Venus mars and hell, p.21
Venus, Mars and Hell,
p.21
That seemed to register. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember you now.”
She looked around, clutching her large valise as if it were a life vest. “Do you … Mr. Valenkin, is it? Do you know where I could catch the airship to Ghlaktora? I need to rejoin my employer. I was told I should look for something called a ‘float back.’ Something like that.”
“A fluybakh.” He turned and pointed toward a distant door in the facilities. “You need to go through there, Mrs. Smith. You’ll find a fluybakh available on the grounds beyond. Several of them, most likely.”
He decided not to mention that she’d find riding on one of the rather flimsy airships quite a bit more … ah, exciting, that she was perhaps expecting.
As she started to move in that direction, Alexander asked her, “Are you feeling better now?”
She turned back, grimacing. “Oh, yes. It was a miserable week or so, but after that everything was fine.”
“What was it, do you know? I was told several other people on the ship came down with the sane ailment.”
Now, she looked indignant. “They never found out! Would you believe, the silly doctor they had told me he thought I might have been poisoned. Poisoned! Who would do a thing like that to someone like me? It’s ridiculous! And he was an English doctor, too. Said he was, anyway. But you have to wonder, coming up with preposterous notions like that.”
And off she went, stumping forward vigorously if not gracefully. As a mode of locomotion on Mars, with its low gravity, “stumping” had its drawbacks.
Alexander stared after her.
Poisoned …
His mind began to race. What if the Duchesne woman was an SRP agent with a long-term mission here on Mars? He’d been thinking simply in terms of the usual assassination attempt. Poisoning Mrs. Smith—some sort of mild, non-fatal substance; Alexander could think of two offhand that might have served the purpose—would provide Duchesne with the perfect excuse to join the Luff party after the end of the voyage. That was why Alexander himself had dismissed Drezhner’s suspicions.
Then …
That would also explain why Duchesne hadn’t killed Kapral Baranovsky along with Drezhner. If her mission required remaining on Mars for months, even years, she needed to remain close to the Luff family.
Alexander closed his eyes, picturing the scene as it had been described to him by the young corporal.
Here, Drezhner. There, Duchesne. Firing—one, two; then again, one, two; four shots in all. Three of those shots had been fatal. Even the fourth might have been.
Not one shot had missed its mark. The signs of a skilled and experienced killer.
Over there, watching, was the Charlotte girl. How old was she? Fourteen? Fifteen?
She’d have been shocked by Duchesne’s actions. Yet, so far …
The woman had just been defending the girl’s father and brother. Almost anything could be forgiven—even forgotten, in time—under those circumstances.
But if Duchesne had gone further, had gone on to slaughter a young soldier too confused and frightened to pose a threat …
Just to silence an inconvenient witness …
No. The girl would never have forgotten that. She’d never have been able to regain her trust in Duchesne. As time went by, the situation would become unmanageable.
Alexander tried to imagine what sort of person could be so calculating, so cold-blooded, as to gauge all that and come to the right decision in the middle of deadly gunfire. Decide instantly, even as he—she—fired shot after unerring shot.
Savinkov. Only an assassin of that caliber could do such a thing.
He began to rise. And then …
Sat back down.
This was all speculation. Perhaps wild speculation. Even if he brought the matter to Rachkovsky’s attention, and Rachkovsky brought it to Semiakin’s, they’d probably decide the notion was preposterous. Alexander’s reputation, already bruised by this mess, would be damaged still further.
Worse still, what if they decided the notion was correct?
There’d be no way to apprehend Savinkov, no way to track him—her—down. Not here, not on Mars. All that could be done would be to maintain a more vigilant guard on Prince Vorontsov. Which duty …
Would surely fall to Alexander Evalenko himself.
Stuck here on Mars. For months. Years. With no company but that of Cossacks.
Which is to say, the world’s premier cavalrymen.
No.
Clearly, it was nothing but a wild surmise on his part. A silly notion, really. Why would the SRP waste the talents of someone like Savinkov—for months; even years—simply to kill a prince? Russia had lots of princes.
Alexander sighed in soft relief.
“Attention, please. The Blenheim has landed. Passengers should prepare to board.”
He rose, holding his bag. Paris awaited.
Chapter 16
Deception within deception. Such was the nature of the struggle against the Okhrana, driven by harsh necessity. The Tsar’s secret police surpassed any other in the world, in their subtlety as well as their brutality. It was they who had forged the Protocols of the Elders of Zion; they, also, who had perfected the use of double agents and provocateurs.
So, the SRP’s Combat Organization had responded in kind. A traitor had been found, Maxim Pechkin, uncovered by Vladimir Burtsev and his small band of counter-infiltrators. The man would normally have been executed by Eser agents, but this time he was allowed to run free for several years.
Years in which the Combat Organization slowly and carefully built up the legend of the master assassin, Gavril Savinkov. Then, two years ago, Pechkin was finally executed. The deed was done in secret, shortly after the assassination of a provincial governor. The body was left in a place where it could eventually be discovered, with evidence planted that suggested it was the corpse of none other than Savinkov himself. Dead of wounds incurred in the course of the governor’s assassination, it seemed.
When the time came, an anonymous source notified the Okhrana of the body’s location. The master assassin, gone at last.
✽ ✽ ✽
Deception within deception. Gavril Savinkov had never existed, and the Okhrana now believe the phantom to be dead. But Savinkov …
That master assassin did exist, and was still quite alive. And now, in position to strike the needed blow when the time finally came.
A time which would certainly take years, before the conditions had matured. Years in which a new and powerful revolutionary alliance could be forged; with Mars as its bastion; an alliance that could finally confront the world’s oppressors. Years in which the master assassin could slowly blend into the target’s surroundings; learning all that needed to be learned; preparing all that needed to be prepared.
Throughout, the Okhrana would remain blind to the danger, for no Russian was Savinkov’s new target. Not even the Tsar himself.
Cecil Rhodes. When the time came and the alliance was finally forged, he would be the one brought down. He was the master of the space-going warcraft that had destroyed the Boers and broken the English Navy’s resistance. With him gone, and the great alliance ready to rise up, there would be no power left that could rescue the world’s tyrants and autocrats.
✽ ✽ ✽
“It’s time to go, Vera! It’s time!” Adrian Luff was practically dancing with eagerness. “Just think! We’ve never gone so deep into the labyrinth before! Maybe we’ll run across a minotaur!”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. Edward Luff just smiled and extended his hand.
Savinkov took the hand. There was no reason not to enjoy life in the meantime, after all. Wounds were healing, Savinkov’s as well as the physical ones Drezhner had inflicted on the boy. The master assassin would make sure the family that provided the ultimate shelter for the mission would emerge unscathed, when the time came.
If it came at all. There was no way to know.
Rhodes might die of natural causes. Or a Martian might kill him. He was hated by a great many.
The possibilities were endless. A horse might even learn to sing.
Eric Flint, Venus, Mars and Hell
