The Great Game Read online

  Smith, the Hapsburg agents, the back yard of the Angel in St Giles.

  His knives flashing, blades finding skin and bones and arteries…

  Men dropping, others converging on him, too many, there were too many…

  Strapped to his back, a small, slim sheath, as for a blade. A handle, protruding…

  He pulled it out.

  The man who first spoke, the man who called him Harvester. Suddenly laughing.

  Something rapid in a German Smith couldn't understand. More laughter. Smith pulled it open.

  An umbrella.

  "Sie haben Angst, es wird regen?"

  You are afraid it will rain?

  Smith smiled back at him.

  "Don't shoot," he said. "I'll come in peace."

  "Put up your hands, Herr Smith."

  Smith raised his hands, the umbrella above him.

  Gave it a small, almost unnoticeable spin.

  The umbrella spun and rose in the air.

  "Rain," Smith said. Standing under the umbrella. Feeling like a fool. Thinking, he couldn't die here, because then, if it didn't work, he couldn't kill Xirdal Zephyrin.

  The umbrella hovered.

  "Was ist das?" the man said. "Spielzeug? Toy, please?"

  "Ja," Smith said.

  The umbrella stopped. And suddenly, all around its rim, a series of small nozzles protruded out.

  "Schiessen!" the Hapsburg agent shouted. Fire!

  But the umbrella spun, suddenly and hard, the tiny steam engine embedded in its apex providing the power, and the nozzles barked out a widening circle of high-pressured darts, thin as darning needles.

  A silver rain of tiny blades…

  Poisoned, if he knew Professor X.

  The umbrella, having spun twice, now stopped. Around Smith, the men were on the ground, unnaturally still.

  Run, said a voice in his head.

  He ran.

  Behind him, the swish of flying blades as the umbrella spun again, then rose higher, and higher still–

  He darted into the now-empty pub, pushed through doors, ran outside–

  Behind him, unseen, the umbrella reached its programmed height and stopped, and dropped, gently, down to the roof of the pub–

  Activating, on impact, the hidden charge of explosives running all along the hollowed core of its tube.

  Smith burst out of the Angel when the night became alive with light and flames–

  An explosion shaking the building behind him, the roof caving in, a ball of flame reaching out and pushing him, sending him flying–

  Thinking, Zephyrin you crazy old bastard–

  A ball of fire rising into the skies, Smith free, not quite believing it–

  He'd managed to escape–

  And someone caught him in his arms, breaking his flight, a hug as of an old friend's–

  Smith looked up, dazed–

  Into the smiling face of the Frenchman, The Man from Meung, the Comte de Rochefort.

  "Bonsoir, M. Smith," the Comte de Rochefort said. Smith tried to pull back, tried to fight–

  A small, cold pinprick of pain in the side of his neck.

  "Doux rêves," he heard the Frenchman say, as if from far away. Sweet dreams…

  Smith closed his eyes. The Frenchman held him as he fell.

  FOURTEEN

  He woke up by a window, tied to a chair.

  He looked out of the window and below him was the city.

  He was somewhere high up in the air, looking down. The Thames snaked below, and the lights of the city were a chorus, top amongst them Big Ben and the Babbage Tower, arcane mechanisms pointing at the skies, a beacon of light warning off the airships that sailed, night and day, above the capital.

  He was in an airship, he realised with a sinking in his stomach. And there could be no escape.

  "Ah, I see our… guest is awake," a voice said. He turned from the window and saw the Comte de Rochefort sitting across from him, sipping from a glass of cognac.

  "I'd offer you a drink," the man said, "but…" He shrugged. "You seem to be somewhat tied up at the moment."

  "Funny," Smith said.

  "Tell me," Rochefort said. "Why are the Hapsburgs so keen on eliminating you?"

  Indeed, the same question had been troubling Smith. "I don't know," he admitted.

  "Really…" Rochefort said.

  Smith had very little to lose by telling the truth. His ignorance

  startled him. He did not understand what was happening and, under the circumstances, decided that his best course was to stick to the truth, and try, by extension, to find out what the French were after.

  "I do not believe you," Rochefort said. Smith smiled. Sometimes the truth itself was the best lie, he thought.

  "I will not insult you," he told Rochefort, "by lying."

  "And I will not, in my turn, insult you by resorting to crude interrogation," the Frenchman said.

  "Oh?"

  "You may be aware of Viktor Von F–'s formula?" Rochefort said. "After all, you tried several times to cause him to defect."

  "His loyalty," Smith said dryly, "truly is commendable."

  "I have," Rochefort said, "a syringe here with me. It is a modified form of your own Jekyll formula. I am a gentleman, and so I will give you a choice. Tell me what I want to know, without coercion or further lies, or I shall be forced, very much against my principles, to inject you with the material. I believe recovery is not a side product of the treatment."

  "I see," Smith said.

  On the table before him, Rochefort placed two items, side by side. One was a loaded syringe. The other, his glass of cognac.

  "Choose," he said.

  "What do you want to know?" Smith said.

  The Frenchman smiled, without joy. "What do you know of the Babbage Plan?" he snapped.

  The Babbage Plan?

  Without warning, Rochefort slapped him, a back-handed strike that sent Smith's head reeling back. "I hate to do this," the Frenchman said, sounding not in the least bit upset.

  Smith shook his head, confused. Lord Babbage had not been seen for several years in public… Rumour had it he was dead. What did Rochefort want? How did it tie to–

  He said, "I am retired. No, hear me out! I am retired and was brought back into service following the murder of my former employer, Mycroft Holmes, known to you as the head of the Bureau and of the various branches of British intelligence. I do not know who killed him, or why. I am trying to trace a killer – nothing more."

  "You lie!" the Comte de Rochefort said.

  "Why would I lie?"

  "Because," Rochefort said, with a chilling smile, "you are the Harvester."

  Code name: Smith.

  First name: unknown.

  Place of birth: unknown.

  Parents: deceased.

  Family: none.

  Recruited: 1856, at the age of twenty.

  Number of kills before recruitment: unknown.

  Former associates: none living.

  Recruited by: Holmes, Mycroft.

  First assignment: classified.

  Notable cases: The Dog Men Gang, The Xirdal Zephyrin Defection, The Underground Cannibal Tribe Massacre, The Warsaw Memorandum, The Bangkok Affair of Seventy-Six, others classified.

  Notes: for a long time considered Mycroft's right-hand-man, Smith specialised in removals and terminations, a catch-all term at the Bureau for kills, and another sign of the British squeamishness when it comes to stating the unsavoury nature of their global empire and the shadow practices which make it possible. Smith is known to detest guns and other weapons of that sort, preferring to use knives or his bare hands. Trained first at the Bureau's secret Ham Common training facility, later, if rumours are correct, spent three years in the Chinese monastery of the Wudang clan known as Shaolin, under tutelage of one Ebenezer Long, known agitator, Chinese freedom fighter and Wudang leader (presumed). Acquired the moniker "Harvester" for his specially created role as Mycroft's unofficial executioner, travelling the g
lobe to eliminate people on behalf of the Lizardine Empire.

  Forcibly retired over the Isle of Man incident in ninety-three. Placed under restricted habitation in St Mary Mead, AKA The Village, where he had remained until recent events. Extremely dangerous, treat with caution.

  Rochefort put down the dossier. Took a sip of his drink. Stared at Smith. "Well?" he said, at last.

  "You suspect me of killing Mycroft?" Smith said.

  Watched the Frenchman's face. Thinking – they must be clutching at straws.

  Why?

  Why be upset over Mycroft's death?

  Leaps he didn't want to make. He shut his eyes but in the darkness his mind worked faster, connecting–

  "Mycroft worked with you," he said – whispered. "No. It's impossible. No."

  Rochefort's face was hard and unsmiling. "He was a great man," he said. "You think this is a game? This is bigger than all of us, Smith. If you are working for Babbage, I will find out. If you had killed Mycroft, I will find out."

  He tapped the syringe. Finished his drink. Left the empty glass there, beside the syringe. "I will be back soon," he said. "I think, perhaps, you've made your choice, no?" he tapped the syringe again, then, walking softly, left the room and locked the door behind him.

  Smith was left alone, tied to the chair, the empty choice before him. He knew they couldn't trust him. Just as he wouldn't have trusted Rochefort, in a similar situation. It would be the syringe for him and, after that, there was no going back. No doubt, when they were done with him, his grotesque new form would be thrown off the airship, somewhere lonely and isolated, over cliffs or sea, perhaps… A shadow burial, as they called it in the trade.

  He sat back, closed his eyes. His fingers had tried to work the ropes off, but couldn't. He was getting old…

  They did not intend to let him go, he knew.

  But Mycroft?

  Could it be the truth?

  And what, in God's name and all that was holy, was the Babbage Plan?

  He sighed, resigning himself to his fate. There was a sort of peace in that. He would die here, die in ignorance, and be thrown off the airship to his grave. He could accept that.

  But he wanted answers.

  He realised he could not give up. Not yet.

  There was a soft scratching sound at the door.

  FIFTEEN

  Smith, eyes closed to slits. Wishing he'd got more gadgets off Zephyrin. Figuring he could maybe push off to the floor, maybe break the chair – get just a chance to fight back. London, far below, under a layer of clouds. No escape…

  The key turned in the lock and the door opened. Smith tensed–

  Then his eyes opened wide when he saw the small figure standing in the room.

  "You!" he said.

  The boy closed the door behind him. He put his finger to his mouth, signalling silence.

  "Twist!" Smith whispered. "What are you doing here?"

  The boy grinned. "I saw the airship come down to land," he said. "It was hovering low over the roof of the church. I saw them carry you up… so I climbed up on the roof and snuck on before they took off. They didn't notice me."

  "You could have got yourself killed!"

  "Nah," the boy said, shrugging. "Fagin got us practising on the passenger ships, you know. Good pickings on those."

  Smith shook his head. "Can you untie me?" he said.

  But the boy was already behind him, and in moments Smith's bonds were cut loose. The boy came around, looking pleased with himself. "That's a big knife you got there," Smith said.

  "I stole it," the boy said. Smith grinned back at him. "Of course you did," he said.

  He felt his blood circulation slowly returning. "We need to get off this airship," he said.

  The boy shrugged. "We can take them by force," he said, "and make them bring it down."

  Smith, looking at him. The change that had taken over the boy. He said, "I don't think that's likely, Twist."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Give me that knife."

  "Yes, sir."

  The knife felt good in Smith's hands. It would feel better somewhere else – embedded in Rochefort's stomach, say…

  "We'll make for the upper deck," Smith said.

  The boy followed him meekly. They went out into an empty corridor. "How many of them are there?" Smith said.

  "About a dozen, I think," Twist said.

  "Too many…"

  Along the corridor, up plush chrome stairs. The night outside was cold, the wind sending a shiver down Smith's spine. London was beneath them. The airship sailed high. There were clouds below, and only the tip of the Babbage Tower peeking out, with its beaming lights.

  Babbage…

  Wasn't the old man dead?

  "Stop!"

  "Merde!"

  Smith turned. Rochefort, with two men holding dart guns. "Where did that boy come from?"

  He couldn't give them time. He ran at them, felling one man with a punch to the face that broke his nose and drove the bone into the brain, the other with a well-placed kick that dropped him squealing. Smith smiled, came at Rochefort with the knife.

  "Son of pigs," the Frenchman said. In his hand, too, there materialised a knife.

  "Why was Mycroft working with you?" Smith said, striking. The Frenchman feinted, slashed back. Smith almost wasn't quick enough and the blade whistled, too close to his face.

  "Still you say you don't know," Rochefort said.

  "Has it occurred to you I might have been speaking the Goddamned truth?" Smith yelled.

  "No!"

  Knives flashed, as the two men danced on the deck. Other figures materialised around them but Rochefort stopped them with a shout. "Stay back."

  "Tell me!" Smith said.

  "It is impossible," Rochefort said. "You killed them, Alice, Mycroft, you are working for him!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about!"

  "Babbage, man! Damn it, Smith, I will–"

  The knife whistled again but this time Smith was ready, ducking under the blade and coming up and around the man–

  Then he was holding him, with his own blade against Rochefort's neck. "It's been too long…" he whispered, panting, in the man's ear. "Drop it."

  Rochefort dropped the blade.

  "You will harvest me too, Harvester?" he said. "You think the plan will work? Your master thinks he can rule us all, but he will never–!"

  What else he was going to say was stopped, however, as another dark shape rose, silently, beyond the stern of the airship.

  A second airship, wholly black and silent, and a flower of blood was opening on Rochefort's chest. The Frenchman looked surprised.

  "They… set us up," he whispered. Smith couldn't hold him. He lowered him to the floor. "Rochefort?" he said. "Rochefort!"

  "Find… the launch," the Frenchman said. "Mycroft… was trying. We are all… trying. Smith, I…"

  There was more of the eerie, noiseless fire. It hit the deck and splintered wood and a fire burst out in the engine room. "I was wrong," Rochefort said.

  "Wait! No!"

  Was he destined to have everyone he knew die around him as he watched, helpless?

  "Mister Smith, Sir! Here!" The boy Twist materialised by his side. On the deck Rochefort was breathing shallow breaths, the blood spreading. He had moments to live, at best.

  "What is it, boy?" Smith said.

  "Take this," Twist said. Smith looked up–

  The Frankenstein-Jekyll syringe.

  The boy shrugged. "I stole it," he said.

  "Of course you did."

  The second airship was gaining, rising higher than their own. And now rope ladders were being lowered, and men could be seen, ready to descend. The French airship was burning now, and losing altitude rapidly. They would crash unless the black airship saved them–

  Which seemed unlikely.

  "Quick, mister!"

  Smith snatched the syringe from the boy. "I'm sorry, Rochefort," he said. "It's the only way…"


  And plunged it into the man's neck, emptying its liquid contents into Rochefort's vein.

  The fallen man shuddered. His legs spasmed, kicking in the air. His arms seemed to almost magically thicken, and a white foam began to come out of his mouth. He cried – growled – the boy Twist backed away. So did Smith.