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  NIKOLAI DANTE

  The Strangelove Gambit

  The red-haired woman offered her right hand to him. "I'm Tempest."

  Dante kissed the hand, adding his wickedest of grins. "Enchanted," he whispered before moving on to the other twin. "And you must be Storm. How delightful to make your acquaintance." She did not offer Dante a hand, folding her arms instead. "I'm told you two do everything together."

  "Almost," Tempest replied. "We find two heads are better than one."

  "Still, three needn't always be a crowd," Dante countered. "Perhaps we could get together and talk about it sometime."

  "I doubt that will be possible before the end of term," Storm said brusquely before walking away. "Come along, sister." Dante watched them walk away, admiring the rippling muscles in their thighs and buttocks.

  You're out of your depth, the Crest warned. Those two would eat you for breakfast and leave nothing behind.

  "But what a way to go," Dante murmured. "What a way to go."

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  For Robbie, who let me have fun with his character.

  Nikolai Dante created by Robbie Morrison and Simon Fraser.

  A 2000 AD Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  www.2000adonline.com

  1098 7 65 4321

  Cover illustration by Simon Fraser.

  Copyright © 2005 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.

  All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S."Nikolai Dante" is a registered trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions."2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.

  ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-067-9

  ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-108-9

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  NIKOLAI DANTE

  The Strangelove Gambit

  David Bishop

  PROLOGUE

  "The wicked flatter to the face, then stab in the back"

  - Russian proverb

  The scent, smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. But the Casino Royale was a different place at three in the afternoon. Its windows and doors were thrown open, allowing fresh air and natural light into the crimson chamber normally designated Members Only. Ashtrays were emptied and polished, carpets cleaned and deodorised, lingering fingerprint smears of desperation removed from the brass fixtures and fittings. The casino interior was being scoured clean with a surgeon's precision.

  James Di Grizov watched the preparations and smiled. All his life he had been a grifter in the Vorovskoi Mir, the Thieves' World. Di Grizov had developed and nurtured a reputation as a master escapologist, able to get himself out of almost any situation. But the big score, that single, career-making heist, had eluded him - until now. In a few hours this casino would be choked with the Empire's rich and famous, all gathered for the most talked about event of 2660: an auction. A single item was going under the hammer, but it had generated more interest than any lot in living memory - and Di Grizov planned to steal it.

  Satisfied with the results of his final reconnoitre, the silver-haired thief returned to his suite in the adjoining hotel complex. The Casino Royale had trebled its room rates for the week of the auction. The sale was being handled by Sotheby's of Britannia, preventing the casino from claiming any percentage of the final price. But the indirect benefits were plentiful and the casino's management was determined to gouge all they could from them. Di Grizov had spent every kopeck he possessed to cover the deposit on his suite. Fortunately he would be absconding long before the final bill was due for payment. Di Grizov was known in the Vorovskoi Mir as a grifter who had never paid a bill in his life.

  A retinal scanner outside the hotel room confirmed his identity and the door slid open with the silky ease of an Imperial courtesan's lingerie coming undone. Inside, the suite was wall-to-wall luxury, its gold and black decor reminiscent of a painted whore. Di Grizov ignored the glitzy interior and strode out on to the balcony. Sprawled below was Monaco, a tiny principality whose sole purpose for hundreds of years had been the pursuit of hedonism. Fewer than fifty thousand people lived in this Mediterranean enclave, but its borders contained many of the Empire's wealthiest individuals. Only the richest and the most beautiful dared venture out on the streets, strolling along the boulevards and nodding to those they deemed worthy of recognition.

  The bay was awash with pleasure cruisers, each costing more than the gross national product of minor provinces like Domacha or Rudinshtein. The azure sea stretched out lazily to the horizon, merging seamlessly with the cloudless sky. All was bathed in brilliant sunshine, the resort bronzed and magnificent. If I believed in God, Di Grizov thought, He would come here to relax.

  Only one thing spoiled the ambience, a recurrent snoring with all the timbre and tenderness of a chainsaw. Di Grizov sighed and turned to where his teenage assistant was slumbering on a sun lounger. They had first met six months earlier, when Di Grizov caught the upstart trying to pick his pocket at Tsyganov Black Market in St Petersburg. The veteran had almost turned the callow cutpurse in but something had stopped him. Perhaps I recognised a little of myself in him, the grifter thought. But was I ever this stupid?

  His protègè had dozed off while reading a book, Masterpieces from the House of Fabergè. The hefty tome now rested on the youth's chest, masking a section of skin from the sun. The rest of the recumbent body was now a livid red, except for a triangular area covered by a pair of minuscule black trunks. The most vivid area of crimson was the youth's face. Surrounded by unruly black hair, the features were
plain and unremarkable. Age and experience would give his face character but for now it was like an empty page, waiting for a life story.

  Di Grizov slapped a hand down hard on his assistant's sunburnt thigh, shocking the sleeper into a sudden consciousness.

  "Bojemoi!" Nikolai Dante shouted in pain and surprise, jolting upright.

  "Never fall asleep on a job," Di Grizov said sternly. "And certainly never fall asleep in the sun, lest you suffer the consequences."

  Dante looked down at his angry pink skin. The neglected book slid out of position, revealing a pale white rectangle where it had been resting. "Fuoco," the teenager muttered. "I always knew I was hot stuff, but this------"

  "Is not what I meant by 'Get to know our target'," Di Grizov interjected. "You were supposed to be learning more about the reason we're here, not working on your tan!"

  Dante shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. I couldn't resist."

  "That's your problem in a nutshell, boy. You can't resist anything." Di Grizov tried to sound angry but Dante's cherry-red face was too comical. "Take a cold shower and then I'll grill you on what you've learned."

  The youth pointed at his sunburn. "Don't you think I've been grilled enough for one day?"

  "The auction begins in five hours. We have to be ready. Now go!"

  Kurt Brockman raised an eyebrow. "Good afternoon. Tonight on the Bolshoi Arts Channel, we bring you live and exclusive coverage of the bidding for one of the legendary Imperial Easter Eggs, created nearly seven hundred and fifty years ago by fabled jeweller Carl Fabergè. So make sure you tune in to catch all the auction action, live and exclusive, here on the Bolshoi Arts Channel. Don't miss it!" Brockman maintained his pose for five seconds before the red light above the camera filming him blinked off. His sculpted chin, piercing gaze and broad chest all suggested authority, intelligence and an athletic physique worthy of any Adonis. Once the brief transmission was over, Brockman abandoned his masculine on-screen persona and became a simpering bundle of nerves, shoulders slumping forwards, hands flopping about limply in the air. "Yuri, darling. How was it that time? Yuri?"

  "Lovely, sweetie. Lovely," a camp voice replied via Brockman's earpiece. "Now we need you to interview the Fabergè expert, Kenworth Snowman. Lots of open-ended questions this time, love - let him do the talking for once, alright?"

  "Are you saying I talk too much during interviews, Yuri?"

  "Darling, the only time you don't talk too much is when you've got your mouth full," the director snapped back archly. "And try not to stand in front of the bloody egg this time, alright love? We need to see what the expert is talking about, not you trying to hold in your gut."

  Brockman muttered an obscenity under his breath.

  "What was that, darling?" the director asked.

  "Nothing you need to worry about, love," Brockman cooed back. He beckoned to a short, bespectacled man sitting patiently nearby. The bookish expert scuttled over to join Brockman, self consciously brushing specks of dandruff from the shoulders of his tweed jacket. "Now, Mr Snowman-"

  "Professor Snowman, actually."

  "My apologies, Professor Snowman," Brockman continued, smiling thinly. "Perhaps you could tell our viewers about the fascinating history of this rare and unique objet d'art?" The presenter gestured expansively to the item displayed behind him on a pedestal of black onyx, guarded by a fearsome laser defence grid and a quartet of muscular casino security men.

  At the centre of these defences was a steel egg, slightly larger in size than an ostrich egg, with two fine rings of inlaid gold encircling the polished silver surface. Set around the widest part of the circumference were four golden crests, while a small gold replica of an Imperial crown was fixed to its top. The egg sat in the centre of a square formed by four bullet-shaped cylinders, each made of polished silver and ringed with gold. These protruded from a sculpted square of green marble, itself edged with gold. The object was both beautiful and sinister, a work of art made in praise of military might.

  "Well, the Steel Military Egg is certainly rare but we cannot say for certain it is unique," Professor Snowman began. Short, wild-eyed and frantic of hair, the expert from Britannia had been flown over especially for the auction coverage. It was a rare opportunity for the crusty academic, his enthusiasm evident in the hushed reverence of his words. "The House of Fabergè jewellers are believed to have constructed more than fifty Imperial eggs between 1885 and the first Russian revolution in 1917. Each was commissioned and given away as an Easter present by the Romanov Tsar of the time to his family and friends. In those days Easter was among the most important dates of celebration for those of the Russian Orthodox religion. Inside each egg was an exquisite surprise, handcrafted wonders that were often automated. Examples of these hidden delights were tiny birds that sang or miniature walking elephants.

  "Nearly three-quarters of a millennium have elapsed and it was believed all the fabled Fabergè eggs had been lost or destroyed - until this one came up for auction. It's possible others have also survived and still remain in private hands. So to call the Steel Military Egg unique may be misleading your viewers. Obviously, all the Imperial Easter Eggs were unique in and of themselves, but there may still be other eggs out there. It's a not unimportant distinction, I feel."

  "Fascinating, I'm sure." Brockman rolled his eyes before nodding to the camera. The red light on top of it blinked on and the recording began. "Professor Snowman, you've been telling me about the significance of the item up for auction today. Perhaps you could share that knowledge with our viewers?"

  The flustered expert peered at the camera in dismay. "I thought I just had. You mean to say that thing wasn't switched on before?"

  "Cut!" Brockman shouted, stamping a foot petulantly.

  "Did I do something wrong?" Snowman asked ingenuously.

  "No, no, professor, nothing at all," the reporter replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain.

  "So that was your fault?"

  Brockman resisted the urge to scream. "Yes, professor, that was my fault. Shall we start again?"

  Dante stifled a yawn while watching the interview on Channel 88. The expert was droning on and on about the changing styles of late nineteenth century jewellery design, not a subject for which the apprentice thief had much enthusiasm. His interest was stirred when Brockman began asking about a legendary curse that was said to afflict anyone who touched a particular Fabergè egg.

  "Superstitious nonsense," Snowman snapped grumpily. "Just because every member of the Tsar's family who touched the egg was dead within a year doesn't mean this item is cursed. As a scientist I cannot endorse such a fanciful and, frankly, implausible notion!"

  "But isn't it true that you yourself have refused to lay a hand upon the Steel Military Egg?" Brockman persisted.

  "That is simply to preserve the lustre and appearance of the object."

  "You might say that, professor, but I'm sure the viewers can reach their own conclusions," the presenter replied smoothly, winking slyly to the camera.

  Dante shouted across the suite to his mentor. "You never told me about this egg being cursed, Jim!"

  Di Grizov was busy in the luxurious bathroom disguising his appearance with the addition of a false goatee beard and moustache. "It's all in the book, if you'd bothered to read it."

  By now the coverage on Channel 88 had switched to outside the casino, showing the arrival of various celebrities and representatives from noble houses. Dante's interest was soon aroused by something on screen. "Fuoco! You could have somebody's eyes out with those," he enthused.

  A transformed Di Grizov emerged to find his apprentice staring lustily at a considerable dècolletage filling the viewscreen. "Do you ever think of anything besides sex?"

  Dante grinned wolfishly. "When you're packing as much manhood as me, you can't help but appreciate those just as well-endowed in other areas."

  "The endowment in question belongs to whom?"

  "Er, can't say I caught her name..."

  Di Gri
zov sighed wearily. "That's Princess Marie-Anne from the House of Windsor in Britannia. Ambitious, ruthless and utterly amoral. Her father is supposed to be going insane, leaving Marie-Anne free to spend his wealth as she sees fit. We can expect her to be in at the kill when the auction gets going."

  "Sounds like my kind of woman," Dante announced. "Think she'll fancy a diamond in the rough?"

  "Nikolai, you may be rough, but the princess would be polishing a long time before she transformed you into a diamond of any sort."

  "Long as she doesn't give me friction burns, she can rub me up the wrong way anytime."

  "Try having a thought that originates above your waist for once in your life, please?" Di Grizov pleaded in exasperation.

  Dante held up both hands in mock surrender. "Sorry. I just enjoy making you despair."

  "Nevertheless, we are here on a job, so let's concentrate on that. Who's arriving now?" The grifter pointed at the viewscreen where a handsome man with light brown hair was alighting from a hovercar. A double-headed eagle crest was sewn into the fabric on the upper arm of his pristine white jacket.