Ghosts of War (3 page)

“Now?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It's not even eleven o'clock.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I'm thirsty. And I'm here, and you're here, and there's a place I know just around the corner.” She grabbed the remaining boxing glove and slid it carefully off his wrist, dropping it nonchalantly to the floor. She took another step closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “Say you will, Gabriel. Say you'll have a drink with me.”

Gabriel smiled. She always had been able to wrap him around her little finger. It was one of the most infuriating things about her—and one of the things he'd loved most, too. This time, however, he didn't mind being manipulated. She had him intrigued. He wanted to know the reason for her sudden, disconcerting appearance at the gym. “Can you wait while I take a shower?”

Ginny batted her eyelids and smiled. “As long as it's quick.”

Gabriel laughed like he hadn't laughed in some time. “You always were an impatient sort, Ginny.”

She gave him a sly grin. “I told you, I'm thirsty!”

Gabriel pulled the towel from around his neck and dropped it over the back of the chair. “Wait here. I'll be back in ten minutes.”

Ginny folded herself neatly onto the chair and produced a packet of cigarettes from her handbag. “Ten minutes?” she echoed, as, still laughing, Gabriel made his way to the locker room.

F
elix Donovan slid a thin cigarette from the packet on his desk, placed it between his lips, and pulled the ignition tab, watching the tip flare briefly before sucking appreciatively at the thick, nicotine-tainted smoke. He slumped back in his chair and glowered at the clock. It was still morning. The day was dragging, and his belly was already growling, ready for lunch. He'd been in the office since before six o'clock that morning, and the late nights and early starts were beginning to take their toll.

Donovan was dog tired. He'd barely been home these last two weeks, and although he knew Flora understood—wonderful woman that she was—he couldn't help noticing the forced smiles and sideways looks as he rolled in at some ungodly hour and climbed out of bed while it was still dark.

It was not that she suspected him of anything untoward—he'd always been faithful and wouldn't have time for dallying with other women even if he'd wanted to—but just that he could see that she was being slowly eroded by his constant absences, by his tiredness and frustration.

That was his most palpable fear, the slow rending apart of his marriage because of the job; the long periods of time spent apart, the awkwardness that prevailed whenever they did manage to spend any time together. He'd seen it happen to so many others over the years, and he had sworn to Flora that it would never happen to them.

The worst thing was that she probably didn't even see it herself. She was so ready to offer her support, so willing and understanding, that she couldn't even see what it was doing to them. If he'd been a banker, or a plumber or some other such tradesman, then perhaps things would have been different, but he was a policeman—an inspector, no less—and he had a duty to the public to keep them safe.

And now fifty people—probably more—were missing, presumed kidnapped, and it was Donovan's job to get to the bottom of what was going on and prevent any further disappearances.

Only…he had nothing. He knew about the brass raptors, of course—he'd even caught a glimpse of one himself—but their strikes were executed with such speed and surgical precision that even the Ghost had been unable to capture one of them, or even follow one back to its lair.

It didn't help that whoever was perpetrating the abductions was doing so for obscure reasons. Donovan could establish no motive. Typically in these cases people were motivated either by revenge or greed, and they would make their demands and have done with it. But this time, the abductions just kept coming, without warning.

He'd tried looking for a pattern in the abductions, the profiles of those taken, and could find nothing that might help him to establish a motive. He'd fingered all of the manufacturers who might have been supplying components—whether unwittingly or not—to the people responsible for the raptors, but again, he had been able to uncover nothing of use. Either the people behind the abductions were exceedingly clever, or else they had friends in high places, looking out for them from above.

Donovan feared that, in this case, perhaps both were true. And now the commissioner wanted to see him. Montague had taken a personal interest in the matter, and while Donovan found it reassuring to know he wasn't working in isolation, he wasn't really sure what the commissioner could bring to the investigation, other than to bawl at him on a daily basis for the lack of progress they were making.

Donovan took another long pull on his cigarette, relishing the sound of the crackling paper as the tip glowed a bright crimson. He allowed the smoke to plume luxuriously from his nostrils, wreathing his head in rings of ethereal blue.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching his desk. Mullins was there, brandishing a mug of steaming coffee.

The sergeant was red faced and his small, beady eyes darted back and forth as he stood nervously looking down at the inspector. He was a large man, in his late thirties, and always looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. Today, his brown suit was crumpled and his shirt clearly hadn't been ironed. Donovan knew the man's domestic situation was unenviable—his wife had left him recently and he was sharing an apartment with one of the constables—so he'd cut him some slack. Mullins's was yet another example of a marriage pulled to pieces by the force. He was a good man, and an even better sergeant. He'd sacrificed a lot for the good of the department. More, perhaps, than any one man should be expected to.

“I brought you a coffee, sir. You looked like you needed it.”

Donovan smiled and accepted the mug gratefully. “You know, Mullins, that's exactly the sort of thing that'll help you go far in this department.”

Mullins frowned. “Bringing you coffee, sir?”

Donovan laughed. “Don't be ridiculous, Mullins. Reading people. That's what I was talking about. You seem to have a remarkable knack for seeing to the heart of a matter, for understanding what a person wants. It'll stand you in good stead.” Donovan took a swig of the coffee. “See? You were right. I did need that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Donovan sighed heavily. “I don't suppose there have been any new developments?”

Mullins shrugged. “One of the men did take a call from a woman this morning while you were out. She asked for you by name. Said one of the brass things had tried to abduct her last night but some man in a black suit had saved her. I figured it must have been that Ghost chap again, sir.”

Donovan nodded slowly. So this was what the Ghost had wanted to meet with him about. “Call her back, Mullins. Have her come to the precinct. You can take her statement while I'm in with the commissioner. She might have gotten a good look at the thing. It could be our best lead yet.”

Mullins gave a curt nod. “Right away, sir.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing up his next words.

“Spit it out, Mullins.”

“What about the Ghost, sir? Do you think he's tied up in all this?”

The Ghost had been an ongoing cause of contention in the department during the Christmas season. The commissioner was still as keen as ever to have the vigilante caught and brought to justice, but Donovan had tried to play the matter down, ensuring as far as he could that his friend's activities were kept under the radar.

As he'd tried to point out to Montague on numerous occasions, the Ghost was a useful tool. His methods might be brutal, but they were effective, and despite what the newspapers decried at every available opportunity, the evidence only demonstrated that the Ghost had the best interests of the city at heart.

Of course, Donovan had stopped far short of revealing the true nature of his relationship with the vigilante, or the Ghost's involvement in the matter of the Roman and the affair at the museum. Nevertheless, the commissioner—and as far as Donovan could tell many others in the department—felt the Ghost was a menace who should be strung up for his crimes. Donovan suspected that, really, they were more concerned with the manner in which he showed up the police department for what they really were—a law-enforcement agency that spent more time pandering to the whims of the Senate rather than getting on with their jobs.

Donovan shook his head. “You just worry about getting a statement from that girl, Mullins. Leave the Ghost to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mullins, and he clumped away to his desk on the other side of the office to make the call.

Donovan stubbed the still-smoldering end of his cigarette in the ashtray beside his notebook and grinned. Perhaps they
were
getting somewhere, after all.

Two hours later, Donovan was ushered into the commissioner's office by a desk sergeant who bore an expression of forced jollity and calm.

The commissioner's office was situated on the floor above the main precinct, and compared to the sparse, economical circumstances in which the rest of the department worked, the room was palatial. In fact, Donovan mused as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, puffing slightly with the exertion, it would be more accurate to describe the commissioner's lair as a suite of rooms.

Decked out with furniture and fittings that Donovan always felt were more suited to a domestic dwelling—armchairs, coffee tables, portraits in gilded frames—the three connected rooms were more like those one might find in a top-end hotel like the Gramercy Park than anything one expected to find in a police station. He couldn't see how they were in any way conducive to getting any police work done—but then, that assumed the commissioner was still interested in doing any work. Realistically, Donovan knew, the commissioner was far more concerned with schmoozing politicians and showing off his pretty young wife around town.

Still, someone had to talk to the politicians, and he'd rather it was Montague than him. At least this way, Donovan could keep out of their way while he got on with the real police work.

At least, that was what Donovan had thought until he crossed the threshold into the commissioner's office and heard the desk sergeant pull the door shut behind him.

Donovan's heart sank as he saw who was sitting with the commissioner, reclining in one of the armchairs, puffing on a fat cigar. He'd never met the man, but he recognized him from the photographs he had seen in the newspapers: Senator Isambard Banks.

The man was balding, in his mid- to late fifties, and wore a pinstriped suit and white shirt, open at the collar. He was clean shaven and full faced and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. Pungent cigar smoke hovered in the still air around him, as if concealing him behind a semitranslucent veil.

Donovan sighed. So, now the Senate was leaning on them again, no doubt instructing them to bring a swift conclusion to the matter of the abductions. Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't trying.…

“Ah, there you are, Felix. Come in, take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”

Donovan gave the commissioner a sideways glance. Why the sudden geniality? It wasn't like the old fool to behave in such a fashion. Usually when Donovan was hauled into the commissioner's office it was to be faced with a series of curt commands and sage advice on how he should really be conducting his investigation. He'd never been offered a drink before. Perhaps the commissioner was showing off, attempting to impress the senator. Or perhaps Donovan was being welcomed into some sort of secret clique, and from now on he'd be expected to associate with these people and attend their drink parties and sell his soul to the devil just to keep his job. Well, he supposed he'd faced that problem before.

Donovan suppressed a laugh at his own expense. He could tell he'd just about reached his limit—he was getting cranky and paranoid and needed a good night's sleep.

Groaning inwardly, Donovan did as the commissioner instructed. “A scotch, thank you, Commissioner.” Donovan nodded to the seated senator and pulled up an armchair opposite the man. He reached for his packet of cigarettes and realized, with a stifled curse, that he'd left them downstairs on his desk.

Banks, grinning wolfishly, leaned forward and pulled a large, walnut cigar case from inside the folds of his jacket. He offered it to Donovan, who thanked him and took one gratefully. He didn't much like cigars, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He pulled the ignition patch and watched it flare.

Montague talked as he set about fixing Donovan's drink, taking a decanter from a small mahogany dresser that stood against the far wall. “You don't know Senator Banks, Donovan?”

Donovan smiled at the senator. “Only by reputation, I'm afraid.” He was careful to make it sound like a compliment. In reality, however, Donovan
did
only know the senator because of his reputation. His name had cropped up more than once during the investigation into the Roman's crime syndicate, connected to the cabal of corrupt individuals who had funded the crime boss's power station project down in the Battery.

There hadn't been enough evidence to haul him in on a charge, however, and unlike the other members of that small group, Banks hadn't gone and gotten himself murdered by the Roman's goons. Whether that was because he really hadn't been involved or because he'd been so significantly involved that the Roman had chosen to keep him alive, Donovan couldn't be sure.

Commissioner Montague, of course, had dismissed all notion of conspiracy, preferring to believe Banks was clean and that it was only to be expected that the condemned men would have had dealings with other, innocent members of the Senate. “Some of them had probably even met the president,” he had said loftily, “and we're not about to bring him in for questioning, are we?”

Donovan had wanted to respond that, yes, if the president had been implicated in a plot to unleash a dangerous interdimensional beast on the city, he would have absolutely considered it his duty to bring the man in for questioning. Wisely, however, he had bitten his tongue.

And now Banks was here, in the commissioner's office, and Donovan had to wonder what the hell Montague was getting them involved in.

The commissioner crossed the room, handed Donovan his drink, and then took a seat in a chair beside the senator. Donovan felt like he was about to be interviewed for a job. Perhaps he was.

“Well, here's to your health, gentlemen.” He saluted both men with his glass and then took a long slug, enjoying the sharp hit of alcohol, the long fingers of warmth that spread throughout his chest.

The commissioner cleared his throat. “Felix, Senator Banks is here to discuss some urgent business with us, and I hope that you will listen carefully and give him your full attention.” Montague leaned forward in his chair, his gray mustache bristling. “It's a matter of national security.”

Donovan blanched at the commissioner's patronizing tone but nodded heartily, sliding his drink onto the coffee table and meeting Banks's gaze. “Of course. How can I be of service, Senator?”

Here it comes
, he thought.
About these abductions…They're making our figures look terrible.…

“We have a spy in our midst, Inspector,” said Banks, his tone ominous. “A British spy. We have reason to believe he is in possession of information that could threaten our national security.” He leaned forward, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “We're talking about the safety of the entire country, here, Inspector. We're talking about war with the British Empire.” He sat back, allowing his words to sink in.