The Eterna Files (13 page)

“A show entirely of the human variety, my good man,” Blakely replied charmingly, unruffled. “No offense to my equine friends, but humanity is capable of craft beyond the wildest imagination, and our good patron Lord Black needs
us
to be the very
cleverest
of animals and the most impressive show of all. I hope you have enjoyed our little act on the grand and glorious old Heath where highwaymen once looted and where ghosts still howl upon the moor.…”

As the applause began, Knight swept away to stand by the tent door, graciously bidding adieu to the crowd as they bustled off toward their employers' various estates—land that would never be theirs nor the rights of their lineage. Many thanked her for a momentary distraction from their dreary routines.

Spire and Rose stared at each other helplessly across the grassy space as the tent emptied.

“Blakely, get Miss Everhart out of that trapping
right
now,” Spire barked as he finally freed himself from his harness. One of the ciphers helped her down. She yanked her arm away from the figure, storming over to take the empty seat next to Spire, glaring at Lord Black all the while.

Everhart made a wiping gesture at her face, nodding toward Spire. Puzzled, he put a hand to his cheek; it came away covered with white greasepaint. So they
had
made him the clown. Growling, he whipped out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his best—now grass-stained—brown coat and tidied his besmeared face. Finished, he clenched the ruined handkerchief in a greasy fist.

“A circus
act,
” Lord Black cried, shaking his head, laughing. “Brilliant for espionage. Brilliant for spying. Magicians make people, items, information, all of it disappear. And the aerial work! Genius! Imagine, Mr. Spire, how useful they'll all be!”

“Were you kidnapped as well?” Spire asked the nobleman.

“Heavens no,” he scoffed. “I wanted to see how they captured someone. Ground, aerial, and chemical assault all at the same time, masked and hooded, quick and seamless; all just as you advertised, Mr. Blakely, thank you. I am most impressed by the show.” He inclined his head toward the small man; a benediction of sorts.

Spire doubted Lord Black would dare to be so casual about Spire or Everhart if they too were nobility. An old, old wound—once again, the upper classes used the striving classes for sport—burned low in a quiet, locked-away place in his soul.

The tent was empty now save for the performers and those on the dais. Blakely dropped the tent flaps. Before Lord Black and Spire, the two acrobats got down on one knee and took off their masks and hoods. They seemed familiar, though Spire could not place them.

The male was a gorgeous creature who looked as if he'd stepped out of a Raphael masterpiece; the woman, utterly exquisite, the bulk of her thick black hair tucked beneath a thin black head scarf, large dark eyes, and olive skin. They were in their mid-to-late thirties, perhaps, Spire guessed.

“I started the ciphers in my youth when I broke this gentleman”—Blakely stuck a thumb out at the blond man—“out of our orphanage—really a workhouse—when I was twelve. We survived by performing, by small acts of petty thievery, wherever anyone would take us. Some of us went on to do great things, didn't we, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson?”

Everyone gasped. The Wilsons, Spire thought. No, they couldn't be.…

“I thought you died in the wilds of Afghanistan!” Black exclaimed incredulously.

“We'd rather the world continued to think that,” the man said, and there was something in his voice that made Spire wonder if he wished that they had.

The
Wilsons
. Mr. Reginald Wilson, a legendary spy who had given the military key victories four years earlier, at the beginning of the war. Then he started fudging information and sending back false leads.

His wife, Adira, was a whole other grand story.

She spoke in faintly Arabic-tinged English, her gaze never wavering. “We have done this because we have no other way to stop running. Lord Black, we need your blessing. Mr. Spire, we ask you to agree to be our captain. We would like to serve the country where we both were born and we dare think our skills are impressive and unusual enough to be of service. Hence the display. One often needs to make a show of things to be able to present the truth.”

“Unconventional as we most certainly are, we're tired of existing entirely in the shadows,” Blakely stated. “Lord Black, you have been the only one open minded enough to consider us for anything to do with the government, and we are so grateful to you.”

“Yes, but Mr. Wilson, you disobeyed your government's orders,” Black said sternly.

“Crisis of conscience, sir,” Mr. Wilson replied. “Adira and I are tired of the Great Game; the mandate to be anywhere and everywhere, telling everyone how they can or can't do business, the Empire eliminating anyone who got in its way. We thought we'd just stay in Kandahar, make you think we were dead. But we missed home.”

“Truth is, we were born to be spies,” Mrs. Wilson said with a hunger Spire recognized from when he joined the Metropolitan force. “I never knew life could be so thrilling until Reginald taught me the trade. We
need
to be spies, milord, it gives us strength and purpose. Can we instead bring the Great Game home, to something less deadly and politically muddy?”

“Everything is politically muddy, Mrs. Wilson. And I know you're not naive enough to truly believe otherwise,” Lord Black said gravely.

Spire recalled more of what he knew about the Wilsons, as infamous in England for their romance as their talents, death having thrown wide their sweeping secrets and made them icons. Born in England, Mrs. Wilson was said to be as brilliant as she was striking. Descended of Persian aristocracy, she'd fallen in love with Mr. Wilson while visiting relatives in Tehran, where he was on a mission, and decided to abandon the marriage planned for her.

At Adira's request, Wilson converted to Islam so that she would not have to forsake her faith as well as her family, then the two made it appear she had died in a tragic accident. Married, the Wilsons aided England, providing information gleaned from relations on the outs with the native regime. But, as was the case with many great talents in the confusing moral fog of war, the Wilsons reached their breaking point and wiped themselves off the map.

Sensational novelists had written dramatic accounts of their relationship and tragic end. Reginald's scandalous conversion to Islam would have been decried if he'd lived, but in death the Wilsons' actions were painted with unabashed romantic heroism. His father would be so disappointed, Spire thought mordantly; to find out that the Wilsons were alive after all.

Black rubbed his dimpled chin. “Because you voluntarily went missing in action, thusly insubordinate, submitting fraudulent documents, your identities would have to be entirely eradicated. Your story, your love, your ‘deaths' were all famous here. So if you work with Mr. Spire and under my protection, you can never be seen in public as yourselves. Do you agree?”

The Wilsons nodded. Mr. Wilson reached for his wife's hand and squeezed it.

“Did I mention they're damn fine pickpockets to boot?” Blakely asked, producing a basket that contained several items, one of which, Spire noted, was his wallet. Miss Everhart pursed her lips, eyeing a small embroidered bag. Lord Black applauded as he fished out a gold watch fob. In all this elaborate waste of his time, the Wilsons were the only thing Spire could admire, their craving for spy craft as keen as his need to police.

“Also know, Your Lordship, Mr. Spire,” Blakely continued, “that I can make sympathetic stain.” When Spire didn't answer immediately, the small man added, “There's only one company here in Britain that makes it. But I can. Sympathetic stain, white ink, the words are invisible until you—”

“I know what sympathetic stain is, Blakely,” Spire barked. Blakely nodded and smiled again.

“Rest assured,” Lord Black said grandly, “I am impressed by all of you. Every talent shall be put to use as I see fit.” He glanced to his side and coughed. “As Mr. Spire sees fit, I should say. Well done!” His unabashedly delighted gaze was fixed on the performers once again.

A dark-skinned, white-haired head popped up around the side of the dais, the man's tall form followed, carrying a large accordion like a breastplate. He waved. “'Ello, Your Lordship, name's Samson,” he said in a resonant cockney accent. “If you're 'iring, sir, do let me know if you've need of a musician, will you? I hear Parliament can be a bit of a circus, too.”

Lord Black laughed heartily. “Noted, Mr. Samson. Your music was a vital element!”

Samson's brown, full mouth flashed a smile as bright as his white hair. He turned away, packing up some of the cipher materials.

Black turned to Spire. “Was this not an incredible display?”

Spire stared at Black for a long, frowning moment.

“Really, what did you think?” Blakely asked earnestly. “Reggie and I haven't performed together in
years,
but I assure you, I take theatrical quality very seriously, Mr. Spire.”

Spire stepped out of the last remaining cord looped around his leg, and stood. “When an operation calls for insanity, now I know whom to deploy.” Spire whirled to Black with a fierce look. “Lord Black, I'm off to
work.
I'll not be giving or receiving orders from a carnival tent.”

He stalked off, batting back the thick burlap curtain and nearly running toward carriages tethered in the shade, grateful that his boyhood love of horses and the freedom they offered meant he was an efficient, swift rider and the city would be soon gained. Keeping his rage in check, he unhitched one of the horses from a red brougham painted with the word “Ciphers” in gold and rode the beast bareback to London.

CHAPTER

SIX

Clara and Franklin returned downtown via carriage in utter silence, exiting a few blocks off at the tip of Manhattan's first park, Bowling Green. She didn't press Franklin for what he'd seen. Not yet. The senator had gone to Delmonico's, to meet with campaign strategists who seemed to keep calling hours in fine dining establishments.

Ahead of them as they turned toward their building, leaning against a lamppost at the intersection of Pearl and Broad Street, was a familiar, brown-skinned face beneath a newsboy's cap. The youngster's clothes were not new, nor fine, but very well maintained. Clara and Franklin smiled at the same time.

“Josiah!” Franklin called. The errand boy had a joyful spirit and was their most reliable hire. He beamed and took off his cap, revealing spiral black hair shorn close, and bowed slightly.

“What, why are you lookin' surprised, I'm always here for you!” Josiah said with a little laugh, as if his presence were obvious. He kicked a stone at his feet with a worn shoe that spoke of darting endlessly about cobbled streets.

“I know,” Clara said quietly. “It's just nice to see you. It's been a … difficult day.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, ma'am,” Josiah said earnestly. “Can I help with anything?”

“Yes, in fact,” Clara said. Josiah lit up. “We need the Bixbys. Remember them?”

“Oh, yes! Why, I saw them yesterday, they were visiting their gran up in my neigh—”

“Hush.” Franklin stopped the boy. Josiah snapped his mouth closed. Clara watched a complex flurry of emotion pass over the boy's face.

“Right,” Josiah said. The stone got a fierce kick across the cobblestone street.

“Remember what I said about our interactions?” Franklin asked softly.

“People might always be listening or watching,” the boy muttered. “I never take the same road twice. And I know the Bixbys can't act around your folk like they've got relatives like my folk. I know. And I won't say nothing.” He turned to Clara, visibly struggling to regain his usual warmth.

“I truly do appreciate that you keep an eye out for us, Joe,” Clara said, smiling down at him, her heart aching at the hard truths crashing over him like a wave, a separate and unequal New York eroding the foundations of his young life. Rules, spoken and unspoken kept him, and the community from which the Bixbys once hailed, at a disadvantaged, racialized distance both literally and figuratively.

“Of course, Miss Clara,” he murmured. She watched the boy bury his truths in a deep, complicated place. “Why do you need the Bixbys?” he asked.

“Ah, you know we can't tell anyone, not even you, exactly why.” Clara chuckled. “Just send for Fred Bixby, please. Tell him to check the books for any known
Jacks
and come to me straightaway.”

“Someday will you tell me what things like that really mean?” Josiah asked.

Clara shook her head. When the boy pouted, she added: “I would if I could,” though she knew that not knowing kept him safer. “Did you happen to notice if Miss Kent came to the office today?”

“No, but I'll send word if you need her,” Josiah stated. “I bet she'll be glad for something to do, with Mr. Veil traveling so much and her family disowning her and all.”

“Indeed, do send for her then. Did I ever tell you that you were the most useful young man in the world?” Clara asked.

“Maybe. Once or twice.” The boy shrugged with a chuckle.

“Never forget it.” Clara smiled. “Now, go on with you.”

“Right away, ma'am,” Josiah exclaimed, beaming as Franklin passed him a bill. He ran off, intent on his tasks.

Back in the office, the first thing Franklin did was to go to a small cubbyhole in the wall, from which he plucked two snifters and a small bottle filled with brown liquid.

“You'll need this when you hear what I have to say. Hell, I need it,” he muttered, pouring a generous tot of brandy into each glass. She appreciated that Franklin never made her feel unladylike for her occasional penchant for a strong draught of liquor.