Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 6

Zanzibar Tuesday morning

          The customer was Farid Nour, a scion of Sharazi royalty. A son of one of the eight women of his father’s harem, and nowhere near succession to his father’s throne, such as it was, Farid Nour spent his money investing in antiquities.
          Abdul Reinhard’s shop was a regular stop on his collecting rounds.
          Reinhard, for his part, knew that Farid Nour was a sucker for Egyptian burial pieces, and went out of his way to accommodate him. A playboy prince, after all, could be a useful acquaintance should certain conditions arise. The only thing that Reinhard found off-putting about Farid Nour’s visits were the man's bodyguards. Sakhile and Sandile, two large black twins rumored to be Zulu mercenaries, never spoke and never smiled. Reinhard understood that a wealthy man from Wete on Pemba very much needed protection, but Zanzibar was a long way from Wete, and he suspected that part of the reason that Nour brought them into the shop was to distract him during negotiations.
          “The quality of the piece seems too, uh, perfect for its age. May I ask where you acquired it?”
          Sakhile and Sandile glowered at him from their posts at either side of the door, daring him, it seemed, to present a fabrication to their boss. The piece in question was an elegant rendering of Anubis recumbent atop a sarcophagus. Less than a foot in its longest dimension, the sarcophagus itself was carved with exquisitely miniature hieroglyphics mimicking those found on the full-size item. Anubis, in his fully canine form, was beautifully rendered in shining onyx with golden eyes, claws, and collar. The pristine work of high art might have been created yesterday.
          “Are we now reduced to haggling over chickens in the marketplace?” Reinhard answered question with question, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his traditional robe, letting the two giants wonder, literally, what he might have hidden up his sleeves. “This priceless object was taken from the tomb of a prince recently discovered miles from the upper Nile, and well hidden. Anubis was to be his protector in the afterlife, and as you see, that protection endured for over twenty centuries.”
          “Exactly my point, my friend. I am not seeing twenty centuries of age on this piece.”
          “If it is the condition that offends you, I have some less well-preserved pieces in the back, not fit for display. I can bring those out.”
          “I admire your brass, Abdul. To toy with a prince is no small act of courage.”
          Prince of a dung pile, Reinhard thought, vying for supremacy with the King of the Beggars.
          “I would not dream of toying with Your Highness,” Reinhard said with a deep bow. “I merely wish to show you items that meet with your approval, and since this one does not—”
          “I didn’t say that, my friend. It is just that the condition is so exceptional.”
          “It has been sealed in a tomb for two thousand years, maybe three, protected from the elements, from handling, from accidents. What condition would you expect it to be in?”
          “Relevant points all, Abdul. It seems heavy for a piece this size.”
          “My appraiser speculates that the god is made of gold beneath his onyx covering.”
          Farid Nour’s eyes widened briefly before he regained control.
          “Forty-five hundred,” he said, turning the piece, hefting it in his hand.
          “We agreed on a price last night, my friend. Five thousand ryals. If you don’t feel the piece is worth it, I will of course harbor no ill feelings if you decide not to buy.”
          Farid Nour bristled for an instant, then smiled with a sigh.
          “This is why you are a merchant, my friend. There is no winning with you!”
          He motioned to his men, and one of them stepped forward, producing a leather-bound book from under his robe and handing it to Nour.
          “You have no sense of the give and take,” he said, writing the draft that would transfer five thousand ryals to Reinhard’s possession. “Tell me, Abdul, do you have trouble with thieves in a shop like this?”
          “Have you met my man, Mutala?” Reinhard asked as Nour signed the draft.
          “Yes, I think we did meet once.”
          “Someone broke in here last winter, stole a few pieces from the display. Mutala tracked him down and made an example of him that no one has yet forgotten. I believe I could leave the shop unlocked, and not have any problems. Not that I’m going to test that theory, of course.”
          “No, I shouldn’t advise it. Well, my friend, I have pressing business on the mainland, and I mustn’t miss the packet. You will advise me, of course, should any other works of similar quality come into your possession?”
          “Of course, my friend,” Reinhard replied with a deep bow. “You are always the first to know.”
          As the door closed behind Nour and his two thugs, Reinhard rolled his eyes and turned to the back room where his real business awaited.
          “Welcome back, Mutala,” he said, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
          “Thank you, Mr. Reinhard. Your message said come at once, so I only took time to wash my face. What do you require?”
          “I appreciate that. I hate to do it, but I will have to send you right back out again.”
          “I live to serve.”
          “Are you sure you’re rested enough?”
          “I rode back here on an airship. Twelve hours of ease and relaxation. What do you have for me?”
          “I have need to contact a Belgian in Kisumu about a factory I’m buying. Or perhaps I’ve already bought it, I’m not clear on the details. These orders come from Köln. You understand what that means?”
          “Of course, sir.”
          “Good.”
          He twisted a ring off his finger. At a casual glance, it appeared to be composed of a raw silver nugget roughly beaten into ring form, but on closer appraisal, it could be seen to form an octopus, the body riding atop the finger as the tentacles gripped it. Two subtle chips of obsidian formed the eyes.
          “It means, of course, that the man in Kisumu will recognize this.”
          He handed the ring to Mutala, who slipped it into his vest pocket.
          “I recommend you take the train from Mombasa up to Nairobi. That will get you another night’s rest. From Nairobi, get up to Kisumu any way you see fit.”
          “Urgency?”
          “None, at least none that was imparted to me.”
          “I’ll probably get a horse from our man there, then. What do I do in Kisumu?”
          “You'll need to find a Belgian by the name of Gervais. Show him the ring to prove you’re my agent. If he works with the organization, he should give you a briefing, which you then convey to me. Once we know what Köln wants, we can begin to advance their plans.”
          “Yes, sir. Should I use the telegraph?”
          “Not unless it’s necessary. You judge the urgency, but the less anyone knows about the organization’s activities, the better.”
          “I understand, Mr. Reinhard. I’ll depart at once.”

Nairobi 6:00 PM

          Jinx stepped from the train onto the platform at the tiny depot of Nairobi. Both the station and the buildings she could see in the rosy evening sun bore all the signs of transience that she had seen in a dozen little towns in the outback, and a few on the Indian subcontinent. There was barely any semblance of streets. Any place a building was needed, one was thrown up, constructed of whatever came readily to hand, be it planks, bricks, sheets of corrugated iron, or dirt-filled coffee bags. Here today, gone tomorrow, these towns filled a brief need before being reabsorbed into the landscape, their usefulness outlived. But there was a vibration of permanence as well, a feeling that this one had momentum, and that if she could come back in a hundred years, Nairobi would still be here, and thriving.
          A wild mixture of food smells, and others not so savory, assailed her nose, and she took note of a half-dozen push carts arrayed around the station’s perimeter, their little on-board charcoal stoves busy at the task of preparing portable food. A half-dozen or so travelers had disembarked with her, and four of these, two Caucasians and two in Arab dress, went to two different carts to make purchases. Watching to see what might be for sale, she chose the cart the Arabs had favored.
          “Good evening,” she said to the minuscule old woman in a colorful caftan who had returned to her seat, balancing on a one-legged stool beside her cart.
          “A very pleasant evening to you, young miss,” the woman said, smiling with the three teeth left to her.
          “I saw you sell kebabs to those gentlemen. What kind of meat do you have?”
          “Lamb, young miss. Very savory. Butchered this very evening.”
          “I’m sure,” Jinx said with a smile. “How much?”
          “Eight pence.”
          “I’ll take one.”
          As the woman began threading the square blocks of meat onto a skewer, Jinx asked, “Do you know a Doctor Farnsworth here in town?”
          “Oh, yes, Miss. A tooth doctor. He helped me very much with my trouble.”
          “Can you tell me where to find him?”
          “Oh, yes. He has his hospital on Chadley Street.”
          “Chadley Street?” Jinx repeated with a raised eyebrow.
          “Yes, yes.” The woman put the meat on the fire, and turned to get her bearings. “You see the building there with the small tower at one corner?”
          Jinx followed the woman’s finger, found it, and nodded.
          “You pass that building. On the other side, you will find a coffee trader’s shop. Turn left there, and look for a shop with a giant tooth in front.”
          “A giant tooth?”
          “Yes, young miss. That is Doctor Farnsworth’s hospital.”
          Paying for her food, Jinx slung her rucksack over one shoulder and set off toward the indicated building, trying a chunk of seared lamb as she went. It was done to perfection; the old woman only had one job, and she did it well. Now if her directions were as good.
          She continued along the broad path into the town, passing the turreted building which proved to be a boarding house, and stopping before a shop proclaiming itself to house Stuart Grimson, Coffee Merchant. Raucous laughter came from the right, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano being played by a marginal musician. She turned left toward where the uneven street was darker and quieter. A business district, closed for the night.
          She hadn’t gone far before she saw the giant tooth she had been directed to. A molar the size of a medicine ball hung below a wire frame that extended over the plank sidewalk. The office was dark, but there was a light in a second-floor window, probably the residence of the doctor. She rattled the door handle, not surprised to find it locked, so she tapped on the glass with the empty meat skewer, then banged the wooden frame with her fist.
          “Doctor!” she called. “Doctor, can you help me?”
          “Go away!” replied a man’s voice from above her. “I am closed. Come back tomorrow!”
          “But the pain! Please, doctor, you must help me!”
          Jinx unbuttoned the top button of her plain cotton shirt, pressed her palm to her cheek, and backed into the street, stopping with one hip thrust out, emphasizing her femaleness, and giving the man a straight view down into her bodice.
          “Doctor, please,” she cried, voice dripping with agony, “I cannot bear it!”
          “All right, all right,” he said, voice entirely different now. “Not to worry, my dear. I’ll come down and see you now.”
          Thought you might! she thought, stepping back to the door.
          The tooth doctor, a tall man, a bit overweight, obviously accustomed to good food and relaxation, opened the door to admit her, directed her through an inner door to his examination room, and turned to lock the door behind him. When he turned back into the room, she had placed her cloth bag on the floor and was standing beside one of his display cases, examining the contents.
          “Exquisite,” she said. “Roman?”
          “Etruscan. Very rare. Just go in the other room and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll have a look at your tooth.”
          “Odd thing, Doctor. The pain is completely gone. Now that I’m here, I’d rather talk about a man named Reinhard.”
          Caught completely by surprise, Farnsworth’s jaw fell open until it was almost resting on his chest.
          “I- I know nothing about any Reinhard,” the doctor stammered, trying to compose himself.
          “You’re obviously lying. We know all about your involvement, so why don’t you make it easy on yourself, and just tell me where to find him?”
          “We? I see no one but a slip of a girl! You think you can come in here and intimidate me?” He took a step toward her, attempting to menace her with his height.
          “You should find out what sort of girl I am before you make any rash decisions,” she said, holding her hand up in a calming motion. Suddenly, her elbow snapped downward, shattering the top of the display case and showering glass in among the pieces. “Whoopsie!”
          “Why you!” He charged toward her, twice her size and full of anger, but her knee came up and her foot snapped out waist-high, connecting solidly with his unprepared abdomen. Slip of a girl she may have been, but the power of her leg drove the heel of her boot deep into his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs and dropping him to his knees.
          He desperately wanted to get up and strike her, but his legs wouldn’t obey his bidding. Even if they would, he could barely force his lungs to take in oxygen. Through his pain, he saw her standing over him with a maddeningly calm expression, tilting her head like a dog trying to understand the spoken word.
          “You can’t—” he wheezed, holding up one hand to ward her off, though she had made no move toward him. “You can’t come in here and break my possessions. I’ll- I’ll call the patrol and have you locked up!”
          “Are you sure that’s wise?” She reached into the display and picked up a small, fired cup. “With what my organization knows about you, you’ll spend years as a guest of Her Majesty. Where is he?”
          “What organization do you represent?”
          “That isn’t your concern, Doctor. Your concern is telling me what I want to know.”
          She raised the cup above her head, preparing to throw it.
          “Please!”
          He dropped forward and crawled to one of the waiting room seats, dragging himself into it and sitting painfully hunched over, clutching his stomach.
          “I- I don’t know anything. I’m a middle man, a go-between. One messenger drops off a package, and another picks it up. Once a month I receive an envelope full of cash for performing that small service. That’s it. That isn’t so much. How are you going to send a man to prison for that?”
          “You’re what they call a facilitator, Doc. Evil permeates this place. Slaves, drugs, rubies. The Crown doesn’t like it. Bad for business, you see, and people like you make it all possible.” Placing the cup back in the display, she went to her bag and extracted her cut-down Winchester carbine. Pulling a chair up facing his, she sat down and tapped him on the knee with the barrel. “Now, Doctor, tell me everything there is to know about these messengers.”

Nairobi 10:00 PM

          Kestrel had arrived back in Nairobi well after dark, having been in the air for over twenty-four hours. Her crew wasn't especially tired from the journey, with the possible exception of Patience, who had barely allowed herself to be pried off the helm for a catnap, but they had much to arrange, including the delivery of coal, and time at the water tower the following day to replenish her stocks. Having managed those things, and found an establishment that would serve them a hot meal of dubious quality this late in the evening, they made their way back to the Kestrel, nodding to the aerodrome’s night watchman as they passed up the loading ramp and onto the ship.
          “They did fit the description,” Monroe told Patience as they stepped across the gap and onto the deck of their flying home, “right down to the earring and light skin.”
          “And they were killed in their room,” Hobbs countered. “They might have been ordinary track workers killed for a shilling for all we know.”
          “We aren’t the police, Patience, as you have on occasion pointed out. We have a living to earn, and no one is going to pay us to do detective work instead of moving cargo.”
          “You saw Nicholas in that hospital bed,” she said, stopping to look him full in the face. “Don’t you want to be certain that the right people have paid for it?”
          “Oh, they’re the right people,” came a voice from the darkness of the pilot house. “Of course, they were just messenger boys. Aren’t you interested in the men who sent them?”
          Smith’s Peacemaker appeared in his hand as Bakari stepped in front of Hobbs and Monroe.
          “Really, Mr. Smith, if I had evil designs on you, I would have simply started shooting from the darkness,” Jinx said, stepping into the light.
          “Jinx Jenkins?” Smith said, returning his pistol to its holster. “I never expected to see you again!”
          “Nor I you,” she replied, “but when I saw your ship here, I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
          “Where’s the rest of your crew?” Monroe asked.
          “Broken up, scattered to the winds. Of no consequence, in other words.”
          “This is a social call, then?” Patience asked.
          “Hardly. I’m following a different trail, completely unrelated to your young friend’s misfortune, except that two worthless bottom-feeders decided to involve him in my pursuit. The sad part is that it was a case of mistaken identity. He never should have met them.”
          “Did you kill them?” Monroe asked.
          “Heavens, no! They would have been useful stepping stones back to their boss.”
          “Maybe,” Monroe said. “We saw you kill a wounded man last time we enjoyed your company.”
          “This is the world, Captain, not a London drawing room. You can’t abide by civilized rules when you’re dealing with animals.”
          “That’s true,” Monroe agreed. “The question is, when the heroes and villains all act the same, how are we to assure ourselves that you aren’t one of the villains?”
          “You can tell by who the person is killing. I’m after the same people you are, just higher up the chain of command.”
          “Why?”
          “That’s family business, but what it means to you is that I’m here to propose an alliance. I can pay you well.”
          “Pay for what, exactly?”
          “Transportation. A moving base of operations. Maybe a bit of support at need. That would be up to you, but I’ve seen what you people can do with this vessel, and I’m very impressed.”
          “So you want to hire us as mercenaries, then? Vigilantes? That’s a bit out of our line.”
          “I want to charter your ship for transportation. Any extra service you choose to provide is entirely at your discretion. As I say, I can pay very well. Are you interested?”
          “We’re exhausted, Miss Jenkins,” Monroe said in answer. “We’ve been in the air for over a day, and we have a big day planned tomorrow restocking our consumables. I say we’ll sleep on it. You’ll find us either here or at the water tower tomorrow. Look us up, and we’ll talk about it. Now if you’ll excuse us, it’s past our bedtime.”
          “All right, Captain,” she said, stepping to the rail, “tomorrow it is.”
          “Who was that?” Bakari asked as she walked away.
          “Abigail Jenkins,” Smith replied, “the Australian wildcat. We did a job with her some months back. She’s... interesting.”
          “You were rough on her, Captain,” Patience said, “sending her packing this late at night.”
          “What should I have done?”
          “You could have offered her the use of a cabin.”
          “Yes, I could have. I’m tired, and I don’t like her style.”
          “Her style?” Smith repeated, drawing his pistol and rotating its cylinder to align an empty chamber with the barrel.
          “Yes. She claims to be one of the heroes, but I can’t tell her from a villain, and I don’t like that.”
          “But to send a young woman out into Nairobi at this late hour,” Patience mused.
          “You know her, Patience,” Monroe said. “If someone tries to take her money or her virtue, there’ll be one less criminal on the streets by sunrise. Now I’m going to retire. We can continue this in the morning, should anyone still find it interesting.”