Authors: George Mann
He studied its chest plate more closely. It was largely intact, even after the fall. It was fashioned to resemble a human rib cage, with thick, brass ribs that curved round to protect the delicate machinery inside. Through the gaps between the ribs he could see whirring cogs and coiled springs, ticking levers and tiny golden chains. The machinery of life; the engine that animated this monstrous thing.
There was a small panel in its chest, too—an ornately inlaid door right above where a human heart would reside. Cautiously, the Ghost ran his fingers over the engraving, tracing the pictograms with his gloved fingers. They were unusual, and he could tell they were ancient in origin, like the symbols he had seen on the Roman's marble gateway at the Metropolitan Museum, before everything had turned to shit, before Celeste…
The Ghost could see no handle, no obvious way of opening the little door. He applied pressure, and the panel depressed, clicking open and folding back to reveal the cavity behind. The raptor emitted a shriek of rage, and its torso went into spasms again as it protested at his invasion, but there was little it could do to prevent him.
The Ghost leaned forward and peered inside the compartment and almost recoiled at what he saw. A bird—a blackbird, still twitching and writhing against its terrible bonds—had been trapped inside the cavity, its wings pinned to a panel within a carefully painted red circle. Its head bobbed nervously and it opened its beak, but no sound was forthcoming. Its once-black feathers were now dowdy and gray.
Around the outside of the red circle, esoteric runes and pictograms had been etched in intricate detail, tooled with precision into the brass backing plate. By the bird's feet, which hung limply, as if its legs had been broken, was a yellowing paper scroll, tightly wound and bound with coarse string. It, too, was pinned to the hardwood panel.
The shell of the raptor jerked again, and the creature emitted a throaty shriek.
The Ghost reached inside the cavity, took the bird's head between his thumb and index finger, and with a sharp gesture, snapped its neck. It was the only peace he could offer the creature.
The raptor's torso jerked again in response. Rocking back on his haunches, the Ghost watched with interest as the once-burning lights in the raptor's eyes now dimmed and flickered out. The head dropped to the sidewalk with a clang, and the remains of the brass creature lay motionless.
The Ghost reached for the scroll and withdrew it from the raptor's chest. He untied the string and unfurled the yellowing paper. It seemed old, and one edge was ragged, as if it had been torn from an old book. It contained more diabolic symbols: a pentagram scratched crazily in thick, black ink. The signs of the zodiac, rendered in immaculate, intricate detail in a wheel all around the five-pointed star. The page was covered, too, in mathematical equations, numbers written in haphazard fashion at each point of the star or scrawled in the margins in a thin, spidery hand. These had been added later; they were not original to the book from which the page had been removed.
Frowning, he slipped the scroll into the pocket of his trench coat. Were the raptors really powered by some sort of terrible, demonic enslavement? Was it somehow eking away the bird's life force as a kind of fuel, taking it for its own? He didn't know. He was prepared to believe it, though. These days, he mused, he was prepared to believe almost anything.
The Ghost turned at the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk behind him, moving at a run. Ginny, and Donovan. Both of them were panting for breath. They must have taken the stairs down from the roof.
The Ghost stood and smiled at Donovan, clapping him on the shoulder as the inspector bent double, trying to catch his breath. “You're alive, then,” Donovan said between gasping breaths, as if he'd expected to find quite a different sight waiting for him at the foot of the apartment building.
The Ghost laughed. “More or less,” he said. He helped the other man upright. “Some good shooting up there, Felix.”
Donovan nodded, chuckling between sharp intakes of breath.
Ginny stepped forward, still clutching the Ghost's twin pistols, allowing them to hang nonchalantly from her fingers. She moved closer, pressing herself against him, looking up at him as she slipped the firearms back into the holsters on either side of his waist. The Ghost met her gaze. Something—he wasn't sure exactly what—passed between them. Understanding, respect…he didn't know. Something. She held him in a clinch.
“Not quite the party I was expecting this evening,” she said brightly, “but all the same, I've had a swell time.” There was a gleam in her eye, and she couldn't contain her laughter. The Ghost wondered if it was as much relief that had made her giddy—elation that the whole thing was over. But he suspected not. Ginny was too savvy for that, too worldly. To her, the entire episode had probably seemed like one big adventure.
The Ghost leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead and then spun her around to face Donovan, holding her by the shoulders. The fur collar of her coat was soft and springy beneath his gloves. “Felix, this is Ginny Gray.”
Donovan, standing with his hands on his hips, burst out laughing with sheer incredulity. “I thought you said she was staying in the car!”
“She was,” he replied, his hands still on her shoulders.
Ginny offered Donovan a wry smile.
“Anyway, we already met,” said Donovan, still grinning. “While you were taking the short way down, Miss Gray and I had plenty of time to get acquainted.”
The Ghost smiled. He'd never intended for Ginny to get mixed up in all of this. Had he simply been showing off? He knew he should have left her behind at Long Island, at the party. He'd put her right in the line of fire. He didn't even know what she was doing there—why she'd come back, or why he'd felt the need to have her along. Yes, she'd talked him into it. But he'd allowed it to happen, and if he was honest with himself, he'd wanted it, too.
In the end, he supposed, he was glad she
had
been there. If it hadn't been for her sharpshooting, he'd probably be dead, lying in the gutter across the street, torn apart by the raptors.
“My God!”
The Ghost turned to see Donovan standing over the shell of the ruined raptor.
“Is that…?”
“Yes. It's a bird,” the Ghost replied levelly. “It was still alive when I found it. I snapped its neck to put it out of its misery.”
“And the raptor?”
“The fall broke its body, but it didn't kill it. It only powered down when I broke the bird's neck.”
Donovan frowned. “What are you saying? That the bird was somehow keeping it alive? Are you suggesting there's some sort of occult business going on here?” He almost spat the words with sheer distaste. “I thought they were just machines. If there's more to it than that…” He trailed off, his point made.
The Ghost shrugged. “I don't know, Felix,” he replied noncommittally, but he could feel the pressure building in his chest, the horror of the situation creeping over him.
Not again…
Donovan turned the raptor's head with the edge of his boot. It lolled to one side on its damaged neck brace. “Vicious-looking thing,” he said, his voice low.
The Ghost laughed. “I'll say.” He met Donovan's eye.
“Are we
any
closer, Gabriel? Have we learned anything that might help us to discover who's responsible for these…
abominations?”
The Ghost shook his head slowly. “Nothing. Whoever's employing these things has been very careful to cover their tracks. There's nothing here that could be used to trace it back to its source. Unless I can figure out a way to follow one of them, we're out of luck.”
He turned to glance at Ginny, who had lit a cigarette and was standing watching them, her head cocked slightly to one side, smoke riffling from her nostrils. “We'll have to study it properly, of course,” he continued, indicating the scattered remains on the ground. “It may be that something shows up under scrutiny, some component or part that we can trace back to its origin. But there's nothing obvious in the wreckage, nothing to even indicate what its real purpose might be.”
Donovan shook his head. His exasperation was clearly evident by the manner in which he screwed up his face. “Or what it has to do with British spies,” he said, sighing. “I'll have it all taken back to the station for Mullins to go over.”
“British spies?” chirped Ginny quizzically, glancing from one man to another, “Now this really
is
getting exciting.” She flashed a smile at the Ghost.
“I'll tell you in the car,” he replied with a heartfelt sigh.
By now, the sound of the explosion had begun to draw interest from the people living in the surrounding tenement blocks, and civilians were beginning to spill out onto the street, crowding around doorways, whispering in excited tones.
Donovan's face creased in concern. “Gabriel, you'd better make yourself scarce. I'll look after things here.” He put a hand on the Ghost's shoulder, a gesture of friendship and solidarity.
The Ghost nodded. “Ginny?” He took her by the hand, leading her toward the parked car. He looked back at Donovan as he opened the door to climb into the driver's seat. “Until tomorrow.”
Donovan gave a brief nod of his head in acknowledgment.
The Ghost slammed the door shut behind him, gunned the throttle, and eased the car off into the road. With a roar of the engine, they shot off into the night.
R
utherford sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair and stared out the window at the teeming city below. He enjoyed watching the city come to life, the people slowly blinking their way out into the sunlight of a new day, the hiss of morning traffic, tires slick with the kiss of tarmac.
New York wasn't so different from London, not really. People behaved the same the world over. That was something he'd learned over the years, throughout all his travels. Human beings were fundamentally the same. They had different quirks, yes, different personalities, but that was all gloss. Scratch it, and beneath it all, people were just people.
Perhaps, if there was anything different about the New Yorkers, it was their boundless sense of optimism, their hubris, and their belief that anything—absolutely anything—was possible. To them, it seemed, the world was wondrous and new, there for the taking. London, on the other hand, was so heavy with the weight of its own history that sometimes it seemed overbearing. To Rutherford it seemed that the people carried that weight around with them, right there on their shoulders. It was clear in the way in which they went about their business, heads down, avoiding contact with their fellow men. New Yorkers, in sharp contrast, walked around with their heads held high, as if anxious to face the day, as if they hadn't yet been worn smooth and morose by centuries of grinding history.
America, to Rutherford, was such a young nation. Not simply in terms of its national history, but in terms of its outlook. This, he had decided, after years of living there, was absolutely a good thing. Yes, perhaps the people were a little naïve at times, but they still had enthusiasm for the world, a fundamental belief in humanity. Londoners, in Rutherford's experience, had given up on that long ago.
Despite all of that, though, Rutherford loved his country, and he missed it dearly. He missed the winding, cobbled streets of the metropolis, the leaning buildings, the bustle of the markets. He missed the ramshackle old manor houses, ancient farms, and country lanes of the Home Counties. He missed the lush green countryside and the river Thames. He missed home. He had adopted America as his second home, but—and it was clear from the results of his encounter at the apartment the prior day—America had not adopted him.
In the end, it mattered little. Whatever the case, he wasn't about to let a small group of egoists and madmen start a war between these two great nations. He might be working for the British government, and he would do whatever was necessary—but he was also working for the people out there, on the street below, the people who went about in blissful ignorance, their heads held high. He would not let them be worn down by another war, a needless war. He would fight that with every reserve of strength he had left.
He turned to glance at the geisha girl on the bed. He had spent the night here, in a whorehouse, renting a room from the overbearing, odious madam below stairs. His options had been limited, and he'd needed somewhere he could keep a roof over his head without giving a name, without being asked any difficult questions. Of course, he'd had to rent a girl, too. But that was not something that had ever interested him.
He glanced over at the bed. The clockwork geisha lay draped across the silky sheets, propped up on the scattered pillows and clad only in a lace negligee, its metal legs curled beneath it like those of a cat.
It was a bizarre creation: an automaton, its brass skeleton sheathed in supple leather to offer the illusion of flesh, its body shaped to resemble the curves of an Oriental woman. It was programmed for only one purpose—the pleasure of men—and although it gave every indication of life, it was, in truth, nothing but a lifeless machine, devoid of personality or intelligence. It operated, as far as Rutherford had been able to tell, on a repetitive cycle, trapped in an endless loop of depravity and manufactured desire.
Its blank, porcelain face turned toward him as he looked on, and it beckoned to him with a single languorous gesture of its finger, calling him to its mechanical embrace. This…routine had gone on for hours. But of course, he had left her—it—there on the bed and had taken the chair by the window instead.
Rutherford couldn't see what other men could possibly find attractive in these strange dolls. It wasn't even a real woman—and he had never had much interest in those, either. At least not in
that
way.
More than anything, though, the sight of the thing filled him with a deep sense of sadness. It might not have been alive, but it was still a slave, still something that had been brought into the world to serve the needs of others in the worst possible way.
Nevertheless, it was difficult not to admire the artifice that had gone into the creation of the nameless machine. It moved with a fluidity and grace that belied its true nature, giving the impression of life, if not the thing itself. If only such a creation could have been put to a better use. At least, he supposed, it wasn't a real girl who'd be pressed into such dreadful servitude.
But the face—the blank, porcelain face. It haunted him: emotionless, terrifying, as if it reflected the emptiness within. He'd been unable to look upon it for long, unable to stop himself imagining the face of a real woman behind it, trying desperately to scream. And so he had sat by the window, holding vigil throughout the night, tired, weary, and alone. He must have slept at some point, he thought, but if he did, it could not have been for very long. He could feel the lethargy in his very bones, but he knew he had to keep moving, to stay alert, to watch every shadow or doorway. They were onto him now—that much was clear from the incident in Greenwich Village and the man he had regretfully been required to dispatch back at his apartment.
He had been running through various scenarios in his mind, contemplating his next move. There was always the safe house in Brooklyn. He'd considered, after what had happened, jumping aboard one of the pneumatic trains and disappearing, becoming somebody else for a while. He could even scrape together enough money to purchase a booth aboard an airship under an assumed identity, although that, in itself, presented its own risks. He knew it wasn't really an option, though. What use would it be to save his own hide if it meant everything he held dear was put at risk? Even worse, if it resulted in the outbreak of war?
But what else could he do? There was little chance he'd be able to deliver his message to London in time, now. A holotube call wouldn't be secure, unless it was from the embassy building, but it was beginning to look increasingly necessary. It would most likely mean the end for him. If the operator was screening calls for the police, they'd be on him in moments. It wasn't so much that he was afraid to sacrifice himself for the cause—he'd crossed that line many times before and always been lucky. No, it was more that he wanted his sacrifice to be worthwhile, and if he gave himself away now, he'd be no use to anyone.
If only he could find his way into the embassy. He knew the staff there would be too scared to speak to him now, though, and in all likelihood they were being observed, too. Any clandestine meeting he might be able to arrange would only lead the American agents straight to him, and worse, could endanger his colleagues and countrymen. Either way, he'd be playing right into their hands, and the outcome could be only one thing: war.
Even if he could get a message to London, there was very little they could realistically do to prevent the planned attack from taking place. If they went in with guns blazing they'd be giving the Americans exactly what they wanted—or at least that small group of dissident Americans who had engineered this whole situation with such meticulous precision. At least they'd be ready for it, however, able to mount some sort of defense. And at least they'd understand that the attack had not been sanctioned by the president, but plotted by a splinter group of sour-faced politicians anxious only to line their own pockets with the spoils of war.
What Rutherford needed was an ally, someone who could make the call on his behalf, who wouldn't be suspected. That would then leave Rutherford free to act, to be the man on the ground, to attempt to prevent the attack from ever taking place.
Then it struck him: Arthur Wolfe, a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, an Englishman living in exile in New York. One of the few. They'd met on occasion, at first by coincidence, but more recently by design.
Wolfe knew Rutherford only as Jerry Robertson, the philanthropist from Boston, but perhaps now was the time for Rutherford to show his hand. Could he trust Wolfe to take his message to the embassy? He didn't know the man well enough to be sure, and it was a hell of a risk. Whatever he was, though, Wolfe wasn't a traitor. Rutherford had established that much during their brief interactions at the museum. Through careful questions disguised as idle chitchat—the skilled work of a spy—Rutherford had come to understand that Wolfe still loved his country. Perhaps now he could be coaxed into helping to save it.
A plan resolved in Rutherford's mind. He would wait here, with the geisha girl, until the museum opened for the day. Then he would settle his account with the madam and be on his way. After that…well, he still hadn't quite decided. If he could get out of this alive, then at least he'd be free to act. He knew the players involved in this dangerous game—the people he had spent the last few months in the company of, winning their confidence, pretending to be someone and something he was not. He could start there. If, of course, Arthur Wolfe would be prepared to help.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a remarkable edifice, an imposing mausoleum filled with all the many wonders of the dead. It sat squat on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park, and while Rutherford had always admired the institution, he couldn't help thinking its classical columns and monumental facade looked somehow misplaced among the teeming streets and towering apartment blocks of the metropolis, more like something out of Regency London than New York City.
Nevertheless, he'd found the place both a haven and an inspiration during his time in the city, and while its collection didn't quite, for him, live up to that of the other, similar institution that was so close to his heart—the British Museum—it was still quite remarkable.
He found the ticket hall empty, and his footsteps echoed as he pushed his way through the heavy wooden door. It was still early, and the bustle of tourists had yet to emerge, bleary-eyed, from their hotel room beds. Rutherford crossed to the sales desk, where a young woman—pretty, he supposed, but somewhat marred by a sour-looking expression—greeted him with all the enthusiasm he had come to expect. She gazed vacantly up at him, as if warning him not to make her life any more difficult than it already was.
“One-day pass?”
“Please,” Rutherford responded politely, folding a few dollar bills out of his wallet and placing them on the counter before her.
She slid the bills toward her and pulled the stub of a ticket from the machine, passing it over with a contrived smile. “Thank you. Have a good day.”
Rutherford nodded and took the ticket, dropping it into his pocket. Then, folding his overcoat over his arm, he turned and crossed the lobby toward the Roman exhibit in search of Arthur.
The Roman collection, he knew, had been somewhat diminished following the events of the prior month. Rutherford wasn't privy to all of the details—and Arthur had been cagey at best about what had really occurred—but he gathered there had been some sort of confrontation between the mob and the police, resulting in a firefight that had destroyed almost half of the exhibits. Consequently the Roman wing had been closed for two weeks while the mess was cleared up, and when it had reopened, many of the exhibits had been missing, damaged and being repaired, or destroyed.
Arthur had been busy, trying to sort through the wreckage to ascertain what could be salvaged and what could not. He'd also—he'd told Rutherford in a rare moment of candor—been provided with a significant budget by the museum's curator to replace as many of the artifacts as possible, or to find suitable alternatives in the bustling auction houses of Europe. He was planning to make a trip home the following month, back to England, before going on to Paris and Rome, his pockets stuffed with the museum's dollars.
Rutherford nodded to the impeccably dressed security guard as he passed from the lobby into the Roman wing, his footsteps ringing out in the cavernous space. The place was deserted, occupied only by the ghosts of yesteryear.
Rutherford paced around, taking in the exhibits. The blank faces stared at him from across the millennia. The faces of the dead, the remnants of an empire long gone, reduced to dust by the weight of history. Rutherford feared that if he couldn't somehow stop the planned attack on London, the British Empire would end up the same way.
He supposed that was inevitable, eventually. The empire wouldn't— couldn't—last forever. The people behind this scheme to ignite the tensions between the empire and the United States were aiming to accelerate that decline, however, to bring matters to a head, to engage the empire in all-out war. If they were successful, whatever the outcome of that war, it would set the British back decades, if not longer.
Even if they proved victorious, it would only be a matter of time before the entropy set in. The expense of another full-blown conflict—in terms of men as well as arms and commodities—would stretch the empire beyond its breaking point. No longer able to police their borders, and most likely facing revolt as a consequence of the ensuing rise in crime, violence, and political unrest, the British would soon lose their hold on their colonies. After that…well, they'd be laying themselves open to an attack from any number of potential suitors, not least their former cuckolds, the Americans.
Whatever the case, what the empire couldn't withstand was the fallout that would result from another war, and Rutherford was, he realized with a frisson of fear, the only man on the ground who could do anything about it. Well, him and Arthur Wolfe, if the haughty expatriate could be persuaded to help him.