Honour be Damned Page 2

  The jetpack died completely, sending Dante and the assassin tumbling toward the flower stall. They hit the rose pile with an almighty thump, Dante crying out as his trousers were sliced to ribbons by the foliage. By the time he had extricated himself the assassin was already fleeing on foot. The flower seller stared at her devastated stock. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  "St Petersburg," Dante replied tersely, removing a sharp triangle of green from his posterior. "I thought you said these roses were thorn-free?"

  "Caveat emptor," the stallholder said, folding her arms imperiously.

  That means buyer beware.

  "I know what it means, Crest!" Dante snapped, clambering from the cart to pursue the fleeing assassin.

  "What about my bloody roses?" the flower seller protested as Dante ran off.

  "Try making potpourri!"

  The assassin could feel his energy draining away as the chase wore on. No matter how fast he ran, no matter what obstacles he left, the man chasing him kept coming - sprinting through the darkening streets as night closed in, implacable and utterly relentless. Doesn't this bastard ever get tired? Who the hell is he? There was no choice but to keep running. If I can reach the rendezvous in time, I'll be fine. Otherwise... No, there was no otherwise, the killer thought. I have to make it. He sprinted round the corner of an old sandstone building.

  Dante ran round the same corner, straight into the waiting assassin. A fist punched Dante's throat, choking him. As he staggered back, a hand smashed into his nose, snapping his head backwards. A knee slammed into Dante's stomach and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. The assassin moved in for the kill but the sound of approaching sirens rent the twilight. The sniper ran off, leaving Dante spitting blood.

  Britannia's law enforcers are closing in on this location.

  "About time. Where were they when the shooting started?"

  I also sense a skimmer circling nearby - it could be the assassin's getaway vehicle.

  "Where?"

  A few hundred metres ahead, at a river crossing known as Westminster Bridge.

  The assassin ran onto the bridge, searching the sky intently. Fog was rising from the sluggish river below, casting a shroud across the city centre. Night had claimed the sky but a few foreign visitors still strolled over the bridge. Those close enough to see the assassin's curious garb and wounded leg hurried on, not wanting to get involved. Despite the rising mist, the illuminated dial of Big Ben was still clearly visible, its larger hand creeping towards apogee. Within a minute the mighty bell would chime seven times.

  "You left in such a hurry we never got introduced," a voice slurred from behind the assassin. He twisted round to see one of Dante's bloody, bruised fists hurtling towards him. It smacked into the killer's facemask, sending him sprawling to the footpath. "My name's Dante, Nikolai Dante. What's yours?" Dante kicked the assassin hard in the groin, then flung himself on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Dante punched the crumpled sniper once, twice, then a third time. He grunted in pain but still said nothing, gave no reply.

  Dante-

  "Not now, Crest!"

  But you need to-

  "I said not now!" Dante snarled. Then there was a sharp pain at the back of his head, followed by darkness and nothing more...

  Dante was shocked back to consciousness when his body tumbled into the Thames. "Bojemoi!" he gasped, swallowing a mouthful of river water. He spluttered and sank beneath the surface, arms flailing uselessly. Someone had hit him from behind. Icy water was numbing Dante's arms and legs, cramping his already exhausted muscles. A glimmer of light danced overhead, pale and inviting. Dante willed his limbs into action, but the Thames seemed determined to hold him with its chilling embrace, extracting the maximum of effort for every stroke.

  Dante could hear the blood pumping through his ears, while his lungs were screaming for air. He gave another kick and broke the surface, gratefully breathing in something other than water. To his surprise Westminster Bridge was some distance away. The Thames obviously had a powerful undertow beneath its slow moving surface. Rising mist made it hard to see the faces of anyone on the bridge, but Dante could make out a male silhouette watching him. He was talking with another, unseen figure, occasional words and phrases audible across the water. "I'll see you soon... Yes, the old man... Hoy..."

  A low-flying skimmer dropped to the bridge, catching the man in its headlights. He was quite bald, with a solemn face and curling goatee beard. Then the vehicle's lights swung left and he was gone, lost in the thickening mist. Dante realised the current was dragging him further away. Treading water, he looked for the nearest riverbank but could not see either edge.

  "Which side is closer, Crest? I can't tell in this accursed fog." Dante waited but got no reply. "Crest, this is no time to be sulking!" Still nothing. He sighed with exasperation. The Crest was the product of a superior alien intelligence, but it was not above extracting petty revenge for having its feelings hurt. "All right, look - I'm sorry I snapped at you before, okay? I realise you were simply alerting me to danger. I promise to pay more attention to your warnings in future."

  The Crest laughed hollowly in Dante's head.

  "How about if I promise to try?"

  That would be more realistic.

  "So - which side is closer?"

  Swim to your left, the Crest advised. Your other left, it added a few moments later.

  By the time Dante reached the nearest bank the river had swept down to the next bridge. He tried climbing out but his cold, stiffening fingers could not get a purchase on the slippery surface. "Fuoco, is nothing ever easy in this country?" Dante cursed. As if in reply, a red and white life preserver splashed into the water beside him. It was tied to a rope which disappeared up into the fog-shrouded bridge. Dante grabbed the preserver and was dragged from the water. As he rose, Dante could see flashing red and blue lights tinting the air. Britannia's law enforcement agencies had arrived at last - but were they in time to catch the assassin?

  Once the life preserver was level with the bridge's parapet he scrambled over the edge, shivering in the cold early evening air. "Thanks for getting me out of there," he said. "If you're quick there's still a chance you can get the shooter. They were on Westminster-"

  The sound of a dozen weapons being cocked silenced Dante. He glanced at the surly faces of the policemen surrounding him and realised something was badly amiss. "What's wrong? You look like you're ready to kill someone!"

  Dante, you might have been better off staying in the river...

  "You don't think I had anything to do with shooting the king, do you?"

  A trench-coated man emerged from the throng. "We don't think anything of the sort." The speaker struck a match, its flame briefly illuminating his middle-aged face and receding ginger hair. He was lighting a pipe, its rich, pungent tobacco smoke adding to the mist in the air. "We know you tried to murder him."

  "That's ridiculous," Dante protested. "I've chased the sniper halfway across London!"

  "An interesting interpretation of reality," the pipe-smoker replied. "I was told you were fleeing the scene of the crime, trying to make good your escape. Happily, you failed. Another triumph for Rucka of the Yard." He gestured to the surrounding policemen. "Take him into custody. If he resists, subdue him. Use force if necessary, but he's to be brought in alive."

  Dante fought like a wounded animal but even with his bio-blades fully extended he could not hold off all twelve of them. The last sounds he heard were his own screams of pain and the thud of boots into his already bruised and battered torso. Then merciful darkness took him. It was hard to believe it was less than twelve hours since his arrival in Britannia.

  TWO

  "Any scrap of paper will please a bureaucrat."

  - Russian proverb

  "For the world-weary tourist, travelling by airship may be the slowest method of reaching Britannia but it is also the most delightfully decadent. It is w
ell worth the exorbitant price simply for the stately way you approach this green and pleasant land. As the ubiquitous fog parts you get your first view of Dover's legendary white cliffs. These iconic surfaces are repainted every summer to ensure they retain that peculiarly lustrous hue, but don't allow that to spoil your appreciation. When the cliffs hove into view, your journey is almost at an end. Only one chore remains: clearing customs. Other parts of the Empire may favour free movement from one state to the next, but Britannia retains many of its sovereign rights despite being a Tsarist territory. As a consequence, gaining entry can take longer than the three-day journey from Paris..."

  - Extract from Around the Empire in Eighty Ways, Mikhail Palinski

  "The queue is a great British tradition," Lord Peter Flintlock said to his travelling companion with a wan smile. "Almost from birth we are trained to form into long lines and wait patiently for anything and everything. You become inured to the process, you almost welcome it after a while. Getting into a queue gives you a feeling of security, of comfort - you know you're home when you join the back of your first queue."

  "Is that a fact?" Spatchcock scowled while scratching at his lice-infested pubic hair. The two men were startlingly different in appearance. Where Flintlock was thin and aristocratic, Spatchcock was short and dishevelled. The Britannia nobleman was blond and blue-eyed, but his associate was foul smelling and even fouler looking. Spatchcock removed the scratching hand from inside his stain-ridden underpants and examined his fingertips with professional disinterest. A tiny white insect jumped from one finger to the next. Spatchcock popped it into his mouth. He munched happily on the crunchy creature, before belching noisily. "Do you usually have to strip half naked first?"

  The unlikely duo had kept company with Dante occasionally since serving under him in the war. More recently the three men had helped foil a dangerous genetic experiment to create a terrifying new weapon for the Tsar and saved an ancient monastery from an army of murderous Imperial soldiers. Now Spatchcock and Flintlock were together again, stripped of everything but their underclothes, waiting for Dante in a featureless holding cell. It was something of a comedown after their luxurious journey on the Paris-to-Britannia airship.

  Normally the threesome were forced to travel incognito, thanks to the hundred million rouble bounty the Tsar had placed on Dante's head. But this trip had been different, thanks to a communiqué from King Henry to Dante, offering the Romanov rogue full diplomatic immunity and a first class passage for this trip to Britannia. "What's the catch?" Spatchcock had asked when the letter arrived. "Nobody gives you something for nothing in this life, I know that for a fact."

  Dante re-read the communiqué but could find no obvious danger. "The king requests my presence and says I am welcome to bring an entourage as large as I see fit."

  "Perhaps he's set a date for the royal wedding?" Spatchcock suggested. Britannia's monarch rejoiced in numerous eccentricities - wearing a fruit bowl as his crown, trying to outlaw baldness and urging the creation of a welfare state for the underprivileged. Among his stranger quirks was a long-standing proposal of marriage to Dante, whom he insisted upon calling Nicola instead of Nikolai. Spatchcock smiled, his crooked teeth a greasy mix of black, yellow and green hues. "I can just see your face next to his on a commemorative tea towel."

  Flintlock remained stubbornly opposed to the invitation. He had been born and raised in Britannia, but left the country under a cloud. The exact reason for his abrupt departure remained unclear, but rumours spoke of a crime so vile all detail of it had been suppressed to save the nation's embarrassment. Whatever the cause of his leaving, the exiled aristocrat had been back to Britannia only once in the past twenty years. That was a flying visit during the war, when the country was in chaos and his presence could pass unnoticed. It had taken all of Dante's powers of persuasion to talk Flintlock round. Now the wisdom of that was looking more dubious by the minute.

  A door opened and Dante was propelled into the holding cell, like the others clad only in his underwear. In Dante's case, it was less than dignified: a black silk g-string he had acquired from a duplicitous prostitute at the Geisha House of the Rising Sun, the legend "GET IT HERE" embroidered in sequins within a Valentine's heart logo. Spatchcock raised an eyebrow at the unconventional apparel. "My mother always told me to wear clean pants when travelling," Dante said, by way of explanation, "in case you have an accident."

  I doubt she had that sort of undergarment in mind, the Crest said despairingly.

  "We should never have come back here," Flintlock fretted, an embarrassed hand hovering in front of his plaid boxer shorts. "I told you this was a mistake."

  "There's been some kind of mix-up with our travel documents," Dante sighed. "The head of customs should be here any minute to sort it out, okay? Don't get your knickers in a twist!"

  "That's good advice from a man wearing a whore's drawers," Spatchcock commented.

  Fortunately, the doorway reopened and a sour-faced woman in uniform strode into the holding cell. The navy blue jacket and skirt did little to forgive her rotund figure, while the greying hair pulled back into a taut bun gave her face a stretched, arched quality. An identity tag pinned over her left breast identified the new arrival as STAINES, MURIEL. She waited until the door closed, then sternly addressed the trio. "I am Officer Staines, of His Majesty's Royal Customs Department. Which of you is Nicola Dante?"

  "Nikolai," Dante said, correcting her. "My first name is Nikolai."

  Officer Staines glared at him. "You were travelling under the name Nicola."

  Spatchcock shrugged, grinning ruefully. "That'll be the king's fault. He insists on calling Dante here Nicola - even wants to marry him."

  "Indeed?" Officer Staines's gaze shifted to the small, squat man. "And what is your name?"

  "Spatchcock. Like the chicken."

  "Like the chicken."

  "That's right."

  "A curious name..." the customs official said, noting it down.

  "Not as bad as yours, though," Spatchcock replied cheerfully, failing to notice the frenzied gesticulations to be silent from his travelling companions. "I mean, I wouldn't want to be called Staines all my life! I can only imagine how the other kids teased you at school-"

  "Yes, thank you for that," she snapped back.

  "Dirty Staines, they probably called you," Spatchcock continued. "Grubby Staines. Maybe even Semen-"

  "That's enough!" the woman shrieked at the top of her voice, the words echoing round the bleak cell. She paused to regain her composure, then moved on to the last member of the trio. "And your name is?"

  "Flintlock," he mumbled in reply.

  "A little louder please!"

  "Flintlock. Lord Peter Flintlock."

  "Lord... Peter..." she repeated, scribbling down his reply. Her writing tool snapped in two as Staines reached the last word. "Flintlock?"

  "Yes."

  "The Lord Peter Flintlock?"

  "Yes," he agreed, nodding his head sadly.

  "The one who... Who did that with... and then..."

  "Yes!" Flintlock shouted. "It was me, okay? I did it, I bloody did it!"

  All hint of colour drained from the customs official's pallid features. She gazed at Flintlock with undisguised disgust while slowly shaking her head, as if he was the vilest piece of excrement ever to sully the underside of her shoes.

  Spatchcock took a step nearer to Staines.

  "What did he do, exactly? I kept trying to find out but the old bugger won't say."

  "Get away from me," she snarled, sending the little man scurrying away. Once he was standing alongside Dante and Flintlock again, Officer Staines glared at them in turn. "Never in all my years as a customs official have I had the misfortune to encounter such a vile, repulsive, ungodly trio of unwanted arrivals here at Dover - a cross-dresser, a vile and vulgar ferret of a man and..." Words escaped her when she looked at Flintlock. "It pains me more than I can express to say what I now must..."

  "Here it comes," Spa
tchcock whispered out the side of his mouth.

  Officer Staines swallowed hard before concluding her speech: "Welcome to Britannia." She snapped her fingers and three more officials entered, each carrying a pile of clothing. "We found nothing untoward in any of your clothing, although health and safety regulations forced us to have Mr Spatchcock's garments destroyed for fear of allowing an unknown number of bacteria into the country - replacements have been provided for him. The Palace of London confirmed your right to enter Britannia and a royal skimmer has been despatched to ferry you direct to his majesty's presence. It should be here within the hour. In the meantime, I am obliged to ask if there is anything else I can do to make your stay more pleasant?"

  Spatchcock was about to speak, a lascivious grin spreading across his grimy features, but a sharp elbow into the ribs from Dante stopped him.

  Flintlock replied instead. "Any chance of a nice cup of tea?"

  It was nine in the morning when the royal skimmer carrying Dante, Flintlock and Spatchcock arrived at the Palace of London. The ornate gold and green vehicle had flown low over the city, giving the new arrivals a glorious tour of the sights, before approaching the royal residence. The palace was a perfect cube of stone and glass, a formidable gothic tower at each corner. In the middle of the structure was the former dome of St Paul's Cathedral, now used as the palace's centrepiece. Above that was a golden statue of Britannia herself, a flagpole bearing the Union Jack clutched in one hand whilst her other held a mighty shield bearing the royal crest. Beside her stood a golden lion, proud and regal. As the skimmer got closer the statue sunk into the vast dome, its place taken by a circular landing pad.