Ghosts of War (9 page)

“How so?”

“He spent two shots disabling the holotube transmitter. He must have missed the spy with his first shot, here, on the wall,” he pointed out the pockmark to Donovan, “but then took the time to put two shots in the machine before going after the spy himself, giving the spy a chance to find a weapon.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, thoughtfully. “My guess is the call had already connected and the dead man didn't want the person on the other end hearing anything of what was going on. Either that or he was worried the spy would call out some code word or something, immediately alerting the person at the other end.”

Donovan frowned. “But still…if they heard the shots after the call had already connected, surely they'd want to know what was going on? Especially if they couldn't raise the spy again afterward.”

The Ghost shrugged. “You've got me there.” He crossed to where Donovan was standing in the doorway. “Anything else of note?”

“Oh yes,” Donovan said with a smile. “It's like your place. A veritable armory back there.”

He led the Ghost into the back room, stepping carefully over the corpse in the hallway. It was like walking into the incident room of a police investigation. The walls were plastered with photographs, maps, notes, schematics. Half of these had been torn off, some of them left where they fell, others clearly missing. The windows had been blacked out with thick paint, and there was nothing but an overturned chair and a small table by way of functional furniture. Folders and files had been flung all over the floor, a spray of multicolored paperwork, and three large, wooden chests lay open in the middle of the room.

The Ghost approached the chests with interest. They were full of weapons. One appeared to contain knives and blades of all possible shapes and sizes, another handguns and pistols, the third explosives, grenades, and what looked like a portable rocket launcher. He turned to Donovan. “Someone clearly left in a hurry. And if the contents of these chests are anything to go by, he's armed to the teeth.”

Donovan nodded gravely. “I had the same thought. If these are the weapons he chose to leave behind…”

The Ghost turned to study the wall. There was a large, scale map of Manhattan, upon which a series of locations had been marked out in thick, black ink. They all appeared to be residential properties. Beside each of these the spy had pinned photographs of well-known politicians, businessmen, and public servants. The Ghost stepped forward and tapped one of these photographs with his gloved fingertip. “Senator Isambard Banks,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Donovan.

“Indeed. But have you seen what's even more interesting?” Donovan came to join him, pointing to one of the photographs attached to a residence on the Upper East Side, right by Central Park.

“Commissioner Montague,” the Ghost said in surprise. “You think these are the people involved in whatever this spy got himself mixed up in? One of the ‘circles' he'd infiltrated?”

Donovan shook his head. “I don't know. Perhaps. Maybe they're targets. They're all high-profile public figures. If he was here to cause trouble and sow seeds of terror, these are the people he'd hit. With that arsenal…perhaps he was here to assassinate one of them. Maybe more?”

“Perhaps,” the Ghost replied, noncommittally. He didn't want to press the point with Donovan, not yet, but it seemed far too much of a coincidence to him that two of the people implicated by this web of conspiracy were the very same people who had—rather irregularly—charged Donovan with finding the spy.

The Ghost continued to examine the wall. There was a patch of bare plaster where something had very obviously been removed in a hurry, torn from its place so that little shreds of paper still clung to the pins. Beside that was the schematic of an enormous airship, a blueprint for its construction. It was one of the huge transatlantic vessels that regularly ferried passengers—or at least those of them fortunate enough to be able to afford it—back and forth between Europe and America. It was weeks faster than steamship and, the Ghost was led to be believe, significantly more luxurious.

While it was true that the cold war had caused movements between Britain and America to become very restricted, London was still one of the world's centers of commerce, and many American people had valid business there, or in Brussels, Paris, Berlin. Business had been booming for the airship providers, and as their routes around the world had grown in ambition, so had their vessels grown in size and scope.

“I can see you're as baffled as I am by that one, Gabriel. What would a British spy be doing with the construction plans of a transatlantic passenger-class airship?” Donovan said this as though to suggest he'd already deciphered the meaning behind it.

“Go on,” said the Ghost.

“Look at those crates of weapons, Gabriel. I think he might be planning to make a strike against one of these passenger ships.”

The Ghost shook his head. “No. It doesn't fit. What would be the purpose of it?”

“Assassination? Terror? To ignite a war between America and the British Empire?” Donovan spread his hands.

“None of that makes sense. If that was his aim, he could do that more effectively by picking off the people on this chart, one by one, just as you suggested. And if it's war they're looking for, why trigger it like that? Why give us the chance to muster our forces? Surely the most effective way to start a war is to invade?”

Donovan shrugged. “I don't know what to make of it,” he said, reaching for his cigarettes. He offered them to the Ghost, who shook his head. “And we're missing a big piece of the puzzle.” He waved his cigarette to indicate the empty space on the wall where the spy had torn down part of his collage.

“I think the most interesting thing here is perhaps the least obvious, Felix,” the Ghost said, pointing to a small, grainy black-and-white photograph pinned to the wall, just beside the map of Manhattan. It was crumpled, as though the spy had attempted to tear it free and then given up, changing his mind in his haste to get away. Donovan came closer, peering at it myopically, trying to make out what was in the picture.

“Is that what I think it is?” he said. He didn't even try to disguise the surprise in his voice.

“Yes,” the Ghost replied, reaching up and plucking the photograph from the wall. It was blurred, but its subject was clear. It was one of the raptors, perched on the top of a building, surveying the street below with its glowing red eyes.

“Good God,” said Donovan. “If there's a connection…”

The Ghost slipped the photograph inside his pocket. “I think it's time I checked on Senator Banks, don't you?”

Donovan nodded. “But be careful, Gabriel. He's a dangerous man to find yourself on the wrong side of.”

“I rather think that's the point, Felix. But anyway, I need to get Ginny back to her apartment first.”

“Ginny?” Donovan asked inquisitively.

A smile curled at the edges of the Ghost's mouth. “She's a friend.”

“And you brought her here?” Donovan queried, incredulous. “Does she know…?”

“She knows.”

The inspector gave a plaintive sigh. “You're playing a dangerous game, Gabriel,” he said. He left the next sentence unsaid, but the Ghost caught his meaning.
Remember what happened to Celeste.

“Don't worry, Felix. I left her in the car, and she's going straight back to her apartment.”

Donovan nodded, but the skepticism was clear on his face.

“I take it you'll preserve all of this?” the Ghost said, changing the subject. He tapped the wall with his hand, indicating the spread of remaining documents. “That list of names and addresses might prove useful.”

“We'll take it all back to the station in the morning,” Donovan said between drags on his cigarette. “The body's being collected in an hour. Then Mullins will start going through the files.”

The Ghost started toward the door. “I like Mullins. I think he shows promise.”

Donovan laughed. “Get out of here, Gabriel. I have work to do.”

Outside, the cold had set in, and the Ghost felt the chill even through the thick fabric of his jacket and coat. He could see across the street to where Ginny was still sitting in the passenger seat of his car, huddled up against the cold, puffing on a cigarette. Her red cloche was pulled down right over her head, and she'd brought her knees up to her chest. She looked up and waved when she saw him coming.

He was just about to raise his hand to wave in response when he heard a chittering sound from somewhere above. He looked up to see two of the raptors gliding across the canopy of the night sky, their long, membranous wings outstretched, their propellers whirring as they cut a swath across the rooftops.

It took only seconds for the Ghost to respond. He flicked his wrist and heard the satisfying crank of his fléchette gun snapping around on its ratchet. He palmed the pneumatic bulb and dropped to one knee, raising his arm to the sky and squeezing off a staccato volley of shots. The raptors screeched in fury as the tiny metal blades drummed against their underbellies or pierced the fleshy membrane of their wings.

They both turned, parting in midformation, one darting left, the other right. The Ghost tried to keep them both in view, but lost track of the one on the right as it glided off across the rooftops. He concentrated on the one he could see, squeezing off another shower of fléchettes. He aimed for its wings, hoping to disable it so he could bring it down. On the ground he stood a much better chance of beating it in a fight, and if he could ground it, he could pull it apart and find out what made it tick.

The Ghost snapped his head around at the sound of the car door clicking open. Ginny was halfway out of the vehicle, one foot already on the tarmac. “Get back in the car, now!” he bellowed. He turned back to the raptor, but he'd taken his eyes off it for too long.

The mechanical creature, diving at him from upward of twenty feet, collided with him at full force. The blow sent him reeling, and the raptor's talons raked his chest as it made a grab for him, trying to drag him away into the air. He twisted, desperately slapping at its brass legs as it pulled him along the ground.

With an almighty effort he managed to wrench himself free of one of the claws, but he was forced to keep both hands on it to hold it at bay. The claws flexed and scrabbled, searching for purchase as the creature tried to reassert its hold.

The raptor screeched again, dragging him along the road. It lifted him a few feet and then dropped him again, one of its talons still buried in his chest. His head slammed against the tarmac as he came down, and the raptor repeated the motion, trying to daze him, or worse, to split his skull against the road.

Half delirious, lolling in the raptor's grip, he caught sight of the second one, now circling in the sky high above, like carrion attracted to a kill.

He looked up into the strange, skull-like face of the one that had hold of him. There was malice behind those glowing red eyes—dark, inhuman malice. It was if something intelligent was haunting the machine, as if some malign spirit had somehow gotten inside it, inhabiting the brass shell. The thought didn't offer a lot of comfort, as the raptor shook him from side to side and slammed him down against the ground once again, doing its utmost to knock him unconscious.

The Ghost tried to free his right hand, to bring the barrel of his fléchette gun around to give him a clear shot, but the raptor was waiting, and as soon as he released his grip on its other limb, the claws were digging into his chest, and the raptor was turning, lifting him into the air in a slow spiral.

He knew what was coming next. The creatures weren't likely to take him back to their lair. Not after he'd shot at them. It was going to try dropping him from a height.

Together, the Ghost and the raptor continued their spiral climb. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he could feel blood oozing from multiple puncture wounds beneath his jacket. The back of his head was throbbing, too, where it had repeatedly struck the tarmac. He realized that, once again, he'd lost his hat at some point in the chaos.

As they climbed higher and higher, the Ghost felt himself beginning to swoon. The pain in his chest and his head were threatening to overwhelm him, to put his body into shock. He fought against the tide of blackness and shook his head to clear the syrupy fog that was clouding his vision.

And then someone was shooting.

The raptor reeled and shrieked, spinning in the air as a bullet tore through its left wing. The Ghost craned his neck, trying to see what was going on as the raptor beat its damaged wing and whirled and spun, trying to maintain altitude. He caught sight of Ginny far below, standing on the sidewalk beside the car, two of his pistols in her hands, taking drunken potshots at the mechanical beast.

What was she doing? She risked being attacked by the other raptor, or worse, hitting the Ghost himself if one of her shots went wide. She moved slowly, both of her arms outstretched, tracking the struggling raptor across the sky.

She fired again, and her aim was perfect. The Ghost felt the raptor buck and thrash as twin bullets tore through its other wing.

And then he was falling, tossed away by the desperate creature, tumbling over and over in the air as he hurtled toward the ground.

A strange sense of serenity passed over the Ghost. He felt the cool wind rushing around him as he fell, felt as if the world had suddenly slowed. He felt peaceful.

Then he caught sight of the second raptor, diving toward Ginny, and his heart stopped.

He reached inside his trench coat, grappling with the pull string that would ignite his ankle rockets. His chest screamed in pain with every movement. He gave the cord a sharp tug, and then he was hurtling upward again with no sense of direction or control.

The Ghost fought to right himself, to make sense of what was happening. The first raptor—the one that had attacked him—was still attempting to right itself in midair, screeching and flapping in desperate abandon. Ginny was still shooting, and the other raptor was descending on her, its vicious talons raking the air before it.

Ginny didn't have the Ghost's physique, nor his combat skills or protective suit. The raptor would rip her to shreds in seconds.