Patriot

CHAPTER 22

Nell took the A11 and veered off the exit at New Road just before she reached the massive complex of the Royal London Hospital. She was looking for a nasty little neck of the woods called Durward Street. Both sides of the street were lined with blank-faced and empty terrace houses, shuttered warehouses and factories, a place that had hardly changed since the Ripper’s day. Dingy, grey, sad little windows looking out onto nothing at all… the streetlights fizzled and popped in the fog, the pale orange light reflected in the standing puddles on the greasy pavement below.

She caught a number over a door and glanced over at her notepad. She’d scrawled the address in large readable letters: DURWARD STREET, 117–118. She slowed to a crawl. It had to be coming up soon, she was nearly at the end of the road. A road, she noted, that ended in a cul-de-sac. Meaning there was only one way out of here.

There!

The number sign was hanging by its fingernails on the swing gate to a farther stable yard. She kept going about a hundred yards into the cul-de-sac, then turned the MINI around so she’d be facing outward if she had to leave in a hurry. Something she always assumed, no matter what. She cut the lights, pulled her service weapon out of the underarm holster, and placed it inside her oversized leather handbag. From here on she’d keep her finger on the trigger. She practiced firing through the bag constantly at the Yard’s range and had gotten quite proficient.

As she stepped out into the damp and dreary street an almost palpable sense of dread seemed to surround her. It wasn’t the fog and the low-hanging rain clouds either. No. All those Ripper nightmares she’d had as a child, she assumed, and she shook it off along with the cold wet air.

The gate squeaked loudly as she entered the filthy stable yard. The smell of it was awful, some beastly slop of mud and manure, dotted with rusty castaways and trash. There were gutters on all four sides of the yard, overflowing with a grey slime that bore no resemblance to fresh rainwater. Not a single light shone in the gloom back here off the street, yet she dared not turn on her flash.

Two doors were discernible beneath the overhang of the corrugated tin roof at the very rear, and she chose the one on the left to try first… Szell’s a bloody hard-line Communist, right? Of course he’d be lying in wait on the left… a poor joke, she knew, but she was trying to keep her nerve up, after all…

She reached out and turned the knob.

Locked.

She knelt before the knob and applied the pick. Then she rose to her feet and twisted the knob again. The door gave way. She controlled her breathing and opened it inch by inch, now, holding her breath against the inevitable horror movie screech that would surely summon the hounds of hell, gnashing their teeth and leaping for—

Silence, as she stepped forward.

Nell found herself inside Szell’s house, but house was far too solid a word. This was an enclosed space and nothing more. And it seemed to be decomposing in real time.

A small sitting room was full of dark shapes and shadows that resembled slowly collapsing furniture of different sizes and descriptions. She took small steps, the chambered round in the automatic pistol in her hand a comfort now. There were things on the floor, scurrying things, tiny teeth tugging at the shoelaces of her thick-soled boots, other things, too, things she’d rather not try to comprehend. The stench of the place was the biggest challenge, but she willed it out of her mind if not her nostrils. This was nothing new. Evil and the dead often smell bad, that’s all. You deal with it.

She clenched her teeth, felt a fierce resolve welling up inside her mind, and despite her disgust, bent to remove her boots so as to make no noise at all. She then moved deeper and deeper into the gloom.

Ahead was a narrow corridor leading to the rear of that awful house. The odor was even more powerful back here, and she had to make a huge effort to stifle a gag. What the hell did the Snow King have back here? A catacomb? A compost pile? An open grave site?

The door to the single small room at the rear was ajar.

A faint glow of light, perhaps candlelight, shone dimly and spilled onto the filthy carpet outside the room.

The scent emanating from whatever hell lay behind that door threatened to turn Nell away in disgust and horror. She moved toward the opening one step at a time, her right hand seizing the grip of her pistol as she hitched her handbag up into firing position.

She took one step back and kicked the door wide open. The first thing she saw was a huge six-tiered chandelier hung from a rafter. It was studded with guttering candles dripping wax on the scene below…

… and the sight that now fully rose up into her conscious mind made her reel backward and wretch…

Jules Szell, deep within his lair.

The monstrous Snow King lay atop a vast, shaggy grey bed that nearly filled the room. Twisted within the dingy sheets and blankets, churning and writhing on the bed, pale and naked and hugely fat. He stirred at her approach, acres of dead white flesh shifting and settling, twisting and moaning in a low tone that sounded like nothing human.

The monster’s eyes were two black stones of obsidian almost buried in the folds of flesh, his head pressed against a torn and ragged pillow. She noticed something shiny in the candlelight from above. It lay atop his bloated, fish-white torso, an object suspended from a leather cord around his neck. The cord itself was buried somewhere in the countless fatty folds of what would have been the neck of a normal human being. It was a gleaming barber’s straight razor.

The thing on the bed, grey and bloodless, giggled, stroked its great belly, and finally spoke. The Cockney accent was deep and guttural, tinged with street Russian.

“Well, looky-loo, Scotland Yard has come to call. Weren’t expecting company, now, was I?”

Nell now had her pistol leveled at his head.

“Put your hands up where I can see them, Szell,” she said, her voice surprisingly rock steady.

“Not bloody likely, dearie.”

“You are under arrest, Mr. Szell. Suspicion of attempted murder.”

“Are you going to arrest us all? The king and all his little princes and princesses?” he trilled in a high-pitched squeal. “They’re all quite mad, you see, liberated by me from asylums and prison hospitals. All now trained petty thieves, under my tutelage. And, the odd assortment of murderers among them, of course. Mostly the girls.”

“What are you talking about, Szell?” she said, seeing him alone in the room.

“My Imperial Guards, of course.”

“You’re obviously insane.”

“I think you’re going to have to shoot me, Sergeant Spooner. I’m not going anywhere. Besides, you’d have to shoot us all. My courtiers won’t let you touch me.”

“Don’t tempt me. How do you know my name?”

“You work for the enemy, that’s how. Ah, yes. Lord Hawke himself, that magnificent creature. It won’t be long before you’re looking for a new employer, Sergeant. First the boy, then the father. That is the plan, or so I hear from the powers that be where I come from.”

“Whose plan? Who sent you here?”

“I’m just a messenger of death, dearie. My goodness. I don’t know the names of the high and mighty. But surely you know who we are by now? This isn’t the first time we’ve come after little Alexei. It won’t be the last, either. No matter what happens to me. We like playing games with Alexei. We provide amusement for certain elderly gentlemen in Moscow. Did you know I’ve been videotaping him for weeks? At play in the park? Out and about? In Belgrave Square? No? I rather thought not.”

“What sewer did you crawl out of, Szell? Don’t tell me you’re KGB. Even they couldn’t stomach the likes of you.”

“Now, now. No need to be nasty. Would you like some ice cream? The Royal Family and I were just having some.”

“Enough talk. You’re under arrest, Szell, on the charge of attempted murder. Get up. I’m taking you in.”

Szell was waving his fat white hands about his head airily, bleached white hams whirling in space, not listening to a word she said. Finally, he spoke.

“And now it’s time for you to go, Sergeant. Either on your own two feet… or carried out and thrown to the wolves by my little army of minions. Which would you prefer? I will warn you, they do bite, these nasty devils of mine. Some of them are even rabid. Nasty bat bites, I’m afraid. Bats, you know, can’t seem to keep them out. Look at them all hanging up there with the boys and girls up in the rafters, all their beady little eyes on you.”

“I order you to get out of that disgusting bed immediately. You are coming with me and—”

There came now a chorus of suppressed giggling from the dim gloom above. She looked up and saw the ragged horrors perched in the ancient wooden rafters that crisscrossed beneath the badly leaking roof. They appeared to be four or five older boys with filthy faces and matted hair, dressed in what could only be described as rags, sewn together slapdash by some mad seamstress. They leered down at her, two of them clutching their crotches and whispering obscene epithets.

At that moment the Snow King sat up and screamed, unleashing a torrent of filth in both Russian and English that seemed to galvanize the boys lurking above. They dropped to the floor, landing lightly on their feet, surrounding her, moving ever so slowly, never taking their eyes off her, baring their teeth, snarling like dogs. She could see it in their eyes; these savages actually wanted to rip her to pieces.

Nell turned and ran, the sound and smell of them hard on her heels as she fled out of Szell’s bedchamber.

She screamed.

A small but strong hand grabbed one of her ankles and she went down hard, slamming her forehead on the stone floor. She felt the warmth of the blood filling her eyes.

She rolled on her side and turned to face them, saw their eyes gleaming as they emerged from the shadows, and knew they smelled blood.

“Get back, damn you!” she cried, waving her pistol at them.

It had no effect.

“For God’s sake, you’re just children, don’t make me shoot you,” she shouted at them, but on they came.

She had no choice now. They were too close. She started firing at them, or rather just inches above their heads, rounds chewing up the plaster above, and it slowed them down… but she knew even the pistol was useless now. If she didn’t move now, she was dead.

She scrambled to her feet and ran blindly for the front door, ignoring her boots and never looking back as she bolted barefoot into the muddy stable yard and ran for her life.

She could hear the demons behind her on the street as she raced through the rain and fog for the MINI, heard them shouting as she jumped inside and locked the two doors. She turned on the headlamps and leaned on the horn. For all the good that would do. The street was mostly deserted. The boys had moved into the street, arms linked, blocking her way. Two of them advanced toward the MINI… close enough now to slam their claw hammers onto the roof, denting it, and the bonnet… now the windshield… smashed! One leering boy leaned in close and ejected a gob of spittle through the shattered glass, missing her face by inches. She looked down.

The key! She still had it in her hand! She twisted it.

“Please start,” she prayed aloud and again turned the key in the ignition. Don’t fail me now, okay? Please, please just start for God’s sake! She knew it was a mistake to come here alone… damn it!

It was the battery. It was fucking dead.

One more time, that’s all I ask!

For a heart-stopping half second the machine growled halfheartedly, hesitated… then caught.

The one who’d spat was thrusting his hand through the jagged hole in the glass, reaching blindly for her face, his torn flesh bleeding from the effort…

She closed her eyes, gripped the wheel, stamped on the pedal, and accelerated away, her heart hammering as if to bursting. She saw the boys diving aside and kept going. She was vaguely aware of a few solid bumps and thumps beneath her wheels, but past all caring as she broke free. Two of the pasty white banshees were still standing, shaking their fists in her rearview mirror as she took the corner on two wheels, skidding and sliding and headed for the A11.

She fumbled for her mobile, grabbed it, and speed-dialed Alex at his emergency number. He picked up immediately and heard her nearly uncontrollable sobbing. It was barely audible over the screeching of tyres and brakes as she careened through the rain-soaked and darkened streets of Whitechapel, its inhabitants still asleep in the wee small hours.

“Nell! What is it? Are you all right? Has something happened?” Alex said, managing to keep his voice even. “Is everyone all right? How’s Alexei? Don’t pull any punches, Nell.”

“Alex, listen carefully. Alexei is okay. Something happened to him, but he’s in no danger. I’ll explain it all once I’m back at home. Alexei is in the hospital. St. John’s. But he’s fine, I promise you, darling. Do not worry about him, please. The doctors have given him a clean bill of health and will release him first thing in the morning. I’m.… so sorry to be crying like this. It’s just that I’ve been through something awful and… I’m okay.… I just need to get home and take a hot bath and—”

“Nell, did someone attack you and Alexei? Because by God if they did I will fly back there right now and—”

“No, darling, there’s no need for you to do anything. He’s not hurt. I’m not hurt, I’m just upset. Oh, Alex, it was so horrible that I cannot even begin to—”

“Nell, listen to me. Tell me this. Can Alexei travel?”

“Yes. He can travel.”

“Good. You and Alexei are flying to Washington tomorrow to join me. My pilots are getting the plane ready right now. Heathrow FBO. I’ve arranged a place for you two to stay while I’m away on business. Just so you’re not surprised, you’re moving into the White House as guests of the president. For a few days only, maybe a week at most, that is if all goes according to plan. So stop talking to me and pay attention to your driving, all right? Deep breathing, remember? I’ll call you in an hour. An MI6 driver will pick you up at the Belgrave Square address promptly at ten in the morning and take you both to Heathrow. Can you manage that?”

“Of course. We’ll be packed and ready. We do need to get out of here for a while… oh, my Lord, we do.”

“One hour. I’ll ring you…”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll be waiting at Andrews Air Force Base when you touch down… good-bye, Nell. Be safe.”