David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

They looked at her. Vanya ran a rubbery finger across his chin. Mishka started down the ladder, not saying anything.

“Babushka,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu, “is out of her. She thinks the body is dead. I’m willing to bet she won’t be back again for a while.”

From below, the hag let out a pitiable wail. Vanya looked away, his shoulders shaking.

“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Kontos-Wu spun on her heel and headed back out the door. They would thank her later, she thought, as she stepped through the portal — and into a room that was sickeningly familiar. It was filled with tall book-cases, lit by golden sunlight admitted through tall leaded-glass windows.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked at her hands. They were young and soft — a girl’s hands. They were also shaking.

She was back in the library. Over by the window, she spied a comfortable chair with the tented cover of a novel on its seat. The chair beckoned her. She could at last find out what happened at the end of Becky Barker and the Mystery of the Scarlet Arrow .

Mrs. Kontos-Wu balled her young hands into fists and stepped deliberately backwards. She set her mouth in a line and narrowed her eyes — giving the outward impression, she hoped, of determination — but in fact, just fighting back the tears of despair that were battling their way to the surface.

“Bitch,” she said under her breath. For it was clear to her what had happened. She’d just given Lena — Babushka — Lois — whoever, the finger. Stood up to her. And now, the bitch was making it clear that that kind of talk wouldn’t do .

“Well fuck you,” said Mrs. Kontos Wu. She backed away from the chair. “I’m not reading the book.”

Something rustled, and there was the dull thudding sound of old books falling on older carpet. Something grunted, and Mrs. Kontos-Wu saw a flash of movement at the edge of the K-L aisle. She backed into the X-Z aisle.

“I’ll burn the place down again,” she said in a voice that sounded firm. Like arson was easy here.

It was a different matter in the real world. In Physick. All you had to do was pinch the nostrils, cover the mouth — and if it gets too bad, retreat. Retreat to Bishop’s Hall.

Here, though, in Bishop’s Hall…

There was, really, no retreat.

You could close the book — but the book was always there — tented on the plush seat by the windowsill, tempting you into it with questions. What happens to Jim now that he’s down to one hand? Football’s out of the question. And Bunny? Poor, poor Bunny… What’s to become of her?

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shut her eyes — felt the tears come. And then she heard a voice:

“At the end of the book, Becky calls in Les Gendarmes , and they break up the order of the Scarlet Arrow once and for all. Antoine’s father — or père as the French put it — is sent to prison, and Antoine goes to live with Bunny and her family back in America. Jim is fitted for a hook which in the last line he pretends is a pirate hook and everyone laughs.”

“That’s a lie,” said Mrs. Kontos-Wu. But she opened her eyes and gasped.

In front of her, a tall black-haired man stepped out of the sunlight and shut the book. He bent down and peered at her.

“Mrs. Kontos-Wu?” He looked relieved as he extended a huge hand to shake her small one. “You are well. I am relieved — I thought for certain I had lost you when the children torpedoed your boat.”

“What have you done with the Mystics?”

Stephen blinked and coughed. He didn’t have to look around to know he was back on the submarine — the old-socks stink and the endless tick-ticking of the lights were enough to tell him that he was here, in the old engine room, handcuffed to a chair. He didn’t need to look around to see that.

But look around he did. Three Romanians were surrounding him — one, the little guy with glasses he’d pummelled a day ago outside the sleeping chambers.

It was he who was talking. But Stephen knew it wasn’t him.

“Zhanna,” said Stephen, “I’ve — I’ve been in contact with someone you need to talk to.”

The little Romanian sneered. “Answer the question,” Zhanna said through him. “Where are the Mystics?”

“I don’t know about the Mystics,” said Stephen. “They’re gone. You need to talk to this guy. Alexei Kilodovich.”

“Alexei Kilodovich.” This time it was the tall bearded Romanian who brought him here. “A trick. The Mystics are dead and you have killed them. Somehow, through you, Fyodor Kolyokov has destroyed the Mystics. Tell me how and it will be quick.”

“Zhanna,” said Stephen, “please. This is important. I’ve been in contact with—”

“You’ve been in contact with no one! You are a fucking little deaf boy who moved at Fyodor Kolyokov’s beck and call! We were warned about you!”

“Warned?”

“Yes. We were warned that — that someone on our ship had been given instructions to kill the Mystics and then murder us!”

“And you think it was me.”

“What else am I to think?” The third Romanian who was bald and fat stepped around. “We find you with the empty isolation tanks. The Mystics were old — they had not the capacity to dream-walk without the necessary equipment — that being their tanks. What did you do with them?”

“The Mystics,” said Stephen, “have been out of those tanks for a long time. Maybe there’s another place on board the station. Why don’t you ask the Mystics?”

“They are gone,” she said. “You know this. I should never have trusted you.”

“You never did trust me,” said Stephen.

“That is not true.”

“That’s why you won’t meet face to face.”

“I can see your face,” said Zhanna. “And it’s lying.”

“You don’t have a clue.” Stephen sighed. “Look. Something’s happened. We can agree on that. The Mystics — they’ve disappeared. That’s a puzzle — but that’s not the problem.”

“To hell with you!” One of the Romanians kicked at Stephen, but Zhanna obviously didn’t mean it — Stephen dodged it too easily.

“The problem,” said Stephen, “is Alexei Kilodovich.”

The short Romanian snorted, shook his head and looked up at the low ceiling.

“Alexei Kilodovich. You’re fixated on him. Just like Vladimir.”

“You don’t think there’s a reason for that?”

“Yes, yes. Alexei Kilodovich. Vladimir thought he was some sort of progenitor. A powerhouse — a key for what he wanted to achieve. Maybe he was right and that’s what Kilodovich was. But—”

“But?”

“So,” said Zhanna through a tall dark-bearded Romanian, “were the Mystics. And they, at least, were not fucked over by Fyodor Kolyokov.”

Alexei looked around. “This is impressive work. Kolyokov’s?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Alexei was pacing through the reading area of the library — thumbing through volumes that had been left on the study desks — peering out the window. He was different than Mrs. Kontos-Wu remembered — there was a spark in his eye, of intelligence or self-knowledge or simply excitement she couldn’t say, but it was a marked change from his usual indifference. And the long black robe he wore with the hood pulled back — that was a definite change from his usual wardrobe.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu had just gotten finished explaining that she couldn’t remember how she’d escaped the torpedo on the yacht — that she couldn’t even remember the yacht. The story had sounded lame but Alexei hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d just nodded and listened.

“You would not know,” he said. “Kolyokov wouldn’t have ever signed this.”

“He was here though.”