Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (8 page)

“I do not work for the parish, this municipality, or the state of Louisiana.  I am sanctioned by Pinkerton.”

“You some kind of spymaster, then?” she asked, finishing another knot.

“Not quite.  I have come from North Carolina to track down a dangerous criminal.”

“So, you a manhunter?”

“Sure,” the detective said, borrowing the phrase from the kid, Leroy.  “This man, Mr. Jade—if he is an associate of Captain Pascal, I need to find him.

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” she said. “He delivers herbs when the girls get their sores.  He also sells some of our patrons that Chinese tobacco.  Madame Deborah don’t let her girls use it, though, on account of it diminishes our enthusiasm —and enthusiasm makes ‘em come back.”  Although the detective couldn’t see Edwina, he was quite certain she winked.  “You stick around long enough, though, I’m sure you’ll see him.”

“Yes, I suppose I will.  I am afraid my stay will need to be discrete, however.  I will gladly pay for your company for the week, possibly more.  Would you be amenable to this?” Detective Porter asked.

“I suppose so . . . There!  Finished!”  Edwina leaned over and cut the remaining thread off with her teeth before grabbing the bottle of alcohol with bloodstained hands and swigging it. 

The detective stood up and inspected Edwina’s handiwork in the mirror.  It was better than most doctors.  “There are some bandages in my bag; would you be so kind?” he asked.  Edwina rinsed her hands in her wash bowl, which quickly turned red.  She rifled through the bag to find the bandages and tossed them to the detective.

“You got any more shirts in here?” she asked.

“A few, but Master Leroy will hopefully be arriving soon with a replacement for this one.”  The detective pointed to his discarded shirt on the floor.  “And it seems I will have more profitable work for him after all.  Perhaps he can help track down this Mr. Jade.”

“What do you want to do until then?” Edwina asked, putting her foot up on the bed.  “I do more than just stitches, you know.”

“Yes.  I suppose you do,” Detective Porter replied, retrieving his sketchbook.   

The Baron

June 7, 1914

Schloss Schönbrunn

Vienna, Austria

The 1911 Gräf & Stift
Bois de Boulogne
touring car arrived at Schönbrunn Palace, the massive and majestic yellow summer seat of the Hapsburgs for more than 350 years.  Khalid Francois parked the car and looked at the palace with awe.  “If
Allah
winters in Versailles, then surely he must summer in Vienna,” he said.  Immediately, the Baron, Warwick, and Khalid were greeted by a royal adjutant and five armed royal guards, who scurried out from the main entrance.  Their rifles glimmered in the noonday sun.

“Greetings,” the adjutant said in German.  “Please state your name and purpose here today.”

Warwick confronted the adjutant head on.  “Good afternoon.  This is his lordship, William Hardwin FitzOsbern DeLacy, the Baron of Pontefract,” he replied in German.  “We have an appointment with the Archduke, his highness, Franz Ferdinand.  Our request was accepted roughly a week ago.”

The adjutant thumbed through his papers and confirmed the appointment.  “Ah, yes, here it is.  Gentlemen, if you do not mind, please relinquish your weapons, and for precautionary measures you will need to be searched.”

“Not a problem,” Warwick replied.  Khalid gave up his sidearm, while the rest of the party received the precautionary search for the good of Austria-Hungary.

“Is that a maze?” Khalid asked, with Warwick translating.

“Yes,” the adjutant replied.  “The finest hedge maze in the entire world.”

“What the hell would you need a maze for?” Khalid said in French. 

“It’s very lovely,” translated Warwick.

“Excellent,” the adjutant said.  “Should I expect any more servants, your lordship?”

“I was told two servants only,” the Baron snapped in German. “This is my driver and personal attendant.  Now stop wasting my time before you end up a
castrato
in Vienna’s Boys Choir.”  The Baron wiped his bald head with a silk kerchief.

“Right this way,” the adjutant said.

The Schönbrunn Palace had more than 1,400 rooms, each ornately decorated by the finest craftsmen in Europe.  The Baron was given a small sitting room in the east wing, complete with chandlier, gilded wallpaper, red velvet seats, and a plush white sofa filled with down goose feathers.  The large square windows overlooked the front of the estate.  From this vantage point, the Baron eyed some of the finest gardens in the world, littered with fantastic statues, fountains, and fabricated Roman ruins. “Ironic,” he said, “that they pay tribute to the once-mighty and now-fallen empire of Rome.  Warwick!  Give us a cigarette.”  The Baron took the finely rolled cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.  Khalid was across the room, staring at a life-size (and far too flattering) oil portrait of the Princess of Hohenberg, the Duchess Sophie Chotek, wife of the Archduke.  She sparkled in a sheer white gown with pearls and a ruby choker necklace.  On her perfect hair was a small glowing tiara, which gave her an almost angelic presence in the room.  “Ironic,” Khalid said, “Austrian women look so heavenly, but between the sheets, I hear they are commanding devils.”  Khalid now lit a cigarette. “What do you say, Warwick? Have you ever had a Viennese girl?”  Warwick shook his head nervously.

The door opened and a servant yelled inside, “His highness, Franz Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria-Este, Royal Prince of Hungary and of Bohemia, heir presumptive to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and Inspector General of Her Armies.”  A short but robust man in a light blue military uniform with a high red collar entered.  His various military medals swung as he walked to the largest chair in the room, in front of the portrait of his wife.  He sat up straight, adjusted his uniform, and dismissed his servant.  The Archduke was an uninspiring man in his late forties who radiated an almost palpable strangeness. 

The three guests bowed.  “Your highness,” the Baron said.

“Baron DeLacy, to what do I owe this visit?” the Archduke asked in English, forgoing any formal greeting.

The Baron took the seat across from him, Warwick stood behind him, and Khalid migrated to the window.  “First, I would like to congratulate his highness on being promoted to Inspector General.  It is quite a privilege to command one of the most formidable armies in Europe.”

“Did you come all this way to congratulate me, Baron?  I assure you I have very pressing matters to attend to,” the Archduke asserted.

“Would one of those matters be the province of Bosnia?  Or the general lack of sentiment the Hungarian people have for you?” the Baron asked.  The Archduke was silent; void of all expression.  “No, I’m afraid I am here to claim my favor.  It is time for you to pay your debt,” Baron DeLacy said.

“Now is not the time, Baron.  My repayment will have to wait,” the Archduke said, as he stroked his winged mustache.

“Warwick!  Another cigarette, and be kind enough to offer one to his highness.”  The Archduke refused the cigarette with a waving hand.  “Tell me, highness, did you ever wonder how a man with no training and very little service becomes head of an Imperial Army?  Do you even remember how you came to be Heir Presumptive?  What was it—25 years ago now?  Yes, I do believe the anniversary of the Crown Prince Rudolph’s death has just passed.  It’s been a while, but I do remember his hunting lodge.”  The Baron looked up in reminiscence.  “A beautiful place right near the Schwechat River.  The only thing more beautiful was young Mary Vetsera.  Ah, Mary.  She was only 17, but your cousin loved her dearly.  Even more than his own wife, I’m afraid.  Sweet, sweet, little Mary.” 

The Baron inhaled his cigarette and continued.  “It’s just too bad his father didn’t understand a man’s need for a mistress.  Your uncle is a very rigid man, highness, and who could withstand the pressure he put on your dearest cousin to dismiss someone so lovely.  It was the perfect recipe for a lovers’ suicide pact.  And at last, Prince Rudolph shot his love as she lie in their bed and then himself in the very hunting lodge he had built, pulling the trigger of his Förster Gewehr with his big toe . . . at least that’s what I made it look like, anyway.  Do you have any idea the lengths one must go to in order to make it look like the heir to a sprawling, glorious empire and vast fortune killed himself?”  The Baron inhaled more dramatically this time.  “No, I don’t suspect you do.  As heartless as you are, you could never murder someone, which makes you enormously inept at ruling an empire.  Do you recall the myth of Damocles, highness?”

“Baron DeLacy, I believe this conversation must be cut short—”

“Well, highness,” the Baron interrupted, “The Greek god Dionysus wanted King Damocles to understand the true meaning of kingship.  What it really feels like to have the fate of all your subjects in mortal hands.  What it feels like to have everyone want to kill you for the power you wield.  So he hung a great sword above the King’s throne tied only by a horsetail thread.  And King Damocles discerned and deliberated, never knowing when the sword that swung above him, so precariously, was going to fall.”

“I studied my myths as a child, Baron.  I am in no need of a lesson,” the Archduke said coolly.

“Well, poor King Damocles eventually abdicated his throne to relieve himself of this burden, unable to withstand the true weight of being a ruler,” the Baron replied. 

“What is your point, Baron?” the Archduke asked.

“My point is simple.  Perhaps you need the same motivation, highness.  Perhaps you should feel the true weight of all your titles.  Perhaps it is time a sword hangs above you.”

“Is that your favor, then?  You wish to hang a sword above me?  You want to make me a more apt head of state?” the Archduke asked.

  “As fortune would have it, the favor I require of you will benefit us both,” the Baron said.  “It will make you the apt leader we hoped you would be, ensure
all
your subjects respect you.  And it will, of course, make me and a few others very, very rich.”

“I am listening,” the Archduke replied.

“I need a war, highness.  I need a war with the Balkans, and I want you, as head of the military, to declare one.”

“Preposterous!  I will make no such action.”

“Do ponder it for a moment.  You will have a chance to show your leadership, a chance to strike fear in the people who doubt you.  A chance to show all of Europe you
will
be the next King of Austria-Hungry.  And I will even sell you the weapons to ensure your victory,” the Baron said.  “Besides, they are already weary from fighting the Ottomans.  Now is the perfect time to strike.

“You want me to declare war?  Are you mad!?”

“Well, it isn’t like you don’t have provocation; the Serbians have always undermined you.  Tell me again how many assassination attempts you have foiled?  A declaration of war is simple, bold, and effective.”

“And profitable as well. Right, Baron?” the Archduke snapped.

“The time for you repayment is now, highness,” the Baron said, extinguishing his cigarette.

“If I declare a war with the Serbs, Russia will bear down on me like a mother bear defending her cub,” the Archduke said.  “Bismarck and the alliances he forged have made Europe a powder keg, Baron, and I will not be the one to light the fuse.  My answer is simple, bold, and effective.  No!”

“Do you recall the myth of Prometheus, highness?”  the Baron asked, signaling for Khalid, who took out a round, black ball about the size of a grapefruit.  Khalid walked over and dropped the heavy ball on the Archduke’s lap. He unraveled a fuse as he walked back to the window.

“What is the meaning of this?  How did you get this past my guards?” the Archduke asked in a growl.

“You see, Prometheus stole fire from the gods—a crime he was punished for severely.  But I always ask myself . . . why?  What is it about fire that made them want to safeguard it so?  Did the gods not want us to stay warm?  Have hot food?  Drive locomotives?” the Baron, as he once again signaled Khalid.  The Algerian sparked a match and lit the fuse from across the room.  A small flame hissed as it danced toward the bomb in the Archduke’s lap.  “You see, Franz, the reason why the gods didn’t want us to have fire is because fire kills, maims,
destroys
.  To put it plainly, fire wins wars.”

“YOU ARE A MADMAN!” the Archduke screamed.

“Take the little spark headed your way, for instance.  By itself, quite harmless, but when it ignites the device in your lap—one my factory-manufactures, I might add—it will set off an explosion of shrapnel in all directions, killing everyone in this room.”  The Archduke began sweating and tugging at his collar.

“Calling for your guards is useless, of course.  They will either be too late, or arrive in time for the fireworks.  You could throw it, but it does have an exceptionally wide blast radius.  It seems we are at a rather unfortunate impasse.”

“No!  No!  NO!” the Archduke cried.

The Baron began laughing.  “Are you ready to die, gentlemen?” he asked.

“I am ready to meet
Allah
, Baron!” Khalid yelled, joining in the laughter.

“It has been a pleasure serving you, my lord,” Warwick replied, promptly covering his ears.

As the Archduke saw the reflection of the spark in the Baron’s one tinted lens, he panicked and went to pull the fuse out, only to find it didn’t budge.  The Baron continued laughing. 

“Are you ready for the
real
power of fire, heir Ferdinand?” he yelled.  The fuse dove inside the bomb, and the Archduke winced before falling to the ground at the Baron’s feet, screaming.  The bomb let out a small puff of smoke.             

“Warwick, another cigarette,” the Baron said.  Warwick cautiously stepped over the groveling Archduke and gave the Baron one.  The Baron leaned over in his chair and whispered, “You see, the real power of fire, the reason why the gods cherished it so, is because the smallest of sparks can bring the most powerful men to their knees.” 

Baron DeLacy stood up and adjusted his jacket.  “You have one year to the day to pay your debt.  I want a war.  And one way or the other, I shall have one.  Good day, highness.”

The Baron and his loyal entourage left the Archduke cowering on the floor.  After a long walk back to the main entrance, Khalid retrieved his pistol and started the car.  Warwick sat in the passenger seat and the Baron in the back.

“Warwick, send word to Tsar Nicolas through our Russian channels,” the Baron said, as the car raced away from Schönbrunn palace.  “Tell him the Austrian wolves are eyeing Serbia like a wounded cub.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Warwick replied.

“There is a park not far down this road, Khalid, one with a beautiful garden promenade,” the Baron said.  “Please stop there.  I have some brief recruiting business to attend to.”

“Yes, Baron,” Khalid answered. 

“Afterward, we will begin preparations for our return to England,” the Baron added.

“Yes, my lord,” Warwick replied.

Baron DeLacy eyed the Roman ruins at the front of the palace as Khalid drove past them.  “All empires fall, gentlemen.  Some in an instant, others over centuries, but eventually, even the mightiest fall,” he said.