Her Majesty's Western Service (3 page)

A revolver – Ferrer would have
sworn
he hadn't seen the man move to draw it – was in his hand and leveled at the white-haired Russian.

It didn't escape Ferrer's notice - perhaps in his glance at Ferrer it had - that a flat throwing knife had materialized in Marko's hand. Unobtrusive, but Ferrer could tell from a
slight tension in Marko's attitude that it was ready to fly.

“My apologies, Mr. Cannon, but we'll speak plainly here. You began duels on your terms, if that's better.”

“Good enough for now, Russki,” Cannon said, and lowered the gun.

“There are men who know the West better than Mr. Cannon,” said Nick, as though nothing had happened. “But not many of them, and not so many still alive.”

Nick gestured at the chain-smoking red-haired woman.

“Loretta McIlhan. Of St. John's, Province of Newfoundland. Joined the Imperial Army, armored branch, in `54. Served in the Low Countries, saw action there against Franco bandits, promoted to tank commander and transferred with her battalion to the Hugot
on Lease. Made sergeant in `60, involuntarily discharged last year with a rank-reduction to lance-corporal.”

“Corrupt bastards,” McIlhan said. “Generals rake it off; colonels rake it off, captains rake it off.
Enlisted
woman?
Sergeant
gets some on the side, and there's a court-martial. Like
everyone
doesn't do it?”

Serious people
, thought Ferrer. Even if they weren't all the type he much liked.

You put aside those old bourgeois prejudices
, he told himself,
when the system fucked you over.

“You've been vetted hard, all four of you. You may as well know a little about your man in charge,” Nick said. “Theron Marko. Born somewhere in Franco country – we don't know whether it's France or Spain, and he doesn't know, either.”

Marko showed his broken teeth again.

“Gypsy, Romany. Travels. He's worked for us on four continents, a dozen major jobs. More have succeeded than not. He knows how to light a fire. Speaks six languages and the Imperials have twenty thousand pounds on the head of one of the people they think he was. Assassination of Victoria's eldest, that eight-year-old kid Charles, in Ireland?”

Nick gestured his head at Marko.

“His work.”

“Rifle at two thousand yards,” Cannon muttered, impressedly.

“Eighteen fifty,” Marko said. “Give or take a little.”

“Knows his way around a knife, too,” said Nick. “Demonstrate?”

“White blotch on the door,” Marko said.

Ferrer turned around. So did the others. The paint-blotch in question was maybe an inch at its longest dimension.

“Bracket it at two inches,” Marko said.
“Learn.”

A knife
whick-th
'ed into the door about two inches –
no
, said Ferrer's engineer's mind,
exactly two inches
– above the blotch, burying itself a half-inch into the door. The bare hilt was still quivering when a second hit at the blotch's right, then a third below it, then one to the left.

Marko was smiling. A fifth knife was in his hand.

“I'm in charge,” he said. “Let's not forget that, aye? I'm the one running things, after Mr. Nick and his friends.”

Even Cannon seemed to be impressed.

“You are here,” Nick said, “to meet each other. You'll be working under Marko, with
his
direction. You four are all skilled in your areas. You know specific jobs, fields, capabilities. Not one of you would be here if you had not been vetted to the best of the Okhrana's considerable ability. Marko here knows the big picture.”

“What
is
the big picture?” asked Rienzi. “You got us here. What are we going to do?”

Marko shrugged.

“Nothing substantial. Nick told me on the way. We're going to destroy the core of Imperial power and end the miserable pretense of Fed authority on the continent.”

“Another Southron rebellion?”

“More than that,” Nick said. “Considerably more than that. You'll be operating primarily in the west. The specific details will come later. Federals will die. Imperials will die. Does any of you, despite our screening, have a problem with this concept? Or with doing the killing yourselves?”

It felt to Ferrer as though Nick were looking at him in particular. That impulse made him speak up. He banged his fist on the table for emphasis.

“Never killed anyone but, fuck it, I'm ready to,” he snarled. “It's a corrupt system of thieves, and they need nothing else than to be fucking brought down like they were in `89!”

“At this point,” Nick said, “you can walk out and forget this took place. This isn't the wading pool, this is the deep water. You'll be dealing with MI-7, Foreign Service, Federal Internal Security and others. This is
not
the wading pool. Speak up and get out, if you're going to.”

“I wouldn't have come here in the first place if I thought it was going to be a fucking wading pool,” said McIlhan.

Cannon growled an agreement. After a second, so did Rienzi and Ferrer.

“Good. I'll leave you to Marko, then.”

Nick turned to go.

“Wait,” said Marko. “I won't be long.”

He turned to the others.

“We're going to destroy Federal power on the continent,” Marko said, “by destroying the most critical of its props. We're going to destroy Imperial power
globally
, by destroying one of
its
props. Or clearing the road for its destruction, which is the same thing. There's going to be fire and a lot of it, my friends. We're going to have a good time with the burning and the exploding, and there'll be enough for us all to partake in. There's the five of us, and I look forward to furthering my acquaintance with you at Jewell's at four tomorrow. There's the ones we'll work with and you'll direct. There's the tools we'll be using - it's
fun
to use tools, you know, almost as much fun as it is to destroy them.”

Marko laughed.

“This is big. Mr. Krusch– oh, I'm sorry,
Nick
- explained it to me on the way here. We have support at the very highest level and we'll be working with people at the very highest level. You should all four of yourselves congratulate yourself for having been selected. If
Nick
calls on you, he speaks with my name. I'll see the four of you when I said. Be packed and ready to travel.”

There were a few murmurs. Rienzi began to raise a hand.

“Questions will be answered at the next one,” Marko laughed. “Not tonight, my young friend. Tonight, you will head out separately while I head home with Mr.
Nick
, to establish further channels. He knows how to contact you, and you should acknowledge those contacts as well. The plan is set, but it is in flux. As any good plan should be! Now go; go drink, and smoke; chew, imbibe, and inhale!”

Marko paused.

“Because tomorrow - certainly within the week - we
impale.
By year's end, Imperial authority on the continent will have been
spiked
. Through the heart, like the parasitical vampire it is!”

He winked broadly.

“My people came from Romania; I know all about the vampires. We'll talk further tomorrow afternoon.”

He's insane
, thought Ferrer, as he followed the others out and down the stairs.
He's fucking insane.

But this Nick man - he'd heard rumors, here and there, of the senior Russian operative in the city, a man who matched that description. Oh,
he
was serious enough.

And so were the others. You could tell that easily enough. And Marko - well, insane was probably a virtue at his level. He'd killed Young Prince Charlie. He'd done - well, God knew what else. He was a serious man.

I've spent two years looking for these serious people
, Ferrer thought. He downed the last of his scotch.
Nihil posers and Lud pseudos won't do shit against the fucking system.

Men like this –
plans
like this – are what's going to bring it to its fucking knees.

“What do you think of the plan?” Kruschchev asked Marko as they walked out.

“I like it. You're serious about the backing?”

“Some equipment was brought into the country three weeks ago. It was taken, this evening, to that engineer's lodgings. Details at the highest levels are still being worked out. The Count would
not
have committed the resources he has, if he weren't serious. The other parties are receptive.”

“This could be fun," Marko said. "This could be
fun
. And the pyres... you weren't kidding.”

“It's not going to topple the Empire in itself,” Krushchev warned. “North America is the single most critical point to British influence, but they'll survive even this. In itself.”

“The Empire's big. This is a kick to its balls and no question. Might survive this in
itself
, but weakened is good. Weakened at
this level
is plenty good. They lose their basis on the continent, the Feds lose half their revenue - South rises on its own, and that's
all
of North America.”

“And could lead quite rapidly to their losing Canada. Even St. John's,” Krushchev said. “What do you think of the team?”

Marko thought for a moment before answering.

“Skilled. A bunch of specialists, other than that kid engineer. Sounds fitted, though. What motivates them all?”

“Pretty much what motivates you. They're pissed off. They want action and revenge, maybe some cash. The Rienzi kid's ambitious; he wants glory, too.”

“Plenty of that to go around when we're done,” Marko said.

They were walking, more quickly, through the dark and quiet streets of upper Manhattan, crossed 150th without incident. The houses here were dense middle-class brownstones, small apartment-buildings becoming multiple-family houses. Ten blocks further north, the multiple-families began to evolve into semi-detached townhouses. Here and there was a livery stable or garage. They passed a brightly-lit Irish bar, a neighborhood place for mid-ranking clericals and low-ranking engineers to hang out. Here and there, parked on the street, were steam-cars and electrovelos.

“Where are we going?” Marko asked.

“Somewhere you haven't been before. Our primary safe house in New York City. You've been introduced to your field team.”

“Operational control.”

“Yes. You know the basic plan and you have the essential equipment. It's time for you to meet the people who'll be guiding things on the back end. A couple of them will be going out to Dodge City on Wednesday; you'll meet them here so you can recognize them there.”

A few blocks later, Marko stopped.

“I have a bad feeling.”

“We're on the same block. Come on.”

“I have a bad feeling,” Marko repeated. He glanced at an all-night diner across the road.

“Something about that place.”

“We have security there,” Krushchev said impatiently. “Don't worry.”

“I told you I have a bad feeling,” Marko said.
“Go on. I'll be waiting there.” He gestured at the mouth of an alley a few feet away. “Come back in five minutes if it's clear.
If
. I recommend we turn around,
right now
.”

“I've heard you get these nerves. What's your problem with control?”

“I don't have a problem with control,” said Marko. “We operate in a context. I'll live with that to achieve the ends. I have a problem with getting killed, and
I have a bad feeling.
Something's wrong.”

“That building there. Above the news-stand. That's ours,” said Kruschchev. “The lit windows. See the lower second pane, green-shaded lamp that's lit in it? Everything's fine. We're not
amateurs
.”

“Come in, come out and meet me, then,
” said Marko. “It'll be three minutes.”

“Very well,” said Krushchev. Irritably.

Marko shook hands with him. “Good night.”

“He's late,” muttered Special Agent Mark Rosen to his partner, leaning across the table of the diner.

“I can read my watch,” said the other Federal man, Gonaghy. “Who's the man with him?”

“Can't see,” Rosen said. “Looks like they're parting.”

“Nobody important. I think. One of those two-bit agitators. Low-level connection; see, he's not being invited in.”

“Not invited in,” Rosen agreed. That meant something. They were parting half a block away, and it looked like the tall, thin one was turning around completely, had been sent away.