Wild:. Noelle MackЧитать онлайн книгу.
with posthumous medals. And now a thousand pounds of it were about to land on a London dock.
The lead box would protect human beings from its harmful rays until it was unsealed. Nothing would protect the members of the Pack from Volkodav, however. His unexpected arrival might prove disastrous. When one of the clan died—Kyril corrected himself—if one of the clan died, it was as if they were all diminished in strength and spirit. They could not afford to lose a single man.
Kyril had crossed the river unobserved in the crowd on the ferry and followed the men he was watching to Threadneedle Street and the Antwerp Tavern. He sipped a pewter mug of ale, eavesdropping on the conversation of the Catherine’s captain. It was a one-sided conversation for the most part. The man sat at a round table about five feet away, blathering about his glory days. His junior officers wore glazed expressions as they listened patiently.
Eager to be out among the whores, no doubt, who greeted every incoming ship with sincere enthusiasm.
Kyril looked up when the captain paused for breath. Most of the younger men rose, made some excuse and departed.
Their places at the table were quickly taken by the Cossacks. The tavern was crammed with Russians—the captains and crews of the ships who sailed the Baltic routes came here.
Volkodav was not with them at the moment, although Kyril had seen him enter the tavern flanked by all five.
As Kyril had thought, the captain went out of his way to be generous and courteous. He greeted them in their dialect. “Welcome, my friends! Sit with me.”
They scraped back chairs and sat down, half sprawling.
“Our legs are too long for this country.”
“The women have bad teeth.”
“English ale tastes like the piss of horses. Is there no vodka?”
“There is gin,” the captain said. He spoke to a passing barmaid in English. “The damned English love their gin.”
She giggled when he pinched her round arm. “So do the dirty Dutchmen,” she said pertly.
“They are dirty,” the captain agreed. “Dirty hands and dirty arses—”
The massive man Kyril had noticed on the gangplank stood up and threw the captain a menacing look. “I am a Dutchman and all of you can kiss my dirty arse.”
He spoke in Dutch and the Cossacks took no notice. The captain wisely chose to ignore him. The Dutchman looked a little disappointed but sat down again.
“So, Captain Chichirikov, you old rogue,” one of the Cossacks said, talking in Russian. “Tell us how to catch a wolf. That is why we are here.”
“There are no wolves in London.”
Volkodav returned as his bodyguard answered, “We have heard differently.”
“Then you heard wrong.” The captain signaled the barmaid and asked for brandy.
“Shut up, both of you,” Volkodav said. “We may not be the only Russians here.”
The girl brought five big glasses of brandy and the Cossacks toasted each other and drank them down in one gulp. The captain ordered another round.
Chichirikov looked around. “No, we are. I know everyone here, except that fellow”—he nodded at Kyril without catching his eye—“and he is a Cockney. Filthy people. Brawlers and thieves. They barely understand the King’s English, let alone Russian. We can talk in safety.”
“Good,” the first Cossack continued. “We are also looking for a man.”
The captain gave the one who had spoken a narrow look. “Describe him.”
“He is tall—”
“Many men are. But Cossacks are the tallest of all,” the captain said genially.
It was shameless flattery but it worked. The Cossacks ordered the next round and toasted the captain’s health.
Volkodav scowled his disapproval of the drinking. “Will you excuse me? I have to piss. I ought to do it on you five.”
Kyril wondered how they would take that. But the Cossacks only laughed—carefully. The man with the icy eyes looked at them with contempt and walked to the back of the tavern where the pisspots were hidden behind a screen.
“As I was saying,” the man who had spoken coughed, “he is tall and good-looking. A Russian. Dark hair and blue eyes.”
“So? He could be anybody,” the captain pointed out, wiping his beery lips.
“He passes for a gentleman in London. His name is Taruskin. Kyril Taruskin.”
Kyril looked down into his pewter mug, glad that his face was dirtier than the workingman’s clothes he had on. His dark hair was hidden under a dockworker’s knit cap, the last of the things in the leather bag.
Not even he could take on five drunken Cossacks and expect to survive. Not with Volkodav to deal with at the last. The Wolf Killer was more dangerous than all the rest put together.
Kyril had to wait.
If nothing else, his sense of honor prevented him from attacking them now. None of their number had made a move against him or a member of the Pack. He reminded himself that he had been sworn to defend the English crown as well as his own kind. Picking fights in taverns fell far short of that lofty vow.
“He belongs to a club,” Volkodav said. “A very old one, which was founded in Russia. A branch of it was established in London more than a hundred years ago.”
The captain seemed unimpressed. “What of it? Every man needs a place where he can gamble and fornicate in peace.”
“Yes. But this club exists for other reasons.”
Chichirikov guzzled the last of his ale and set his mug down on the table with a thump. “What is it called?”
“The Pack, I believe. Just the Pack.”
“Ah. Like a pack of dogs, eh? I suppose they are worthless dogs at that.”
Volkodav gave him a thin smile. “Mongrels.”
“I see. Well, I am sure this pack can be found. Most gentleman’s clubs are in Regent Street or near it. Or in—” He named several more streets, all in Mayfair.
“Our agents have been to all of those. There are more of us than the five who accompany me. They have already fanned out through London.”
Good God. Kyril had not picked them out from the crowd, which was now a faceless blur in his mind. Kyril remembered the ale he was supposed to be drinking and put the mug up to his face to hide his shock.
“Have they reported back?” the captain asked.
“Not yet,” Volkodav said calmly. “Finding the Pack has always been a problem.”
“But surely—”
“The men who belong to it are equally at home in the wilderness or cities. They have a maddening ability to vanish in either one.”
“I see. What are their names? The other ones.”
Again Volkodav gave the other man an unpleasant smile. “At the moment?”
“Yes.”
“Besides Kyril Taruskin, there is his cousin Lukian—a man to be reckoned with.”
Yes. He would cut your throat without a moment’s hesitation, Kyril thought.
“And Kyril has brothers, Semyon and Marko.”
The captain nodded. “Do you have pictures of any? Drawings or miniatures, perhaps? This fellow’s description”—he nodded at the Cossack—“was vague.”
“It is what I was told,” the Cossack said earnestly.