Johnny took one of his newspapers, the Daily Telegraph, opened it up to the business pages and folded it back, presenting the article to Rachel. The pictures showed a large man in a black jacket, bowtie, and top hat. The headline read: “Platte Acquires New Plantation in India.”

  “Eddie Platte, he’s one of the richest men around,” Johnny said. “Owns a paper factory, shipping lines, and such like.”

  Rachel and Charles looked at each other. “Where would we find him?” Rachel asked.

  “’Is factory’s in the East End,” Johnny replied.

  “And how do we get there?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Beats me. Take a cab or somethin’?”

  “Okay. I’ll take one of your papers and give you another penny for your time.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” Johnny said, pocketing the change and handing over the newspaper. He surveyed the crowd and began to yell out the headlines like a bullhorn once again.

  Charles and Rachel walked away from the boy, unsure where to go next. “I guess we’re getting a cab then,” Charles said.

  “Yes. Just have to wait for one to come by.”

  They watched the melee of horses and people, until a black two-wheeled Hansom cab drawn by a single horse came into view. Rachel waved her arm frantically to attract the attention of the driver, who sat above and behind its small cab. With a short pull on the reins he brought it to a stop.

  “We need a ride, please,” Charles said.

  “And where might you be going, young sir and miss?” He feigned courtesy while frowning at their poor and unkempt appearance.

  “The Platte paper factory,” Rachel replied.

  “That’s a shillin’. Are you… sure you can afford that?”

  Charles pulled the coin from his pocket—it was the last money they had–and flashed it.

  “Get in.”

  As the wheels bumped and rocked over cobblestones, Charles touched Rachel’s hand so they could communicate silently.

  This place is primitive yet very vibrant, don’t you think?

  They lifted their heads to smell the odors of fresh baked bread and other cooking coming from the carts of street vendors, and then plugged their noses at the smells of dung and human waste. Smartly dressed men in bowler hats walked by, some beside women in glamorous white dresses with sleeves down to their elbows and hems down nearly to the ground, the man always taking the outside of the sidewalk lest he be perceived to be prostituting the woman.

  Presently, they arrived at the factory: a large building whose roof was a sawtooth pattern with chimneys belching black smoke, and a high brick wall topped with barbed wire enclosing it.

  “Here we are, young sir and miss,” the driver said. They alighted onto the cobblestones and the horse clopped off past the tall rod iron gates of the factory. The smell of urine hung in the air as boys and men dressed in ragged britches and old shirts milled around outside the gates.

  One man, who looked to be approaching fifty, looked them up and down. “You’s country folk, you is. What’re you doing ’ere?”

  “We came into the city to find work,” Charles replied without hesitation.

  “Well you’ll ’ave to get to the back o’ the line then, won’t you? We’ve been standing ’ere for hours, ’opin they’s ’irin’.”

  “Yes sir, we will,” Charles said.

  “An’ you, young miss… They don’t employ women there.”

  “Oh, I… I’m just here for moral support,” Rachel said, clinging to Charles’ arm as though they were a couple.

  “I see.”

  “What hours is the factory open?” Charles asked.

  “All day, every day,” the man said. A boy of no more than thirteen bumped into him from behind. He turned around. “Oy you, watch where you’s goin’!”

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re goin’?” the boy retorted.

  Their new friend turned back to them. “There’s no respect left anymore, no respect for they’s elders,” he complained. “The East End o’ London’s a filthy, ragged dump. No one wiv a choice should ’ave to come ’ere.”

  Charles and Rachel wandered off a little way. “I wonder if he’s in there?” Rachel said. “Platte, that is.”

  “I expect so. Even though the factory runs continuously, I’m sure he doesn’t. I’m sure he lives in a fine house somewhere well away from here. And that’ll be our chance.”

  “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “No, but we can do it. We just have to wait for the right moment.”

  They wandered back to their companion. “What time does Mr. Platte usually leave the factory?” Rachel asked.

  “Oh, you won’t get a chance to see ’im. All these buggers ’ere be beggin’ for work, but he just stays in ’is carriage, escorted by six policemen.”

  “But, what time?” Charles pressed.

  “Bow Bell rings about six, usually. You know about Bow Bell, right?”

  “No,” Charles said.

  “Yeah. You’re Cockney if you were born wivin’ earshot o’ the bell.”

  “Interesting. And what time is it now?”

  “’bout three.”

  “Is there anywhere to get something to eat around here?” Rachel asked.

  The man’s face split into a broad grin and he launched into a full on belly laugh. “No, you won’t find anything around here. We can’ even get somethin’, never mind an outsider!”

  “We’ll just have to wait and deal with being hungry then,” Charles said.

  ****

  Six policemen on horses arrived, forming a cordon either side of the tall factory gate. “Get back! Get back! Make way!”

  “I guess he’s coming out soon,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not sure which way the carriage will go, or whether the police ride all the way with them. But, let’s get at least 100 feet away from the gates, so we’re not in the middle of the crowd.”

  They moved away, past the end of the cordon, folded their arms, and waited, one on either side of the gate to follow the carriage whichever way it went.

  A roar went up from the crowd. “Mr. Platte, Sir, can I have some work?” “Please give me some work, I have five kids to feed and we’re starvin’.” One man wept openly.

  Charles and Rachel looked at each other in anticipation. The gates creaked open, and four fine horses trotted out, pulling a grand-looking black carriage. Its uniformed driver sat at the fore, and Edward Platte could just be seen through its glass.

  “Make way! Make way!” the policemen shouted, their hands ready on their truncheons. The crowd pressed in as close as they dared, with continued desperate pleas for work.

  Charles signaled to Rachel, pointing to himself and then the left side of the carriage, then to her and the right side. She nodded. The carriage trundled towards them, the top-hatted driver cracking the whip to speed up. One of the lead horses neighed as it did so. The policeman on their horses started to move, hemming the carriage in from all directions. This is going to be harder than I thought, Charles thought. They were now moving at quite a speed. He hoped their flat shoes, no more than a single piece of animal hide tied together at the top, would provide enough traction on the cobblestones.

  The carriage was now only ten feet away. It was now or never. He nimbly darted in front of the second horse, only just avoiding being run over by the great beast, and jumped up onto the running board of the carriage. He hoped to God that Rachel had done the same.

  “Oy you! Get down from there!” Charles felt the painful blow of the truncheon on his left shoulder. The pain and jolt to his nerves radiated quickly down his arm and across his back, almost paralyzing. The shrill squeal of the policeman’s whistle began to sound.

  Charles managed to reach the door handle, and yank it open. He grabbed the rear of the door frame and yanked himself around into the plush red velvet interior. Frightened eyes peered out from beneath Edward’s top hat. A second later, the right-hand door open opened and Rachel was looking into the eyes of Edward’s butler, Simon. They jumped in—there was plenty of room in the handsome interior—and touched the men’s necks. Instantly, they began to glow. The aura spread out, agonizingly slowly, to both men’s heads and bodies.

  The carriage halted sharply, and as soon as it did policemen yanked both doors open. “What the…?” The constable exclaimed on seeing the unearthly sight. He and his sergeant were momentarily too taken aback to do or say anything else. A truncheon hit Charles’ side, knocking the wind out of him, but his hand still clung to Edward’s neck. He barely felt the blow as he started to see through Edward’s eyes.

  Rachel also held on for dear life as the sergeant wrapped his arms around her thin body and tried to pull her away. Simon blinked his eyes, taking stock of the situation. He put his arm around Rachel to keep her in place. Rachel’s heart beat a few more times, and then her body went limp.

  “Get them out of here!” Edward ordered, his top hat now lying on the floor of the couch. The policemen dragged both of the lifeless young individuals to the ground.

  Simon touched Edward’s hand. I think we pulled it off, he said silently.

  I think so.

  There was a loud commotion outside as horses neighed and the crowd jostled and shouted.

  “Proceed! Driver, go as fast as you can!” one of the bobbies commanded. With a crack of the driver’s whip the carriage lurched forward, down the road past tiny row houses with washing lines strung across the street from upstairs windows, shirts flapping in the breeze.

  ****

  “Who were those people who assaulted you and Simon?” Malcolm Wells, a businessman dressed to the nines asked, after washing down a mouthful of pheasant with half a glass of port.

  Edward looked back across the long, grand dining table. “They never found out.”

  “Plus, what we all want to know is, how did you and Simon dispatch your attackers so quickly and easily?”

  Edward looked at Simon, who was hovering discreetly near the dark wood-paneled walls of the grand dining room, a napkin over his arm, ready to serve any guest who needed it. The five other guests, all tycoons, stopped mid-bite and looked on, waiting for the answer.

  “We have our ways,” Edward said, cryptically.

  “Come on, old chap, spill the beans,” a large, older men sitting to Edward’s left said. “Or did you pay Sergeant Bacon to keep it hush-hush?”

  Edward dismissed his suggestion with a playful wave of his hand, which caused a nearby candle on its silver candlestick to flicker. “Like I said, we have our ways. Simon here, in particular, is rather good at self-defense,” he said, with an enigmatic half-smile and a slight cock of his gray-haired head.

  “Now, Edward, you still haven’t told us the purpose of this little celebration,” another guest said. He waited patiently while Edward swallowed a mouthful of game.

  “And I shan’t until the meal is over!”

  “Very well,” the man huffed, chastened.

  The sumptuous dinner dragged on for another hour. Once the twin desserts of treacle pudding and fruit sorbet were consumed, with more generous helpings of brandy, Edward stood up. “Now I shall get around to revealing the real reason for inviting you all here,” he said. “My only request is that you keep everything further that happens in this room strictly secret. Not a single word to another living soul. Anyone who does not wish to partake of this oath may do so now, with neither judgment nor reproach, and he shall remain among my closest friends. Now, does any man wish to leave?” He looked at each of the six faces in turn, reading their expressions, all struck somewhere between surprise and puzzlement. One lone fellow looked annoyed, but didn’t budge from his seat. Edward let an entire minute pass, during which only the rhythmic, loud ticking of the grandfather clock filled the room. He thought this would give the effect he needed, as well as giving the guests plenty of time to decide their courses of action. Nobody left.

  “Very good. Now I shall tell you the forward again, that by the end of this night you will part with a considerable fortune, as well as changing your wills to leave a substantial amount of money to a cause which I will shortly reveal.” He paused again for effect. To a man, his dinner companions appeared bewildered. One fellow on the far left clutched his chest as though he were about to have a heart attack there and then.

  “I am forming a secret group known as the Enigma Society,” Edward continued. “It has been revealed to me by sources outside the earthly realm that any man who chooses to contribute generously now will be rewarded with power beyond his wildest dreams. This will be multiplied to his descendants, and then to their descendants, who will hold sway and influence beyond imagining. But, this will only occur in direct proportion to your immediate generosity.”

  This was too much for the second man on the right. He could no longer hide his annoyance. “And just why would you imagine we would believe such piffle, Platte? You’re the richest man here by a country mile. How are we to believe your avarice doesn’t simply goad you to keep our bequeathals for yourself, instead of put toward this grand scheme?”

  “A most excellent question, Albert,” Edward said, raising his right index finger. I will now show you why.” He held his hands out in front of them, as though he were holding an invisible basketball by its top and bottom. Between his hands a bright glowing orb appeared, its bright yellow surface alive with flaring plasma strands. The guests gasped, some putting hands over their mouths. Edward then stretched his hands out above and below, as though he were playing with the slinky fronds of plasma connecting his palms with the orb as it continued to luminesce. It grew unhurriedly until it touched both of his hands, its surface thinning like that of an expanding balloon. Then Edward closed his fingers over his palms. The orb rapidly shrank to a single point of light and pulsed with a blinding flash as it disappeared. Then the chimney breast, panels, ceiling cornices, chairs, table, and even the guests themselves danced with a mesmerizing glow as cosmic power touched the temporal realm. With the scraping of chairs, the men got up and looked around, utterly flabbergasted. Some bent over and looked at the dancing sparks on the elaborate candlesticks in front of them. Others walked across the room and looked at the glowing outlines of the panels. Edward turned around and picked up the fireplace poker, and held it up, smiling. It, too, danced with light.

  After a minute or so, the room returned to its comparatively drab, earthly self. Edward’s guests looked at him open-mouthed, while Simon merely radiated a knowing smile in the background. They clambered forward, almost falling over each other to say “I’ll have my bank transfer the funds to you in the morning,” and “I’ll have my lawyers change my will immediately.”

  Edward nodded appreciatively, and smiled in a mirror of Simon’s. “Then each of you shall receive a portion of a much greater inheritance in turn.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Present day

  “Sergey, do you copy?” Igor said. “Do you copy?”

  The only answer was silence. He turned to Boris. “They should’ve been back five minutes ago.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—they must have found something compelling to explore.”

  “No. He knows I run a tight ship, and they’re expected back. If there’s something else to explore they can make another trip.”

  “It’s fair enough.”

  “Sergey, do you copy? Anatoly? Please respond.”

  A few more seconds dragged by. “If we don’t hear back from them in the next five minutes, I’m going after them,” Igor said. “You’ll have sole control of the ship.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Igor was accustomed to death and loss. The war between Siberia and Alaska had seen to that. But this was different, more personal. Still, any emotions were held very much at bay. His face was set as hard as nails all the way down to the airlock bay, and still rigidly controlled as he pulled his helmet on and latched it in place. He entered the airlock without a word.

  Twenty minutes later, he was at the outside of the water tank, examining its surface by the light of the small lamp that Irina had fastened to the bulkhead. The General didn’t have the benefit of the mapping probe, but in the far distance, in the space between the tank wall on the bulkhead, he made out a pinpoint of light, and followed it deeper into the ship.

  Three quarters of the way there, he found the hole his crew had cut in the wall of the tank. The beam of his powerful flashlight illuminated the floating icebergs in the hauntingly large void beyond. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of his crew lost somewhere in all that emptiness. “Sergey, are you there? Please respond.”

  He finished making his way to the light source, only to find that it was another lamp placed as a guidepost for the crew to find their way back again. On reaching it, he was astonished to look over the end of the tank and down into the dark space beyond. He called them once again, and still received no response. His flashlight beam easily lit up the flat side of the cylindrical zero-point harvester unit, and his keen eyes picked out a hole in it. Close inspection showed the hole was irregular—probably cut by his crew. From that vantage point, he could see another speck of light in the distance roughly in the center of the Enigma—presumably another of the small lamps. He made his way slowly towards it, being careful to watch for anything he could get caught on. But there was nothing. Igor noted with some satisfaction that the lamp was stuck to a large, square platinum duct, which was one of many on the outside of a long, round central core. After that, the trail went cold. Repeated calls yielded nothing. Igor’s flashlight illuminated nothing as he looked beyond the central core into the vast space towards the other side of the Enigma.

  He decided to proceed along the ducts, towards the rear of the Enigma, where he found to his great satisfaction a hole in the point where the core widened. He was still on their trail.

  He entered the thrust chamber and looked around, wide-eyed, at the vast diamond crystals inside. Igor maneuvered slowly along the long space, taking in every inch as he scanned around with his flashlight, looking for any trace that the crew had been there. But there was none.