The Great Game Read Online Free PDF Page A

there was a long, high whistling tone and he saw, turning on his back, a silver metal object flying in a high arc, as though in slow motion, from M.'s position towards the rising airship–
    Â Â With the colonel and the baroness running out of the house, as fast as they could–
    Â Â He heard M. shout, gleefully, wheezing with the effort, "Take one for the–"
    Â Â The object hit the dark moving spot that was the airship–
    Â Â Smith closed his eyes shut, tight. But even then he could see the airship, as bright as day, its image burning on his retinas as a bright ball of flame erupted in the sky above, turning the night to day and the airship into a heap of disintegrating wood and cloth and burning parts and people.

 
 
FIVE
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    "A nice cup of tea?"
    Â Â They had taken over Verloc's bookshop. Verloc himself was laid out in the main room, amidst the books. Smith had never figured out if Verloc had actually liked books. He had once been married, had a family, though Smith didn't know what had happened to them. Verloc was a bomb-maker by trade. Now he lay amidst the dusty penny dreadfuls and the three-volume novels and the serials from London, and the books from the continent, and it was quiet in the shop.
    Â Â They had carried the unconscious captive from the airship to Verloc's back room and propped him in a chair. Verloc had a samovar in the shop and M. had taken to lighting the coals and heating up the water and sniffed disapproval at the state of the milk, but pronounced it at last drinkable.
    Â Â Smith had known M. for many years but she had never changed. She had the appearance of a harmless old lady, and as she grew older she simply became more herself. She had had a name but no one could remember what it was. Her work had been legendary. There were few places a little old lady couldn't penetrate.
    Â Â Now she bustled to and fro, making the tea, using the chipped old white china mugs Verloc had kept in the shop. She gave them a good rinse first. The prisoner meanwhile was coming to in the chair. He did not look happy.
    Â Â " Was ist Ihre Mission ?" Smith said. The prisoner looked at him without expression and then said, with a note of disgust, "I speak English."
    Â Â "As you should," Colonel Creighton said, stiffly. "Now, what were you after, boy ?"
    Â Â The prisoner merely nodded in Smith's direction. "Him," he said.
    Â Â Smith said, "Why?"
    Â Â The prisoner said, "You know perfectly well why, Herr Smith."
    Â Â Colonel Creighton looked sideways at Smith. "Do you?" he said.
    Â Â "No."
    Â Â "Then you shall have to remain unsatisfied," the prisoner said. The colonel raised his hand to hit him, but Smith stopped him with a gesture. "Was it to do with Bangkok?" he said, softly.
    Â Â At that the prisoner's face twisted. " Der Erntemaschine !" he said. Then he shook his head and a grimace of pain crossed his face. " Nein ," he said. " Nein ."
    Â Â "Smith? What is he doing?"
    Â Â The prisoner was convulsing in the chair. Smith hurried to his side, tilted his head back. Foam was coming out of the man's mouth. Smith touched two fingers to the man's neck, felt for a pulse. "He's dead," he said, after a moment.
    Â Â The colonel swore. Smith stared at the corpse. A false tooth, carrying poison, he thought. Standard issue – he should have remembered.
    Â Â Old. Getting old, and sloppy, and forgetting things.
    Â Â Forgetting things could get you killed.
    Â Â "What," M. said, materialising with two mugs, handing one to each blithely, "is a damned Erntemaschine ?"
    Â Â "Ernte," Smith said, "means harvest."
    Â Â "So Erntemaschine –"
    Â Â "A machine for harvesting. A…" He hesitated. "A harvester ," he said, at last.
    Â Â He knew that, behind him, M. and the colonel were exchanging worried glances.
    Â Â "That's what they used to call you ," the colonel said at last, softly. The words