Rasputin's Bastards (50 page)

“And find himself.”

“That’s deep,” said Stephen. “So you remained undetected — how exactly?”

“Well you know — a bit of this,” a Romanian tapped his forehead. “Same way your master Kolyokov kept his operations secret all those years. You make the right people forget — ”

“And you make sure no one looks.”

“And,” said another, “this place is well-located to avoid detection. This part of the Atlantic Shelf is in a dead zone — no currents move here. We can be quiet.”

“But you know that’s not all of it.”

“Right.”

“We could not have done this without — ” another Romanian tapped the wall “ — a bit of help from them.”

“Them?” Stephen was completely confused.

“You know,” said a fifth Romanian as he came out of the cooling freezer. “Fish.”

“All the big squids outside.”

“They were great from the start.”

“Do you know how big their brains are?

“Huge.”

“Not much going on in them.”

“But that’s fine.”

“More room for us.”

“Squid.” said Stephen. He felt his shoulders trembling, as he thought back to his daydreams. His supposed daydreams — the things that could not have been the result of dream-walking . . .

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like you haven’t seen them already.”

“It’s not like you can’t see them again, if you want.”

Stephen felt tears brimming around the edges of his eyes.

“Look at the crybaby.”

“That is sweet.”

“You are such a sentimentalist, Yorgi.”

“So do you not think,” said Ilyich, “that perhaps all that vodka might not have been a way to substitute for your true addiction?”

Well you certainly seem to think that
, thought Mrs. Kontos-Wu.
So it must be true, I suppose
.

She thought it, but she kept her mouth shut. She had been sitting in a circle with Ilyich and Tanya and Konstantine for what seemed like hours now. And she had learned in those hours — any sign of hostility could send their little encounter session off on a turn of conversation that could take hours.

“She wasn’t the only one drinking, Comrade,” said Tanya. “I too fell into the weakness.”

“See how the
humanist
defends her,” said Konstantine.

Tanya stopped, and looked at Konstantine with arch amusement. “I’m a
humanist
now?”

“You deny the divine,” said Konstantine. “It makes you susceptible.”

“Stop right there,” said Tanya. “I fell into the weakness with her, because I’ve got the addiction same as her. I’m a little further in my recovery — but I’ll tell you, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t dream of the wonder of my old metaphor. You see, Konstantine, that’s something that you cannot even begin to relate to.”

“Oh?”

“You were never programmed,” said Tanya. “You came to this late in your life — with nothing but the benevolent touch of Zhanna and the children to guide you.”

“It is true,” said Chenko. “Zhanna enters our mind with only love and compassion in her heart. She does not force us into wickedness. She is not like the old masters of City 512.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu — and immediately kicked herself for speaking up. All eyes turned to her.

“How can you say that?” gasped Konstantine.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu drew a breath. “Well,” she said, “back in New York, Zhanna dream-walked me on a mission to murder Fyodor Kolyokov. I would have done it, too, were he not already dead when I arrived.”

Chenko looked at her. “I cannot believe that,” he said. “How do you know?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu thought back — to her metaphor of Bishop’s Hall, and to her “friend” there Lois, who, she now understood, took over her body and kept her locked in the library.

“I know,” she said simply. The submarine went quiet.

“Why,” Chenko said finally, “do you feel it necessary to channel your self-loathing toward our saviour?”

“Yes,” said Tanya. “It is time to speak now, Jean.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu glared at Tanya. “My name’s not Jean,” she said. “And I think,” she said, “I’m about done for today. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get some sleep.”

“I’ll walk back with you.” Tanya started to get up.

“It’s okay,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “You have things to discuss.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu hurried out of the mess before anyone could follow, and wipedthetearsfromherwithhersleeve.Wassheaddictedtohermetaphor?Itwas possible. One thing she knew for sure — these makeshift group therapy sessions in the submarine were unpleasant enough to make her yearn for the metaphor of Bishop’s Hall. It was an insulation for her — really, her only insulation — from a world that offered her up more than her fair share of harshness.

So if she decided to take a drink or five to compensate — who should care? Mrs. Kontos-Wu ducked into the cabin that she shared with Tanya. The children here, their psychic ministrations, weren’t truly the same as her metaphor. It was communication, pure and simple. Uzimeri, and to a lesser degree, Ilyich Chenko, were able to apply religion to that.

But Mrs. Kontos-Wu was a long way from religion.

She shut her eyes, and felt the sea around her — listened to the strange tapping on the submarine — and thought:
I am a long way from everywhere.

And then she smiled — and let herself slip into the dreaming place, that was still her only real comfort.

The dream, Mrs. Kontos-Wu thought to herself, seemed pretty safe. It didn’t involve Bishop’s Hall. It didn’t involve secret instructions telling her to go out and kill someone. It did involve
Becky Barker and the Adventure of the Scarlet Arrow
— which might be a worry. But that, really, was a side issue to her metaphor. She was reading the final chapters of the book, but she wasn’t in the library at Bishop’s Hall. In that surrealistically interconnected way that dreams sometimes carry themselves, she was reading it about in a dark underground tunnel, the pages illuminated by a heavy old-fashioned flashlight — very much like the one that young Becky was carrying as she stepped into her own labyrinth, at the end of Chapter Twenty.

In her dream, Mrs. Kontos-Wu turned the page eagerly, and read on:

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

(read Mrs. Kontos-Wu)

“A DREADFUL SURPRISE”

Becky held her nose. She had to remind herself that this was a sewer. And not just any sewer — but an ancient one, as old as the Romans. Why, it had seen two thousand years of chamber pots and refuse and Lord knew what else dumped through its tunnels. So if the sewers here had the worst smell Becky could ever imagine, then at least they had an excuse.

That was more than she could say for Jim — running off after the Society of the Scarlet Arrow through the back-alleys of Istanbul, without telling anyone. He had no excuse. And she was going to tell him that, as soon as she found him.

She only hoped she found him soon enough that the doctors could re-attach his right hand. Otherwise, Jim might never throw one of his patented fastballs again.

“
Mon Dieu
,” said a voice behind her. “
C’est mal ici.
”

Becky turned around. “Antoine!” she said. The irritating Parisian brat that had kicked off the whole wretched adventure just a week ago when the Scarlet Arrow had him kidnapped by mistake, was standing right behind her. “You,” she scolded, “are supposed to be at home with your
maman
, not here in the sewers following me into what may turn out to be a very dangerous encounter indeed.”

“Nonezeeless,” said Antoine, “’Ere I am!”

“Well this is a dreadful surprise,” Becky said.

“An’ zat,” said Antoine, “is not ze only surprise in store for you,
Mademoiselle
Barker.”

With that, the terrible twelve-year-old reached into his knapsack. He pulled out a very big revolver, and with both hands aimed it straight at Becky.

“You have fallen into my trap,” said another voice — from the shadows, behind little Antoine.

“You may shoot, my child,” said the voice.

There was a loud bang, and a very bright light. Becky gasped. It felt
awful
: like the time that her pony had gotten upset and kicked her in the chest. Only part of her knew that this was much, much worse. She put her hand up to her stomach, and when she pulled it away it was wet. The flashlight fell from her other hand. And soon she fell too.

“Was I very good?” asked Antoine.

“Very good, my child. Now, you know what you must do.”

Antoine sniffled. He took the gun and walked off into the darkness, beyond the beam of Becky’s fallen flashlight.

A mysterious hand reached down and picked up the flashlight. It flicked the light off. When it flicked it on again, the beam was focused on a familiar face.

“You can’t believe I killed Becky Barker — can you?” said Lois. She was wearing her old Bishop’s Hall uniform. The light under her chin made her scarier than a Halloween mask. But Mrs. Kontos-Wu knew she had nothing to be afraid of. Lois, after all, was her friend; even if she had just murdered Becky Barker — or ordered her death, which was just as wicked as doing it by Mrs. Kontos-Wu’s books.

“Well, after having read through this sorry narrative, I have to say it’s high time someone murdered that little dolt. I can’t believe that Kolyokov was able to keep you tame with this metaphor all these years. So infantile. So far beneath you. We will have no more of this. You have important work to do. And it seems as though I cannot speak with you directly, so the pages of this children’s fantasy will have to do.”

Deep in the tunnels, Antoine’s revolver went off once more. There was a small splash as the gun fell into the filthy waters. And then there was a larger splash. And that was the last anyone would see of irritating little Antoine.

“Let’s go find Jim,” said Lois. “We can talk as we walk.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu followed along behind her. She puzzled at her new predicament — it seemed now, as though she had completely submerged herself in the book — to the point where her thoughts and actions were in fact being described by the unnamed novelist.

“We are doing this,” said Lois, “because that bastard Fyodor Kolyokov has so effectively demolished the metaphor of Bishop’s Hall.”

“Bishop’s Hall is bullshit,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu.

“Yes,” said Lois, “it is. But it was a convenient way for us to speak. And now it’s fragmented. You’ve still got this novel, though. You still believe in that. So I’ve had to make do.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shrieked as something scurried over her foot.

“Now. Step carefully. And be quiet. We’re almost in the Cistern of Blood — which is where, I believe, the Scarlet Arrow is keeping Jim. We shall have to turn off the lamp, or they’re bound to find us. And no more shrieking. Just listen.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu was quiet. Lois whispered as they climbed down a long, slippery set of stairs.

“You are among the enemy,” said Lois. “You are in a very dangerous place — probably, I’d wager, near the Society of the Scarlet Arrow by now. They are unconscionable. Wicked men. They must be stopped. You must kill them — and if that little bitch Zhanna tries to stop you . . .” Lois looked at her significantly.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu stopped. “Wait a second,” she whispered. “Lois — I thought
you
were Zhanna. Are you saying that you’re not Zhanna? Or do you want me to kill you? I’m confused.”

“Shhh! Someone’s coming!”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu and Lois pressed themselves against the sweating stones of the ancient sewer’s walls. Sure enough, there were footsteps in the distance. From around a corner, Mrs. Kontos-Wu could see the flickering yellow of torchlight — and the guttural mutterings of the secret language of the Scarlet Arrow.

As the torchlight grew brighter, the voices grew louder, and their peril became more imminent, Mrs. Kontos-Wu could not avoid the suspicion that Lois — whoever she was, whatever her agenda — had simply avoided answering a sticky question with a conveniently placed cliffhanger.

Pok-pok-pok
.

It sounded, Stephen thought, very different from the outside than the inside. Echoing through the cold, still waters outside the submarine, it sounded like a deep, rich drum. It reverberated through the sea with a tribal intensity.

Stephen took control of the cadence — tapping along the outside of the submarine, and then stretching great tentacles as far as he could reach — tasting the strange flavours of the ocean. Soon, he felt confident enough to launch himself through the dark waters, climb from the shelf. He spared a glance back at a black sprawling thing, an artefact hammered into the shelf itself, on thick concrete and steel columns; a structure made of spheres and cylinders and boxes, illuminated here and there by flickering lights like Christmas strings; exuding strange limbs like tentacles that moved arthritically around their ancient, rusting joints; occasionally, farting a bit of air skyward in a string of silver that glowed brighter, and grew finer, the higher it climbed. Latching to this assembly was a long squid-shape of a kind that was becoming altogether too common in the deep complacency of the shelf.

But it wasn’t enough to worry a mind. Quick enough, it was away — in a great jet of seawater, away to the surface.

The surface, and dinner . . .

Whoa
.

Stephen shook his head and propped himself up on his elbow.

“You see, Stephen,” said a Romanian, sitting over him, “why we like it down here so much?”

They were in a stateroom in the upper levels of Petroska Station — just one deck below what the Mystics called their Aerie. The walls were a light cream colour. Light came from soft semi opaque globes that hung from a high ceiling.

The air seemed cleaner here. The Romanian lurched, and said in a slightly different voice: