Angelmaker (34 page)

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Authors: Nick Harkaway

Tags: #Fiction, #Humorous, #Action & Adventure, #Espionage

BOOK: Angelmaker
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“Aye, weel. Commander, then. Noo chance?” Flagpole looks down at her, rough countryman’s face hopeful, like a boy asking for a new bicycle.

Edie glances around the room; bordello chic, very much in the
Soho style of accommodation for louche gentlemen wishing to try out the harem style. A subtle insult to the British soldier, or an assumption about his ignorance? Or … a warning that her disguise has been penetrated already, and here is a false room for a false fellow, as fake and obvious as her fake moustache. No way to tell. She fingers a length of orange satin, draws it across her face. Delicious.
Focus
.

“Not unless something goes very wrong,” she replies. Flagpole brightens.

“Whul, it usually does, ey?”

“ ’Ope not,” Songbird mutters. “Some other bugger can go aftah that ’un. ’E looked at me on the way oot a’ the room. Fair ’n’ I widdled meself. Go op agin that wi’oot orders? Buggeroff!”

A large number of Songbird’s pronouncements end in this one word, which is how he gets his name. Shortarse (who is predictably enough around six foot nine and scrawny) christened him after the first few days on
Cuparah
. “Fookin’ Nora, ’e’s too sophisticated fer the likes o’ me, Cap’n, I can’t sail wi’ no flutt’rin’ songbird!”

Shortarse was also the first to call Edie “Countess,” after Flagpole tried his luck getting her to share his bunk back before they made landfall. “Now then, wee lass, best we get it oot tha way, like. You’ll be wantin’ to hoist the colours fer Flagpole, sure enough, I says let’s do it reet off the bat, and mayhapp’n ye’ll be cured o’ yer infatcherashun ’fore we leave …” And so saying, he planted a wet smacker on her lips. Edie bethought herself of Mrs. Sekuni’s Second Method For Repelling Improper Advances From Bourgeois Intellectual Sex Maniacs (of which Mrs. Sekuni assured Edie there were an infinite number and they were not, absolutely not to be despised, because many of them were quite as interesting as they wished a lady to believe). She let the kiss linger and then she helped herself to a chunk of his meaty backside in each dainty hand, and locked herself against him. She drew the kiss out as the rest of the section whooped and growled, pressed her tongue between his amazed lips and squirmed in the most lewd way she knew. She roved her hands all over him, down, up, down, up … up. And as the roar subsided, she pressed her thumbs lightly against his neck at the sides, slowly and imperceptibly closing his carotid arteries.
One, two, three … four
.

Flagpole dropped through the circle of her arms in a dead faint. The section stared at her.

Edie Banister grinned a wide, well-fed grin, and walked out.

“Fook me,” Shortarse said, “she socked tha fookin’ life oot o’ ’im!” And then, because the British Tommy is nothing if not adaptable, “Hah! Look oot, Tojo, we’re bringing a witch, is whut it is, tae draw doon the Evil Eye on ya! Magic o’ the Islands, lads! Our varrah oon Bloody Countess!”

In the castle of the Opium Khan, Flagpole considers the ways in which this operation could go wrong. “Aye,” he says, firmly. “Let’s ’ope.”

James Banister, Cmdr., RN, holds a foreign fruit in one hand and a spoon made of ivory in the other, delving deeply in the first with the second, and reflects that a real secret agent would solve the whole thing by using the spoon on Shem Shem Tsien’s domed forehead. Sadly, spoon mayhem is harder than
Boy’s Own
comics would have you believe, and the Opium Khan somewhat notoriously knows how to take care of himself. Then, too, there’s the matter of unseen but no doubt well-situated archers who would almost certainly conclude any attempt before it caused their master any serious grief.

The fruit has the texture of cooked fish and tastes of mango, ginger and salt. The Opium Khan calls it a fire pear. It apparently grows only on the shores of the great Addeh River as it winds down towards the Dhaka delta.

“In unenlightened times, it was said to be the egg of a giant catfish,” Shem Shem Tsien says. “A special preparation of the plant was believed to contain the Elixir of Divine Immortality. And the dried flowers were prized … as an aphrodisiac.”

James Banister looks at him for a moment, worried on cue.
You do love your theatre, don’t you?

“The fruit is quite safe, Commander, I promise you. I have many, many tasters between the river and the table. Their instructions are specific.”

Yes
, Edie thinks grimly from behind James Banister’s moustache,
I’m sure that they are
. There’s a pleasant, itchy warmth in her gut. She suspects the fruit is part-fermented or soaked in hooch—at the very least. Abel Jasmine’s lessons included a brief but memorable week of sampling amphetamines and minor poisons. Edie remembers her molars buzzing and an overwhelming desire to shout her name out loud and be worshipped.
So
.

James Banister makes a show of swallowing the last mouthful before letting the empty carcass of his fire pear rest on the plate.

“A very vigorous flavour,” he murmurs, without enthusiasm. “Is it the gas lamps make it so warm in here?”

The Opium Khan gestures, and more flunkeys emerge to remove the detritus of the fruit course. “Just the climate, Commander, I’m afraid. The gas we keep for lighting, and possibly for export to … friendly nations. It is not known whether Addeh Sikkim has any great reserves of petroleum, but it seems likely. Of course—” But whatever follows as a matter of course will have to wait. A great rustling erupts at the far end of the dining hall, where a double chair, like a throne or a day bed, stands in place of a carver. Something resembling a trumpet is blown repeatedly, and more flunkeys rush around laying out utensils and cushions. In the distance, a gong sounds.

“You are greatly honoured,” Shem Shem Tsien says, in the voice of a man who is himself feeling somewhat less than thrilled. “The great beauty, the rose of Addeh Sikkim and beloved of us all, my mother, graces us with her presence. Good evening, Mother.” He rises abruptly, and walks towards a litter borne by two wide-shouldered men. He stoops perfunctorily to kiss the tiny bundle of finery they carry, and it moves, revealing itself to be a grey-faced, frosty old woman who must be the letter-writing dowager, Dotty Catty. She raises one hand to her son in prohibition and turns away.

“We are at odds,” the Opium Khan explains calmly. “A family matter. Of little consequence save to historians.”

“Murderer,” the old woman replies without much energy.

“Nonsense, Mother,” Shem Shem Tsien says blandly. “Don’t be unkind.”

Dotty Catty is very small, and her chair swallows her entirely, so that when she drops without grace onto the cushions she almost entirely disappears.

“My mother’s hostility is what the alienists refer to as transferred aggression,” Shem Shem Tsien murmurs as he resumes his seat. “She feels I have failed in my duty to provide myself with an heir, and transfers this unhappiness to a false memory of the past, where it assuages her own survivor’s guilt. The mind is so very agile.”

“Don’t hold with all that stuff myself,” James Banister replies. “Freud and wotnot. Not very British, to my mind.”

Shem Shem Tsien snorts. “Quite so.”

The dowager settles a little, and beckons to one of her bearers to
move the table furniture so that a floral arrangement almost entirely conceals her from her son. The Opium Khan continues.

“Heirs provoke notions of succession. Replacement. You see? One must time such things appropriately.”

“Wait until you’re older, eh?”

The Opium Khan smiles.

“You mean, until the child’s majority will approximately coincide with my incapacity?”

“Somethin’ like that. Why, didn’t you?”

“In truth, I meant that the population must grow again before I can massacre enough to demonstrate the fate of those who might seek to replace me, once the idea of an eventual succession is acknowledged.”

James Banister stares back at him.

“Bit steep,” he murmurs, after a moment.

“I cannot agree,” Shem Shem Tsien replies. “I accept that it is hard. And yet, it is godly, or god-like, do you not think?”

“Pretty heathen sort of god, Khan.”

“I wonder. Indeed, I have wondered since I was a boy. The Bible says that we are like gods, because we possess knowledge of good and evil. That is part of our sin. But it seems to me that the most salient feature of God, the most commonly experienced aspect of His existence, is His silence. His great, divine indifference to our doings and affairs. Christians will tell you that God gave us free will, Commander Banister, and in the same breath they will say that they know He exists because He speaks to them constantly in their hearts, and by means of signs.

“Well, I am not content with signs, and my heart is good for pumping fluid around my body and nothing else. The day someone
speaks into it
, I shall have died from loss of blood. So I propose a great project, Commander Banister. I propose to find out. I seek to be close to God.”

“That’s a noble ambition.”

“It is a unique one. I alone in the world seek to be close to God by becoming more like Him. There are a thousand holy books, and ten thousand holy men and priestesses and prophets for each word of each one of them. Nothing is revealed which can be assured. Sophistries abound and circularities pervade. Mendacity is ubiquitous. Corruption is rife. I have … cut it out … of many I have met. I have made
them honest, at the end. But the only thing I have discovered, in all this time, is that we know nothing of God.”

“How do we even know there is one?”

“Indeed. And yet, I believe that there is. My only article of faith.” Shem Shem Tsien smiles a self-mocking smile, a wry quirk of the lips. “My sense of the universe, the way it interacts, the coincidences and accidents, the very neatness of evolution, persuades me of this. I behold a watch and I seek knowledge and conversation of the watchmaker. It persuades some scientists, some philosophers, some theologians. It does not persuade others. I am not concerned. It is enough for me that I believe it follows. However … the nature of this God, Commander Banister, remains opaque to me. God is obscure. Absent.”

“I know a nun says he isn’t.”

Shem Shem Tsien scowls, and claps his hands again, then gestures. The lights dim, and along one wall a drape draws back to reveal a secondary chamber. It is filled with medical paraphernalia and tiled white, and in the middle of the room hangs a man, crucified.

The Opium Khan stands, and perforce also James Banister. It appears there will be a tour.

“His body is supported,” the Opium Khan says, conversationally, as they draw closer. “I will not allow him to suffocate. And as you see, he is draped to keep him warm.” Solicitously, he lifts a soft wool blanket away to reveal the victim’s body. “The impalations were done under anaesthetic. By me, personally, Commander. I require no amanuenses. No angels.”

The crucified man moans softly as they draw near. Indeed, the rods through his hands and feet are very neat. They are also apparently made of copper. Behind his moustache, James Banister quails a little in understanding: there are scorch marks around the wounds.

Shem Shem Tsien moves around behind the man and, with a conjuror’s flourish, removes a last drape from the frame on which he hangs. A huge actinic coil sits behind the cross, dull and dark. “God, surely, should not permit this. My citadel should ring with His voice in thunder. This man was a bishop once; his church sent him here as an emissary and he chose to side with the marshy underclass against me. He raised them in a rabble and brought them to my gates. Truly, Commander, it was a remarkable day. And now here he is.” Shem Shem Tsien flicks a switch with one long finger. The coil does not light immediately. There is a buzz and a hum, during which time
the man seems to wake or return from whatever refuge he has found inside his mind and realise what is about to happen. He turns imploring eyes on James Banister, and opens his mouth to speak. The coil lights, and the man arches and screams. From his hands and feet comes a smell like pork crackling. James Banister swallows bile and concentrates on the details. He suspects that if he throws up or even looks queasy, he will be murdered.

The victim is middle-aged, and was once moderately fat. Now his skin hangs like wet, grey pastry from his bones. The screaming starts long and high, then drops into an awful repetitive yapping.

“For the first month he prayed,” Shem Shem Tsien says. “Then he cursed. Now he barks. I have reduced him to the level of a beast. I strongly suspect that he worships me. In time, I will make him into clay. I will grow roses in him. Perhaps I will wait until he is dead, perhaps not. Yet God remains silent; endlessly, tediously silent. I find that frustrating.”

Shem Shem Tsien waves again, and the screaming bishop is covered again, the coil hissing and spitting as the victim’s convulsions scatter sweat across it. The sound is muffled, but not blocked, by the cloth. The Opium Khan looks briefly concerned, caught in a gaffe.

“My apologies, Commander. That was rude. Please sit. Eat. What I wished to express to you was that … many people have opinions. None have knowledge. I have no interest in more of the former, only in a full and unquestionable experience of the latter.”

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