Not Less Than Gods (33 page)

“It’s an efficient and rational design for a building on a triangular lot,” said Ludbridge, watching in annoyance as an ancient crossing-sweeper toddled away down Isaac Avenue. “There! Western face of the building, Bell-Fairfax. First target?”

“Western face? Third floor, eleventh window from the left,” Bell-Fairfax replied promptly.

“And of course you recall it with perfect accuracy after having looked at the chart only once,” said Pengrove with resignation, taking aim with the crossbow. He fired and, a second later, they heard the tiny thud of impact as the transmitter-dart embedded itself in the wooden frame of the dark window.

“Well done,” said Ludbridge.

“It’s not as hard as all that,” said Bell-Fairfax, defensive. “You simply convert what you see to a mathematical formula. Same as memorizing charts. I’m sure anyone could do it.”

“Yes, yes, no doubt, but in the meanwhile it’s exceedingly convenient that
you
can,” said Ludbridge, watching the street. He handed another transmitter to Pengrove, who reloaded. “Second target?”

“Western face, second floor, third window from the right.”

Pengrove took aim and fired, neatly hitting the window frame. “Next?”

“North face.”

“Damn. Less cover over there. Very well, no help for it. Disguises at the ready? Go.” They trudged all three toward the open square between the Admiralty building and the northern side of the War Office. The Kabinet of Wonders had provided them with laborers’ garments and the gear of those squads sent out to repair the streets at night: tools and a net bag full of the curious wooden paving blocks used in certain parts of the city.

Even Nevsky Avenue was silent and deserted at this hour, lit far down by a few lanterns. No one was awake to watch them when they paused midway across the square. “Northeast face, second floor, ninth window from the right,” said Bell-Fairfax.

Ludbridge gave another transmitter to Pengrove, who drew the crossbow from his pocket, loaded hastily, aimed and fired.

“Oh, good shot. Ah-ah-ah, here comes a watchman.” Ludbridge opened the shutter on their dark lantern and held it low to the ground. They were all crouched over, minutely examining the paving blocks, when the watchman strode up and demanded that they identify themselves. Bell-Fairfax looked up and meekly responded, for he had been spending a few hours daily learning Russian from Semyon Denisovich.

The Russian nodded at his reply, said something in an imperative tone of voice, and pointed in the direction of Voznesensky Avenue, on the eastern side of the War Office. Bell-Fairfax dropped his eyes and nodded. The watchman set out across the square, clearly intending that they should follow him, so they did. It took him a moment of casting about on Voznesensky Avenue to find what he sought, but at last he stopped and pointed downward at a particular spot on the paving. Ludbridge shuffled close and held out the lantern. Its strip of light revealed a paving block protruding up from its fellows by a good quarter-inch.

“
Da, da!
” said Ludbridge, and Bell-Fairfax drew out a mallet. He said something further to the watchman, who walked away, apparently satisfied. Bell-Fairfax pounded the block down. The mallet-blows echoed across the wide empty street. Ludbridge fished out another transmitter and handed it to Pengrove, who reloaded.

“Target?” whispered Ludbridge.

“Eastern face? Er, third floor, first window on the right,” said Bell-Fairfax. He held the mallet poised to deliver the final blow just as Pengrove fired, and the faint sound of the bolt hitting home was neatly masked by the rolling echo.

“Fortuitous,” said Ludbridge, picking up the lantern once again. “Shall we toddle on?”

They landed bolts in two of the windowsills at the Admiralty, and then ventured east to the vast square dominated by the Alexander column, where they proceeded slowly along in front of the Senate building, choosing carefully among its thousands of windows to sink bolts in the frames of the three specially requested by the Kabinet.

“Any more on the list?” inquired Ludbridge, as they paused at the base of the column.

“Only two, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax. “Rather difficult, however.”

“Eh? Why’s that?”

Bell-Fairfax pointed to the Winter Palace, looming before them on the north side of the square.

“Hell.” Ludbridge rubbed his face with both hands. “They want transmitters planted in the Czar’s rooms, don’t they?”

“Only one, sir. They asked if we mightn’t plant the other in the telegraph station on the roof.”

“Oh, that’ll be easy, won’t it? We’re not breaking and entering, I don’t think.”

“We won’t have to, sir. The royal quarters have windows in the western face of the palace.”

“Jolly good,” said Pengrove, in a sepulchral voice. “Perhaps you can sing a few comic songs to distract the palace guard, Ludbridge.”

They walked across to the park in front of the Admiralty, and lurked under the trees there while contemplating their targets. There was a canister-shaped turret on the northern end of the roof, clearly the telegraph station. Directly below were the windows of the royal apartments. Pengrove giggled helplessly.

“Can’t do it, Ludbridge, not with this little pea-shooter.”

“You’re right.” Ludbridge turned to Bell-Fairfax, who promptly shrugged out of his long coat. Bound to his back underneath was another crossbow, considerably bigger than the one Pengrove had been concealing in his pocket. He unfastened it, swung it over his shoulder and cranked its bow taut. Ludbridge handed him a bolt. He loaded it, took aim at the telegraph station, and fired.

“Did it hit?” Pengrove craned his neck, squinting through the night.

“Didn’t hear it.”

“I did,” said Bell-Fairfax, holding his hand out for another bolt. Ludbridge supplied one.

“And the fearsome Czar was asleep in the royal bed,” murmured Pengrove
sotto voce
, “in his imperial purple nightgown with his initials embroidered on it in gold, dreaming of, er, being driven across the frozen Neva in a chariot pulled by Turks and Frenchmen . . . when
suddenly, his pleasant dreams were shattered and so was his bedroom window . . .”

“Don’t make him laugh, you bloody fool,” growled Ludbridge. But the bolt flew home and they heard no glass breaking.

“Hit the target, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax, lowering the crossbow. “I heard it.”

“Then we’d better vanish into the night,” said Ludbridge. “Just in case anyone else heard it. Come along!”

They fled back along the front of the Admiralty, pausing only to strap the big crossbow back in place. Bell-Fairfax pulled his coat on over it once again, and they walked on. They were about to cross back diagonally to the church when they heard a commotion coming from the other direction, toward the Neva.

“Stand to,” Ludbridge ordered.

“What is it?” whispered Pengrove. But they could hear the voices clearly now, echoing across the empty ground: men engaged in mortal struggle, fighting on the Isaakievsky Bridge. One broke free and ran; they could hear his footsteps pounding a moment, and then there was a gunshot, shockingly loud. The runner faltered, but kept on, albeit at a reduced pace. The others came after him and caught him near the base of the Bronze Horseman.

“Good God, they’re the Americans,” said Bell-Fairfax.

A distant cry from another quarter, now; watchmen were coming to investigate the shot. And from the base of the monument, words suddenly distinct: “Stop kicking him, boys, stop! He’s no good to us if you kill him!” Even with the distortion of echoes, they recognized the voice of the Reverend Amasa Breedlove.

“Well, I guess that Prince Orlov could get a dead man to talk,” said someone else, and then shouted, for their victim had pushed away from the monument and was running again, straight down the square toward Ludbridge and the others where they stood. Even dragging one leg, his speed was remarkable. His captors were prevented from following him by the arrival of watchmen from the direction of the Winter Palace. There were roared orders in Russian.

The runner dove into the shadows of the Admiralty and came face-to-face with Ludbridge and the others. He half-collapsed forward, staring at them wildly.

“Please,” he gasped, clutching at his leg, which was throwing off a shower of sparks through what appeared to be a bullet wound. “I beg thee all, run for thy lives.
Opasnost’! Da?
”

Ludbridge looked at the blue-crackling wound, looked back into the American’s terrified face.

“What becomes of illusions?” he said.

The American started. He grabbed at Ludbridge’s lapels. “We dispel them!”

“And we are everywhere,” said Ludbridge. “Bell-Fairfax, pick him up. We’re going to run.”

Bell-Fairfax stooped and caught the man around the knees, hoisting him in a fire brigadesman’s carry and keeping his hands well away from the sparking bullet wound.

“Across to Admiralty Avenue and down, at your best speed. Now!” said Ludbridge. They ran for their lives.

Bell-Fairfax quickly outdistanced the others, vanishing ahead in the darkness just past the first canal. Ludbridge heard the angry voices behind them falling silent, which was not a comfort; if the other Americans had explained themselves to the satisfaction of the watchmen, both parties might soon come hunting them. He had dropped his lantern, but the bag of paving blocks was still swinging from his belt and swung to strike him with every step he took. Pengrove kept pace with him, sprinting easily, and when they had crossed the second canal they darted to the right and worked their way back to the house on Anglisky Avenue.

Bell-Fairfax and the American stranger were waiting for them in the shadows under the trees. A handkerchief had been tied around the hole in the American’s leg; it was already scorching black where it touched. Ludbridge acknowledged them with a nod as he came staggering up the path, closely followed by Pengrove, but said no word. He knocked on the door in a prearranged signal. A moment later the door was unbolted and Hobson stood there blinking at them sleepily.

“In,” said Ludbridge, pushing past him. The others followed, the American dragging his damaged leg.

“Truly thou wert sent by a careful Providence,” said the American, when the door had been bolted and Ludbridge had fetched out a bottle of vodka and handed it round. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, in sober clothing of a rather provincial cut, and had a plain, unremarkable face. Only the fact that a thin trail of smoke was trickling from the hole in his leg made him in any way distinctive.

“If you like,” said Ludbridge. “You’re from the Franklins in Philadelphia, aren’t you?”

“I am, sir,” said the American. “And if Dr. Franklin saw today the peril in which the Union stands, he’d weep for shame.”

“Are you the one they sent to deal with Breedlove and that lot from Tennessee?”

“I have been following them for months now,” said the American, with a sigh. He rubbed his red eyes. “The only survivor of my cell. Elias Matthews, at thy service and eternally in thy debt.”

“Quaker, are you?”

Matthews nodded. “A Friend,” he said. “As Lucas and Harloe were, the Lord rest their souls.”

“They were the other members of your cell?”

“They were,” said Matthews. His face was lined with exhaustion and he needed a shave. He flinched, suddenly, and held out his wineglass for more vodka. Ludbridge topped up his glass. He drank it off in a gulp and got unsteadily to his feet. “Before I tell thee more, sir, I’d beg a moment alone for decency’s sake. My leg pains me something grievous.”

“Of course,” said Ludbridge. “Come along, lads.”

They vacated the room and closed the door. They heard a rustling, and then a faint cry of pain; another cry; a clank and a thump.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m well,” replied a faint voice. Ludbridge swung the door open and they beheld Matthews slumped forward on the settee, resting his right
elbow on his right leg. His left trouser leg was empty and his left leg, still wearing its boot, lay on the floor.

It looked to be a mechanical wonder, gears and wires and a ball joint at the knee, with a great deal of leather strapwork that clearly served to fasten it to his body. Three cables protruded from the top, each one terminating in a sort of aglet. Their purpose was plain, for Matthews had removed his shirt and his mechanical left arm was also visible. Similar cables emerged from its artificial shoulder-joint and were wired into a flat box Matthews wore on his lower back. The leg-cables appeared to connect there too, when the leg was being worn. The metal had been gouged into his flesh when the other Americans kicked him, and he was now a mass of swiftly purpling bruises.

“Look here, d’you want something stronger for the pain?” said Ludbridge, ignoring the fact that the others were staring at Matthews in horror. “We’ve got a medical kit.”

Matthews shook his head. “I thank thee, brother, but I can bear it. It’s not so much a discomfort of the flesh; more the
idea
of discomfort, now that the leg is off. But the leg might well have exploded and that, I thought, would be the height of bad manners before such gracious hosts.” He managed a strained smile.

“Is it likely to explode now?” Pengrove eyed the leg distrustfully.

“I don’t think so.” Matthews leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Not now I have unconnected. There was the chance that I might have set off the bomb by accident, before I could see what harm the bullet did.”

“You have a bomb in your leg?” Pengrove took a step backward.

“Of course he has,” said Ludbridge. “What are we always told?
Do not allow the machines to fall into enemy hands.
”

Matthews nodded. “Before I ran slap into ye, I had thought only to find a place to die where no one else might be harmed by my holocaust.”

“Poor old chap! You were spared that, anyway,” said Pengrove. Matthews looked oddly at him.

“But . . . be ye members of the Kabinet of Wonders, or not?”

“No; we work for the GSS,” said Ludbridge. “The London branch.”

“Ah.” Matthews narrowed his eyes a little. “The British. And still I am indebted to thee, sir. But canst thou direct me to the Kabinet?”