Ghosts of War (5 page)

Rutherford rushed to the small bedroom where, beside the single cot, sat the holotube transmitter he needed. He flicked the metal lever to the “Make Call” position and sat back, waiting for the unit to warm up to capacity. The machine whirred to life, emitting a dull electrical hum. The metal box was rectangular, about two feet tall, and contained a mirrored cavity within which a holographic image of the person on the other end of the line would be displayed. It was decorated in a modern style, the side panels covered in ornate fretwork and inlaid with colored glass. Rutherford found himself wishing the manufacturers had spent more time developing a way to make it work faster and less time worrying about how the thing looked.

It would take a few moments for the transmitter to come online, and then a couple of minutes to establish a connection to London.

Rutherford slouched on the bed, willing the machine to hurry.

He cocked his head when he heard something
snick
out in the hallway. What was it? The sound of someone cocking a gun?

Cautiously, trying his best not to make a sound, Rutherford slid off the bed and reached for the penknife in his pocket. He eased the blade out of the housing and shuffled across the room to stand behind the door. The door itself had swung to on loose hinges, leaving only the slightest crack of light spilling in from the hallway. Otherwise, the bedroom was shrouded in gloom, lit only by the shimmering blue light of the holotube unit.

He glanced around the dingy room, looking for anything else he might co-opt as a weapon. It was sparsely furnished, with only the bed, the bedside table, and an old wardrobe filled with different sets of clothes—everything from sharp suits to pauper's rags, depending on what he might need to help him adopt one of the many personas that his trade demanded. There were weapons—guns, knives, explosives—in the other room. He'd been intending to collect those before he left. He cursed himself for not being better prepared.

Rutherford held his breath, listening intently for any further sounds from the hallway. Yes—there—the scuff of a boot on the carpet. Someone had followed him. They must have been good; he'd been careful to take a circuitous route, and he'd been vigilant, stopping to look in store windows or to buy a coffee, using those opportunities to scan the faces of the people on the street, checking none of them were becoming familiar.

There was no doubt, however. Someone else was in the apartment.

The holotube blared suddenly, the sound ringing out like a foghorn in the otherwise silent apartment. Rutherford glanced at it. A face had resolved in the mirrored cavity. “Rutherford? Are you there, Rutherford? It's London here.”

The door to the bedroom slammed open with sudden force as the intruder came running at the sound of the English voice. Rutherford fell back against the wall to avoid catching the door in the face and barely had time to catch sight of the dark-haired man framed in the opening. Rutherford dived to the floor as a gunshot rang out, the bullet splintering the plaster where he had been standing only moments before.

He rolled, doing his best to get clear in the confined space of the small room.

“Rutherford!” the man on the other end of the holotube cried as he must have heard the echo of the gunshot all the way in London. “Rutherford?”

Another two gunshots, and this time the holotube transmitter fizzed and popped, the mirrored panels shattering as the lead bullets slammed into it, sending it spinning to the floor.

Rutherford used the edge of the bed to haul himself to his feet, twisting around and leaping for the other man, his penknife clutched in his fist. He brought it down hard, catching the intruder in the top of the arm and burying the knife to the hilt.

The man screamed and struck out with the butt of his gun, clubbing Rutherford hard across the side of the head. Rutherford staggered back, dazed, refusing to let go of the penknife and ripping it out of the man's arm in the process, causing blood to fountain up out of the wound. The man let off another shot, but his aim was wide and Rutherford easily avoided it, leaping out through the open door into the hall.

He didn't have time to scramble for the weapons in the other room, however, as moments later the dark-haired man was rushing him, pistol-whipping him hard across the face with the revolver. Rutherford cried out, dropping to his knees, spitting blood. Blindly he punched up, striking the man squarely in the balls.

The man doubled over, and Rutherford, lights dancing before his eyes, repeated the motion, this time burying his fist in the man's gut, causing him to drop his weapon and stagger back a pace, gasping for breath.

Rutherford stood, his back against the wall.

Then the man was rushing him again, and it was all Rutherford could do to get his arms up in defense. He jabbed out savagely with the penknife, still clutched in his right fist, roaring in sheer, unadulterated rage. To his satisfaction he caught the man brutally in the face, burying the blade in his left eye.

The result was almost instantaneous. The man slumped, his knees giving way, and then dropped to the floor, an inanimate sack of bones.

Rutherford, his back still to the wall, slid to the floor beside the body, panting for breath.

A minute passed, maybe longer. Rutherford felt numb, dazed. He was bleeding from a severe gash in his cheek where he'd been struck by the butt of the gun. His hands were trembling. In the other room, through the crack in the doorway, he could see the holotube terminal smoldering on the carpet, fizzing and popping as the electrics burnt out.

Beside him, on the floor, surrounded by a growing pool of dark, glossy blood, the corpse stared up at him accusingly. The man was—had been—in his early thirties. He was swarthy and good-looking, muscular and fit. His chin was encrusted with stubble. Blood now ran freely from his nose and his slack-jawed mouth, and the penknife still jutted rudely from his left eye. The eye itself had burst, and optic fluid trickled down his cheek.

Gingerly, Rutherford leaned forward and searched the man's pockets. The man was clearly a professional. No identification papers, no handwritten notes, no jewelry. Just a thick wad of ten-dollar bills and a packet containing a few sticks of gum. Rutherford pocketed both of these.

Then, unsure what else to do but unable to hang around in his compromised bolt-hole any longer, he gathered a change of clothes, some more cash, a gun and some ammunition, and got away from there as quickly as he could, leaving the dead man where he had fallen, bleeding out all over the carpet.

T
he Ghost stood on the roof of the precinct building, gazing out over the thronging streets of the city.

This was
his
city. The city he had sworn to protect. The city that permeated the very fabric of his being, that coursed through his veins, an immutable part of his psyche. The Ghost was the city rendered flesh. He was its avatar, its judge, jury, and executioner. It was as if the city imbued him with energy, woke him from the slumber of his daily routines, gave him purpose, meaning. Gave him a reason to exist.

In return, the Ghost watched, and waited; a silent sentinel, ready to stir into action when the city needed him.

Now, he was poised like a statue on the corner of the police building, his trench coat billowing around him in the gusting winds. A cigarette dripped from his lower lip, and his goggles glowed like red pinpricks in the darkness as he turned his head, surveying the passing cars on the street below. Searching for signs of the raptors, striking out from their nest to wreak havoc once more upon the citizens below. Searching for danger, for mobsters or burglars, muggers or rapists. Searching for valediction and redemption.

If the brass monsters showed themselves that night, he would stop them. He would down one, shredding its wings, and he would pull it apart to find out what diabolical mischief had given it life. Perhaps then he would find a clue as to their purpose, or their origin, or both.

Above, the searchlight of a dirigible shone down in a brilliant column, washing everything it touched in a brilliant white light. And farther out, all across the city, electric lights twinkled and shone in the windows of tower blocks, causing the whole island to glow, underlighting the brooding night sky. The moon was shrouded in wispy clouds, hanging full and low in the distance.

He heard the scuff of a booted foot from somewhere behind him, and smiled.

“Get down from there, Gabriel. You're making the place look untidy.”

The Ghost turned to see Donovan standing on the rooftop a few feet away, his hair whipping around his face in the cross winds, a wide grin on his face. Behind him, the door to the fire escape was wedged open, allowing yellow light to spill out across the graveled courtyard.

The Ghost dropped down from the lip of the building and walked over to greet his friend, clasping him firmly by the hand. “How are you, Felix? How's Flora?”

“Tired and overworked.” Donovan said, with a shrug. “Nothing new there. I haven't seen Flora for weeks. Not properly.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “But we're good. We're surviving.” He flexed his shoulder. “And this is finally beginning to heal.”

Donovan had taken a bullet in the shoulder back in November, during a run-in with Gideon Reece, the Roman's second in command. He'd nearly bled to death in the stairwell of his apartment building until the Ghost had come to his aid, dragging him across town to his own apartment and strapping the wound. That was how Donovan had first learned of the Ghost's alter ego, having spent the night sleeping fitfully in an armchair, waking to find the Ghost had once more become Gabriel Cross.

Since then, there had been a growing bond of trust and mutual respect between the two men, even if their methods were often diametrically opposed.

“What about you? You've been quiet.” The concern was evident in Donovan's voice. He knew about the canceled parties, the fact that Gabriel had retreated from public life since the death of Celeste.

“I've been busy,” the Ghost replied, attempting to draw a line under the matter.

“Haven't we all,” Donovan laughed, darkly. He sounded more exasperated than amused.

“This raptor business…” the Ghost started.

“Ah, yes,” Donovan sighed. “You look like you've been busy.” He indicated his face, referencing the Ghost's scarred and scratched appearance. “A woman called Patricia Reuben called the station this morning, asking for me by name. Said she'd been abducted by one of the flying things but a man in a black suit had saved her. Know anything about that?”

The Ghost laughed. “Did she give you anything useful?”

“Not really,” Donovan replied. “Nothing new. It's helpful to have a firsthand account, but she only told us what we already knew: that the things come swooping out of the sky to pluck people off the streets, seemingly at random. She was walking back from a jazz club when it happened. She was lucky you were there to help. Otherwise she'd have gone the way of all the others.”

The Ghost nodded. “I only wish we knew what that was. And that I'd been quicker. There was another one, too. That one got away with a young man.”

Donovan shook his head. He looked pained. “That one hasn't been reported yet.” He kicked at the gravel underfoot. “I take it you've had no luck tracking the things, then?”

“No. They're too fast, even carrying a body. I damaged one of them yesterday, but I had to let it go to save the girl.”

“Too bad,” Donovan said morosely.

The two men lapsed into a brief, knowing silence.

The Ghost studied the policeman, who seemed distracted. He watched as Donovan glanced up at the sound of the police dirigible whirring overhead, as if worried they might find themselves caught beneath its swinging searchlight.

Then Donovan said suddenly, urgently, “Look, there's something else. Something that's come up.”

“This thing with the commissioner?” the Ghost queried.

“Yeah. The thing with the commissioner.” Donovan searched around in his jacket, realized he'd left his cigarettes on his desk again, and held his hand out to the Ghost, who chuckled and tossed him his own packet. Donovan slipped one of the thin white sticks out of the paper wrapper and pulled the ignition tab. He sighed gratefully as he dragged the nicotine into his lungs. “Seems there's a British spy running amok down there”—he nodded toward the bristling lights of the city below—”and the commissioner wants me to find him.”

The Ghost frowned. “A
spy?
Aren't there government agencies to take care of that sort of thing? What about the raptors?”

Donovan blew smoke from his nostrils in long riffles. “That's just it. That's what's got me feeling jumpy about the whole thing. I think the commissioner's been leaned on. The whole thing seems to have been orchestrated by a senator called Isambard Banks.” He paused. “Do you remember that name?”

The Ghost frowned. “Wasn't he mixed up in all that mess with the Roman?”

“That's him.” Donovan nodded. “Walked away from the whole thing because we couldn't tie him back to anything specific. But his name was linked to the others, more than once. Anyway, he was there when I went to speak to the commissioner this afternoon. Pretty much gave me an order to get on with it, and the commissioner just sat by and encouraged it to happen. Thing is, I don't trust him, Gabriel.”

“Who? The senator? Or the commissioner?”

Donovan shrugged. “Perhaps both…I don't know. There's something not right. I can't put my finger on it.”

“Did he tell you what this spy was up to?”

“Counterintelligence. Apparently he knows secrets that could ignite a war with the British,” Donovan replied, his voice low.

“You mean he's uncovered what Banks and the rest of those corrupt bastards are up to, and Banks is trying to stop him going public,” the Ghost laughed, skeptically.

“Something like that,” Donovan said, his tone serious. He reached out, catching the Ghost by the arm. “I need your help, Gabriel. If this is real, if there really is a war brewing…well, we have to stop it.”

The Ghost nodded. He knew the horrors of war. Knew what it could do to a man. Donovan was right. If this spy really was in a position to escalate things with the British, to exploit the intelligence he'd uncovered, then he had to be stopped. “Of course,” he said. “I'll start by checking out Banks, find out what he's really up to. But first I want to bring down one of those raptors.”

Donovan nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He flicked the butt of his cigarette over the edge of the building, and the Ghost watched it tumble through the air and disappear into the haze of the city. When he looked back, Donovan was brandishing a manila envelope. “Photographs, names, places—everything I've got on the spy.”

The Ghost accepted the packet and slid it inside his coat. “Keep in touch, Felix,” he said, and then turned and ran toward the edge of the building, leaping up onto the stone lip and propelling himself into the air.

For a moment he was falling again, hurtling toward the street below. Then, seconds later, he was soaring away on twin spikes of flame, up and over the top of the nearby tower blocks, the rush of the wind in his face, adrenaline coursing through his veins.