Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 14

Aloft north of Mombasa Tuesday morning

          Smith’s harmonica provided the overture, the sad strains of My Old Kentucky Home floating up from the empty cargo deck to where Monroe leaned back against the front of the pilot house. Kestrel climbed majestically out of the Mombasa aerodrome, making the sweeping right turn to bring them onto a northwest course for Nairobi. Jinx stood at the rail nearby, watching fascinated as the rooftops, people, and vehicles fell away below them. Monroe couldn’t recall having seen her impressed by anything either time he had been around her, but she was now, her face rapt with wonder at the unfolding panorama.
          “So, boss lady, are we agents of the Crown now?”
          “Hardly,” she replied. “I’m not an agent of the Crown, so it’s a certainty that you aren’t.”
          “It’s hard to visualize,” Monroe said. “You’re obviously a government agent. Sanderson treated you like a cabinet minister. You’re Australian. You take your orders from an office in Australia. We’ve agreed to work for you. How are we not working for the Crown?”
          “Have you ever seen a big-city schoolhouse, Captain? One with a lot of rooms and classes?”
          “I attended one, in fact.”
          “Good. Imagine then that all those classrooms are nations. Imagine further there is a gang of unruly boys who—”
          “Why is it always boys?”
          “Because we girls are made of sugar and spice. Imagine a gang of delinquent boys who have decided to disrupt classes by any means they can think of. They are different ages, and quite naturally in different classes, but they all have the same goal, to disrupt learning. If they are left unchecked, no one will be able to get an education because of their antics. These boys are Kraken.”
          “All right.”
          “Now imagine there is a dedicated headmaster who is not going to allow these miscreants to ruin everyone else’s opportunity to learn, so he hires a few enforcers who patrol the halls, look in on classes, and pull these toughs out for detention wherever they find them. They belong to no one classroom, but cooperate with any instructor who needs them, do you see?”
          “Yes.”
          “These are the Darklighters.”
          “Ah, quite. So, what are we going to do in classroom Nairobi?”
          “I shall try to discover what the mysterious Mr. Reinhard is doing there, who his accomplice, the even more mysterious ‘M’ might be, and whether he has already moved on to Kisumu. You will remain aboard, attend the opera, or whatever keeps you out of harm’s way.”
          “Oh, we don't help you?”
          “Having this vessel to flit about the colony in is helping tremendously. You specified that you didn’t want your crew placed in jeopardy, and I can’t protect all of you all the time if you’re working the job with me.”
          He chuckled at that.
          “Do we seem like people who need protection?”
          “Very much so. I couldn’t do your jobs. Don't presume you can do mine.”
          “You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”
          “I do.”
          “Because you worked on a cattle station? You aren’t the first woman to do that.”
          “Would you like to compare stories of a hard life?” she asked, turning to face him. “You can see that I’m of mixed race.”
          “Yes. So what?”
          “My mother was Chinese, my father Australian. They had a little farm south of Brisbane where they scratched a living out of the dirt. When I was five, three men came to the house. Brothers. Bushrangers, you know?”
          “Thieves.”
          “Exactly. They’d convinced themselves that my mother had some Chinese treasure hidden somewhere that she’d brought from the old country. They hadn’t considered why they slaved in the field every day if they had this treasure, but I guess being stupid is part of the criminal package. They started in the front room with my father. My mother realized what was happening, and shoved me into the potato bin. They cut on him for a while, until he died, actually, and then they started on her. I watched it all. I spent my last night with my mother sleeping by her corpse, and the next day I walked three miles to town, to have the police tell me that there was nothing they could do, because I was too young to be a credible witness. They did get around to stuffing me into a rat-hole of an orphanage where I stayed until I was twelve, at which time a couple of the older boys and I were adopted by a couple who owned a large cattle station.”
          “Miss Jenkins . . . Abigail, you don’t have to—”
          “Yes, I do. You should know who you’re dealing with.”
          “All right.”
          “To start with, my name is Jinx. Abigail Jenkins died at the age of five.”
          He just nodded.
          “These stockmen, they didn’t want children, they wanted ranch hands they didn’t have to pay. They taught us to ride, shoot, track, use the cattle whip, all the usual skills. I worked at this cattle station until I was fourteen. By then, I had collected enough information to say with certainty who had killed my parents. I stole a gun and a horse, and left to hunt for them. One by one, I found them and killed them. They knew why, and they suffered.”
          “Jinx, I’m so sorry.”
          “Oh, don’t be sorry yet. The same law that couldn’t bring them to justice threw me into Berrima Gaol for my ‘crime.’ Have you ever heard of Berrima, Captain?”
          “Just the name.”
          “Worst hell-hole of a prison anywhere. Worse than Dartmoor. Worse than Calcutta, maybe, or just as bad. I spent two years there, most of it in solitary confinement. I was considered a problem prisoner, because when one of the guards came to rape me one night, he got careless, and I broke his nose. I was trying to gouge his eyes out when they pulled me off him. Lord Byron Weaver, the head of the Darklighters in eastern Australia, heard of my case and secured a Queen’s pardon for me, with the stipulation that the Darklighters owned me for life. It was a good trade. They taught me to shoot in earnest, fight, use explosives, and hunt men. It’s very satisfying work, and the last time we met, I was a foot soldier. That was with Nate Harding’s cell. Nate was like a big brother to me. His death was devastating. I still miss him terribly.”
          “I’m sorry.”
          It was her turn to nod.
          “How long have you been a Darklighter?”
          “Five years.”
          “Christ, you’re only, what, twenty-one?”
          “By the calendar. I feel closer to fifty.”
          “Understandable. So, who is this Reinhard, anyway?”
          “We don't know. He came to the attention of our observer here—”
          “Observer?”
          “We put a man in place after the business in Malinde. This Reinhard showed up about two months ago and set up shop in Zanzibar. He has his fingers in slaving and smuggling right now, and if he’s moving to Kisumu, that seems to suggest an interest in rubies. All of those are great revenue sources for criminal activities, and I’ve been sent to look deeper into it.”
          “And assassinate him?”
          “If necessary, and if he’s really a Kraken agent.”
          “You just let him go if he isn't?”
          “We alert the local authorities and go on about our business. But the odds are great that he’s what we think he is. He seems to not have existed before he came here. That fits Kraken to the core.”
          “And so they sent you.”
          “Yes, and you should also know that this is my first time operating independently. Up until now, I’ve been under Nate’s wing, a shooter, security agent. That’s gone now. When I left here after Malinde, I returned to Australia for school. Investigation techniques, leadership, that sort of thing. When Reinhard became interesting, I was given a ticket to Kenya and access to Darklighter funding, and told to find you, and get you to work with me if possible. Which I have, so I guess they know what they’re doing.”
          “I suspect you already knew that.”
          “You’re an astute observer, Captain. Now let’s go catch a rat.”

Nairobi 6:00 PM

          As the line handlers drew in the mooring hawsers, and Kestrel snugged up against the Nairobi dock, Jinx stepped up to the cutout in the rail, sawed-off carbine belted over her culottes, the handle of her kris visible at the top of her boot.
          “Going in tonight, then?” Monroe asked her.
          “Why let the trail get cold?” she replied, settling her wide-brimmed hat level on her head. “It’s only just getting dark. People will be awake for hours yet. Besides, cockroaches are most active at night.”
          “I suppose. Look, I know you don’t want to involve us in this, but why don’t you take David along with you? He knows most of the people in town, having a man along may keep you from having to kill somebody, and if it does come to that, he’s as good with that gun as any cowboy in the penny dreadfuls.”
          “If he wishes. I’d be grateful for the help, really.”
          “David,” Monroe summoned him from the forward cleats, “how would you feel about strapping on your pistol and escorting Miss Jinx here into town?”
          “Reckon that’d be okay. What are we gonna do in there?”
          “Ask some questions,” Jinx replied, “try to find out whether Mr. Reinhard is still here, what he might have been up to, that sort of thing.”
          “I’ll be right back.”
          He headed for the forward ladder.
          “Can I rely on him?” Jinx asked.
          “Absolutely. He’s lightning quick, and has no qualms about shooting someone if it comes to it. We don’t know the details of his former life, but the American west can be a pretty rough environment, and by all accounts, he’s survived in the thick of it.”
          “Well, we’ll hope it doesn't come to that. I just need to ask a few questions, that’s all.”
          “Let’s hope. Well, here he is. Best of luck to you.”
          She stepped across the gap to the dock, Smith right behind her, and started down as he came to her right side, keeping his gun hand clear.
          “Where are going?” he asked.
          “Any place Reinhard might have gone. Hotels, eateries, shops. I need to find out who this fellow is, and what he’s trying to accomplish.”
          “Best eatery in town is Shanee’s. It’s just up the road. We can get sandwiches while we’re there.”
          She let him lead her to the plank-and-stone building, small for a restaurant, and crowded at the supper hour. He took her hand and worked his way through the throng until they stood at the counter.
          “Order, please?” the harried counter girl asked.
          “Two antelope cutlet sandwiches,” Smith said. “Is Shanee here?”
          “In back. Miss Shanee!” the young woman called, “Visitors!”
          The tall, elegant African woman came through the bead curtain from the kitchen, and smiled upon seeing Smith.
          “Good evening, David,” she greeted him. “New lady friend? You want a table? I can fix.”
          “No, no,” Smith replied. “We can’t stay. This is Miss Jinx. We’re helping her on a job. We need to find a man called Reinhard. Stranger, probably never been here before. Would you know anything about that?”
          “Many people come here, David, many of them strangers. What does your Mr. Reinhard look like?”
          “We don’t know.”
          “Then you will have a difficult time finding him.”
          “So I gather. You haven’t heard the name, then?”
          “I am sorry, David, but I will keep my ears open.”
          “I don’t expect him to be here long,” Jinx told her. “He’s headed for Kisumu.”
          “I see. I will listen, anyway.”
          Their sandwiches came, and they stepped out into the night, moving on to the next likely location. The sandwiches were a high point, but the next hour was an exercise in frustration as one proprietor after another told them the same story, they had seen no one they could tie to the name Reinhard. Then they climbed the three steps to the Nairobi Inn.
          “Mr. David!” Claude, the portly Swede who had taken over the night clerk duties greeted him. “New girl?”
          Jinx, plainly getting tired of this recurring theme, made an unpleasant face.
          “A new client,” Smith said, taking her meaning. “This is Jinx. We’re trying to help her find someone, a fellow named Reinhard.”
          “Reinhard, Reinhard,” he repeated as if tasting the name. “That is an odd coincidence. I have heard that name recently.”
          “Where?” Jinx asked.
          “Hold on a moment, I'll get it. Reinhard... Ah, I have it! A man in an ornate mask stayed here last night.”
          “Mask?”
          “Ja, ja, it was a metal mask, silvery, that covered his mouth and his left eye.” He held his hands up to demonstrate. “He signed with a different name.”
          He pulled the register around to his side of the counter and flipped the page back to yesterday’s date.
          “Ja, here it is. He signed his name, Krieger.”
          “What makes you think it was Reinhard, then?” Jinx asked.
          “Because the other man called him that.”
          “The other man?”
          “Ja, ja, a small African half-caste. Arab or Oriental maybe. As short as you, Missy, with a gun and a knife at his belt. Odd little fellow.”
          “Odd how?” Smith asked.
          “Unpredictable, I’d say. Polite enough, but like he might just explode into violence at any moment.”
          “I wonder . . .” Smith muttered.
          “But how can you be sure that this was Reinhard?” Jinx demanded.
          “They were coming down the stairs yesterday, and didn’t realize I was over there sweeping up, and the little fellow called him Mr. Reinhard. Could have been a slip of the tongue, but that’s just a bit too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
          “Indeed I would,” Jinx agreed. “Are they still here?”
          “Alas, no. They checked out this morning.”
          “They must have moved on to Kisumu already. Well, there you are, David. That will be our next stop, then.”

Hippo Point 9:00 PM

          Reinhard looked out across the darkness toward the lights of Kisumu Aerodrome as he listened to the sounds of the African night. Nocturnal animals called out for mates, sometimes answered, sometimes devolving into panicky screams as they found predators instead. The staff Mutala had hired had somehow connected enough mosquito netting to enclose the open side of the wide veranda, enabling them to enjoy the cool night air without being assailed by the voracious insects.
          “You’ve done a wonderful job here, Mutala,” he told his closest confidant. “I never imagined a fishing village could provide such accommodations.”
          “There’s more here than just fishermen,” Mutala told him. “Now that rubies are coming out of the hills and the mines are going commercial, there are a number of homes like this one. Most of them are clustered around the town. Gervais and I thought you would appreciate the privacy.”
          “Oh, this Gervais was involved, was he?”
          “He chose it. It had actually been secured before I met him. He was tight-lipped about how he obtained it.”
          “What do we care about that? If someone was ruined or worse to free it up, well, the good of the organization takes precedence over any piddling concerns of an outsider’s comfort.”
          “As you say, sir,” Mutala agreed, lifting his glass of bitters in a toasting motion.
          “What is this Gervais like, Mutala?”
          “Serious. Efficient. Pleasant enough, as he knows we are bound by common aims. I’m not sure what you want to know, specifically.”
          “Could he kill if he had to?”
          “Undoubtedly. I believe he would relish it.”
          “Well, you’d be the man to know. You know I am always pleased with your work, Mutala, but this,” he gestured around toward the wings of the house, “outdoes everything. I shall have to look into a substantial bonus for you this time, and possibly recommend a promotion.”
          “That isn’t necessary, sir.”
          “No, it isn’t. That’s what makes it meaningful. Tomorrow’s meeting with Gervais is early, you say?”
          “First thing.”
          “I’m going to turn in, then. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be another.”
          “Very good, sir,” Mutala replied. “I’m going to see to the security arrangements, and I’ll bed down as well. Good night, sir.”
          “Good night, Mutala. Well done. Well done, indeed.”