Honour be Damned Page 8

  Penelope was waiting for him in the narrow space between her trunk and the door, lips playfully pursed. "Overdue parking tickets, eh?"

  Dante offered his most winning smile. "I didn't kill the Queen Mother. Honestly."

  "Would you tell me if you had?"

  "That would depend."

  "On what?"

  "Whether you would pull the emergency cord and stop the train."

  Penelope smiled. "I'm more likely to applaud you. To me the royal family is a wildly outdated anachronism that should have been abandoned centuries ago."

  "Really? I thought someone with your accent would be all for Henry and his kind."

  "Heavens, no! The Windsor McKrays are dreadful, they give old money a bad name."

  "Well, I didn't try to kill the king."

  "What a shame," Penelope teased. "Here was I hoping to dine out on stories of how I helped a cold-blooded killer escape justice."

  "However," Dante added quickly, "I am considered quite the scoundrel in some parts of the Empire." He gave a gasp of surprise as Penelope rested her left hand against his groin, gently sliding the palm up and down in time with the rhythm of the train.

  "And which parts would they be?" she asked coyly.

  Before Dante could devise a suitable response the train's public address system crackled into life. "All passengers, please take your seats. The Flying Scotsman is about to leave the tracks and take to the skies."

  "Sounds like we should be getting to our respective berths," Dante said, as the sound of the train's wheels on the tracks faded. It was replaced by the wind whistling past as the train rose with stately grace into the early evening sky.

  "Do you have a ticket?" Penelope enquired with a wicked smile.

  "Not as such," he admitted.

  "Well, I have a luxury sleeper compartment to myself and nobody to share it with. It's one of the perils of being a beautiful, rich heiress, I suppose - when you have everything money can buy, it's so hard to find something you actually... desire." She closed her hand firmly around his groin. "Perhaps you would like to join me? We could see the sights together."

  Dante felt his eyes bulging. They weren't the only things. "I... I might well take you up on that offer," he said, struggling to keep his voice from climbing an octave. "But first I have to locate another passenger on board. He has something of value to me. Once I've retrieved that, perhaps we could meet for dinner?"

  Penelope stepped away from Dante, a shadow of disappointment evident in her eyes. "Fine. Well, don't let me delay you any longer."

  "I'll be back before you know it," Dante promised, but the moment had passed.

  "Don't hurry back on my behalf," Penelope snapped, sitting down on the edge of her trunk. "If you find a steward on your travels, could you send him back here? I still need to get my luggage stowed away."

  Dante nodded, then started working his way forward through the train's many carriages and compartments, still bemused by how quickly Penelope's passions rose and fell. "Women," he muttered. "I'll never figure them out."

  That much seems certain, the Crest agreed.

  Sergeant Jones never enjoyed the company of bounty hunters. For the most part they were criminals, with a history of violence and few moral scruples. To them a target was merely a way of making money. Some enjoyed the chase, the thrill of hunting another human being while living on the edge of the law. Others needed the rewards to feed insidious vices, be they gambling, drugs or women. True, bounty hunters were sometimes able to find and catch fugitives the law could not touch, but that didn't make their existence any less repugnant to the veteran policeman. After twenty years with the Britannia Royal Constabulary, Jones still felt his skin crawl when a bounty hunter came into Scotland Yard. Now there were a dozen of these scum standing in front of his duty desk, waiting for Inspector Rucka to come down from the top floor.

  The bounty hunters were a mixture of humans and aliens, most bearing scars from their bloody trade. Among them were two Enforcers from the colony world of Berezova, creatures with squat torsos and mottled brown hides, said to possess incredible strength and power. Cyborgs of varying shapes and sizes scowled at each other as best they were able, not easy for those who no longer possessed a face. The rest stayed near the fringes of the gathering, not getting in anyone else's way. They were the parasites, hoping to pick up a few crumbs when the action started. Jones was grateful for one thing about this gathering - at least Dobie and Boyle were not present. That pair was the last thing he needed today. But no sooner had this thought crossed the sergeant's mind than the screech of protesting rubber he heard from outside. "Cover me!" a burly, masculine voice shouted. The entrance doors burst open as a man dived into the foyer, his sidearm drawn and ready to fire. Moments later another figure flung itself inside, performing an entirely gratuitous forward roll in the process.

  The pair went through a series of elaborate poses while still crouched on the floor, nominally checking the large, airless room was secure. Both men swept their weapons round the others present, before nodding to each other with a knowing smile. The pair stood and sauntered cockily towards the duty desk, sliding their pistols into shoulder holsters with practiced ease. Boyle was first to speak, a mass of brown curls framing his sensitive blue eyes and bruised cheekbones. He was wearing a loud plaid jacket of red, white and black over a taupe knit shirt and faded denim jeans at least one size too small. "Sergeant Jones! Still propping up the front desk at the Yard, I see. How's the BRC treating you these days?"

  "Fine, Ray. Still hanging around with this mercenary?"

  Boyle scratched the side of his head, not looking at his nearby partner. "Don't call him a mercenary, it only gives him delusions of grandeur."

  "That's rich coming from you," Dobie interjected. He was dressed in tan slacks and a brown blazer over a cream shirt. His short brown locks were brushed forward over his scalp to mask a receding hairline. "An ex-copper who decided he was worth more than a badge!"

  "At least I know which side of the law is the right one," Boyle remarked.

  "I didn't know there was a right side," Dobie said with a smirk. He leaned nonchalantly against the front desk and surveyed the other bounty hunters already gathered. "Well, it seems the gang's all here. Bad news, boys - now Ray and I have arrived the hunt is already good as over. We need a new spoiler for the back of the hover-car, so this reward is ours, got it?" The others did not dignify his comment with a reply. Dobie smiled broadly at his partner. "I think they understand."

  "Oh yeah, you definitely convinced them," Boyle agreed, rolling his eyes.

  An inner door swung open, Rucka stepped into the room like a visiting dignitary, with a constable following him. The inspector moved along the bounty hunters, studying each one with disdain. The constable joined Jones behind the duty desk. The sergeant could not resist whispering a comment out of the side of his mouth to the younger policeman. "Bounty hunters. We don't need their scum."

  "Yes, sir," the constable agreed quietly.

  "The fugitive won't escape us," Jones added.

  Rucka began addressing the gathering in his clipped, nasal voice. "There will be a substantial reward for the person who finds Nikolai Dante. You are free to use any methods necessary but I want him brought in alive." The inspector noticed two men slouching by the front desk and pointed a finger at them. "No executions!"

  Dobie and Boyle gave Rucka a mock salute. "As you wish," they replied in unison.

  The inspector waved for the bounty hunters to leave, then approached the duty sergeant. "Well Jones, what news from our bobbies on the beat?"

  "A squad of constables saw Dante at London International Train Terminal a few minutes ago. He tried to throw them off his trail by boarding the Flying Scotsman, but a witness saw him run away across the tracks. The pursuit is continuing, sir."

  "Very good," Rucka replied patronisingly. "I know the presence of bounty hunters is repugnant to most policemen, but such mercenaries have a proven track record in flushing out thi
s type of fugitive. Think of them as a little insurance if your men don't catch Dante."

  "Yes, inspector," Jones agreed, seething as the inspector went back upstairs. The sergeant muttered an Oedipal curse that neatly rhymed with Rucka's name, then got back to co-ordinating the search for Dante.

  Outside Scotland Yard, Dobie and Boyle were slouching in the bucket seats of their tan Phord Capri hover-car, each man listening to the surveillance device they had hidden by the duty desk. The pair laughed out loud at Jones's turn of phrase. "Sounds like your old mate isn't too fond of the inspector," Dobie observed.

  "Can't say I blame him. Rucka was always good at grabbing the headlines but he needed real coppers to catch the villains for him."

  "Real coppers like you, you mean?"

  Boyle made an obscene finger gesture to his partner, then started the Capri. "Let's go," he said, gunning the engine needlessly.

  "Where?"

  "King's Cross. It's a good place to pick up a few tips."

  "It's a good place to pick up a few diseases," Dobie observed. "Still, it's not far from the train terminal. Our target might be trying to lie low near there until the heat cools off."

  Boyle smiled wryly. "My thoughts exactly." He released the handbrake and the Capri roared along the road before leaping into the sky, tyres squealing in protest as usual.

  Half an hour later Dante had reached the front carriage of the Flying Scotsman without finding his quarry. Ahead lay only cargo carriages and the locomotive. "I don't understand how I could have missed him," he fretted. "I searched all the seated passengers."

  But not the sleeper compartments, the Crest pointed out. Your target must be inside one of the first class berths. The only time he's obliged to come out is for during the sight-seeing stops, when the staff clean and re-supply all the individual compartments.

  Dante saw a steward approaching, clutching a handful of timetables. Like all male staff on the train, he was wearing full Highland costume including a kilt, sporran, white ruffled shirt and shiny black patent leather shoes. Dante gestured for attention. "I say, could you tell me, when is our first sight-seeing excursion off the train?" he asked, affecting a Britannia accent.

  The steward smiled indulgently. "We pause above the Watford Gap so passengers can take pictures, but the first time we land will be tomorrow at Nottingham. There's a choice of day-trips on offer there: the castle, Sherwood Forest or the historic country estate of the Fforbes-Lamington family. You may have already selected one when you bought your ticket. Perhaps if I could see it?"

  Dante made a great show of patting all his pockets. "Ahh, I think my wife has both our tickets. She's at the other end of the train. We were among the last to get on and our luggage is rather cluttering the gangway. Penny could do with some help getting things stowed away."

  The steward nodded understandingly. "Of course, sir. Perhaps you'd like to take a drink in the lounge while I placate your wife?"

  "Capital idea, capital! I shall do just that. Make sure you get a generous tip from her, by way of compensation for all your efforts on our behalf - they're most appreciated." Dante clapped the steward on the back and strode back to the first class lounge he had passed earlier.

  Penelope was still sitting on top of her luggage when a rotund man in a kilt approached her with a menu for dinner. "Excuse me, madam, is your name Penny?"

  "Penelope, if you don't mind. And you are?"

  "Gordonstoun, head steward for this excursion," he replied, bowing slightly. "Your husband sent me along to get your luggage squared away, said you were having some trouble."

  "My husband...?" Penelope said, her mind racing. "Oh, him!" She permitted herself the slightest of blushes. "Well, as you've probably surmised, we aren't actually married."

  Gordonstoun clasped his chubby hands together and smiled benignly. "Here on the Flying Scotsman we pride themselves at being the souls of tact and discretion. Your secrets are safe with us, madam, even if your, er, travelling companion is rather less discreet."

  Penelope sighed theatrically. "Yes, he can be rather a bore but he means a lot to me. Once this luggage is out of the way, perhaps you could show me to my sleeping quarters?"

  "Of course, madam. It would be my pleasure." Gordonstoun bowed again, then activated a staff intercom and summoned other attendants to fetch the hatboxes and trunk.

  Once they had arrived, the head steward escorted Penelope to her quarters. He opened the gold and green door, then politely stood aside to let her enter first. The compartment was surprisingly large and lavishly furnished, with a four-poster bed at one end and matching chaise longue at the other. A tall mirror was mounted directly behind the bed, making the sound-proofed chamber appear even bigger than it was. A thick sheepskin rug covered most of the floor, complementing the plush, decadent decor.

  Once Penelope was inside, Gordonstoun pointed to the berth's many features - a separate dressing room with ample storage for clothes, shoes and other accoutrements, a bathroom equal in size to the bedroom with both a freestanding tub and walk-in shower, plus a heavily stocked private bar concealed in an oak cabinet. All the wood in the compartment was oak with gold leaf ornamentation, whilst small crystal chandeliers concealed the light fittings on the walls. Gordonstoun gestured at a control panel skilfully hidden behind a tapestry on one wall. "This provides you with an encrypted communications environment. Like all our first class compartments, this berth is sealed to prevent any noise from outside disturbing you or any sounds you make being audible when the door to the corridor is closed. Your discretion and privacy are paramount at all times while you are a passenger on board the Flying Scotsman."

  Penelope gave the steward an outrageously generous tip. His eyes flashed hungrily for a moment until his calm, collected demeanour reasserted itself. "If there is anything you require madam, do not hesitate to summon me - day or night. I am happy to be of service. Ask for me by name: Gordonstoun."

  "I'll be certain to remember that," Penelope replied with a small smile. Her brow furrowed as a thought occurred. "There is one thing. Where did you see my... husband... last?"

  "The far end of the train, madam. He was going to the first class lounge for a drink."

  "Could you give him a message for me?"

  Gordonstoun listened, then repeated the message to Penelope for her confirmation. "I shall ensure he does as you ask, madam."

  Penelope waited until the steward had gone before throwing herself on the vast bed, letting herself sink into its down-filled quilts. This was the life, she decided. A discreet knock summoned her back to the main doorway. Two more stewards staggered inside, bringing her trunk and hatboxes. "Put them into the dressing room, please," Penelope said. She made sure to tip them generously as they left.

  An insistent beeping from one of her hatboxes soon demanded Penelope's attention. She retrieved a tiny, circular disc hidden within the brim of a hat and inserted it into her left ear. "Receiving loud and clear." Penelope returned to the main room, adjusting the position of the translucent device until it was firmly lodged inside her ear. "Yes, I have seen and locked on to my target." She went to the nearest mirror and twisted her head sideways, checking to make sure the disc was all but invisible. "No, the target does not suspect me, I'm certain of that. He thinks I want him sexually. You know what some men are like - all the world revolves around their groin."

  Penelope paused, listening to the voice inside her ear. "No, I will not be able to get him off the train tonight. That will have to wait until we reach Nottingham in the morning." Another pause as a stream of words transmitted themselves to her. "I'm about to have a meal with him. After that I'll invite him back to my sleeping compartment - I'm sure you can imagine the rest." Penelope nodded, and then laughed. "No, Your Highness, I don't think you need fear for my virtue. If anyone should be afraid, it's Nikolai Dante. The fool doesn't seem to realise the danger he is in." She listened to one last comment from her caller. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll deliver him to you before dusk tomorrow. Agent Goo
dnight, signing off."

  The first class lounge was packed with people, most of them talking in foreign accents . Despairing of his quest, Dante ordered the largest drink available and settled in for the evening. The barman set about mixing an elaborate cocktail involving almost every kind of alcohol known to man, while Dante passed the time examining the faces of his fellow passengers. Foreign tourists were obvious from their gaudy clothes and propensity for ugly facial hair, while those from Britannia tended to be ruddy-cheeked and uptight in appearance.

  Do any of these people look familiar to you?

  The Crest's question puzzled Dante. "No," he whispered back. "Why, should they?"

  There's something nagging me about several of these passengers. I feel as if I have seen them before, but I cannot remember where or when.

  "But they still look familiar?"

  Yes. I cannot explain it.

  Dante's eyes swept round the room, searching for anything that jogged his memory - a profile, a family resemblance, anything. It was only when his gaze reached the far end that he recognised anyone. "It's him, he's right here!"

  Who?

  "The assassin - he's here in the lounge!" Dante said, trying to push his way through the throng. Ahead, the sad faced man with the goatee was sat at the bar, finishing a drink. He drained the glass and left the lounge, a rectangle of paper falling from his pocket. By the time Dante had struggled past his sixth party of Scandinavian revellers the assassin was long gone. Dante cursed his own incompetence, until he noticed the discarded document. It was a timetable for the Flying Scotsman's journey north, like those the steward had been carrying earlier.

  Dante picked it up and studied the list of destinations. Three names were circled several times - Nottingham, Peebles and Orkney.

  If this timetable was dropped by the assassin, it suggests he is staying on the train all the way to the north of Scotland. That gives you until Saturday to find and confront him.