The Death Instinct (37 page)

    'It's worse than I thought,' said Oktavian. 'I don't see how you'll get through.'

    'The Czechs hold an anti-Semitic riot, and it's we whom they want to arrest,' said Younger disgustedly. They were still inside Oktavian's carriage. 'Is there another train station?'

    'Several,' replied Oktavian, 'but the police are sure to be there too. There is another way, Doctor, if you're willing. Aeroplane. A French company began service just last month. The airstrip is small and nearly always deserted. The police may not think of it. The aeroplanes are quite safe, they say, but very dear.'

    'What would you think of flying?' Younger asked Colette.

    'Luc looked happy to be left behind, didn't he?' she answered. 'Almost as if he were glad to be away from me.'

    Vienna's airport - the only one in Austria - consisted of a dirt landing strip with a single craft on it: a double-winged monoplane with the largest propeller on its nose Younger had ever seen. Oktavian was right: there were no policemen. Neither, however, was there anyone else, so far as they could see. No passengers, no ticket agents, no crew. The only building was locked.

    Venturing around the back, they found two men drinking coffee and schnapps. One turned out to be the pilot, a Frenchman, who jumped eagerly from his chair when Oktavian inquired about the possibility of two passengers flying immediately to the nearest port.

    'We're supposed to fly to Paris,' said the pilot with a Gallic shrug, 'but we're not particular. I could take you to Bremen.'

    'Bremen would be fine,' replied Younger.

    They agreed to a price. The pilot downed his schnapps and clapped his hands. 'Off we go then,' he said.

    The aircraft boasted eight passenger seats. When the pilot had settled into the cockpit, he took an additional swallow from a hip flask and signaled a thumbs-up to his partner, who gave the propeller a strong tug. The engine churned into life. Oktavian, looking less enthusiastic about the plan he had originated, said goodbye to Younger and Colette at the foot of a small ladder leading into the passenger compartment.

    'It's strange, Mademoiselle,' said Oktavian. 'All this time I've felt I knew you from somewhere else. A long time ago. You have no relatives in Austria?'

    'Perhaps you knew my grandmother,' said Colette. 'She was Viennese.'

    'That's it,' cried Oktavian. 'I must have met her. Yes, I can almost remember the event. I knew I had seen your face before. She was of noble birth, your grandmother?'

    'Oh, no, she was very poor.'

    'I would have sworn it was at some fine ball, and with some fine gentleman.'

    'That can't have been my grandmother, Count Oktavian.'

    'Well, it will come to me. But you mustn't call me Count. I don't count for anything.'

    Taking off, the aircraft rolled alarmingly, but it achieved a semblance of stability on reaching altitude. They peered down at the blanket of snow beneath them - which was not snow, but clouds.

    'I've never seen the top of a cloud before,' said Colette. 'Do you think God minds?'

    'I doubt He'd begrudge us a view of His handiwork,' answered Younger. 'I'd be more worried about your toying with His atoms.'

    'Why do you so mistrust radium?' she asked. 'You made me wear that absurd suit in Professor Boltwood's laboratory. Everyone else thought I looked like a sea diver.'

    'Everyone else should have been wearing one too.'

    'I wonder if it could explain radioactivity,' mused Colette. 'Dr Freud's death instinct. We don't have any idea why radium atoms split apart - but then we don't know why other atoms don't. Perhaps there is one force holding the particles together, and another one driving them apart. It would be just what Dr Freud described: two fundamental forces, one of attraction and one of repulsion.'

    'Which is stronger?' asked Younger.

    'I would say the force holding them together,' said Colette. 'That would explain why radioactivity releases so much energy.' A thought came to her: 'But that energy, when it's released - that could
be
the death force. Perhaps the splitting of the atom is death itself, in pure form. It could communicate the death force to other atoms, causing them to split apart.'

    'And you wonder why I don't trust it,' said Younger.

    'That could also explain radium's effect on cancer,' replied Colette with growing excitement. 'No one has ever explained how radium cures cancer. Even Madame doesn't know. But Dr Freud was right: cancer cells are cells that have stopped dying. When radium is placed inside a tumor, perhaps it releases the death force, spreading it out over the whole tumor, transmitting it to the cancer cells, which makes them begin dying again. What are you doing?'

    As Colette spoke, Younger had become distracted by a separate train of thought until finally he had risen from his seat. 'Pilot,' he called out. 'You said this plane was supposed to fly to Paris?'

    '
Oui
, Monsieur,' said the pilot.

    'Take us there.'

    'Paris?' asked Colette. 'Why?'

    'To see one of your heroes.'

Chapter Seventeen

    Under the headline 'Invited to Mexico,' Littlemore read the following front-page story:

    An invitation to President-elect Harding to visit Mexico was extended at a conference last night between Senator A. B. Fall of New Mexico, and Elias L. Torres, envoy from President-elect Obregon of Mexico. The invitation contemplated Senator Harding's attendance at the inauguration of President-elect Obregon in Mexico City on the twenty-fifth of this month. Whether the invitation will be accepted seems very uncertain and tonight there was no official statement from the President-elect. Senator Harding is exceedingly anxious to restore amity between Mexico and the United States, but his close advisers doubt the propriety at this time of the President-elect going to foreign soil.

    Littlemore was riding a train back down to Washington. He stared out the window for a long time.

    On arriving in Washington, Littlemore took a taxi directly to the Library of Congress, just down the street from the United States Capitol. There he asked for some basic facts and history concerning the country of Mexico; the librarian directed him to the
World Book of Organized Knowledge
. A half-hour later, his pace quickening, Littlemore went to the Senate Office Building.

    'What's the matter?' asked Fall when Littlemore was let in to see him.

    'I read the Mexico story in the paper, Mr Senator.'

    'Now that's something I'm proud of,' said the Senator, stretching his arms and leaning back in his chair. 'The two presidents-elect of the two largest democracies in the world. It'll be a first. Harding doesn't want to go, but I'll persuade him. Obregon will pull his troops out of the mines and let us keep our oil wells, and all will be right with the world.'

    'I don't think Mr Harding should go, sir.'

    'You're giving
me
advice on foreign policy?'

    'What if it was Mexico, Mr Fall?'

    'What if what was Mexico?'

    'What if it was Mexico, not Russia?'

    There was a long pause. 'You ain't talking about the bombing, are you, son?' asked Fall.

    'Remember what you asked me the first time I met you? What country stood to gain from the bombing, what country had the motive, what country would have felt it had the right to attack us?'

    'Sure I remember.'

    'Nobody had a bigger motive to bomb J. P. Morgan than the Mexicans,' said Littlemore. 'Morgan's been bleeding them dry - keeping every banker in the world from lending to Mexico for six years. That's not the only motive either. From what I hear, they hate us pretty good down there, sir. Been looking to pay us back for a long time.'

    'What for?'

    'The Mexican-American War.'

    'What kind of-? That's ancient history, boy. Nobody even remembers that war.'

    'They remember it, sir. We took almost half their land. Invaded them. Occupied Mexico City. Killed a lot of people. There were some atrocities. I think they think we look down on them, Senator Fall. On top of which they think we're taking all their silver and oil, getting rich while they're dirt poor.'

    Fall considered. 'I was going to say that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, but maybe it ain't. This new envoy Torres - I'll tell you the truth, he didn't rub me the right way. Like he was hiding something.'

    'Let's say they were getting ready to nationalize our oil wells,' Littlemore went on. 'They'd have to show us that even though our army can lick theirs, they can hurt us in a different way - a new way - that an army can't stop. Hurt us badly enough so it wouldn't be worthwhile to invade.'

    'You're saying the bombing was supposed to show us how they'd fight if we invaded?'

    'I'm saying that if you look at it from Mexico's point of view, it starts to make sense. An attack on Morgan. Revenge for our invasion. And a warning of what kind of damage they can inflict on us if we move in with our army after they take back the oil. All three at once.'

    'In that case they'd have to be first-class idiots,' said Fall, 'because they forgot to tell us they were the ones who did it.'

    'They wouldn't want to say it right out,' answered Littlemore. 'Then we'd have to send the army in, which is what they don't want. So they'd leave us a sign showing they did it, without giving us any proof.'

    'But they didn't leave a sign.'

    'They did,' said Littlemore. 'Do you know when Mexican Independence Day is?'

    'No.'

    'September sixteenth.'

    Fall was silent for several seconds. 'You sure about that? Not the fifteenth, not the seventeenth?'

    'September sixteenth, Mr Senator. And it's a big day for them, just like it is for us.'

    'Well, I don't use the word irony much, but ain't that an irony? They were trying to show us they ain't so puny, but they're so puny we didn't even get the message.' 'Something else, Mr Fall. Two weeks before the bombing, Mr Lamont of the Morgan Bank was threatened. Lamont got it mixed up though. He thought a banker named Speyer was the one making the threat, but it wasn't Speyer. It was a Mexican consul - a guy named Pesqueira - who said that if Morgan didn't start letting money back into Mexico, there would be hell to pay.'

    A thought came to Fall's eyes: 'Why, this envoy Torres, he may have been playing me for a fool. I believe I was a fool. They blow us to pieces, and I get the President of the United States to make peace with them - after they've seized our mines. Maybe they are planning to go for the oil next. Damn my eyes for a blind man.'

    'We don't have any proof, Mr Fall. Not yet. And the missing link is still the gold.'

    'That's right - what about the gold?' Fall's eyes moved back and forth. 'It can't be, Littlemore. You're telling me that by coincidence our gold was being moved on Mexican Independence Day?'

    'I don't think it was coincidence, Senator. Like you said, maybe the Mexicans paid off somebody in our government - somebody in a position to arrange when the gold would be moved. I'm going to the Mexican Embassy, Mr Fall. I'm going to talk to this Torres. And Pesqueira.'

    'By God, son, if you get to the bottom of this, I'll get you an embassy of your own. Where'd you like to be ambassador?'

    'Not my line, Mr Fall.'

    'Then how does Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sound?'

    The Mexican Embassy, a substantial four-story house on I Street, had a damp and insalubrious odor in its foyer. Discoloration streaked its walls.

    'You got mold in here, ma'am,' said Littlemore to the receptionist.

    'I know,' she replied. 'Everyone says. Can I help you?'

    The detective learned that Elias Torres, the new envoy, had not yet presented his credentials at the embassy, but was expected tomorrow.

    Senor Pesqueira, however, was upstairs.

    Roberto Pesqueira was a small man with well-oiled black hair, fair skin, an ink-thin mustache and small but perfectly white teeth. He showed no signs of unease when Littlemore introduced himself as an agent of the United States Treasury. If anything, he looked as if he might have been expecting the visit.

    'I have reason to think you threatened a man in New York City two months ago, Mr Pesqueira,' said Littlemore.

    'What man?'

    'Thomas Lamont. Two weeks before the Wall Street bombing.'

    Neatly folded white handkerchiefs were piled on one corner of Pesqueira's desk. He removed one of these and applied it to his teeth. 'Your emperor,' said Pesqueira.

    'I beg your pardon?'

    'Senor Lamont is the king on your throne. Everyone else is his lackey. Wilson, your so-called President, is his lackey.'

    'You don't deny the threat?'

    'The Morgan Bank strangled my people for six years,' said Pesqueira. 'Your government propped up a corrupt dictator in my country for twenty years. You occupy my country. You steal California from us. You warn us you will make another war if we do not change our constitutional laws. And you accuse me of threatening?'

    'I'm just doing my job, Mr Pesqueira.'

    'Really? You must have forgotten the first two words of the law of nations.'

    'What would those be?'

    'Diplomatic immunity. Your law doesn't apply to me. You cannot arrest me. You cannot search my home. You cannot even question me.'

    'Nope. You're a
consular
agent, just like Juan Burns was,' said Littlemore, referring to a Mexican consul jailed in New York City for illegal weapons purchases in 1917. 'You don't have diplomatic immunity.'

    'Forgive me, you are not as ignorant as I assumed; one gets so used to it with Americans. But I am not a consular agent anymore. My office is here now, as you can see, in the embassy - and all embassy officials, I'm sure you know, enjoy the immunity of the diplomat. Technically, you are on Mexican soil right now. You cannot even be here without my consent. Shall I call the police, Agent Littlemore?'

    Littlemore hurried back to Senator Fall's chambers and, notwithstanding the protest of one of the Senator's assistants, knocked on Fall's door and strode through.

    'Don't you come busting in here, boy,' said Fall, seated at his desk, white handlebar mustache contrasting sharply with a florid countenance.

    'Sorry, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'I need to know where I can find the Mexican envoy you were telling me about - Torres. Right away.'

    'Why?'

    'He's not on staff at the embassy yet. Can't claim diplomatic immunity. Can we find out where he's staying?'

    'That's the sort of thing I'm good at,' said Fall. 'Go sit yourself down in my waiting room. Could take a little while.'

    Littlemore went to the Senator's waiting room, but he didn't sit. He paced. He looked at his watch. He got a cup of coffee. Finally, over two hours later, the businesslike but exceedingly good-looking Mrs Cross emerged with an address and a car key. 'Mr Torres has taken an apartment on Crescent Place,' she said. 'Senator Fall says you can use one of his motorcars, if you like. I'll show you where it is.'

    In the basement of the Senate Office Building, an electric monorail shuttled people through an underground passage to and from the Capitol. Mrs Cross led Littlemore to a parking garage, where she climbed into the driver's seat of an open-roofed sedan.

    'Excuse me, ma'am,' said Littlemore. 'I think I better do this on my own.'

    'Because it might be dangerous?'

    'That's right.'

    'I like dangerous,' she answered. 'Besides, you're in a hurry; do you have any idea where Crescent Place is?'

    'No.'

    'Then you're wasting time. Get in.'

    Mrs Cross slowed as they approached a narrow lane in a fashionable neighborhood. They were on Sixteenth Street. In their rearview mirror, the gates of the White House were visible in the distance far behind them. Mrs Cross turned into the curving lane and parked in front of a small apartment house. Dusk had begun to fall.

    Littlemore found the name, 'Elias Torres,' handwritten in relatively fresh ink next to the mail slot for apartment 3B. Climbing to the third floor, Littlemore rang the bell. Mrs Cross stood behind him.

    'Who it is?' called a Spanish-accented voice from within.

    'Federal agent James Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'Is that Elias Torres?'

    'Jace.'

    'What did you say?'

    'I am Elias Torres.'

    'I want to ask you a few questions, Mr Torres.'

    'What about?'

    'About the bombing of Wall Street,' answered Littlemore.

    There was a pause. 'All right. A minute. I am putting on the shirt.'

    'I'll give you thirty seconds,' said the detective. Littlemore put his ear to the door. He heard rushed footsteps and a window being thrown open.

    'He's running,' said Mrs Cross.

    'I know,' replied Littlemore.

    'Aren't you going to do anything?' she asked.

    'Yup - wait to make sure he's on his way.' Littlemore banged on the door. When no response was forthcoming, the detective took out a pick and metal file and went to work on the lock. 'We don't want Torres, Mrs Cross.'

    'Why not?'

    'He just arrived from Mexico,' said Littlemore, working his file between doorjamb and bolt. 'Hasn't moved into his embassy office yet. No diplomatic immunity. We can search whatever boxes and government papers the guy brought with him: that's what we want. But without a warrant, you can't just break into somebody's place and search his stuff - unless of course your suspect is attempting to flee.'

    Littlemore popped the bolt.

    'You play by the rules, New York,' said Mrs Cross.