Not Less Than Gods (36 page)

No actual matches were held because neither Ludbridge nor Bell-Fairfax would play with him, the one having acquired a bundle of back numbers of
The Illustrated London News
and the other having got hold of a Russian grammar with which to improve his grasp of the language. They sat in the window seat and read, and smoked, and grunted in response to his attempts to start conversations. Hobson generally returned through the tunnel from the listening post a short while after sunset, by which time it was too dark to play, and so boiled sweet billiards failed to become established as a popular parlor game.

One such spectacularly dull day dragged itself away into night, and they drew the curtains and moved to the table beside the stove, where a single lamp provided enough light to read.

Ludbridge looked up after a while, frowned, and took out his watch.

“Where the hell is Hobson? It’s nearly six.”

“I had the impression the chaps at the listening post were going to give him a laudatory dinner,” said Pengrove. “To celebrate finishing the job, you know. They think the world of him, I gather.”

“Laudatory, eh? How nice for Hobson,” said Ludbridge, snapping the watch shut. “No doubt the six o’clock report will just float through the aether of its own volition, as if by magic.” He rose and went upstairs to Hobson’s room, muttering to himself.

Pengrove sighed. He watched Bell-Fairfax poring over the Russian grammar.

“What on earth are you doing with your eyes?” he cried after a moment.

“I beg your pardon?” Bell-Fairfax looked up, startled.

“You can’t possibly be reading.”

“I’ve been reading all week.”

“But, I say, your eyes are racing back and forth like—like I don’t know what. Makes me positively giddy to watch. You can’t take in anything by just running your eye over the pages like that.”

“That’s absurd,” said Bell-Fairfax, somewhat surlily. “I’ve been reading at a perfectly normal rate. I have committed to memory one chapter a day. Two hundred ninety-eight pages, eighty-one thousand five hundred and eight words, six thousand seven hundred and fifty-one lines.”

“Really,” said Pengrove, staring at him. “You’ve counted every punctuation mark, I suppose.”

“Twenty-one thousand, two hundred and seventeen. Oh, close your mouth! Anyone could do it, if he simply applied himself.”

“Just as you say, old man,” said Pengrove hastily.

“It’s perfectly normal,” Bell-Fairfax repeated. He slammed the book shut and got up to poke up the fire in the stove. A gust of wind sent the rain drumming particularly hard against the windows, and a palpable chill seeped into the room.

“Let’s put on a few more sticks, shall we?” said Pengrove, turning up his coat collar. As Bell-Fairfax obliged, he added: “I hope we can leave this beastly country before the river freezes over. Surely we’ve gathered all the intelligence we could.”

“I don’t see how we’re to leave, if the Third Section are looking for us,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Unless the Kabinet has a convenient tunnel that comes out in Trafalgar Square.”

“Wish they’d add a new station to that Galvanic Railway,” said Pengrove. “That’s the way to travel, eh? Not much scenery, but, my hat! What comfort.”

“What veal cutlets,” said Bell-Fairfax longingly, rubbing his hands together before the blaze. He shut the stove. They heard a heavy tread on the stairs.

“Hobson come in yet?” said Ludbridge, as he descended.

“Not yet, sir.”

“Hmph. Well, we’ve got our exit arranged for us. London’s sending a crew to get us out next week.”

“Hurrah!” Pengrove jumped up and did a little dance of celebration. “How will they manage? I understood the Third Section is watching all the quays,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“Did I say we were leaving by boat?” said Ludbridge. He sat down, looked around irritably, and got up again. “Ought we to wait supper until the Darling of the Aetheric Waves graces us with his presence? No, we oughtn’t. He’ll be dining out anyway. Is there any of that smoked salmon left?”

They made a decent supper out of odds and ends from the pantry. The rain let up, and a strong wind blew the storm clouds out; a few stars soon glittered in the night, visible even through the curtains.

Two hours afterward there was still no sign of Hobson. Ludbridge went twice to peer down the tunnel, waiting for him, but each time returned to his chair with his scowl deeper. Bell-Fairfax returned to his book and Pengrove, as unobtrusively as possible, got a rag and a tin of polish from his luggage and set about cleaning his boots.

There was the clatter of iron on stone and a droshky could be heard pulling up in front of the house, full of merrymakers singing in Russian. Pengrove closed his eyes and murmured an involuntary prayer. The Almighty was not pleased to hear him, however, for Hobson’s voice was clearly audible amongst the singers, and a moment later he bid them a hilarious farewell.

“Oh, no,” murmured Bell-Fairfax. Ludbridge got to his feet.

The carriage rolled off into the night, taking its inebriated choir with it. Hobson’s footsteps sounded loud on the paved garden path, as he staggered toward the front door.

“Blow out the lamp,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax obeyed.

There was a crash and a thud as Hobson fell on the front step and collided with the door. It was followed by knocking, and Hobson’s voice raised plaintively:

“I say, letta fella in! It’s bloody freezing out here!”

“Open the door and pull him in,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax dragged
Hobson across the threshold. Pengrove opened the door of the stove, which lit the room sufficiently to reveal Hobson, swaying and blinking, in a long fur coat.

“Now, you may think I’m drunk,” he enunciated carefully, “but in realilly it was this deuced long bear-rug tangled my feet, you see, and that’s why I fell down.”

“Are you going to tell me you haven’t been drinking?” said Ludbridge, in a deadly cold voice. Hobson rolled his eyes, as though Ludbridge had just asked the stupidest question imaginable.

“Well, of course we had
some
drinks, I mean, it was a party, what? And would have been rude not to anyway. And we had a little kvass with dinner but that’s nothing, no stronger’n barley-water really, and then they ordered a bottle of port because they said that’s what Englishmen drink, so I had to, didn’t I? An’ then I had to toast them in their drink so I had to order a bottle of the best vodka, what? What? Honor demanded it.”

“And did it demand you put us all in danger by coming home in a public conveyance to the front door, instead of through the tunnel?”

Hobson puffed out his cheeks and made a scornful noise, waving his hands. “Pitch-black out there! Nobody sees. No Red Indians lurking behind the gate, I c’n assure you. Nor Bruvver Jonathan neither. We came out of the restaurant an’ Igor Stepanovich said, ‘Oh look, the rain’s stopped,’ and damme if he wasn’t right, and Boris Ivanovich said, ‘Let’s hire a droshky an’ ride around awhile under the beautiful stars!’ And you couldn’t say no to that, could you? But I was freezing. So we stopped a muzhik and bought his coat from him. So then we had a nice drive.”

“Go to bed,” said Ludbridge, clearly controlling his temper with an effort.

“Of course. Certainly.” Hobson put his nose in the air in an affronted sort of way and took four steps toward the staircase before stepping on the hem of his coat and falling flat. Bell-Fairfax hastily picked him up and relieved him of the coat. Hobson proceeded on up the stairs in dignified silence, ramrod-straight but clutching the handrail as though at
any moment the house might shift on its foundations and heel over to starboard.

When Hobson’s bedroom door had closed, Ludbridge took out a cigar and lit it from the stove.

“May we light the lamp again?” asked Pengrove.

“Do as you like. I’m going to go walk off my temper in the tunnel,” said Ludbridge. He left through the door under the stairs and both Pengrove and Bell-Fairfax drew deep breaths.

“I thought he was going to explode,” said Pengrove. “Poor Johnny!”

“But we’re on the job, Pengrove, and he got drunk,” said Bell-Fairfax. “And what if he led the Americans here? Or the Third Section?”

“Surely they’ve forgot about us by now, haven’t they?” said Pengrove. “We’ve lain low for simply ages.”

“We haven’t forgotten about them,” said Bell-Fairfax. “And
we’re on the job
. We’ve all got human failings, and I know the job’s almost done, but none of us can afford to be careless until it is.”

“I suppose,” said Pengrove, but thought to himself:
We’ve all got human failings, have we? What would you know about human failings?

Hobson did not come down for breakfast next morning, at which Pengrove and Bell-Fairfax were privately relieved. Ludbridge said nothing on the matter, sipping tea as he read a back number of
Punch
.

At about half past nine there came a timid-sounding knock at the door to the tunnel. Pengrove went to answer it and let in Semyon Denisovich, who looked rather pale.

“Cyril Borisovich requests that you come to his office at once, sirs. He has a matter of grave importance to discuss.”

“Not surprised,” said Ludbridge. “Pengrove, Bell-Fairfax, come along.”

“Should I go wake Hobson, sir?” said Bell-Fairfax. “I shouldn’t bother,” said Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax exchanged glances with Pengrove. They rose to follow Ludbridge and Semyon Denisovich into the tunnel.

Nikitin was sitting in his subterranean office. Sheets of yellow paper, densely scribbled on, covered the desk before him. He raised a haggard face as they came in.

“My friends,” he said, waving them to seats. “I am afraid your excellent gift has proven itself invaluable already.”

“
Afraid
?” Ludbridge said. “Ah. You’ve learned something disquieting from the transmitters, I take it?”

“We have,” said Nikitin. “Do you ever long for the blissful ignorance of your childhood? I think at the end of my life I shall look back and see that mine ended the day you arrived here. Make no mistake, I am terrifically grateful to you! I shudder to imagine what could have happened . . . Yes, we have learned something. A great deal. I told you there is an inner cabal within the Third Section, did I not?”

“You did. And the fellow Dolgorukov is one of them.”

“He is. And I told you I was afraid he was arranging something. We know that he is, yes, arranging something in his usual manner. Three days ago a prisoner escaped from the Trubetskoy Bastion prison. It has not been formally admitted, because such things are never admitted.

“His name is Ayrat Kazbek. He is a Crimean Tatar, arrested for organizing a cell of saboteurs during the war against the Turks in 1829. He escaped and was a fugitive for a number of years, celebrated among his countrymen resident here; but our czar is implacable as the Grim Reaper when he wishes to punish, and Kazbek was recaptured at last and sent to Trubetskoy Bastion. There he remained until Dolgorukov effected his escape.”

“Why would your man do that?”

“Please! He is not
our
man. The Third Section freed Kazbek for their own reasons. They are hiding him with a group they have infiltrated, Wallachians resident here who grew mutinous during the late suppressions in the Danubian principalities. They believe Dolgorukov is one of their number. They enthusiastically welcomed Kazbek as a fellow rebel.”

“And so?”

“And so the Third Section now has a teeming nest of scorpions for its use. When they have done what Dolgorukov has primed them to do, they can then be arrested and blamed—with justice—and executed. All praise to the Third Section, for rooting out conspiracy!”

“What, precisely, are these people being primed to do?”

“To commit an infamous act that will provide a reason for going to war again,” said Nikitin, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his face.

“And what’s the point of giving them Kazbek?”

“Kazbek is the weapon with which to commit it. A devout Moslem and a crack marksman,” said Nikitin. “The most famous in a hand-picked assortment of enemies of Rus sia. What a show trial it will be! The Czar will have perfect justification for moving against the Ottomans again.”

“But the war isn’t coming for another four years, what?” said Pengrove.

“The Third Section does not know that,” said Nikitin, with a wretched smile. “They know only that their master would like to expand his empire as far as the Dardanelles. They imagine this will give him the perfect excuse.”

“If they look to give the Czar an excuse to declare hostilities, then they cannot mean their assassin to make an attempt on his life,” said Ludbridge.

“No, they do not.”

“And yet, arming a marksman who has a profound hatred of the Czar guarantees he will almost certainly hit his target.”

“In this case, it does, yes.”

“And so his target would be . . . ?”

“The Czarevich,” said Nikitin. “Alexander. Our pupil.”

There was a silence. “But . . . isn’t it a bad idea to kill the heir to the throne?” said Pengrove.

“Not that unusual for the Romanovs,” said Ludbridge, with a grim chuckle. “They’ve had spare princes executed now and then.”

“Sad but true. And Alexander Nikolayevich has liberal ideas,” said Nikitin. “We worked hard enough to ensure he had them, and he is no longer a boy—he is past thirty. It is supposed his reforming inclinations are set in his character now. It is feared he will be weak and lenient as a ruler, like Abdülmecid. And he has three younger brothers! Certain conservative ministers feel any one of them would be preferable to the Czarevich.”

“Can the Czar really consent to such a thing?” said Bell-Fairfax. Nikitin shrugged. “He may not know, but I cannot imagine he will
kill himself over the bier. Not with such a golden pretext for invading Turkey.”

“So Dolgorukov invents a conspiracy, lures a few malcontents into taking part in it, and gives their assassin access to your prince,” said Ludbridge. “And you’d like us to do something about the conspirators, I expect?”

“No,” said Nikitin. He looked down at a piece of paper on his desk, and slowly pushed it across to Ludbridge. “We can prevent the assassination ourselves. I would like you to do something about these people instead.”