The Merchant’s War

Half an hour later, after a tense walk-past to check for signs that all was in order, he was relaxing in a parlor at the back of the licensed brothel with a cup of tea and a plate of deep-fried whitebait, and reflecting that whatever else could be said about Lady Bishop's establishment, the kitchen was up to scratch. As he put the teacup down, the side door opened. He rose: "Margaret?"

"Sit down." There were bags under her eyes and her back was stooped, as if from too many hours spent cramped over a writing desk. She lowered herself into an overpadded armchair gratefully and pulled a wry smile from some hidden reservoir of affect: "How was your journey?"

"Mixed. I made good time." His eyes traveled around the pelmet rail taking in the decorative knick-knacks: cheap framed prints of music hall divas and dolly-mops, bone china pipe-stands, a pair of antique pistols. "The news is-well, you'd know better than I." He turned his head to look at her. "Is it urgent?"

"I don't know." Lady Bishop frowned. There was a discreet knock at the door, and a break in the conversation while one of the girls came in with a tea tray for her. When she left, Lady Bishop resumed: "You know Adam is coming back?"

Erasmus jolted upright. "He's what? That's stupid! If they catch him-" That didn't bear thinking about. He's coming back? The very idea of it filled his mind with the distant roar of remembered crowds. Inconceivable-

"He seems to think the risk is worth running, given the nature of the current crisis, and you know what he's like. He said he doesn't want to be away from the capital when the engine of history puts on steam. He's landing late next week, on a freighter from New Shetland that's putting into Fort Petrograd, and I want you to meet him and make sure he has a safe journey back here. Willie's putting together the paperwork, but I want someone who he knows to meet him, and you're the only one I could think of who isn't holding a ring or breaking rocks."

He nodded, thoughtfully. "I can see that. It's been a long time," he said, with a vertiginous sense of lost time. It must be close on twenty years since I last heard him speak. For a disturbing moment he felt the years fall away. "He really thinks it's time?" He asked, still not sure that it could be real.

"I'm not sure I agree with him... but, yes. Will you do it?"

"Try and stop me!" He meant it, he realized. Years in the camps, and everything that had gone with that... and he still meant it. Adam's coming back, at last. And the nations of men would tremble.

"We're setting up a safe house for him. And a meeting of the Central Executive Committee, a month from now. There will be presses to turn," she said warningly. "He'll need a staff. Are you going to be fit for it?"

"My health-it's miraculous. I can't say as how I'll ever have the energy of a sixteen-year-old again, but I'm not an invalid anymore, Margaret." He thumped his chest lightly. "And I've got lost time to make up for."

Lady Bishop nodded, then took a sip of her tea.

"There's another matter, I needed to speak with you about," She said. "It's about your friend Miss Beckstein."

"Yes?" Erasmus leaned forward. "I haven't heard anything from her for nearly two months-"

"A woman claiming to be her turned up on my doorstep three nights ago: we've spent the time since then questioning her. I have no way of identifying her positively, and if her story is correct she's in serious trouble."

"I can tell you-" Erasmus paused. "What kind of trouble?"

Margaret's frown deepened. "First, I want you to look at this portrait." She pulled a small photograph from the pocket of her shalwar suit. "Is this her?"

Erasmus stared at it for a moment. "Yes." It was slightly blurred but even though she was looking away from the camera, as if captured through the eye of a spy hole, he recognized her as Miriam. He looked more closely. Her costume was even more outlandish than when she'd first shown up on his doorstep, and either the lighting was poor or there was a bruise below one eye, but it was definitely her. "That's her, all right." "Good."

He glanced up sharply. "You were expecting a Polis agent?"

"No." She reached for the picture and he let her take it. "I was expecting a Clan agent."

"A- " Erasmus slopped. He picked up his teacup again to disguise his nervousness. "Please explain," he said carefully. "Whatever I am permitted to know."