1634: The Baltic War: Chapter Twenty Five

Southwark, England

    “Well?” asked Harry Lefferts, after George and Juliet Sutherland had brushed the snow off their coats and hung them up. “Do we need to start planning how to get rid of that crime lord of yours?”

    Looking even more placid than usual, George glanced around the large central room of their lodgings, where most of Harry’s wrecking crew were sprawled about. The assortment of furniture that served them for the purpose could most charitably be described as “modest.” Like the house itself, the furnishings were old, often ramshackle, and looked to have been assembled in a completely haphazard manner.

    Not bad, though, by the standards of Southwark. Although Southwark was now legally part of London, under the formal designation of The Ward of Bridge Without and the more commonly used term The Borough, it amounted to a separate city in most practical senses of the term. It dated back at least to the time of William the Conqueror and hadn’t been officially incorporated into London until 1550. And, for centuries, had been divided from the larger city just across the Thames by long established customs and traditions.

    Southwark wasn’t exactly the lawless part of London, but it came rather close. It was where England’s capital perched its most disreputable establishments, like the theater, and was the city’s largest and most active red light district. Much of the area was simply slums, but nestled here and there were any number of more prosperous dwellings. If there was a lot of poverty in Southwark, there was also quite of bit of wealth—and some of it highly concentrated.

    Harry wasn’t sure yet, because he hadn’t moved about much himself since they’d arrived two days before. But he thought he was going to love the place. It reminded him of Las Vegas. Not the boring and oh-so-damn-proper adult amusement park that Las Vegas had become in his lifetime, once Big Respectable Money started erecting their huge theme casinos on the Strip, but the fabled city of vice and sin that his father and uncles had told him about.

    It was too bad, really, that he hadn’t rented one of the fancier houses in the area. He could certainly have afforded it, with the money they’d finagled out of a semi-legal art deal they’d pulled off in Amsterdam before leaving for England.

    Regretfully, he’d concluded that would give them too high a profile. And there was always the possible awkwardness of having to explain to Mike Stearns exactly why a commando unit which was officially part of the USE’s army—even if most of that army’s officers would have been surprised to discover the fact, and a fair number would have been positively aghast—had found it necessary to spend money on lavish digs while in the middle of a Desp’rate Feat of Derring-do.

    Well… he could probably razzle-dazzle Mike himself. But there was no way he’d get the explanation to fly past Don Francisco. The Sephardic nobleman who served as Mike’s head of intelligence was not only very shrewd, he was so wealthy himself that simply handwaving references to the need to spend a lot of money wouldn’t make him blink.

    Yes, I understand that. What I fail to grasp is why you needed gold cufflinks instead of silver ones. The last time I checked the market—just yesterday—

    No, not a chance. Besides, this house was suitable enough. It wasn’t actually falling apart anywhere, and the furniture worked even if some of it was weird-looking. Better still, the location and the design of the house made it very private, with no way for a nosy neighbor to see what they were doing by just leaning over a fence or peeking through a window. And best of all, the house was situated almost directly across the Thames from the Tower of London. With a simple eyeglass, a man could keep the Tower under close observation so long as the sun was up.

    “We’ll not have to be concerned about him,” said George. “It turns about that Johnny Three-Fingers fell afoul of the authorities last year. And I doubt if his ghost will bother us any.”

    “Hung him, did they?” said Sherrilyn. She shook her head, somehow managing to combine disapproval and admiration in the same gesture. “You can’t accuse the courts in this day and age of coddling criminals, I’ll say that much.”

    “No, no.” George made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Not those authorities. The authorities. In Southwark, I mean.”

    “Ah,” said Harry. Seeing that Sherrilyn was looking puzzled, he added: “I think what he means is that Johnny Three-Fingers pissed off the local equivalent of Al Capone.”

    George knew who Al Capone was, so he’d catch the reference. In fact, the whole wrecking crew had a long-running friendly argument over which of the movie versions was the best. It was a fair split between Rod Steiger’s 1959 portrayal and Robert De Niro’s in the much later The Untouchables, with George plumping down firmly for Steiger. All of them, of course, felt that both movies were a pale imitation of the great gangster performances by Jimmy Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and Edward G. Robinson—but since none of their films had technically been about Al Capone, they were disqualified from the debate.

    “Not exactly,” said George. “You Yanks have a shockingly casual attitude about such things. The authorities here are more like the original Sicilian fellows that your Yank gangsters were trying to imitate. Be that as it may, Johnny Three-Fingers is in no position any longer to avenge his brother. Neither is his other brother, for that matter, since the authorities felt it wise to dispose of him at the same time.” He gave Sherrilyn a reproachful glance. “And they certainly didn’t hang them. Barbarous business, that is, sometimes a man lasts for minutes. The authorities are far more civilized.” He illustrated his definition of civilization by drawing a finger across his throat.

    That was something of a relief, if a minor one. But by the time George had finished, Harry realized that his wife was looking rather distressed.

    “What’s wrong, Juliet?”

     “I’m not sure if anything is wrong. But we also ran across an old friend of mine. Liz Lytle, her name. A very close friend, when I lived here. But…” She gave her husband an uncertain look.

    “She seemed very distant,” George finished for her. “As if she were distracted by something. Odd, that was. Liz was normally as cheerful a woman as you could find. ‘Outgoing,’ as you Yanks put it.”

    George had taken to calling Americans “Yanks” from watching too many of those same movies. More in the interest of precision than because he really cared, Harry had once tried to explain to him the none-too-fine distinctions between a New Englander and a West Virginian, but George had waved off the matter. “Might mean something to you Yanks, but to us Englishman a Yank is a Yank.”

    Naturally, the first thing George had done once they set foot on English soil was bestow a very disapproving look upon Harry. “And, indeed—just as I was warned. Here the Yank is, himself. Overpaid, oversexed and over here.”

    Harry had ignored the quip. It was silly, anyway. Oversexed, he’d grant, and “over here” was a done deal. Overpaid was ridiculous.

 

---

 

    “Not like her at all,” Juliet said, looking a bit drawn. For the first time, Harry realized that the Englishwoman was actually quite upset. Juliet had a temperament that was, if anything, more placid than her husband’s. For her, this amounted to a screaming fit.

    “You really think something is wrong? With her personally, I mean. Keep in mind that from everything you told us last night the whole city’s been in an uproar ever since the queen got killed.”

    Juliet sneered. “Who cares about that silly French bitch? Nobody in Southwark, I can tell you that.”

    Her husband smiled. “Not until the Lord Chamberlain finally remembers to order the theaters closed for a period of mourning, at any rate. But she’s got the right of it, Harry. Westminster is in an uproar, sure enough. Rumors are flying all over the place, even here in Southwark. But it’s not as if any of London’s commoners will shed a single tear over the accident. That would have been true even if the whole royal family had been killed. They’d be more likely to throw a celebration, come to it.”

    Harry wasn’t surprised. The Stuart dynasty had spent the three decades since it came to power steadily squandering away whatever goodwill it might have started with. Constant clashes with Parliament, the incredibly excessive favoritism showed to the Duke of Buckingham by both James I and his son Charles, the son’s asinine attempt to marry a Spanish Infanta with that same Buckingham as his sidekick, the list went on and on. Charles I hadn’t been popular even before he brought in Wentworth and imposed direct royal rule, using mercenary companies from the continent paid for with a very mysterious and suspicious source of money.

    Juliet nodded. “Elizabeth and I were very close friends, Harry—and we hadn’t seen each other in several years. But she acted as if she just wanted to get rid of me.”

    The first thought that crossed Harry’s mind, of course, was to wonder if that was because this Lytle woman had figured out why they were in England. But he dismissed the notion almost instantly. None of the crew had left the house since they arrived except George and Juliet. Since they were natives and knew Southwark particularly well, Harry had sent them to cruise about to get the sense of things. There was no way Lytle could have deduced anything simply from the fact that the Sutherlands had re-appeared in England.

    “See what you can find out, then,” he told her. Then, seeing a questioning look from Gerd, he shrugged. “Why not? We can’t do anything more until we get in touch with Julie and Alex. Speaking of which—”

    He glanced up the stairs, where Paul Maczka was setting up the radio in one of the upper rooms. “It’s probably about time for one of us—”

    “It’s your turn, Harry,” said Matija. He held up his hand forcefully. “Don’t argue about it! I’ve kept the records.”

    Harry scowled. “Where the hell did this idiot tradition get started that everybody in the crew shares equally in the manual labor? Dammit, I’m the commanding officer.”

    George cleared his throat. “Well, actually, you started it. If you’d been an Englishman, you’d have more sense. But you Yanks are besotted with that silly egalitarian business.” He started putting his coat back on. “Come on, Juliet. Let’s see what’s up with Lizzie dear.”

    She looked a bit startled. “Right now? It’s getting dark out.”

    “Yes, I know. That’s why right now. A man my size creeps about better in the dark than he does in broad daylight.” He gave his heftily-built wife a look that was both measuring and appreciative at the same time. “So do you, for that matter.”

 

---

 

    After they left, Harry climbed the stairs. He didn’t quite trudge the steps, but that was only because he felt he had to maintain a certain august demeanor as the commanding officer. Even if all he was going to be doing was the coolie work of cranking the pedals to fire up the blasted radio so Paul could get in touch with Amsterdam.

    Luckily for him, they had a good window that evening and they got all the reports relayed sooner than usual. So, it was with light and airy steps that Harry came back down the stairs.

    “Gentlemen!” Then, with a little bow to Sherrilyn: “And lady. I am pleased to announce that we’ve gotten in touch with Julie and Alex Mackay. Indirectly, at least—but it won’t be necessary to use the Amsterdam relay any longer.”

    “They’re that close to London?”

    “No.” Harry struggled to make his grin cheery instead of savage. “They’re not ‘close.’ They’re here.” He pointed to the wall of the house that faced the west. “Apparently, they’re taking in the theater tonight. Julie insisted she wanted to see the Globe while she was in town. Seeing as how she probably wouldn’t have the chance again.”

    “Harry,” said Sherrilyn. “Stop grinning. You’ll scare the children.”

    His grin widened. “Don’t be silly. There aren’t any kids here in the first place.”

    She covered her face in the peek-a-book manner a child uses. “Fine. You’re scaring me.”

    “Me, too,” said Felix.

 

---

 

    Harry went alone, since he saw no reason for a large party. He spotted Julie and Alex Mackay as soon as they came out of the Globe. It wasn’t hard, since they were almost the first ones out.

    He angled across to intersect them. Alex spotted him coming before Julie did, and his hand moved down to the hilt of the sword at his waist. In the dark, of course, Harry would just look like any man.

    “Psst!” he hissed. “Hey, lady!”

    He opened one side of his Lee Van Cleef style coat. “Wanna see some feelthy pictures?”

    The couple came to an abrupt half. There was silence, for a moment. Then Julie said: “Harry, you’re a jackass.”

    “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

 

---

 

    On their way to the house where the crew was staying—the Mackays had rented quarters on the other side of the theater district—Julie was full of complaints.

    “Jesus, that theater stinks. If that was Shakespeare, you can have it. The audience were pigs. And since when”—her voice got a bit shrill—“does Juliet get played by a guy?”

    Alex cleared his throat. “I did try to warn you, love.”

    “I thought you were pulling my leg. Juliet—played by a guy? So was every so-called woman in the play—including the nun! Jesus! Why don’t they just call it the Drag Queen Palace and quit pretending they’re doing legitimate theater? It’s disgusting!”

    Thankfully, the skies were overcast and it was quite dark. So Harry didn’t think Julie could see his smile. “Well, tell me. Did you find out the truth? Did Balthazar have it right? Shakespeare wasn’t actually written by Shakespeare?”

    “Who cares?” Julie hissed. “Whoever the hell wrote that play, he was a fucking pervert. Juliet—played by a guy.”

 

---

 

    Once they arrived at the house, Julie quickly became the center of attention. For a wonder, given the group of men there, that wasn’t because she was young and pretty. Testosterone can work in mysterious ways.

    “Did you bring the rifle?” Felix asked. He said “the rifle” much the same way that a breathless child speaks of a wondrous magic item.

    “Sure,” said Julie. She jerked her head over her shoulders. “Got it hidden back at our place.”

    Harry thought for a moment that the guys were almost going to say “ooh” and “aah.” None of them except Harry and Gerd had been there when Julie carried out her now-legendary feats of marksmanship. But by now they knew about them—down to every last detail, in fact. They could be a little obsessive, that way.

    “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” asked Matija.

    “My grandma, mostly. She was the best rifle shot in the area in her day, too.”

    Donald looked skeptical. “One small town produced two women who are great shots?”

    Hurriedly, before Julie could get her dander up, Harry intervened. “Hey, man, she’s just telling it just the way it is. Her grandmother was Anna Lou Ballew, although I only knew her as Mrs. McQuade. She was the national teenage rifle champion at Camp Perry twice—first time when she was fourteen—and she qualified twice for the U.S. Olympic team.” Harry gave Julie a sly smile. “They wouldn’t let her go, of course, men being men in those days and her being a girl and all. But she was sure as hell good enough. She was appointed West Virginia athlete of the year, too. I can’t remember which year.”

    “1940,” said July. “First woman ever got the honor. And the only one who’s ever done it in Marksmanship. She kept shooting on her company team until she retired, and she spent every summer traveling to Camp Perry for the nationals.”

    Julie paused, for a moment, her face scrunching up a little. “She’s probably still doing it, in fact, wherever she is. She was still alive and in good health last time I saw here—and so was Grandpa. They were living in Florida by then, though, so they got left behind when the Ring of Fire hit us.”

    By now, Julie’s initial ire had vanished. She even gave Harry an appreciative little nod. “Yup, that was my Grandma. Anyway, she’s the one who taught me. ‘Course—not wanting to sound like I’m a braggart like Harry here—there was some natural talent involved. Mine, I mean.”

    Harry took her by the arm. “Come on, Julie. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you the shooting gallery.”

 

---

 

    Julie peered out the window in the corner room upstairs that was closest to the Tower, looking across the Thames. “Can’t see a damn thing, in this light. What’s the range?”

    “Oh, hell, I was kidding. I didn’t actually mean you’d be shooting from here.”

    “What’s the range?” she asked again, very firmly.

    He started to say too far but decided that was risky. With Julie, you never knew. She might insist on trying it, just to prove she could make the shot.

    “Look, Julie, it doesn’t matter. You might be able to make the shot—except it won’t be ‘the shot,’ it’s likely to be a lot of them. You have heard the term ‘getaway,’ haven’t you? We’re not exactly going to be nestled in the palm of our own army here, with the emperor himself looking over your shoulder, the way he was at the Alte Veste. Once it’s done, we’ve gotta get out of here. Mucho pronto. And this house is hardly the best place to start from, taking it on the lam-wise.”

    She chewed her lip, for a moment. “Okay, that makes sense. Where do I set up, then? You have heard the term ‘gun rest,’ haven’t you? Across this big a river, you can’t make a good shot just standing up. Not me, not anybody.”

    “Relax, willya? Tomorrow we’ll look around. We’ll find something suitable.”

    Julie looked at Sherrilyn, who’d come up to the room with them. “Does this Great Commando Leader always plan his operations with such careful and deliberate precision?”

    “Oh, hell no, girl. Usually Harry just wings it.”

    “You’re ganging up on me,” Harry complained.

    “Sure we are,” said Sherrilyn. “We’re girls. You’re a guy.”

    Julie patted her arm. “Still, we oughta ease up. At least Harry’s a guy playing a guy. Now that I’ve seen the pervert ways of London, I figure that’s gotta count for something.”

 

---

 

    By the time they got back downstairs, Juliet and George Sutherland were back.

    “Something is wrong,” Juliet said. “Liz has three men staying with her.”

    “Ah…” Harry tried to find the right way to say it. This could get delicate.

    “Oh, leave off!” snapped Juliet. “You and your nasty mind. Sure, in times past there might have been the odd fellow coming and going, of an evening. What was that, George?” The last question had been addressed rather sharply at her husband.

    “Nothing, dearest. Just talking to myself. Thoughtless habit of mine, now and then.”

    What he’d actually murmured—Harry had heard it, quite clearly—was several odd fellows, and at any time of day or night. But he thought that remark was best left buried. Perhaps run a herd of horses back and forth across it too, to obliterate all traces, the way he’d heard the Mongols had made sure nobody could find the grave of Genghis Khan and dig him up.

    Fortunately, Juliet seemed inclined to let it go. “As I was saying, while it’s true that Liz was not exactly what you might call a proper lady, she’d never have had three strange men staying in her lodgings at once. And they look to be settled in, too.”

    “Especially one of them,” added George. That got him another sharp look from his wife, but this one he didn’t evade. “Dearest,” he said, spreading his hands, “it’s just a fact. You saw it as well as I did. Whoever those other two fellows were, she certainly wasn’t unhappy with the presence of that one.”

    “How do you know?” asked Harry.

    Juliet looked a bit embarrassed. George, however, was pretty much a stranger to that sentiment. “How do you think? Once we found out where she was living—which wasn’t hard, seeing as how it’s the same place she was living when we left some years back—we crept up and peered through the window. The bedroom window, to be specific. Juliet, when you speak to Liz again, you should caution her that cheap curtains don’t really provide much in the way of privacy. It would have helped if she and her unknown paramour had put out the lamps before they started—well, no need to get into the details.”

    Harry ran fingers through his hair. “All right, fine. So she’s glad the one guy is there, and who knows why the other two are. But I can’t see where any of this has anything to do with us. I mean, I didn’t mind the two of you going out to set your minds at rest regarding your old friend—or not—but that was just because I thought we had plenty of time to kill. Now that Julie’s here, we really oughta get rolling. You know. The Tower. The Great Escape. Stalag 17. Von Ryan’s Express. That is why we’re here, after all. Not to play Sherlock Holmes.”

    “Yes, of course,” said George. He laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “He is right, dearest.”

    Juliet looked very unhappy, but all she did was nod.

 

---

 

    Harry offered to walk Julie and Alex back to their quarters. Insisted, in fact, after Alex told him it really wouldn’t be necessary.

    “I want to get a good look at the Globe. I barely had a chance, earlier, since Julie was in such an allfire hurry to get away from the place.”

    “Since when did you give a damn about high culture?” Julie demanded. She pronounced it kult-cha.

    “Hey, I spent months with Giulio Mazarini. Rome, Paris, places like that. You wouldn’t believe how much culture I got exposed to.” He pronounced it the same way.

    “Oh, bullshit! You were just checking out the red light districts, don’t lie to me, Harry. And you’d be wasting your time at the Globe, for sure. Any whores hanging around there would most likely be guys pretending to be girls.” The expression that now came to her face was one of Dawning Comprehension. Like Juliet Sutherland, Julie Mackay would never get any plaudits from devotees of method acting. “Unless…”

    Neither was Harry, come down to it. His shrug exuded Shameful Confession.

    “Yeah, I been corrupted.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s Sherrilyn’s fault. She’s been playing so hard to get lately that it’s twisting me inside.”

    “Harry, you’re a jackass,” said Sherrilyn.

    “Two women in one night,” said Harry smugly. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

    Julie and Sherrilyn blew simultaneous raspberries.

    “It’s true,” Harry insisted stoutly. “A real man measures his macho by the number of times women dump on him. That’s why we only watch chick flicks under protest. Might screw up the readings on the wimp-o-meter.”

    Julie and Sherrilyn looked simultaneously cross-eyed, trying to follow the logic. “What the hell is a wimp-o-meter?” Julie demanded.

    “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a guy thing.”