Honour be Damned Page 5

  "What was that? It almost looked like a-"

  Suddenly the pane of glass exploded inwards, showering the drawing room with razor-sharp shards. Dante screamed a warning as he dived towards the king. "Everybody, get down!"

  Spatchcock and Flintlock had not needed telling, having already taken cover at the first sign of trouble. Their time with the Rudinshtein Irregulars had drummed into them the need for speed when in danger, but both also possessed an unusually strong sense of self-preservation. The king and his mother lacked such killer instincts, which was why they both suffered mortal wounds in the next few seconds. The first bullet was sent askew when it shattered the window, flying sideways into a wall to emerge in an adjoining room, where it startled several servants.

  The second projectile had no such problems. But for Dante's diving tackle the round would have exploded the king's head like a hammer smashing a ripe watermelon. Instead it entered Henry's left shoulder blade, punctured a lung and departed through his chest, a few centimetres above his heart. The exit wound removed a clump of flesh the size of a child's fist, along with a shower of blood and bone fragments. The third bullet missed the king altogether as he tumbled to the floor beneath Dante, but the Queen Mother was not so fortunate. Babs was standing up to see what all the fuss was about when the window exploded. She had time to gasp in shock before the third bullet shot inside her open mouth and removed the back half of her skull, taking much of her brain stem with it. The elderly nymphomaniac was dead before her body had slumped back on to the chaise longue.

  Dante rolled off the king, glancing at Babs long enough to know she was beyond help. His right hand reached instinctively for his Huntsman 5000 rifle, but palace protocol had required he surrender it before entering the building. Dante cursed himself for giving in to such stupidity and twisted round to see if any more attacks were imminent. When no more bullets were forthcoming, he ripped a strip of fabric from the Queen Mother's gown and used it as an impromptu bandage on her son. "Crest, can you analyse the trajectory of those bullets, calculate where the assassin is firing from?"

  Completing my calculations now, the voice in his head responded tersely. All three rounds began from a position of not more than sixty-two metres above the ground.

  "Search your database - what's that high on the city skyline, within range of here?"

  Two structures, but only one has a clear line of sight - Nelson's Column.

  "Then that's where I'll find the bastard who did this," Dante snarled. "Spatch! Flintlock! Are you okay?" The two men nodded from their hiding places. "Good, then get over here and look after the king before he bleeds to death."

  Spatchcock was immediately crawling across the glass-strewn floor. "What about Babs?"

  Dante shook his head grimly. The Queen Mother had been a sex-crazed centenarian, but she never meant anybody any harm. Her murder deserved to be avenged as much as the attack upon the king. "Crest, how long does the fastest route to the palace landing pad take from here?"

  Three minutes and seventeen seconds.

  "Too long. I'll have to take a short-cut to our killer!" Dante pulled himself into a crouch, then ran to the shattered window and dived through the hole, falling towards almost certain death.

  In the drawing room Spatchcock ignored Dante's daredevil departure and concentrated on tending to the king. Blood was coursing from Henry's wounds faster than it could be staunched. "Flintlock, get out from behind that chair and go for help!"

  "Do I have to?" the inveterate coward asked feebly.

  Spatchcock spat a curse at him and Flintlock scuttled to the drawing room door, calling for the royal staff. Within seconds a phalanx of footmen and pageboys was pouring into the room, Darcy Fitzwilliam among them, his young face shocked by the violence he found. "My God - they've butchered the royal family!"

  "Don't be an ass," Spatchcock snarled. "We didn't do this - we're trying to save them!"

  Fitzwilliam searched the faces of the others. "You heard them in the dining hall! They were shouting about killing the king! Now they've done it!"

  Flintlock shook his head, pointing at the shattered picture window. "The shots came from outside. We were lucky not to get hit ourselves!"

  The pageboy jabbed a finger into Flintlock's face. "Murderer!" he screamed.

  Agent Penelope Goodnight was making love to a beautiful woman when the emergency signal came through. For six months Britannia Intelligence's finest female operative had been working on the French ambassador, breaking down her barriers. The ambassador was as careful as she was beautiful, a full bodied woman who kept herself in shape despite having been a widow for ten years. It had required all of Goodnight's cunning, feminine charm and guile to persuade the ambassador into having an affair that would make her susceptible to coercion and blackmail. Now, after all that delicate preparation, all those subtle romantic overtures, the Marquise de Rosemonde had finally given in to lust - Goodnight's mission objective was about to be consummated. But, just as the secret agent's fingers invaded the Marquise's lingerie, a voice of authority spoke in Goodnight's concealed earpiece.

  "All agents, respond immediately!"

  Startled by the harsh, patrician voice, Goodnight pulled away involuntarily pushing her long hair away from her face.

  "No, mon cherie, don't stop now," the ambassador pleaded. "I resisted you for so long, don't torture me like this. I have surrendered myself to you. I can't live unless I make you happy. I promise - no more refusals, and no more regrets."

  "All agents, respond immediately!" the earpiece said again.

  Goodnight knew ignoring the message was impossible. It would keep repeating itself, louder and louder, until it got a response. Better to find out why the emergency channel had been activated, then return to the job in hand. "Forgive me, I am not sure I can go through with this."

  "No, do not torment me," the French woman pleaded, her fingers grasping imploringly at thin air as Goodnight climbed off the silk sheets.

  "Give me a moment to think - please?"

  "Only if you promise to return and... fulfil me."

  Goodnight smiled. "I promise." The secret agent retreated to the doorway, blew a lust-filled kiss to the Marquise, then slipped from the room. Once out of earshot, Goodnight activated the earpiece microphone. "What the hell is so important that you pull me from between the French ambassador's thighs?"

  "The king is dying or possibly dead by now, the victim of an assassination plot. The Queen Mother's corpse is getting cold, and the government is in uproar. All operatives are being recalled to headquarters immediately for a full briefing."

  "But my mission-"

  "Can wait! F is allowing no exemptions from this, and you know what a bitch she can be if anybody challenges her orders."

  "Don't remind me." Goodnight's department had undergone a brutal purge, courtesy of Britannia Intelligence's new commander. "So how do I placate the French ambassador?"

  "You're creative - make something up. I'm sure her thighs will be just as warm and welcoming once this little emergency has past."

  "I wouldn't count on that. It's taken me half a year to melt this ice queen."

  "Nevertheless, F's command stands. Put your trousers on and get back here!"

  FOUR

  "Wrath is a poor adviser."

  - Russian proverb

  "Scotland Yard has served as London's police headquarters for close to a millennium. The original building was sited near a courtyard supposedly used by a Caledonian king, a myth that gave the area its name. In the many centuries since, the capital's police force has shifted headquarters more than a dozen times as a consequence of overcrowding, terrorist attacks or structural problems. Following the second relocation the building became known as New Scotland Yard. After that it was decided that adding further prefixes would verge on the ludicrous and all subsequent headquarters have been known simply as Scotland Yard. The current police HQ is a gross, intimidating cube of concrete and steel less than a kilometre from the Palace of London.
What few windows it has are restricted to the top floor. Only the most dangerous suspects are ever taken to Scotland Yard for interrogation, usually for matters that threaten national security. Fewer still ever emerge alive."

  - Extract from Places to Avoid in Britannia, first edition

  Dante came round in a dark, dank cell. The air was thick with the stench of stale piss and fear, while a cluster of flies feasted on a clump of faeces in one corner. The walls were coarse, grey cement, as was the floor beneath Dante's battered and bruised body. The sole source of light was a small opening high above the blank metal door. Dante uncurled himself from a foetal position to find his hands were cuffed together behind his back. Manacles also bound his ankles, a few links of chain between them. His jacket and boots were gone, as was his leather belt. He shivered in his white linen shirt and thin trousers.

  How long had he been held prisoner here? More to the point, where was this place? Dante rasped a hand across his neck below the line where his beard usually stopped. Not more than a night's growth, so that made it Wednesday morning. As for his location, he could hear murmuring voices outside the cell, gruff London accents clearly audible even if their words were not. So, he was almost certainly still in Britannia. The last thing he could recall was being pulled from the Thames and accused of trying to murder the king. Everything after that was a jumble of memories from the previous days.

  The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Dante back to the present.

  He heard a beeping noise was audible, then the door swung inwards, flooding the narrow chamber with light. Once his eyes had adjusted, Dante could see three men standing in the corridor, staring at him. The one in the centre he recognised from the previous night - an inspector of some sort. The man certainly displayed all the dull arrogance of a policeman, his stance redolent of self importance. The inspector nodded to the other two, a burly pair whose uniforms marked them out as guards. "He should be ready," the inspector said. "Take him to interrogation room two. Don't give him any water. If he soils himself, he can stay that way until we get some answers."

  The two men produced truncheons and moved inside the cell, grinning from ear to ear. Before the still dazed Dante had time to react blows rained down upon his head, beating all resistance from him. Blackness closed in, a blessed relief from the dull thuds of pain.

  The second time he came round, Dante was strapped to a chair in a white room, his arms pinned behind him with both wrists clamped to the back of the seat. When he extended his bio-blades they were unable to find anything to cut. Someone had obviously done their research and found a way to negate the abilities given him by the Crest. "Crest, where am I?" But no reply came. "Crest?"

  "Good, it can't hear you," a crisp, slightly nasal male voice replied. Dante twisted round to see the police inspector leaning against one of the clean, bare walls.

  "Why not? Have you drugged me?"

  The inspector smiled thinly. "The Tsar may possess the chemicals to overcome a Romanov Weapons Crest, but we are not so fortunate here in Britannia." He gestured at their surroundings: a perfectly square chamber, its walls, floor and ceiling all gleaming white. There were no light fixtures visible anywhere. Instead all the surfaces gave off a faint glow. "We call this the White Room. All the surfaces have a luminescent coating that also debilitates psychic abilities. This has the side effect of breaking the link between you and your Weapons Crest."

  "Who are you?" Dante demanded.

  "I told you my name last night, when I arrested you for the assassination of King Henry."

  "He's dead?"

  "Not yet, but it's a matter of time. His wounds are severe. The surgeons and doctors doubt he will survive another day." The inspector extracted a wooden pipe from his grey jacket and tapped the bowl against the side of Dante's chair. Next he produced a slim packet of tobacco from another pocket and began filling his pipe. Finally, he struck a match and used its flame to light up. "My name is Rucka - Inspector Rucka, of the Yard."

  "Rucka?" Dante snorted derisively. "That rhymes so nicely with fu-"

  The inspector lashed out with a fist, the vicious blow snapping Dante's head sideways. Rucka waited until his captive had recovered before replying. "Spare me any juvenile attempts at humour. Trust me, I have heard them all over the years and I do not intend to be insulted by a murdering misanthrope like you."

  Dante spat a mouthful of blood on the floor. "Hope that doesn't ruin your interior design."

  Rucka ignored the comment, preferring to suck on his pipe. "You may be interested to know both your accomplices were captured at the scene of the crime."

  "Spatchcock and Flintlock? They aren't my accomplices - none of us had anything to do with the attempt on King Henry's life."

  "You simply happened to be in the room when he was shot, is that it?"

  "He invited us to Britannia," Dante insisted. "The king believed someone was planning to assassinate him..."

  "So he wasn't quite the lunatic everyone thought, eh?" Rucka said thoughtfully. "But his judgement of character still leaves a lot to be desired."

  "Henry wanted me to protect him!"

  "Poacher turned gamekeeper, is that your story?"

  "Sorry?"

  "You claim to have been acting as his majesty's personal bodyguard, is that it?"

  "Yes," Dante agreed vehemently.

  "Then why did you flee the scene of the crime?"

  "I didn't flee. I was doing your job for you - hunting down the assassin!"

  "I see. Well, can you give a description of this person you claim to have been hunting?"

  "The shooter was wearing a mask so I didn't see his face."

  "But you're certain it was a man - why?"

  "I..." Dante thought back to the previous night, trying to remember past the beatings. "I got a glimpse of him, after I was thrown into the river. He was bald, with a goatee beard and an unhappy face. His accent, it wasn't local. I heard him arranging a meeting with someone - I think he called them 'the old man'."

  Rucka arched an eyebrow at his prisoner. "Bald, a goatee beard, an unhappy face - not exactly a description likely to make finding this alleged suspect any easier, is it?"

  "It's not my job to make your job easy," Dante snarled.

  "Quite the reverse, I would have thought." The inspector smiled thinly. "All of this is irrelevant. Every piece of evidence points to you as the assassin. Your partners in crime were heard by royal household staff loudly proclaiming how much they wanted to see the king dead. You fled the scene when your plan went awry and resisted arrest when my men intervened. You even told Princess Marie-Anne of your plans to murder her father! Hardly the actions of an innocent man, wouldn't you agree?"

  "The princess hates me, she'd say anything to incriminate me. Diavolo, she probably hired the assassin. Can't you see I'm being framed? How stupid are you?"

  "Stupid enough to have caught Nikolai Dante, supposedly the most dangerous man in the Empire. Stupid enough to have him bang to rights for murdering our beloved Queen Mother. Stupid enough to have found more than sufficient evidence to prove complicity in King Henry's slaying - assuming his royal highness does not survive."

  "What about the shattered window? That broke when the first bullet hit it. You must have noticed the window was smashed in from outside - how did I manage that while I was still inside the room, inspector? Answer that!"

  Rucka smiled. "Quite simple. You had an accomplice shoot the window from outside, in an effort to provide you with an alibi. For all I know your accomplice is this bald man with the goatee and unhappy face to whom you seem intent upon shifting all the blame."

  "This is ludicrous!" Dante snapped. "I demand to see a lawyer. You do still have lawyers in Britannia, don't you?"

  "There's no need to be insolent," the inspector warned. "Of course we still have lawyers. Some of the finest legal minds in the Empire reside in Britannia. Alas, they will be of little use in this case, since you have already been found guilty of murder."

  "I hav
en't even been tried! What about due process, the letter of the law?"

  "Overruled, in view of the national crisis precipitated by your heinous actions." Rucka smiled. "The people of Britannia are demanding justice and that is what we shall give them. Your accomplices are already en route to the Tower of London where they will await execution. Once we have concluded our little chat, you will be taken to join them."

  "This isn't justice, it's a farce! No one has the authority to overrule an entire legal system!"

  "I do," a woman's voice replied. A doorway appeared in the seamless white walls and Princess Marie-Anne entered, smiling broadly. She was wearing a pristine white gown, a diamond tiara perched atop her blonde tresses. Once she was inside the door vanished, leaving no chance for escape. "With my father so close to death, the government felt obliged to release me from the Tower - I am the heir apparent, after all."

  "You're a figurehead," Dante insisted. "The monarchy has no real power in Britannia."

  "Not as such, but I contacted the Tsar. Vladimir was most amused to hear of your travails and only too happy to vouchsafe me sufficient authority to overrule our tiresome legal process. He's hoping to clear a window in his schedule for an Imperial visit to Britannia, simply so he can attend your public execution - he must hate you almost as passionately as I. Isn't that sweet?" The princess nodded to Rucka, who produced a document and read aloud from it.

  "Nikolai Dante, by the power vested in the nation of Britannia by Vladimir Makarov, Tsar of All the Russias, you are hereby found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. You are to be taken from this place to await execution, whereupon your lifeless body shall be transported to Saint Petersburg for verification and vivisection. Has the convicted felon anything to say?"

  Dante spat a fresh mouthful of blood at the princess, spattering her gown with crimson phlegm. Her mouth remained fixed in a smile but her eyes glared at him with murderous intensity. "For that little indignity I shall ensure your execution is as slow and painful as humanly possible. I look forward to seeing you die, Dante - you have been a thorn in my side for far too long." She snapped her fingers and the doorway reappeared. "Get this filth out of my sight," she commanded. "Tell the warders at the Tower of London to put him in my former cell. He should find the accommodations less than satisfactory."