“But you’d have taken me anyway?”
“That I would. A man’s got to earn a living.”
Once the
Nancy Belle
was in Boulogne and had off-loaded the cargo from England, the sloop (or whatever) would take on a new one; Frankish champagne, Hispanian vintage sherry, and cases of other wines, cognac, opium, bolts of Egyptian cotton and Damascus silk, plus three Norse agents making a covert getaway from the Mosul. Once back in Rye, with Norse customs either bribed or outwitted, Conrad would show a handsome profit. Cordelia thought about this. “From what you say, you’d be hard-pressed to turn around, even if I had a secret belt of gold sovereigns under my knickers and I offered you all of them.”
“You’re probably right, ma’am. But you don’t, do you? The question is wholly hypothetical.”
“Talking of hypothetical, do you know what happened to my hypothetical clothes?”
Conrad was a picture of innocence. “You were delivered to me just as you are, except of course for the blanket. I threw that over you.”
“You seem a bright man, Joe Conrad, but this seems a highly complicated way to make a living.”
“I’m a seaman, Lady Blakeney. Maybe it’s my downfall, but I like the feel of a ship under me.”
“So why didn’t you simply enlist in the Norse Navy?”
At this Reuben and Marcel laughed out loud, and even Lars and the boy smiled. “I don’t like officers, ma’am. I don’t like to serve them, and I’ve certainly never wanted to be one. I like to master my own ship, and that’s the start and finish of it. Up until about a year ago, I was privateering in the Caribbean, but since the Corsairs made their damned treaty with the Marley administration, and went legal, it hasn’t been a fit place for an honest man.”
Conrad was able to talk all he wanted because the
Nancy Belle
had nothing to do right there and then except mark time, hold her position, and wait for the fishing fleet to come through the Straits of Dover. The worst that could happen was that a Norse warship or customs boat should happen by and decide to board them, but there seemed little chance of that, since no example of either was anywhere in sight, and the
Nancy Belle
was still flying the flag of the Norse Merchant Marine.
“This embargo-running still seems like a very complicated business.”
“That’s Il Syndicato for you. They take care of every detail.”
Cordelia blinked. “Il Syndicato?” Both Raphael and Jesamine had dismissed Il Syndicato as “thieves and pimps and smugglers, degenerates and cutthroats,” but Gideon Windermere had indicated that, although on one level, they were an extensive criminal network, based in Naples, but operating throughout the occupied territories, they were also part of the resistance in the lands across the English Channel, whose members were risking death and worse to bring the Mosul Empire to ruin. If Jeakqual-Ahrach had organized her kidnapping, Her Grand Eminence had gone about it in a very strange way, unless Il Syndicato was playing both sides against each other and simply reaping the benefits.
Joe Conrad treated Cordelia to a very direct look. “That’s another reason I wouldn’t take your money, even if you had it. Only a fool crosses up Il Syndicato, because that fool is almost immediately a dead fool.”
The idea that she might, for the moment, be in the remote de facto hands of Il Syndicato opened a whole new door of fear, worry, and confusion, not least in that Cordelia had no idea exactly what Il Syndicato really was, and what being their prisoner really meant. A part of her simply wanted to sink to the deck of the
Nancy Belle
and start sobbing like a child. It was all too much for her. She had never asked for any of this and now it had become so much more than she could handle. Cordelia simply wanted to give in and give up, but, of course, she couldn’t. It would obviously do her no good at all, and destroy even the slight sympathetic rapport that she seemed to have established with Joe Conrad. Also, on a much deeper and more basic level, she had been schooled from birth that her greatest responsibility was to keep up appearances come what may. It didn’t matter that come-what-may had turned out to be disastrous and life threatening. An upper-class upbringing accepted no excuses. Not that she was allowed any time to make excuses, or so much as to think through all the fresh information that the conversation with Conrad had provided. Two totally unrelated happenings pitched Cordelia’s world into another round of upheaval and motion. While she had been talking to Conrad, the boy has been dispatched to the top of the taller of the
Nancy Belle
’s two masts to keep a lookout for the Mosul fishing fleet, and, shortly after Conrad informed Cordelia that he was freebooting for Il Syndicato, the youngster shouted a warning.
“Ship ahoy, Skipper! Sail on the starboard bow.”
“Is it the fleet, boy?”
“I dunno, skipper. But it’s a sail, not a motorboat or steamer, so it’s not a Norse patrol.”
“Well thank the gods for that.”
Conrad pulled a telescopic spyglass from under his coat and looked where the boy was pointing. “Off the starboard bow? Damned if I can see a thing.”
“I see two more, skipper. It’s gotta be the fleet.”
Cordelia suddenly felt herself struck by a burst of negative mental energy. It hit her like a thunderclap, and she was hard-pressed to stop herself from reeling across the deck. Fortunately Conrad and his small crew were too busy scanning the horizon to notice, and Cordelia gritted her teeth and righted herself. She was certain that whatever it was had emanated from England, although she was not sure how she knew that, and equally it meant something terrible was happening, possibly to the rest of The Four. Conrad hadn’t known anything about any other Americano kidnap victims being spirited across the Channel, and so she had to suppose that Argo, Raphael, and Jesamine were still in London, and, as far as Cordelia could estimate time, they should have been taking part in the ceremonial procession for Jack Kennedy. She could not, however, worry about the others. She had more than enough troubles of her own, and they seemed about to enter a new phase. Those on deck could now see the same ships as the boy at the masthead, and Conrad immediately busied himself. “This is it lads. It’s the herring boats. Time to mix and mingle and look innocuous. Haul down the Norse Star and hoist the bloody Mosul Flame. Jump to it, or they’ll be on us before we have our disguise on.” He turned quickly to Cordelia. “And you’d better get below, m’lady. No one’s going to believe we’re a fishing boat with a fine young woman like yourself on deck.”
“Are you going to put me back in irons?”
“Not if I have your word you won’t be causing any trouble.”
“You have my word, Captain Conrad. I mean, what trouble could I cause in the middle of the Mosul fishing fleet?”
ARGO
Argo did his best to restrain Jesamine while, at the same, trying to work out exactly what had happened. He had grabbed her round the waist and swung her round as she’d rushed forward plainly intending to throw herself on Kennedy’s bullet-ridden body, as though, by pressing his corpse close to her, she could infuse the life back into it by an effort of will.
“They’ve killed Jack!”
As Argo struggled with Jesamine, he found he had nothing to say to her that could be of any effective comfort. Yes, they had killed Jack Kennedy, and Argo was also in shock. The ugly and too obvious truth could not be denied, but, right then and there, he had no idea who they were, or why they had done it. The obvious conclusion was that the killing was the work of Zhaithan assassins, but that might be too easy. Gideon Windermere, Anastasia de Wynter, and even Jane Tennyson had mentioned isolationist political groups inside the Norse Union like the Sons of Thor, the fundamentalist Crom worshipers, and even unashamed Mosul sympathizers like the Iron Thulists, who were violently opposed to the alliance between the NU and the Kingdom of Albany. Maybe some hardcore group of them might have been willing to go as far as public murder to achieve their ends. Okay, so Jesamine had just come from Kennedy’s bed, and her lover was sprawled dead in front of her, but she couldn’t just let go her grip. They were in the middle of a war, too much was at stake, and, now, it would seem, the stakes had been raised even higher. He needed help, and all he could do was to yell at Raphael, who was standing transfixed, his pistol held down at his side, “Get over here and help me, man! This may be the deepest shit we’ve been in yet.”
Raphael pulled himself out of his own shock, tucked his revolver into the flap of his dress tunic, and moved quickly to Argo, taking Jesamine’s hands in his, and talking to her in the kind of low and gentle tone that one might use to calm a frightened horse. “Easy, girl, easy. This is exactly the wrong time to come apart.”
She snarled angrily at him. “What would you do?”
Raphael remained calm. “Probably the same, but you have to hold it together.”
Raphael’s technique seemed to work. Jesamine had stopped struggling and was at least talking. “I was with him just a few hours ago.”
“I know, I know.”
Argo tentatively put Jesamine back on her feet and let go of her, but Raphael still held her hands. She stood forlornly for a few moments, and then looked back at Jack Kennedy. “Are they just going to leave him there?”
A press photographer had eased though the confusion, and was starting to aim his bulky camera at Kennedy’s body when Jesamine spotted him. She let out a shriek of fury, and, before Argo or Raphael could stop her, she threw herself on the man, alternately beating on him with her fists, and trying to claw the camera out of his hands. “Leave him alone you bastard! Leave him the fuck alone!”
Most of the police and soldiers in the immediate area were either waiting for orders, or attempting to secure the assassination scene with less than total effect. Others were trying to clear a path for the first motorized ambulances. Jesamine’s sudden assault on the photographer provided something familiar for them, something with which they were able to cope. Jesamine and the unfortunate photographer were instantly surrounded by uniformed men trying to pull them apart. This was too much for Argo. He lurched towards this new mêlée, shouting angrily, “Leave her alone, dammit!”
The combination of his uniform and attitude made the confusion part, but two London coppers continued to hold Jesamine’s arms while another two restrained the photographer. Argo gestured irately to the two holding Jesamine. “I said let her go. She was his girlfriend, you idiots. She needs to be sedated, not manhandled!”
“I think it would be best if you all came with us, Major.”
Argo turned to see the source of this new voice, and found himself facing a grim knot of what were obviously plainclothed policemen, or the heavyweight agents of some other branch of national security. A man whom Argo identified as being the leader of the group by the more expensive cut of his trenchcoat, held out his hand. “Please give us the gun, Major Weaver. You’re breaking Norse law by having it with you at all.”
Argo was too furious to be intimidated. “That’s our leader who’s just be murdered. How does that sit with your Norse fucking law?”
“I appreciate that you’re upset, sir. That’s why it would be best if you came with us.”
“You’re arresting us? You bastards allow Jack Kennedy to be gunned down in broad daylight with half your fucking army looking on, and you’re arresting
us
?”
“No sir, you’re not being arrested. This tragic situation unfortunately requires a swift response, and Sir Harry Palmer would like to hear what you have to say. But first give me the pistol. Everyone is under a lot of stress, and we don’t want any accidents, do we?”
The plainclothes men were backed up by ten or more of the Asgard Division, still in their winged helmets, but carrying thoroughly modern Bergman carbines. They hadn’t actually raised their weapons, but they were staring intently at Argo. Argo expelled some of his more reckless anger with a sigh. He didn’t want any accidents either. He turned the pistol in his hand and offered it to the plainclothes man butt first. “Here, take it. It’s one of yours anyway.”
He refrained from ratting out Jane Tennyson with the detail that the revolver was hers. The man took the gun and dropped it into his coat’s copious pocket. Taking his cue from Argo, Raphael turned over his sidearm. The man gave a formal nod. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you want to follow us…”
“What about the body? You expect us to just leave him?”
“Once the injured have been taken out, we’ll be sealing the entire area so our forensic teams can go to work. It’s not the romantic way, Major, but we have to make accurate records of everything if we’re going to nail the bastards who did this.”
The first ambulance had halted by the wrecked carriage, and Governor Branson and two injured soldiers were being helped into it.
“But he was our man.”
“I know, sir, but it’s the modern world.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
The leader of the plainclothes men was making motions to move. “If you and your friends would just come with us, we have transport close by.”
“Do we have any choice in the matter?”
“No, sir, none at all.”
CORDELIA
“You want me to what?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get into the crate, m’lady. We can’t have you walking across the Boulogne fish dock in nothing but your underwear, now can we?”
“You could give me some fucking clothes.”
Joe Conrad stared unhappily at her. “I’ve done the best I can for you, Lady Blakeney, all contrary to express orders, but this is how it’s going to be. We’re not messing around here. We’re in the Empire now. There’s Zhaithan and Customs to contend with here, not to mention any number of prying eyes. So you can either be a good girl, or we chloroform you. What’s it going to be?”
The crate stank of fish, herrings to be precise, but so, then, did absolutely everything else. Cordelia could see, however, that Joe Conrad wasn’t messing around. He was handing her on to the next stage of this highly mysterious abduction. He might have treated her decently while she was aboard his ship, but now his only mission was to get rid of her, to get her ashore, along with all the other stuff he was running across the Channel: the machine parts, the drugs, the guns, the whiskey, the pornography, and the cigars. Cordelia knew that it would be a waste of time to resist, and the last thing she wanted was to be unconscious, and then come to, groggy and stupid, in a situation that was certain to require all of her wits about her. She allowed Reuben to cuff her hands, and then she stepped into the rough wooden crate that was uncomfortably close in both size and shape to a coffin. She lay down, and Conrad shackled her ankles. He winked before Reuben and Lars closed the lid on her. “It’s been a real pleasure, m’lady. Just remember not to move or make a sound. It would be just as unfortunate for you if the wrong people opened the box as it would for us.”