The Ultimate Secret (15 page)

A bribe to another official had garnered him very brief unrestricted access to a MARX terminal, where the machine had confirmed that three SS agents and a Russian soldier had all arrived in the city on the day Ferrera had died, and that only the Germans had left.

Following up on the Russian had been complex, and he’d eventually had to travel to Moscow, supposedly on a ‘cultural exchange’; it seemed the soldier had held a very high rank, in some sort of semi-secret branch of the military, and had supposedly been improbably old, born at the end of the last century. The official he’d bribed for the information had become coy and awkward at that point, suggesting that maybe it was an assumed name, and that several agents in succession had used the same identity.

More months had passed. Michelangelo had made more enquiries, but was becoming nervous as to whose attention he might be calling on himself. The Superior General had called him into his cell and asked him to stop his investigation, worrying that it was becoming an obsession. Giacomo’s death had been a tragedy, but their duty was to the living. He’d tried to do as he was told.

Then had come a communication from a mysterious woman named ‘Daria,’ who had been a friend of the Russian soldier’s, and had some answers as to why Father Giacomo had died. She’d wanted to meet him, to hand over some documents that would be of interest to him, and shed some light on what had happened that night. She wanted him to come to New York.

He’d had no way to contact her back – the only way to speak to her would have been to go – but he hadn’t the money to travel, and the Superior General had no intention of paying for the flight. It had seemed hopeless, until a mysterious benefactor sent him an air ticket, paid for out of a high-level fund in the Italian Republic. Seeing God’s hand at work, he had explained the developments to the Superior General and taken the flight.

This was far outside Michelangelo’s world. He was not a spy, not a detective; he was a priest, and a humble one, delighting in the quiet study of biology, writing papers for the Society of Jesus’ own journals and rarely doing anything remarkable. He wore glasses, and became wheezy if he ran for any length of time.

He had met Daria at the bar she had instructed him to come to. She’d seemed too young for all of this; beautiful, and bold, but too frail and innocent. Sad, too. He’d wondered if she was Konstantinov’s granddaughter. He’d worried that she was as out of her depth as he was his.

The documents were coming soon, she’d said. Other people were involved, other interests. There was danger, too; they may have to change their plans at short notice. She’d given him her address, taken the details of his hotel. Told him to come to her, and promised that everything would be explained then.

And then this young Indian girl, this Kim, had come with a box, and told him that Daria was dead. She hadn’t been able to tell him anything about Giacomo, but said the box was important, that it revealed a terrible crime the Nazis had committed, many years ago, and that Daria had been killed for that secret. She’d guessed, as they’d talked, that Giacomo had died for it too. And now it was his, and she would leave it in his hands to decide what to do with it. He’d thanked her and she’d left.

Now, he felt like a child lost in the woods; like he’d wandered into a fairy tale, and didn’t know the rules to live by.

He sighed.

The best thing now was probably to take the cursed thing home. Let the Superior General decide what to do with it.

The horn on the tiny dresser whistled, and he frowned. What would the receptionist want with him? He was paid up for the day, and there was no-one left in this city, it seemed, who would want to speak with him.

It whistled again, and he picked it up. “He-hello?”

“Mr Rocchio?” The receptionist’s nasally accent echoed up the pipes.

“Yes?”

“I have a visitor here for you. A Mr Pagano? He says you have common friends in Italy, who suggested you meet up, or something. Shall I send him up?” She seemed bored, and keen to finish the conversation.

“Y-yes, I guess. I didn’t – yes, send him up. It would be good to see someone–”

“Okay, sending him up now.” The horn died abruptly, the whistling noise fading to silence.

M
UMBAI,
T
HE
B
RITISH
R
AJ,
1999

“I
T’S DONE, THEN
?” asked Smith, once Kim had made herself a cup of tea and seated herself.

“Yes, Smith.” She sipped at the drink and set it on the arm of the chair. “The box is delivered, as planned.”

He shifted his bulk in his seat and nodded. “Any deaths?”

“One. The vampire Daria Krushchova. The SS got to her.”

“Ah. That is a shame. But it could have been worse.”

“Yes, Smith.” She stared at the green leather desktop, then asked, “Why did we do it? We’ve started a war in Europe. Is this the first move towards overthrowing the Company?”

The spymaster peered at her over his glasses. “Does everything we do have to do with India, Kim?”

“No, I suppose, but...”

It was early morning. Rather than spearing in between the blinds, the light crept in, grey and mild. Kim had come directly from the airfield. Her eyes felt gritty, and she was tired.

Smith was silent for several seconds. At last, he replied, “This is undoubtedly an opportunity for us, Kim, and I daresay we shall exploit it. But the intention was foremost to do a favour for a friend, who wanted to right a wrong.”

He leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his bulk. “I was contacted, earlier this year, by two... people, I suppose. Yes. History shall call them people; who am I to contradict? Two quite extraordinary people. They are both extremely influential in their countries, and involved in a great many endeavours, and yet they spend much of their time thinking. And one thought they have had is that they should use their influence to do good in the world.”

Smith reached for his tea, took a sip. Holding his cup in his lap, he continued. “One of my new friends encountered rumours of a terrible crime, and heard of a smaller one that he realised was perhaps connected. These two remarkable people discussed the crimes, big and small, and decided that they had to take steps to see justice done. But, while they had enormous influence, they had little ability to act directly in the world. And so they contacted me.”

Kim regarded her employer curiously. “And so... what? They paid for our aid?”

Smith chuckled. “They will do. If, as I say, this is a good time to move against the Company, then we shall need friends. Britannia’s eye is distracted from us, for the time being. Thanks to your actions, these past few months, Russia’s is likely to be as well. But there is still China to be considered. We will be needing powerful friends before too long.”

Kim curled up on the chair, musing, listening to the sounds of the market setting up outside the window. “Smith? These people, these new friends of yours... They’re machines, aren’t they? Difference engines?”

Smith huffed, smiling. “You really are very bright, Kim. Analytical arrays, I’m told they’re called, although I’m beggared if I know the difference.”

“What are their names?”

“Hm? Marx and Osman. You’ll come to know both names well enough, in future.”

“I see.”

Both man and girl sipped their tea in silence for a few moments.

“Smith?” Kim said eventually.

“Yes, Kim?”

“You said we could speak of my father, at some point. We never did. You said you and he, and your professor, went separate ways. Why? What happened?”

“Oh,” he said, and he closed his eyes. He looked very tired. “They died. Both of them, your father and Professor Ghandi. Assassinated. Your mother was right.”

“Who–” Kim’s voice caught in her throat. She cleared it and started again. “Who–”

“The Company, of course. They have people for it. I considered finding out who, after I started working here, but decided I didn’t want to know. What would I do? And to what end? Whoever it was, he was just the weapon. The hand that aimed it was the Company, one way or another. It’s the Company, ultimately, that I have to punish for it.

“For years I thought it was an old friend of Ghandi’s. A British man, who he’d known at Eton. He’d visited us a few times and tried to convince us that Britannia was the best for India. It was only years later that I found out he’d died right around the same time as Ghandi and your father did.”

Kim was shocked to find she was tearing up. “And did the Company kill him too?”

Smith opened his eyes again, shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

“What was his name?”

“The friend?” Smith fell silent for a moment, thinking. “Quicksilver, that was it. Hercules Quicksilver. Some sort of war hero, I believe. He was a good man. Principled. Didn’t understand India, really, or the Company; but good-hearted and brave. I believe he had sons.”

“Maybe I’ll meet them one day.”

“Maybe, Kim. Maybe.”

CODA:

THE EVE OF WAR

This is our home – yet this is not the whole of our world. For our world is where our full destiny lies – with men, of all people, and all nations, who are or would be free.

– Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890 – 1969)

N
EW
Y
ORK,
USSA, 1999

“O
KAY, SENDING HIM
up now,” said the receptionist, her tinny voice echoing. The horn died abruptly, the whistling noise fading to silence.

“That wasn’t smart, pilgrim.”

Father Michelangelo wheeled around, heart suddenly pounding. There, one foot on the floor, the other still on the railing outside, stood one of the most remarkable men he had ever seen.

The man was black, and very tall, with a patch over one eye and a full, flowing moustache. He’d covered his clothes – a close-fitting white jumpsuit dotted with pouches, with a sort of star design on the chest – with a blindingly blue trenchcoat. It hurt the eyes to look at him, as though Michelangelo’s mind didn’t want to focus on the outlandish apparition.

“What did you say?” asked the priest, utterly at a loss.

“Have you told any of the cats back at the Vatican what hotel you’re staying at, daddio?”

“I–” Michelangelo hesitated. The stranger was right. “Then who–”

“A very dangerous Nazi cat by the name of Adler, and he
ain’t
here to share a toke and get down, if you know what I’m saying.”

Michelangelo wasn’t sure that he did. “He’s here to kill me?” he ventured.

The stranger nodded. “He’s been tasked by none other than the king of badness, Adolf Hitler himself, to burn that box of magic beans you got there, and it’s a safe bet he’s gonna see you as a liability. He’s gonna want to silence you, true believer.”

The priest shook his head. “Who are you? Why are you talking like that?”

“The name’s Jack Scorpio,” the stranger said, “and I’ll gladly answer all your questions in a little while, but there’s a seriously bad trip about sixty seconds away from that door, so I’d say now is
not the time
. Now, you can either come out this window with me and your little box of tricks, and we can go talk to a man called General Zitron who is
seriously
vibing to meet you, or I can walk away and let our friend from Berlin come in here and give you his spiel instead. What do you say?”

“I – I’ll come.” Michelangelo seized the box and stepped to the window. Some sort of flying contraption was floating in the street behind Scorpio’s shoulder. “Where are we going? What are we doing?”

Scorpio smiled. “We’re starting a war, baby. And what you got there is the best kind of ammunition there is. Welcome to S.T.E.A.M.”