The Devil's Assassin

Book 0: Jack Lark

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Bombay, 1857. Jack Lark is living precariously as an officer when his heroic but fraudulent past is discovered by the Devil - Major Ballard, the army's intelligence officer. Ballard is gathering a web of information to defend the British Empire, and he needs a man like Jack on his side. Not far away, in Persia, the Shah is moving against British territory and, with the Russians whispering in his ear, seeks to conquer the crucial city of Herat. The Empire's strength is under threat and the army must fight back.

As the British march to war, Jack learns that secrets crucial to the campaign's success are leaking into their enemies' hands. Ballard has brought him to the battlefield to end a spy's deceit. But who is the traitor?

The Devil's Assassin sweeps Jack Lark through a thrilling tale of explosive action as the British face the Persian army in the inky darkness of the desert night.

(P)2016 Headline Digital

Release date: January 29, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 386

Sample

The valley was the perfect place for an ambush. The rider scanned the steep sides with concern, his hard grey eyes roving over the heavy boulders that littered the slopes, wary in the face of the imagined danger. He saw the places where men could hide, the positions where he would disperse his soldiers if he were not the one riding through the narrow, gloomy defile.

A small avalanche of stones caught his attention. Each fast-moving boulder kicked up a puff of dust, the thin, dry soil easily disturbed after so many months without rain. There was nothing to hold a man in his grave, the arid, friable surface reduced to so much sand.

The rider moved his hand carefully, unbuckling the holster on his right hip. He reached inside and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his revolver, the metal hot to his touch. He felt the gun’s weight, its solidity reassuring. It was ready to fire, the five barrels loaded with care that morning, each one sealed with a thin layer of grease to prevent a misfire. The rider had learnt never to leave anything to chance. He could never be sure when the dacoits who roamed the high ground and preyed on the unwary and the unready would try to take the lone traveller who rode the barren lands. So he prepared for battle each day, priming his weapons and hardening his soul.

His eyes were never still as they roamed over the hidden crevices, his senses reaching out, searching for danger. He stopped his horse and listened. At first he heard nothing, the lonely quiet of the high ground pressing around him. He was thinking of slipping from the saddle and putting his ear to the ground to listen for movement when he heard the rumble. It sounded distant, like an early-morning express train far in the distance. His sable mount twitched its ears, sensing its master’s unease, its right foreleg pawing nervously at the soil as it was ordered to wait.

The rumble increased, the noise building steadily. The rider tightened his grip on the reins, shortening them and bunching them together so he could hold them in his left hand, his right clasped firmly around the hilt of his revolver.

He sensed movement to his left and tugged hard at the reins, pulling on the heavy metal bit forced into his horse’s mouth. He jabbed star-shaped spurs into the animal’s sides, forcing it into motion so quickly that its hooves scrabbled at the stony soil. As it lurched away, he saw the source of the movement. The heavy boulders kicked soil high into the air as they picked up speed and thundered down the sharp sides of the valley. They gathered momentum as they hurtled towards the solitary rider, careering down the slope, knocking other lesser stones from their precarious perch so that they created an avalanche that roared downwards in a wild melee of dust and stone.

The screams of the thugs echoed around the cramped confines of the valley as they unleashed their ambush. Ever since William Bentinck had taken over as governor of Bengal in 1830, the British authorities had brutally suppressed the followers of the cult of Thuggee. These worshippers of the goddess Kali had been the target of a concerted campaign to eradicate them, until only a few scattered bands remained, their brutal ritualistic killings a threat only to those foolish enough to travel the wild and lonely roads far from the influence of the British.

The rider reined his horse hard round, blinking away the dust that rolled over him. The inhuman shrieks of the ambush rang in his ears, drowning out even the heavy thump of his heart. The familiar icy rush of fear flushed through him before settling deep in his gut. There it twisted, churning his insides like a beast fighting to be freed, but imprisoned, held captive by the barriers he had constructed to contain it.

The first thug leapt over the fallen boulders, screaming like a banshee as he charged the rider, the naked steel of his talwar catching the sun as he flashed it overhead, readying the first blow.

The rider lifted his right hand. The fear was controlled, the bitter calm of experience overriding the terror of the ambush. The thug was close enough for the rider to see the animal snarl of hatred on the man’s face, the bared teeth as he howled his wild war cry, the bearded face beneath the stained pagdi twisted with rage.

The revolver coughed as the rider pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded into the thug’s face, smacking him backwards as if his feet had been pulled away sharply by an invisible rope. His corpse hit the ground like a rag doll, the contents of his skull spread wide, staining the dusty soil red.

The other ambushers did not hesitate. The rider had time to see the dirt on their faded robes, the tears and the rents in the worn fabric. The next face filled the simple sight on his revolver, the same visceral expression of hatred looming into view for no more than a single heartbeat before he pulled the trigger once more.

The man was punched to the ground, the revolver’s heavy bullet tearing through flesh and bone with ease. The second would-be killer crumpled, his pathetic, twisted corpse left lying no more than a yard away from the first.

The two remaining bandits rushed the rider. He got off a third, wild shot as they came close, but the deadly missile cracked past the ear of the nearest thug to score a thick sliver of stone from one of the boulders that had been meant to crush the rider into oblivion.

The rider gouged his spurs cruelly into his horse’s sides, forcing it to lurch forward. He rode at the surviving bandits, charging his enemy. They closed at a terrifying speed, coming together in a sudden blur of movement. The bandits had no time to slow their wild attack and the rider was past them before they could react. The treacherous ground gave way under their boots as they tried to turn to face him. One slipped, his curse the last sound he would ever utter.

The rider had forced his mount into a tight turn the moment he had burst through the pair of bandits. He let the still-smoking revolver fall from his hand and drew his sword. It was a fabulous weapon, the kind found in tales of valiant knights and beautiful damsels. Writing flowed down the length of the steel blade, the swirling script etched deep into the metal. The golden hilt wrapped snugly around the hand of the man wielding the sword, its dark red sharkskin grip mottled and stained from use.

It was the blade of a prince and it cut through the fallen bandit’s neck, slicing through the gristle to leave his head half severed, the blood darkening his filthy robes.

The last bandit threw his talwar across his body in a wild parry as the glorious sword whispered through the air, keening for his flesh. The rider twisted his wrist as he brought the weapon scything backwards, aiming the next blow even as the bandit attempted to recover from his first desperate parry, the fabulous sword moving quicker than the eye could follow.

The attacks followed swiftly, one after the other. The rider sat his horse as though the two were one single, monstrous beast, his skill instinctive. His pace never once faltered, forcing the last thug to scramble clumsily up the side of the valley in a desperate attempt to keep the steel from beating aside his defence.

The bandit screamed, his terror given voice as he slipped and fell, his notched and pitted talwar knocked from his hand by the relentless salvo of blows that came at him. The rider remained silent, even in the moment of victory. The thug scrabbled on the ground, trying to escape his fate. He had time to look once into the rider’s merciless eyes before the tip of the beautiful sword pierced his heart, the rider forced to lean far forward in the saddle as he drove the steel deep into his enemy’s flesh.

The rider twisted his sword, releasing the blade from the body of his fallen foe, then carefully manoeuvred his horse backwards, leaning from the saddle as he scanned the valley, looking for any threat that he had missed. A lone vulture met his gaze. The wizened old bird flapped its wings lazily as it landed on one of the boulders that had been meant to kill the white-faced rider. For a moment, man and bird stared at one another, the last two living creatures in the narrow valley contemplating the sudden arrival of death in such a remote place.

The rider slipped from the saddle. He wiped the sleeve of his coat across his face, smearing away the river of sweat that had run down to sting his eyes. The wool was heavy, the fabric poorly woven. The garment was not tailored to fit and it bunched uncomfortably over the rider’s shoulders. The red cloth showed the ravages of weeks in the saddle, but its pedigree was still recognisable. It was a uniform made famous the world over by the men who sheltered beneath its folds. It was the red coat of a British soldier.

The rider retrieved his revolver, a wry grimace appearing on his lean face as he inspected the metal and saw the deep scratch that the impact with the stony soil had scored into its side. He paid no heed to the four corpses that littered the ground. He was long accustomed to death.

He walked quickly back to his horse, anxious to be away. He murmured quietly to calm the beast, the first sounds he had uttered since the four wandering thugs had launched their sudden ambush; then, with a single bound, he hurled himself into the saddle and turned his tired mount to face the path that had been partially blocked by the fallen boulders.

He let the horse pick its own way through the rubble, turning his back on the men who had sought his death, leaving them to the vulture and the other animals that would relish a feast of fresh flesh.

Another band of dacoits was no more.

He reached into the saddlebag that contained the ammunition for his revolver. He frowned as he saw how few cartridges were left. His days wandering the lonely paths were coming to an end. He would have to face a return to civilisation, to the people he had rejected for so long.

He gathered his horse’s reins in one hand and urged it to pick up the pace. It would take him many days to reach his destination, but he was in no hurry. He had not set out to be alone for so long, but still he did not feel the need to find company. The days had dragged into weeks, the weeks into months, but he would not rush to find the future as once he had.

He would let it find him.





Bombay, October 1856

The British officer was sprawled in the leather club armchair, a week old copy of the Times laid carelessly in his lap. Three bottles of Bass beer sat on the drum table beside him, their precious contents long gone. The officer slept fitfully, despite the effects of the food and drink he had consumed. He was not alone in the guests’ lounge. It was the time for rest, for slumbering through the hottest hours of the day, when all sensible fellows retired to the cool of the lounge or slunk away to their beds to await the fresher air of evening. The better echelons of Bombay society had only just returned to the city, and they slipped into a coma of indolence after tiffin, hibernating until evening arrived and the coaches came to collect them for a turn around the Esplanade or, for the more energetic, a drive to the splendour of the Malabar Hills or the harsh beauty of the black rocks at the Breach.

‘Excuse me, sahib?’

The proprietor of the Hotel Splendid stood at a respectful distance, contemplating the British lieutenant as he fidgeted in his sleep, the starched collar of his shirt bent and distorted as his head twisted from side to side. Abdul El-Amir was painfully aware that he had paid for the starch in the officer’s collar, just as he had paid for the bottles of beer that had helped induce the afternoon’s siesta. The lieutenant’s bill had been unpaid for the last fortnight, a state of affairs that had inspired Abdul to rise from his own afternoon rest to disturb his guest’s peaceful nap.

‘Sahib!’ Abdul was a slight man. He rarely ate, preferring to obtain his sustenance from the hookah that was never far from his side. Yet it was a rash man who took his lack of bulk for weakness. He might be a Muslim in a Hindu world but his connections with the local gang of dacoits made him a formidable adversary, even for a sahib. Abdul El-Amir was not a man to be crossed.

The British officer jerked at the abrupt summons, his breath snorting in his nose as he awoke.

‘I am so sorry to disturb you, sahib, please forgive me.’ Abdul bowed low at the waist, though his simpering smile did not reach his eyes.

The lieutenant rallied quickly, wiping a shirt cuff across his mouth and running his fingers over the thin layer of dark hair that had been cut unfashionably short. He sported several days’ growth of stubble but was otherwise hair-free, something of an oddity amongst the fabulous beards, moustaches, whiskers and mutton chops favoured by most of the British officers who passed through Abdul’s hotel on their way in or out of Bombay.

‘What can I do for you, Abdul?’ The British officer addressed the proprietor in the calm tone of a man well used to being in control. He gathered up the remains of the Times, carefully folding it before placing it underneath one of the empty bottles on the table at his side.

Abdul reached inside his cream robes. Like most locals he wore a long, flowing kurta devoid of all decoration. His sole concession to fashion was a fabulous scarlet waistcoat covered with the images of a thousand flowers, each picked out in exquisite detail, the fine thread and bright colours an indication of the garment’s value.

‘There is the small matter of your bill, sahib. I fear there has been some mistake as it does not appear to have been settled as I requested last week.’

The officer reached behind him to pull his scarlet coat on to his shoulders, the single crown that denoted his rank catching the light. The cuffs of the red shell jacket were green and the sphinx on the collar revealed that the officer served in the 24th Regiment of Foot. The sphinx was the legacy of a battle fought in Egypt against Napoleon back in 1802. It was an honour worn with pride by all who joined the regiment, a symbol of the men who had died in its name. A symbol the man dressed in the uniform of one of its lieutenants had no right to wear.

‘How remiss of me. Here, leave it with me and I will see to it.’ The officer reached for the offending document.

Abdul hesitated, pulling the sheet of paper away from the questing fingers.

‘In cash?’

For the first time the lieutenant’s annoyance showed. His hard eyes fixed on the proprietor. ‘I will arrange for a transfer of funds. Cox and Cox will be only too pleased to assist with the transaction.’

‘I would prefer cash. In the circumstances.’ The smile was gone now. With a nonchalance born of long experience, Abdul turned and beckoned to one of his men.

‘So be it.’ The officer made no show of having noticed the heavyset enforcer Abdul had summoned to join the conversation. The man must have stood close to seven feet tall and was built like a brick outhouse. The threat was clear.

‘And today, sahib, not tomorrow or the day after.’ Abdul offered the bill, bowing at the waist as he held it towards the seated officer.

There was no trace of fear on the lieutenant’s face, even with the bulk of the enforcer looming large over his chair. Instead he sighed, as if disappointed by the display. ‘I understand.’

The hotel’s owner sneered at the mild response, his thin moustache twitching. ‘Thank you, sahib.’

He turned and waved his bodyguard away before leaving the British officer to his afternoon at leisure. He was not concerned that his unabashed approach risked losing him a guest. His hotel was always full, the lack of accommodation in Bombay forcing a steady stream of white-faced firangi to stay in his establishment before they went up country. Abdul made sure that the place appealed to a certain class of officer. His was one of the few guest houses in the city that could boast a bath for every half-dozen guests, and he kept the best British beer chilled and ready. For the more discerning guest there was even a ready supply of clean, beautiful women, available at any hour of the day or night. Abdul might be a violent thug at heart, but he knew what his particular type of customer valued most of all.

Jack Lark sat in his darkened room. He savoured the solitude, enjoying the peace that only came when he was alone. It had been a struggle to become accustomed to being around so many people after so long spent with no one but his horse for company, and part of him craved a return to the airy quiet of the high ground. A life alone was so much easier than one where others encroached to prod and poke into his affairs.

With a sigh he began gathering together his few belongings, packing them into his worn leather knapsack. He kept back his one good uniform. The dress of a lieutenant in the 24th Regiment of Foot ensured he was not often troubled on the turbulent streets of Bombay, except, of course, by the hundreds of hawkers and stallholders desperate to have him part with the coins they believed he carried. The other officers and civilian officials would leave him be, allowing him a freedom of movement he could never hope to enjoy if he wore the simple red coat of an ordinary soldier.

He had spent two weeks in the dubious surroundings of the Hotel Splendid. He had chosen his accommodation with care, locating a place that asked few questions of its clientele. His first steps back into society were cautious ones, and the anonymity of a place like the Hotel Splendid suited him very well.

He bundled the worn red coat of a private soldier into a ball, stuffing it to the very bottom of his knapsack, hiding it away until he next left the confines of polite society and ventured back to the wild lands. He laid his few shirts and a spare pair of breeches on top of a blue uniform coat that was creased and rumpled from being hidden for so long, and added four freshly purchased boxes of ammunition for his handgun, ensuring that he had easy access to this most important of all his possessions. He had learnt that the bullion of his epaulettes could only be trusted so far. Sometimes there was nothing better than a fully loaded five-shot Dean and Adams revolver to ensure his safety.

Packed and ready to leave, he sat back heavily on the cast-iron bed, taking a few moments’ rest before he moved on. The room was hot and stuffy despite the large window that was kept open every hour of the day and night. A thin grass screen known as a tattie covered the opening. Every few hours, one of the hotel’s servants came to douse the tightly woven grasses in water. It cooled the room for a while, adding a delicate fragrance to the sweaty atmosphere before the heat outside baked it dry once again.

Jack had wandered his way towards Bombay thinking to find some anonymity in the bustling hub of the British Empire’s presence in India. He had many pressing needs, the most important of which was money. Only with a full pocket book could he begin to rejoin the world he had walked away from. Until he could find a way to raise some rhino, he would have to live on his wits, finding the necessities of life where and when he could.

Wherever he went, he brought his past with him, a burden much heavier than the single knapsack that carried all he possessed. Bitter memories lurked in the depths of his mind, festering in the darkness. He had learnt to control his thoughts, forcing them away from the recollection of the life he had lived. He had not always been alone; he had once been an ordinary redcoat, planning for a future with the woman he loved. When that had been snatched from him, he had been left alone without hope and without a future. So he had stolen a new life, taking the identity and the papers of his deceased commander. He became the officer he had always dreamt of being, securing the station in life denied him due to his low birth and the lack of the one commodity that society judged the most important when selecting those granted the power of an officer’s rank: money.

As an officer, he had thrived, leading his stolen company into battle in the Crimea. In the terrifying encounter at the Alma river, he had discovered the ability to fight and to set the example that men needed if they were to function when their lives were on the line. Where some found an aptitude for working with wood or for shaping iron, the art of killing had become his trade.

He had come to India in search of a new life, but so far he had found nothing but war, his skills on the battlefield needed once again as the British authorities strove to oust the Maharajah of Sawadh from his kingdom. When diplomacy had given way to violence, Jack was once again forced to fight for his country, his duty tethering him to the British army no matter what his heart desired.

Now he was alone once again, bereft of ties to family or regiment. He had assumed the name of a dead lieutenant, a man he was reasonably certain no one would know in the eclectic society of Bombay, where he hoped to start again, far away from his past. For the spark of ambition still flared deep inside his battered and troubled soul. He was determined to prove, to a world that neither knew nor cared, that the product of London’s vilest rookeries could achieve so much more than polite society allowed. It was the one honest thing he had left, and he clung to it like a recently converted soul clung to their new faith.

‘Sahib! How may I help you?’ Abdul sat up abruptly. He had been dozing; the hookah pipe was dangling from the corner of his mouth. He put it to one side and straightened in his chair, making a mental note to berate his hapless clerk, who had forgotten the strict instruction that the hotel’s owner should not be disturbed.

Jack smiled. ‘I have come to settle my account.’

Abdul simpered, the thought of money assuaging his anger. ‘That is most gracious of you, sahib. I am so sorry for having brought the matter to your attention, but we all have bills to pay.’ He spread his arms in apology, conveniently forgetting the implied threat he had delivered alongside the bill. ‘You have the cash?’

‘Of course, but I thought you might like to take part in a little financial transaction in lieu of the debt.’

Abdul’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of transaction do you have in mind?’

‘I have a certain object that I wish to sell. I had thought to ask for your assistance in the matter.’

‘What kind of object?’ Abdul’s accent became thicker. He could not hide the spark of avarice that the British officer’s request had kindled.

Jack slipped a hand into a pocket. With his eyes fixed on the hotel owner, he flicked a single fat ruby on to the mahogany desk. He saw the swift lick of the lips as Abdul sized up the jewel, the flicker in the man’s soft brown eyes as he contemplated its value. Jack knew he would be cheated. He did not expect to get more than a fraction of the ruby’s true worth. But he was penniless and he needed some ready cash. He was not in a position to sell the gem openly; not even the uniform of a British officer was sufficient protection against the barrage of questions a legitimate dealer would ask. Jack was a charlatan and a fraud. He had to deal where and when he could. If that meant supping with the devil, then all he could do was pass the port.

‘It is a difficult thing you ask.’ Abdul sat back in his chair as if trying to distance himself from the precious jewel that had appeared so miraculously. ‘I cannot sell such an object.’

Jack recognised the tone. The first stage of the barter had begun. ‘I’m sure a man with your contacts can find a buyer. Even for a trifle such as this.’

Abdul leant forward. His hand reached for the gem, but he hesitated before he could touch it, as if he had become suddenly nervous. ‘Where did you come by such an interesting item?’

‘It was a gift.’

‘A gift? You have some generous friends, sahib.’

‘And you have an enquiring mind. Be careful it does not get you into trouble.’

Abdul sniffed at the threat. ‘Do you have more?’

‘No.’ Jack’s reply was firm.

‘I may be able to do something.’ Abdul smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. ‘It is, as you say, just a little thing.’

‘There’s a good fellow.’ Jack gave no impression of caring whether the sale of the stone would be easy or hard. His expression was neutral.

Abdul reached out and smothered the gem with his hand, snatching it away and hiding it in the depths of his robe with the speed of a striking scorpion.

Jack turned, and was about to walk away when he stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought.

‘You wouldn’t think of cheating me, would you, Abdul?’ He asked the question gently, as if making an innocent enquiry about something as inconsequential as the weather.

Abdul scoffed at the idea with a short cackle of laughter. ‘Of course not, sahib. But it would be unfair for me not to take some sort of commission, no?’ It was hard for the hotel’s proprietor to keep the glee out of his voice.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty per cent.’

It was Jack’s turn to laugh. ‘That’s not a commission. That’s robbery.’

All trace of laughter was gone. Abdul’s face was hard. ‘Non-negotiable.’ He stumbled over the longer word, but there was no doubt he meant what he said.

Jack looked at his boots. He knew he had no choice, yet he wanted Abdul to know what would happen if he cheated him too badly.

The steel whispered from its leather scabbard. The beautifully decorated blade hummed as it slipped through the air, moving quicker than the eye could track. The razor-sharp tip stopped no more than half an inch from Abdul’s throat.

‘Do not cross me, Abdul El-Amir.’ Jack’s voice was like stone. The tip of the blade pressed forward, caressing the soft flesh at the base of the hotel owner’s throat. ‘I am not a man to be taken lightly.’

Abdul smiled sickly, trying to ignore the threat of death that hovered so close to his skin that he could feel the heat radiating from the blade. ‘Of course, sahib. How can you doubt me?’

Jack held the blade still. He knew his display meant little, but it was good to feel the coarse sharkskin under his fingertips, the power of the sword resonating in his soul. He reversed the blade, thrusting it back into the scabbard at his side. He hoped Abdul had not looked at the weapon too closely. The golden hilt was decorated with half a dozen other precious stones, each as beautiful and as valuable as the ruby that had now disappeared into the hotel owner’s clothing. A single setting was empty, its precious contents prised free to buy Jack some time.





Jack sniffed once before he buried his face in the collar of his uniform. He wished that he had thought to bring a fresh handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose and prevent the God-awful stench from making him want to retch. It was not a long walk to the esplanade, but he already regretted not jumping in a doli. He might slowly be getting used to being around so many people, but he had yet to become accustomed to the fetid air that lay over the city like an ever-present fog.

Bombay stank, no matter what the season. The stench of its bazaars had become quite famous; it was claimed that no other place on the face of the earth could rival its olfactory horrors. Visitors would recoil in disgust, and even those familiar with the filth and squalor of Calcutta would be shocked by what they discovered in the reeking streets of Bombay. Such vileness forced the white-faced ladies and gentlemen to hide away in the enclaves catering to their needs, and to escape to the cooler hills around the city whenever they could, deserting Bombay for months at a time.

Jack had learnt quickly that good water was scarcer than good wine. When forced to stay in town, the British enjoyed only such drinks as they could rely on. Hodgson’s Pale Ale, Tennent’s and Allsopp’s beer were favoured over anything local, and the importers of European goods were able to generate enormous profits supplying the tastes of the Westerners. French wine and champagne were by far the most profitable, their high price making them the exclusive tipple of only the highest echelons of Bombay’s close-knit and clique-riddled society.

But despite its horrors, Bombay was seeing improvements all the time. As more and more newcomers came to India via the overland route from Cairo to Suez, so the city’s importance grew. The Bombay Golf Club had just been formed, and the ice ships that made the long journey from Boston now arrived every few days to keep the clubs and hotels supplied with the precious substance that made life in the broiling city bearable. The Byculla Club boasted a growing membership, even though its pedigree was barely twenty-five years old, the fashionable crowd seeking it out as a haven of culture and taste amidst Bombay’s wild bedlam.

It was only now, in the cooler months of October and November, that Bombay came truly alive, the misery of the monsoon months quickly receding into memory. The esplanade was replete with pavilions set up to entertain the returning crowds, and the new horticultural gardens bustled with visitors seeking a refreshing venue for their evening promenade. The streets echoed to the sound of iron-clad hooves as carriages made the nightly journey from the ghats on the northern boundary of the city to the fabulous Hindu temple perched on the pedestal of black rock not far from the Breach, where foaming surf broke upon the black rocks of the shore.

Bombay thrived on its growing importance. The popularity of the