“That’s the address Rutherford gave us,” said Regina.
She was standing in the shadow of a sweeping terrace of four-story houses, their facades rendered in smooth white plaster, remarkably unblemished by the foul air of the surrounding city. She supposed that wealth had its advantages.
Neat rows of iron railings divided the entrance to each property, and tall sash windows looked out upon the street below. Everything looked peaceful, well maintained, and quiet. It was growing dark now, and there were no other people in the street.
She turned on the spot, taking in the surrounding buildings. Similar rows of houses were arranged around a small area of managed parkland, which formed a communal square for the local residents. Somewhere, she mused, for the nannies to bring their charges. It was all terribly exclusive, and an order of magnitude above what she could ever dream of affording on her Service salary.
Perhaps more pressing was the fact the house in question wasn’t particularly sheltered from view; an interested party in any one of the surrounding terraces—not to mention the park itself—could easily have the property under observation. She couldn’t help but wonder why—or how—the Russians had secured the use of a building here. How did it fit into their plans? What were they hoping to achieve? She supposed it was a universal truth that fewer questions were asked about people with money, so perhaps it was simply that: in choosing such an exclusive address, they were elevating themselves above suspicion. Either that, or the location itself had some significance she was yet to discern.
The whole matter was alarmingly opaque, and Absalom had proved little to no use either, listening dispassionately as they’d delivered their report that morning, before sending them on their way. And then Rutherford had failed to turn up, and a cursory check of his house suggested that neither he, nor any uninvited guests, had been back there since the previous day. He was out in the cold, and no one seemed to know exactly where. She had half a mind to try to track down the American. Even if he wasn’t able to point them toward Rutherford, she’d at least have the option of bringing him in, and perhaps currying a little favor with Absalom for her trouble.
“Where is Rutherford?” said Hargreaves. “You don’t think he went and got himself into more trouble after you saw him at the safe house, do you?”
Regina shook her head. “No. He said he was going to get a room in a hotel, get some rest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still there, sleeping it all off. After everything he went through yesterday…” This, of course, was the most likely answer. His wounds had been grievous. Perhaps they’d have to give him the night, and then if there was still no word tomorrow…
Hargreaves grimaced. “The state of those wounds.” He paused. “Have you ever had to, you know, pay a visit to the Fixer?”
“Once or twice,” said Regina, with a shrug. In truth, she’d had reason to suffer his ministrations on four separate occasions over the years, and even now, the ghostly remembrance of the pain from those nights still haunted her from time to time. No matter the miracles he might work, no matter that many of them owed their lives to the man, no one survived an encounter with the Fixer psychologically unscathed.
Hargreaves shuddered. “Well, here’s hoping I never need to cross his path. At least not on the operating table.”
Regina had returned to observing the house. There was no evidence of any habitation inside. The curtains were partially drawn, but she’d seen no flicker of movement from within. No one had come or gone since they’d arrived, and no lights were on, despite the dull quality of the evening light. “Which way do you want to go in?”
Hargreaves seemed to consider his response. “We can try round the back, but the houses around here are well fortified. It may be difficult to scale the wall.”
“Well, the front door is out. It’s too exposed.”
“Agreed. And remember, this is supposed to be a reconnaissance. In and out, and report back to Absalom. We need a good escape route if it looks like things are going down the drain.”
Regina pointed at one of the lower sash windows, which had been hastily boarded over with irregular-edged planks of wood. Beneath it, on the pavement, tiny fragments of shattered glass still sparkled where they caught the light from the nearest streetlamp. “We could take a leaf out of Rutherford’s book.”
Hargreaves grinned. “Not likely. I suggest we go in through the basement. We’ll probably have to force the door, but I’m not anticipating any resistance. If they’ve any sense they’ll have already cleared out and moved on. Even if they’d succeeded in seeing Rutherford off last night, the place would still be compromised. We get what information we can, and we move on.”
Regina nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Together they crossed the road, Hargreaves keeping a watchful eye on the house, Regina scanning the road around them. It was eerily quiet.
“Clear,” she said, as they approached the house, boots crunching on the broken glass.
Hargreaves stepped around the railing, and onto the iron treads of the steps leading down to the basement. She followed after him, feeling for her gun in the back of her waistband. She drew it, hefting it, reassured by the weight of it in her grip.
There was nothing but detritus down in the lobby area at the bottom of the steps—the decaying remnants of newspapers, a dead pigeon, food wrappers that had blown in from the street above. The door to the cellar was peeling, red paint blistered and curling. The handle was rusted and brittle. It didn’t look as if it had seen recent use.
Regina provided cover, while Hargreaves crept forward and tested the handle. It was either locked, or rusted shut. He glanced at her, motioning for her to step back. He levelled his gun, and for a moment she thought he was going to shoot the lock, but then, with a sudden, unexpected jerk, he kicked out at the door. His boot connected, and the wood around the lock burst with a splintering crack. The door yawned inwards, revealing a dark void beyond.
Without glancing back, Hargreaves edged cautiously into the basement of the house, weapon trained before him, left hand cupping the right. He went left, and Regina followed, darting right, adopting the same pose, slowly rotating her shoulders to cover the shadowy void before her.
The room smelled of damp and mildew. She edged forward, peering into the gloom, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was almost unnaturally dark, as if the shadows themselves were slithering around to smother all traces of light.
She had little sense of what else might be in the room, other than her and Hargreaves. She could hear him breathing—the soft whistle of air escaping through pursed lips. He was tense. She couldn’t blame him.
Her foot struck something and she danced back, lowering her gun. When it didn’t move, she dropped into a crouch, trying to discern what it was that she’d almost tripped over. It was a coal scuttle, long abandoned and dusty.
“You okay?” whispered Hargreaves.
“Yeah, fine. It was just a—” She stopped suddenly short at the sound of scuffing feet.
“What? What is it?” hissed Hargreaves, urgently.
“There’s something here. Something else in the darkness.” She stood slowly, her heart pounding. She passed her gun in a wide arc through the darkness, but still, her eyes were refusing to adjust to the dim light. She could hear that breathing again, whistling in the shadows, but this time, she knew that it wasn’t Hargreaves. It was coming from somewhere up ahead.
Another scuffed footstep. And then a deep, ferocious snarl. “Watch out!” She squeezed the trigger of her gun, jolted by the sudden recoil. Light flared. Her nostrils filled with the stench of cordite. Close by, Hargreaves was saying something, urgently, but her ears were ringing.
And then she was falling backwards, wildly waving her hands before her to fend off the massive brute of a dog that had leapt at her out of the shadows. The sheer momentum of it carried her over, and she struck the floor hard, knocking the breath from her lungs.
The beast was a hulking mass of muscle and sinew, and its jaws were only inches from her face. She could feel the spittle flecking her cheeks as it barked. Somehow she’d managed to get her hands around its throat as they’d gone down, and she jammed her elbows against the ground, trying her best to pin it in place. She wasn’t going to be able to hold it for long.
Panicking, she fought for breath. “Har… Har…”
“I can’t see you!”
The dog shifted, raking her stomach with its hind legs. She cried out in pain. It rolled its head to the side, then jerked its body, trying to squirm loose. She squeezed her thumbs into the soft tissue of its throat, felt her nails break the skin, but she knew it was already too late.
And then the dog jerked. Once, twice, and a third time, and she felt it go limp in her grip. Trembling with adrenaline, she heaved it off, shoving it to one side. She started to get to her feet, but lurched away when she felt something brush her shoulder.
“It’s alright. It’s me.”
“Hargreaves.” The air was beginning to flood back into her lungs.
“Are you hurt?”
“No… I… a little. But I’ll be fine. How did you know where to shoot?”
“I didn’t.”
“You could have—” she started, but he interrupted.
“I figured you’d rather that than be mauled to death by a rabid dog.”
She sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. Thanks.”
“You would have done the same.”
“I lost my gun.”
“No matter. Follow me. We need to get out of this cellar.”
Regina reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, and together, they edged forward into the darkness. After a moment, Hargreaves stopped abruptly. “This is the wall. If we follow it along… here! It’s another door.” He dropped his shoulder as he felt for the handle, and then slowly stood back as he pulled the door open toward them.
The sudden light from the small chamber on the other side stung her eyes. The cellar had clearly been subdivided, and this secondary room had, at some point, been used for the storage of tools and equipment. A single electric bulb, hanging on a wire from the ceiling, lit the room. Against the far wall, a staircase led up to the floor above.
Regina glanced back at the room behind them. The light from the doorway didn’t extend across the threshold. There was nothing but thick, swirling gloom. “We need to watch our step,” she said, as Hargreaves crossed the room toward the staircase. He was keeping his gun trained on the doorway above. “There’s something not right about this place.”
“There’s something not right about any of this,” said Hargreaves. “Now, find yourself a weapon amongst those tools, and let’s get this over with. I don’t want to spend any more time here than necessary. He put his boot on the first tread, and started up toward the floor above.