The courtyard was very quiet, very peaceful. The day gave every promise of being hot and muggy, like most August days in Victoria. A pigeon flew down and landed on the concrete in the middle of the courtyard. It peered at the RAMs out of one orange eye. When it decided they weren’t going to throw it any crumbs, it took off again. The wind whistled through its wings.
Constabulary steamers started pulling up in front of Adler Cubicles at a quarter past eight. The tight knot inside Bushell began to ease. It would take an army to getThe Two Georges out of safe hands now, and the Sons of Liberty, whatever else they were, were not an army.
“You know what I’m going to do as soon as that lorry from the museum steams off with The Two Georges ?” he said to Sam as Victoria constables jostled one another to get a look at the famous painting.
His adjutant nodded. “The same things I am: you’re going back to the William and Mary, you’re going to hop in the showerbath, you’re going to shave, and then you’re going to go to sleep.”
“Your boiler still has full pressure in it, however tired you are,” Bushell answered. “That’s the list, item by item. Sleep.” He spoke of it longingly, as Lancelot might have of the Grail. So many constables and RAMs pounded his back that the continued impacts might have sufficed to keep him awake. He felt drunk without Jameson, a happier buzz than he ever got from Irish whiskey. At 8:35, a couple of minutes later than promised, the All-Union Art Museum’s lorry pulled into the courtyard of Adler Cubicles. Malcolm Desmond and Walter Pine, Kathleen’s assistants on tour with The Two Georges, sprang from the cab along with a couple of stalwart workmen in overalls and cloth caps. They hugged Kathleen, pummeled Bushell some more, and got the painting into the back of the lorry.
“Sir Martin will be able to give the good news to His Majesty, too,” Bushell said. “I got hold of Sir David just before the governor-general was going to leave for the docks. Sir Martin’s probably spreading the word to all the politicos waiting for the Britannia even as we stand here.”
“Very likely,” Stanley agreed. “He’ll probably take all the credit for getting The Two Georges back, too. That’s the way politicos op -“ He broke off when he saw the expression on Bushell’s face. “What’s the matter, Chief?”
Bushell pointed at him. “You didn’t tell anyone Sir Horace was the number one villain in this piece, did you?”
“What?” Stanley stared. “Of course not. Nobody told anybody outside the cabal. If we’d told, it would have got back to Bragg and given the game away.”
“That’s right,” Bushell said. “We were smart. But we were too smart. Nobody except the people in the cabal knows Sir Horace is a villain, right? Which means nobody’s going to keep him from being there when the King-Emperor lands, right? God in heaven, he’s commandant of the Royal American bloody Mounted Police. And here comes Sir Martin Luther King, singing hosannas because we’ve got The Two Georges back and didn’t have to pay a farthing for it. What’s Bragg going to do then?”
Samuel Stanley’s eyes got very big and wide. So did those of Sergeant Ted Kittridge, who was standing nearby. “Jesus,” Stanley said. “He’s probably carrying a pistol, too. He would be - to keep His Majesty safe from the Sons of Liberty.”
Without another word, all three men turned and sprinted for the steamer that had brought them to Adler Cubicles. Bushell heard several questioning shouts from in back of them, including one from Kathleen. He ignored them all. No time for questions now. Maybe no time for anything. They piled into the steamer. Kittridge maneuvered his way through the blockade of constabulary motorcars like a footballer picking his way through a defense toward a shot on goal. Then, that done, he jammed the pedal to the floorboard. “How long?” Bushell asked.
“We’ll be cutting it fine,” Kittridge answered. “Too fine.”
“They’ll have a perimeter around the landing dock sealed off,” Stanley said. “That’ll help us - once we get to the perimeter.”
Around it, traffic moved, but spasmodically. A lot of people had headed toward the docks in hopes of getting a glimpse of the King-Emperor. Signs saying that wasn’t going to be possible turned back some of them. Charles III was arriving an hour earlier than had been announced, too, and that didn’t hurt. The roads were more crowded than usual, but not impossibly so.
All the same, time stretched very tight for Bushell. He’d known that feeling before, but only in combat. Now he sat here, unable to do anything useful, while about a week went by. He pulled out his pocket watch. The week turned out to be seven minutes, not seven days. While he was looking at the watch, the second hand moved at its normal rate. The instant he put it back in his waistcoat pocket, everything slowed down again.
Kittridge grunted and pointed ahead through the windscreen. Bushell nodded. There stood a roadblock, with armed RAMs in dress reds behind it. They waved away the steamer in front of Kittridge’s, then stared suspiciously at the nondescript motorcar with the three dirty, unshaven characters in it. One of the RAMs came up to the driver’s side window. “Sorry, gents,” he said, “no traffic past this point.”
Ted Kittridge spent a word: “Emergency.” He displayed his badge. Bushell and Sam Stanley already had theirs out.
The RAM shook his head. “No traffic of any sort past this point, on Lieutenant General Bragg’s orders. We’re to be alert for infiltrators, he says, and you blokes don’t look a hell of a lot like RAMs to me.”
Bushell started to reach for his pistol, though he knew that was likelier to touch off a firefight than get him through. But to be stopped so close was intolerable. He could see the Britannia ahead, and the gangplank leading down from it to the dock.
Just as his right hand closed on the butt of the pistol, another RAM said, “Let ‘em through, Harry. I know Sergeant Kittridge. If he says something’s an emergency, you can believe it is.”
Harry looked stubborn. “I don’t know him, and I’m damned if I’m going to take chances with His Majesty’s safety.” Up there by the imperial yacht, a band struck up “Hail to the King-Emperor.” A tiny figure that had to be Charles III walked down the gangplank. Another tiny figure that had to be Sir Martin Luther King stepped forward to greet him.
Bushell slapped Kittridge on the shoulder. “Ram it!” he said.
The steamer sprang forward. The barrier - a red-painted plank atop two red-painted sawhorses - went over with a crash. Tyres screaming, the motorcar raced toward the Britannia, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Shouts rang out behind.
Between them and the imperial yacht were another, similar barrier and more RAMs in dress uniform. “If they shoot us, we won’t get the job done,” Samuel Stanley said. It was more comment than protest.
“Tell me something I didn’t know.” Bushell held his badge out the window, hoping the RAMs would take it as a talisman.
Kittridge never slowed down. Wham! The spurting steamer hit the barricade like an icebreaker smashing a floe. Broken timber flew to either side. Bushell hoped it didn’t hurt any of the RAMs who scattered before him, but he went by too fast to be sure.
“Where do you want to go?” Kittridge demanded, accelerating still. Heads among the assembled dignitaries were turning now. That second barricade smashing had drawn people’s notice. A couple of the more alert were springing to their feet.
“As close to His Majesty as you can get,” Bushell answered. “Try not to run anybody down here. We’d be talked about.”