He clicked his fingers.

She glanced at him, then strode over to a tangle of wire, picked it up, and started to unravel and coil it, giving the appearance of industriousness while edging closer to the cells, turning her ear to the explorer.

“Sadhvi,” he whispered, “are you familiar with the hidden passage that connects to the catacomb beneath the Episcopal chapel?”

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

“You have to escape through it and make your way to Battersea Power Station. Warn Isambard Kingdom Brunel of Crowley’s plan.”

“I don’t know his plan,” she breathed. “There’s a bomb. I have no idea what he intends to do with it.”

“I believe he’ll transport it through the Effra tunnel to the river’s outlet beside Vauxhall Bridge. From there, he’ll take it along the bank of the Thames to the Royal Navy Air Service Station. He and his people will attack the airfield and seize the Sagittarius. They’ll use the ship to drop the bomb on Green Park. Tell Brunel and Detective Inspector Trounce to ambush the Enochians at the bridge.”

Sadhvi nodded. “I’ll try.”

“We’ll cause a rumpus so you can get away while the attention is on us.”

At the far end of the passage, Crowley suddenly stretched, uncrossed his legs, and slid from the table.

“Good!” he announced. “I feel stronger.”

Raghavendra moved away from the prisoners.

“Galton, report!” Crowley snapped.

“It’s dawn, Master. We’re almost ready to move. Our fellows will be gathering.”

“We have a few minutes to spare?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Mr. Burke, you have my permission to proceed. Gather around, please, everybody.”

Damien Burke’s naturally woebegone features twisted into a wicked smile. He picked up a six-foot length of finger-thick cable, approached the prisoners, took keys from his pocket, and unlocked the gate to the left of Burton and Honesty’s cell.

Crowley and his people formed a semicircle halfway along the central catacomb, leaving a wide cleared space between them and the cells.

Swinburne screeched, “Get off me, you brute!”

Burke reappeared, dragging the poet by his long scarlet hair. He shoved him forward, sending him staggering into the middle of what, to Burton, was starting to look unpleasantly similar to an Indian fight pit.

“Mr. Swinburne,” Crowley announced. “You rather irritated me earlier and you also have the misfortune of being one of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s truest friends. He values you highly.”

“Nonsense!” Swinburne responded. “He hasn’t known me for more than a few days.”

Crowley laughed, revealing small, pointed teeth. His big, slanted, black eyes gleamed. He opened his long, muscular arms wide and declaimed:

But him we hailed from afar or near

As boldest born of the bravest here

And loved as brightest of souls that eyed

Life, time, and death with unchangeful cheer,

A wider soul than the world was wide,

Whose praise made love of him one with pride,

What part has death or has time in him,

Who rode life’s lists as a god might ride?

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “That was rather good, though horribly recited. Not yours, obviously.”

“No, Mr. Swinburne, not mine. Yours. You will write it in 1890. It is entitled ‘On the Death of Richard Burton.’ You see—you shall become very good friends indeed.”

Swinburne turned to face Burton and raised his eyebrows.

Burton gave a slight shake of the head, as if to say: Don’t provoke him!

“So,” Crowley said, “much as it pains me to do so—for I admire you greatly—I shall hurt you in order to hurt him. And perhaps in future you will think twice before mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Swinburne replied.

Burke lifted the cable, whirled it around his head, and cracked it onto the poet’s back. It tore through Swinburne’s jacket and sent him to his knees.

“Ow!” he cried out. “Bloody hell! Ha ha! Yes!”

Burke pulled back his makeshift whip and sliced it down again. It slapped across Swinburne’s shoulders, shredding his outer garments.

“Argh! He he he! Ooh! I say! Golly, that smarts!”

Thomas Honesty moved to Burton’s side and gripped the bars of the locked gate. They watched grimly as Burke set about the poet, his lash striking again and again. Swinburne hopped and skipped about. He fell and got up, fell and got up, all the time squealing and crying out as his clothes and skin were flayed.

“By God!” Honesty groaned. “How can he stand it?”

“Yow!” Swinburne screeched. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Eek!”

“He’s enjoying it,” Burton murmured. He saw Sadhvi Raghavendra surreptitiously backing out of the semicircle.

“Enjoying? Are you mad?”

“His brain doesn’t function as a normal man’s. He feels pain as pleasure.”

“Yikes!” Swinburne yelled. “Ha ha ha! Blimey!”

“Pleasure?”

Sadhvi slipped into a side corridor and was gone.

“Yes, Mr. Honesty. He’s in raptures. Look at him.”

Swinburne was laughing hysterically, tears of unbridled joy streaming down his cheeks.

“More!” he shrieked. “Put your back into it, old thing!”

Burke snarled and slashed. The cable wound around Swinburne’s waist then fell away, taking a strip of his shirt with it.

“Stings!” he squawked, and, turning around, pushed down his trousers and showed his buttocks to Burke. “Tally-ho, old chap! Let loose! Swish! Swish!”

Burke obliged, flying into such a rage that the slashing cable became almost invisible to the eye.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

“Yaaah! Ooh ooh ooh, yes! Ouch! Ouch! Ha ha!”

Uttering a yell of frustration, Burke sprang forward, took Swinburne by what remained of his collar, yanked him around, and shoved him hard toward the coffin bay in which Burton was held. The poet crashed against the gate and clutched at the bars. He looked at the explorer, winked, grinned, and said, “My hat, Richard, what a dose he’s giving me!”

The cable smacked across his back.

“Oof! Yow! Has Sadhvi got away?”

“Yes. Go for his eyes, Algy. He’s dangerous. We need him out of the picture.”

Crack!

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I’ll see—”

Crack!

“Ha ha ha! What I—”

Crack!

“Aaah! Eek! Oh oh! Can do!”

Crack!

The poet staggered back from the gate. The whip slapped against his shoulder blades and curled around his chest. He immediately raised his arms and pirouetted, winding the cable around himself and dancing closer to his assailant. Furiously, Burke jerked at the line, trying to yank it away from the poet. Swinburne timed it perfectly—just as Burke pulled, he jumped. Their combined strength sent him leaping high. His knees impacted against Burke’s shoulders and as the thug lost balance and went down beneath him, Swinburne fell on top with his thumbs over the man’s eyes and his full weight behind them.

Burke’s howl of agony shattered the spell, and as Swinburne rolled away from him, everyone started moving. One of the Enochians drew a pistol. Crowley snatched it from his hand, paced forward, and smacked the weapon into the poet’s mop of hair. It clunked against Swinburne’s skull and he went limp.

The Trans-Temporal Man straightened and looked down at Burke, who was writhing on the ground emitting scream after scream with his hands clamped to his face and blood welling between the fingers.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Burke, you’re no use to me at all in that state.” He pointed the pistol, shot Burke through the heart, then turned to Galton and said, “Put Swinburne back in the cell. I’ll deal with him at my leisure. It’s time to get going.”