even in St. Petersburg’s nearly deserted streets—and the house purpose-built to conceal the tunnel’s exit.

“Hallo?” Ludbridge called, as he stepped into the front parlor. “Pengrove? Hobson?” No one answered.

“I expect they’re still circling to throw the American off,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“Good,” said Ludbridge. “The last thing we want just now is for one of us to have to fight a damned duel.”

A clammy damp had settled in the rooms since they had left that morning, and so Bell-Fairfax lit a fire. The larder had been stocked for them; they made a tolerable meal out of black bread and dry sausage, with pickled mushrooms. They ate in silence. Ludbridge expected any moment to hear footsteps coming up the passage under the staircase. A half-hour passed, and then an hour, as the world beyond the curtained windows grew dark, and when at last a sound came it was not the one he had expected.

“What the hell was that?” Ludbridge stood up. Bell-Fairfax had tilted his head and was peering up the staircase.

“It sounded like the London signal.”

“Is it six o’clock? Good God, it is,” said Ludbridge, sliding his watch back into his pocket. “But we wouldn’t hear the signal unless—”

Bell-Fairfax was already at the top of the staircase. Ludbridge thundered up the stairs after him. He got to the top of the stairs in time to see Bell-Fairfax standing motionless in the doorway of the room that had been allotted to Hobson. Ludbridge pushed past him.

One of the curtains had been drawn a little aside, admitting enough twilight for them to make out the Aetheric Transmitter on a table in the
center of the room. It had been opened out for use, with a length of wire draped over two chairs and reaching to the window—where the curtain had clearly been parted to facilitate fastening it to a tin tack driven into the windowsill. Moreover, it had been left switched on. Tiny red and amber lights glowed through the gloom. They heard a faint crackling sound and a monotonous rhythm coming from the earpieces that had been hung on the back of a third chair. Ludbridge realized it was a voice, barely audible, patiently repeating the call phrase from London.