The Reluctant Assassin

The Old Nichol


THE OLD NICHOL ROOKERY. BETHNAL GREEN. LONDON. 1898

Chevie tried to flag down a cab, but she was filthy from her trips up and down Charismo’s chimney and no driver would halt until she stood half in the road, waving Malarkey’s gold purse. As the hansom clattered away, Chevie slumped on the seat beside Riley and wondered where in the universe they could go in order to earn a minute’s respite. Her ribs ached from the various scrapes that Victorian London had inflicted on her person, and she realized that somewhere in the midst of this misadventure she had developed a constant ringing in her left ear.

Riley was recovering, but in no shape to journey far. They needed to find a place to hide until she could figure out their next move.

It would be irresponsible to allow Garrick to run amok in London with all the knowledge in his head, which he would definitely not be using to put an end to war and starvation. Simply put: Garrick had to be stopped. But how? She had no idea. This was Riley’s world, and they would have to put their heads together on a problem as big as Garrick. And to do that they would have to lie low somewhere until they were fit enough to fight back.

Chevie slapped Riley’s cheek gently.

“Come on, Riley. Wake up, partner. There must be somewhere this lunatic won’t follow us. Where is Garrick afraid to go?”

She was forced to repeat the question several times before it penetrated Riley’s addled skull, but as soon as he understood the question, he knew the answer: the Old Nichol. His face paled and his hands shook at the very idea.

“There is a place,” he said, then coughed long and harsh. “Somewhere Garrick has sworn he would never go. He would rather smash his artist’s hands with a mallet, said he, than return to the rookeries of Old Nichol.”

Chevie sat straight in the hansom’s seat, brushing the soot from her shirt. “Off we go, then. The Old Nichol it is.”

Riley was not so eager, for to see the devil afraid of a place is a powerful incentive never to pay that place a visit. He gazed at the road ahead, remembering how Garrick had described the Old Nichol.

“My master told me that the air in Old Nichol is charged with sulfur, enough so that the rats and small dogs will turn snow white and asphyxiate.”

Chevie sat back beside her traveling partner. “Rats turning white is never good,” she admitted.

“At the rear of each tenement or rookery there is a pile of raw sewage, which is fed by the entire building. The only creatures who thrive in Old Nichol are those which feed on offal.”

Chevie felt her stomach sour. Offal-thriving did not sound like much of a way to get by.

Riley remembered something else. “Old Nichol is slow death for all. Garrick told me of a strongman who fell on hard times and took a bunk there. In six months he had wasted away to nothing and died of blood poisoning from bedsores. They buried him in a flour sack.”

“Oh, come on,” objected Chevie. “We’re not getting married and raising kids there. You just need a few hours’ sleep to get the poison out of your system, then we can figure out a way to defeat Garrick.”

“It takes only a moment to suck down whooping cough.”

This was a sobering statement and almost turned Chevie from her purpose, but she held onto her reasoning. Garrick would not set foot in this Old Nichol hellhole, so they must, if only for a single night.

She rapped on the cab’s roof.

“Hey, buddy. Take us to the Old Nichol.”

The cabbie slid back an aperture and stuck his head in the hole. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. This heat have me addled. I could’ve sworn you said Old Nichol.”

“You got it, pal.”

The cabbie’s luxuriant eyebrows arched like small fish. “Old Nichol? West End to the Old Nichol? Is the tourist having me on, young sir?”

“No,” replied Riley gloomily. “She ain’t.”

The cabbie spat into the street. “Well, beggin’ yer pardon, but I ain’t taking you into the stink. The bleeders would have the shoes off me mare. I’ll drop the pair of ye at Bethnal Green, and you can risk yer own skins from there.”

Poverty and crime are never very distant in London. Even in the modern metropolis, cast an eye down any alley and there is an unfortunate making himself as comfortable as the pavement allows. But in the nineteenth century, the Old Nichol rookery had been saturated so thoroughly by destitution and neglect that not even a postcard-sized area was exempt. Each building was a tenement, each citizen was crooked with disease, and every occupation dealt with the immediate preservation of life. Even the climate seemed worse there, creating a chill, damp principality inside the boundaries of London proper.

As Chevie Savano and Riley walked along Boundary Street, all hope of a bright future seeped down into their boots and onto the uneven cobbles. There wasn’t a shantytown in the modern world that could compare with the Old Nichol for sheer grim despair.

Walls of greasy bricks rose from the cracked paving stones, story plonked upon story. Windows, apparently placed at random, were rarely glazed, and were curtained by busted crates or flapping rags. Street stalls were piled with decayed objects that would have been on the rubbish heap in any other market. The fruit was gray and pulped, the bread tinged with green, and rock hard.

Even the people in this place seemed the offspring of a different, meaner god. Gone was the irrepressible cockney spirit, and in its place the hacking cough or the threatening leer. The inhabitants moved with a peculiar shuffling gait, shoulders hunched and elbows tight to their sides, protecting themselves as much as possible.

Chevie could not keep the shock from her voice. “This is . . . It’s like hell on earth.”

Riley hung on to her elbow. “We need to get ourselves inside. Put some solid planks between us and Old Nichol before nightfall. I must get my head down.”

A slovenly woman stood, elbows on a half-door, staring vacantly into the street.

Riley approached her, ignoring the filthy urchins nudging his knees like cleaner fish.

“Any spare digs, ma’am? We are requiring a lurk for the night.”

The woman eyed them suspiciously from underneath a fuzz of curls.

“Chink?”

Riley nodded tightly, hiding his nausea. “At the ready. We have firearms, too, but only shot enough for the bluebottles.”

Firearms was a bit of an exaggeration. They had Barnum’s revolver and six shots only.

The woman barked with laughter, and there was sour gin on her breath. “Bluebottles? I ain’t seen the law in here since ninety-two, when they tried to take in the traitor Giles. What a morning that was. There was enough blue blood in the gutters to wash out the cholera.”

“Have you got a room or not?” Riley insisted.

“I gots the loft spare. Cove gave up the ghost on Wednesday. Someone took him to the heap, I think.”

“How much?”

A crafty light sparked in the stinking woman’s eye. “I would take a sov.”

“I’ll wager you would, if I would be sap enough to fork one over. I have a shiny shilling here, which you can take or not. If it’s not, then we’ll be moving along down the street for ourselves.”

The woman rubbed a finger along a sparsely populated bottom gum. “I shall be taking that shiny shilling, young gent.”

Riley handed it across. “And warn any likely lads about the firearms,” he said. “I hate to waste shots on fellow killers, but if anyone tries to crack our drum, I will make an exception. Also, my companion here is a black-magic witch, and she will set fire ants a-crawling in yer brain.”

The woman flicked the coin with her yellowed thumbnail and listened to it sing.

“Fire ants,” says she, unimpressed. “I’ve had those bleeders inside me head for years.”



•••



Riley and Chevie picked their way down a hallway where the floor could have been removed from a salt-warped shipwreck: the boards jostled with each other for space and rose or fell like the ends of a seesaw, depending on the point of pressure. The passage was lined with young criminals—a collection of snakesmen, smashers, palmers, hoisters, and prowlers the likes of which would rarely be seen this side of Newgate’s watchtower. These boys smoked what they could find, which seemed to be mostly rolled-up strips of wallpaper that burned out after a drag or two and covered the lungs with paste, which made running from the coppers more troublesome than it should have been for a group of young feller-me-lads.

Every one of those boys gave Riley the evil eye on his way past, but they did not know what to make of Chevie, with her shining hair and white teeth.

“You are like an angel to these poor coves,” Riley whispered to her on the stairs. “Seeing as they do not know you like I do.”

One of the urchins had the bottle to clear his throat, calling from the upper landing, “Here, miss. Is you the Injun princess what humbled them Rams?”

Riley stepped forth, trying to appear more energetic and aggressive than he felt. “Aye, this is the very specimen. She ain’t got none of the Queen’s English, so I does her talking. She’s high-strung, too, so you gotta approach her careful and always frontwise.”

“My name is Bob Winkle,” said the boy, who could have been any color under the dirt that encrusted his skin, and who had about as much fat on his bones as a tinker’s ferret. He was no taller than a ten-year-old, but his voice and face were older. “You need any’fing? Booze, bread, or contraband? Bob runs a clean service. Robs to order, too, whatever you like.”

Riley reckoned that young Winkle’s service was about as clean as his face.

“If we have need, we will rap on the floor. But if you come up, no arm waving, or the Injun princess is like to rip yer throat clean out.”

The boys covered their throats and cleared a path, waving Chevie through like royalty.

They mounted the stairs toward their rented loft, steeling their hearts against the glazed eyes of the residents they encountered on the climb. Young girls brawled, dragging clumps out of each other’s matted hair. Grandfathers sat wedged in corners, sucking on empty pipes and swearing into space, and everywhere the clamor of despair rose through the house, funneled skyward by the stairwell like a cry to heaven.

Three flights up, they arrived at a door at the end of an uncommonly rickety set of steps. Riley twisted the wooden knob and was not surprised to find their room unlocked. A heavy brick stood against the wall inside, to be used as a stopper if the occupants required some privacy; but what would be the point when the walls of the loft were pocked with sledgehammer holes?

Chevie hurried in and hefted the brick.

“Come on,” she urged Riley. “Let’s get this secured.”

Riley obliged with some reluctance. “I never dreamed these poor people could sink so low.”

The brick scraped across the floor as Chevie wedged it against the door. “You’ve never been here?”

“Never. I fled to Saint Giles once and thought that a proper slum, but I’ve seen nothing like this before. I understand now why Garrick vowed never to return.”

Chevie tore brown paper from one corner of the small window to let some air into the rank chamber, though it was hardly worth the effort.

Riley wrapped his arms around himself, sinking to the rotting wooden floor. “We are between the workhouse and the grave here,” he said quietly. “Londoners fear Old Nichol because it awaits us, each and every one.” He shuddered. “I should not have brought you here, Chevie, and you a lady.”

Chevie draped her arm around his shoulder, moving close for warmth. “No. We had to come.” Chevie remembered the question she had been meaning to ask Riley for the past few hours. “Tell me something, Riley. Did you knock over the Farspeak on purpose?”

Riley stopped himself from shivering long enough to answer. “Yes. Charismo handed us the rope to hang him.”

“Yes,” agreed Chevie. “That guy talked too much.”

“He had my poor mum killed,” said Riley, sniffing. “And my dad—he was one of your lot.”

“I know,” said Chevie. “Special Agent William Riley. I read his file. He was quite a boxer. Before he disappeared, he was known for having fast hands.”

“I have fast hands. Garrick said he never seen hands faster.”

“We will need your hands, and your wits, if we are to defeat Garrick.”

Riley huddled close for warmth and so that his nose would register Chevie’s healthy odors rather than his rank surroundings.

“But what do we have to work with? Everything’s gone. Even the Timekey.”

“Sharp’s key is gone,” admitted Chevie. “But I have another one.”

She reached down the leg of her riding boot and tugged out a Timekey by the lanyard.

“Charismo’s,” guessed Riley. “You took it when you lifted his ring?”

“I did take it, but it’s not Charismo’s.”

Riley’s eyes widened. “My dad’s. Bill Riley’s key.”

“That’s right,” said Chevie, passing the key to Riley. “Your dad is still watching over you.”

This notion seemed to give Riley comfort and determination.

“We must use our time in this dreadful place to plot. We cannot take Garrick in a straight brawl.”

Chevie grunted, staring straight ahead. “Maybe not, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Shhh,” warned Riley. “Else people will believe that there’s a cat in here; then we will have dinner guests.”

Chevie groaned. “Cats? People here eat cats?”

Riley nodded. “If you let them, they would eat your boots.” “We have so got to get out of here.”

“We will,” said Riley. “You saved me in your world. Now I will save you in mine.”

This was not simply idle babble. Riley clasped his own father’s Timekey to his chest and judged it a good omen. Now they had hope. Now they had something to build a plan around.

You taught me well, Albert Garrick, thought Riley, seeing the assassin’s face in his mind’s eye. Now we must see if your own lessons can be turned against you.

In spite of the wretchedness of their surroundings and the constant assault on their senses, Chevie and Riley somehow managed to drop into a fitful sleep for a few hours.

They woke simultaneously, feeling both starved and disgusted by the idea of eating food that had been prepared in this place. Especially meat, as Chevie had noticed a suspicious absence of rats. The sulfur-infused air had set their heads throbbing and stripped their throats of moisture.

“We need to buy some water,” said Chevie.

“Not here,” advised Riley. “A delicate gut like yours could not stomach Old Nichol water. It would be out again soon enough, one road or the other.”

Chevie did not ask for details, and she knew that being ill was not something she could risk right now.

“Okay. No water, spoilsport. You go back to sleep and let me think.”

Riley wriggled closer. “I am also thinking. Garrick has given me gifts that he may not expect me to use.”

“If you have an idea, please share.”

“I have the seed of an idea,” said Riley. “It needs . . . watering.”

Chevie may have chuckled or possibly shivered.

They sat without speaking for a while.

“Can I ask a question?” said Riley, long minutes after Chevie was certain he’d fallen asleep.

“Ask away,” said Chevie.

“In advance I beg you not to be insulted, for I do respect you.”

“Oh, I love these questions. Go on.”

Riley considered his phrasing. “Chevie, I heard how those agents from the future spoke to you. Why do you want to stay in the FBI when they don’t seem to want you? And how does someone of your years, and a female to boot, nab herself a position with the bluebottles?”

“That’s more than one question. That’s more or less my life story you’re asking for.”

Riley moved closer in case there was a candle’s worth of heat to be had. “You saw my life in the tunnel, Chevron. I think you could speak of yours. We are close now, are we not?”

“We are close,” agreed Chevie. She had never been closer to anyone. She was bonded to this boy by trauma. “Okay, I’ll tell you about me.”

Riley did not speak, but elbowed her softly in the midriff, which Chevie decided to interpret as go ahead.

“You know I’m an orphan, like you. After my folks were gone, I was put in the foster system, but I was never adopted— too old and too loud, they said. Apparently that made me just perfect for another family, a much bigger one: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI was putting a program together in conjunction with Homeland Security to stop terrorist cells from getting a grip on the minds of high-school kids. And what better way to guard our schools than with undercover juvenile agents? Sounds crazy, right? Hollywood crazy. But they got funding from a CIA slush fund, if you can believe that, and they picked half a dozen orphans from California for a pilot scheme. We were trained in a place called Quantico and then inserted in a school.” Chevie paused to check that Riley was still awake, half hoping that he would not be. “Any questions so far, kid?”

Riley stirred. “Just one. What is Hollywood crazy?”

A good question. “You like those adventure books, Riley. Well Hollywood crazy is something so wild that it wouldn’t seem out of place in a H. G. Wells story.”

“I see. Carry on.”

Chevie shifted a little on the boards, trying for at least a modicum of comfort. “My target was an Iranian family with four kids in the school. I was supposed to cozy up to the kids, get into their circle, and call the office if they had any terrorist plans. A simple observe-and-report mission. No weapons for teenagers, you understand. So I did what I was told, acted friendly, got close. And I realized that these kids weren’t interested in terrorizing anyone—they just wanted to make it through high school, like the rest of us. If anything, they were the ones being terrorized. We had a group of real sweethearts in our school who couldn’t tell the difference between Saudi, Iraqi, and Iranian, and couldn’t care less. One night a Jeep full of these guys corners my Iranians outside a theater. It got real ugly real fast. One of them pulls a weapon, starts putting shots into the asphalt.”

“I can guess what happened,” said Riley. “You did not take kindly to this behavior.”

Chevie scowled. “No, I did not. I twisted that gun out of his hand, but not before he managed to put a ricochet into his own leg.”

“It appears to me as though you were something of a heroine.”

“Yeah, you would think that, except I got a little carried away and fired a warning shot overhead.”

“That does not sound so serious.”

“No, except now the kid claims that I shot him. And I have gunshot residue on my hand, and some joker with a camera phone captures everything on film, but from a crappy angle that shows me doing all my martial arts but not the kid shooting himself.”

“Ah. Gunshot residue sounds like evidence that Sherlock Holmes would look for.”

“Exactly, or should I say, elementary. So now it’s all over the news how there’s a kid with a gun and a badge in a high school. It gets all the way to the senate. The Agency realizes its teen-agent scheme is at best unconstitutional and at worst illegal, so quickly and quietly retires all the other kids.”

“But Agent Chevron Savano has found her family and does not wish to retire.”

“That’s right. I don’t want to go, and they can’t force me out just yet because there is a committee looking into the whole thing and I’m not supposed to exist. So they ship me off to London, and I think you know the rest.”

Riley did not comment outright, and once again Chevie believed he had fallen asleep until he said, “If we are to deal with Garrick, you will need to hold your temper.”

Chevie felt a weight of responsibility settle on her mind like a vise. This was a big moment for both of them. Riley had never voiced the opinion that it was even possible to be saved from the devil Garrick.

“But,” continued Riley, “this is a plan we should make together. After all, we fight for both our lives. We are brothers in this.”

“Agreed,” said Chevie. “So tell me about this seed we have to water.”

Riley spoke and Chevie realized that this kid was even smarter than she had guessed.

When he had come to a full stop, Chevie commented, “A little harebrained, Riley, and I don’t see how we can do it alone.”

Riley rapped on the floor with the heel of his boot, sending echoes tumbling through the building. “I know a boy who runs a clean operation and will work for coin.”



•••



When the scheme had been hammered as straight as it could ever be, Riley sent Bob Winkle and his crew to fetch their provisions, and he joined Chevie in the corner of the room where the wall sweated a sickly sweet heat that warmed their fingers when they wormed them between the bricks.

“Winter would be worse,” said Riley. “We would not last a night.”

“No HDTV either,” said Chevie, and began to laugh. After a puzzled moment, Riley joined in, not knowing what HDTV was, but happy to have any excuse for mirth.

When the poisonous air forced them to stop taking such gulps, their laughter petered out and the hubbub from beyond their window once again filled the room.

Chevie held Riley’s hands inside the makeshift vent.

“You know that we’re on borrowed time?” said Riley. “Even though Garrick won’t come in here, he can pay those that will.”

“We move as soon as Bob gets back,” said Chevie. “Don’t worry. It’s a good plan. It will work.”

“It must,” said Riley, squeezing her fingers tightly. “There will be no second chances with Garrick.”

There was a knock on the door.

“I gots a message fer the Injun princess,” said a reedy voice. Chevie opened the door and there stood a consumptive

boy with blood on his gums and the rattle of phlegm in his windpipe.

Chevie dragged the boy inside then pinned him to the wall for a quick frisk. Garrick would not be above booby-trapping a child. He would probably consider it funny.

“Don’t rip me froat out, miss. I only done it for the sweety.” The boy had nowhere to conceal anything, and there was nothing concealed. In his hand he held a square of brown packing paper and on it was carefully drawn a window.

The message was clear: Go to the window.

Sure, thought Chevie. Like I’m going to the window. But she did, ducking underneath the sill, cocking one eye at the ripped corner of paper, peering out at the sun rising through the pearly fog, scanning the rooftops.

She could see nothing odd. Nothing, that is, odder than a view of the nineteenth century.

Bowed roofs and chimney stacks. A distant spire.

No, not a distant spire. A man on the rooftops, a red light flashing in his fist.

The strange red light sliced through the fog, a hundred years ahead of its time, painting a dot on the paper plugging the tenement window.

“Down,” called Chevie, diving at both boys, dragging them to the floor, and not a moment too soon. Six shots punctured the paper and knocked fist-sized chunks from the brick wall. Dust clouds swirled in the tubes of light admitted by the bullet holes.

Chevie held the boys down until she felt that the attack was past.

“He’s found us,” gasped Riley.

The boards creaked under their weight as though collapse was imminent. The stench of boiled tripe was stronger with their noses to the wood, and through a gap in the floor Chevie could see a dozen figures rousing from their sleep in the cramped murk below.

“If you are well enough to leave,” she said to Riley, “I have had quite enough of the Old Nichol.”

“You try keeping up with me,” said Riley, and commenced crawling for the doorway.