The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (26 page)

I heard a knock. Who could that be at this hour?

I opened the side door. Here was the smiling face of my old friend,
Nate.

“Hallo, chum.”

He reached out his hand. I shook it and invited him in. Books were
almost finished for the night. We could have a late dinner together.

“Business, I'm afraid,” Nate said.

That blasted loan. I told him it would be his ruin. Ah, well. I could
shift his account balances again. I should talk to Father. Surely, we can help
Nate get this debt under control.

I turned to the papers. We would need to open a new account, shift the
funds one more time. Nate stepped behind me.

An acrid smell jarred my senses. I gagged. God, I hated that smell; the
bloody incense. Like a veil lifting, the real bank came back into view. I felt
a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, chum,” Drysdale said.

I pulled the pin from the tent shield. A dome of interlaced triangles
exploded around me in a cloud of steam. The surge pulled me forward but
Drysdale was still holding my shoulder. As the tent shield locked into place,
he was inside with me.

Drysdale held the cancelling hammer. I tried to swing the clapper but a
woman without sleep is not adept at judging her range. The baton caught the
frame of the tent shield. I tore the side open but failed to strike him.

Drysdale focused on me. He raised the hammer again.

I fought the urge to pray. I fought the desire to seek one moment of
peace before I left this world. Pushing these weak impulses aside, I looked
Drysdale in his swirling eyes. In as calm a voice as I could manage, I said,
“Master. Master. Wake up.”

Drysdale's eyes regained their natural focus. He looked around and
seemed completely confused. More than anything, he seemed afraid. He dove
through the hole in the tent shield and ran to his carriage.

I did not return to the estate. I have been here at the apartment ever
since.

Nate Drysdale killed George Gordon. That much is clear. In a sense, the
case is solved. Still, I am not sure what to do next.

I could seize him but there are no police left in the city. What would
I do with him?

He was asleep when the crime was committed. What was his motive? If my
hallucination can be trusted, George was actually helping him manage the
mounting debt. Money was a weaker motive than I first imagined. Yet, how much
weight does a hallucination carry? Could I present that as evidence in court?

Hold. There is a knock at the door. Someone is out there. The audio
device is engaged. If this goes wrong, there will at least be a record.

Who's there?

“You know who I am.”

What do you want, Mr. Drysdale?

“Tell me who you are.”

I am a friend of your wife, Collette.

“I am not married. That woman is certainly not your friend.”

What do you want?

“I want you to help me. I think I killed my best friend.”

You should turn yourself in to the authorities.

“I think I am going to kill you as well.”

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal
December, 1861

Killing a man during wartime is not murder. It is not called murder
anyway. I have begun to doubt the distinction.

A rebel is splayed on a rooftop beneath the Protocol. He is going to
die because I fired a string of lead pellets into his stomach and chest. I was
not defending the Union. I did not even do it to save New York from burning. I
shot him to save my son.

Is that an act of war? The answer must be no. What difference is there
between killing and murdering, then? As he waits to die, curling around his
wound like a clenched fist, that question weighs on me. This is not the work of
a detective.

Crime is a failure. No matter the particulars, a detective always finds
moral failure at the heart of every crime. More than knowing the law,
understanding a person's morals is the surest way to spot a criminal.

What is the morality of war? People have asked that question for
thousands of years. It will not be me to provide an answer. All I can say with
certainty is that our task has changed. We are spies, not detectives. The rules
are different. Did I murder that man or kill him? We need a new way of seeing
these things.

Robert has come into view. For a time, we lost him in the haze. He is
hundreds of yards ahead in one of the Protocol's experimental flyers. So long
as the steam platform remains in contact with his aircraft, Robert will be able
to manoeuvre.

In theory, heat rising from the fire could act as a substitute for the
platform. Robert believes he can fly the thing independently. I am not prepared
to take his opinion as gospel. Even if the Protocol burns in the process, we
are going to keep that platform under him.

Do you hear me, Thaddeus?

“This is no armored carrier. Protocol can only take so much heat. Rebels
down there are firing at us from several locations.”

I will suppress the shooters as best I can.

Robert must believe he can locate turbine furnaces from the flyer. With
that information, you can infer the configuration of the rest. Is that right?

Thaddeus? We are slowing down. Why are we slowing down?

Stay on him, Thaddeus!

“Dr. Lowe has been relieved of his command, Pinkerton.”

Baker! My God, what are you doing?

“I am seizing this vessel.”

What possible reason ...

“You know the reason, Pinkerton. You are the reason.”

Robert is pulling away. I am losing sight of my son.

“Did you not think I would know you were communicating with Major
Anderson?”

Baker, please. This is not the time. I will explain what happened.

“It is the time, Pinkerton. Now is the time. Bring me the note Anderson
gave you. Put it in my hand or, so help me God, we will watch your boy burn.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

An ambulance waits downstairs. Officer Hirsch is going to meet me at
the hospital. These are the first moments I have had to myself since the
explosion. I was not injured but three of my staffers, an admin and two
researchers, were killed. A dozen others were burned. One of them lost an eye.
Another was thrown through a glass door.

No. I won't turn them into a list. That's too cold.

I have to get myself under control. How could this happen? Police want
me to give a statement once I reach the hospital. What am I supposed to say?
They are going to rummage through every piece of my life looking for clues.
Hirsch tells me it won't be as bad as I think. I am pretty sure it is going to
be terrible. They say whoever set the charge was probably tracking me. Police
figure I may have crossed paths with the bomber without realizing. They will go
through everything and maybe get lucky. Maybe not.

I have no idea what I'm going to say to my team. What do I tell their
families? I am the one who travelled to New Carthage. I accepted the
invitation. I was the one targeted.

What do I say to them? Words are such feeble things.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

The Sleepwalker and the Spy © 2014 by David Luchuk
Published by Joe Books Inc.

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Repository Note:

They say we got what we deserved. If all you do is look for trouble,
don't be surprised when you find it. That message comes through clear as day in
op-ed features and soapbox speeches for tv networks across the country: shame
about what happened but the Library of Congress obviously had it coming.

People I've known since the day I left college are in the hospital
fighting for their lives. Some will not survive. Maybe it's true that I was
looking for trouble. I kept digging through the Pinkerton records in spite of
all the bitterness stirred up by their release. Why didn't I leave it alone?
Maybe I liked getting people talking about the past, questioning the history
we've come to accept. If so, it might also be true that I deserved to be
targeted by the bomber.

My staffers didn't, though. The bomb that ripped through our office,
popping windows like champagne corks and shredding wood tables as easy as loose
leaf, was delivered for me. I don't mind people saying I deserved it. Just
don't tell me the others did. Every one of those injuries, the disfigurements,
the deaths, is on me.

Officer Hirsch tells me not to think in those terms. He says it gives
too much power and credit to the bomber. I suppose that's true. Hirsch is a
decent sort of cop, it turns out. I won't say I feel safe around him. I don't
feel safe around anyone. Still, he does his best. It feels like Hirsch is the
only one who'd feel the least bit bad if the bomber came back and finished me
off.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with myself now. Do I work? Do I
hide? I am at a loss. Everything is wrecked. There's no going back. It makes me
think of Allan Pinkerton looking down at the fire in 1861. That wrecked
everything, too. There is something romantic about a city on fire. People call
them “great” fires for a reason. They come out of nowhere and go on for days,
seemingly without explanation. They are like acts of god.

If the Pinkertons are to be believed, the New York fire was different
in that respect. Confederates snuck turbine furnaces into the city and set the
place alight. It was no act of god. New York was ruined. Some believe New York
might have gone on to become a sort of world capital if not for that fire.
Nobody can say, I guess. The city that emerged is no beacon to the world. It is
a derelict place, remarkably big but not much else.

Today, most will tell you that President Lincoln thought Confederate
informants were taking refuge in the city and, as overzealous on the home front
as he was on the battlefield, ordered an attack that sparked the fire. The
Pinkerton papers tell a different story. They always do.

Allan was on board Dr. Thaddeus Lowe's flying steam-tech laboratory,
the Protocol. Lafayette Baker, Lincoln's head of domestic security, had
captured John Kennedy and was holding him on the airship, too. Robert Pinkerton
launched some kind of prototype aircraft toward the fire just before Baker
seized control of the Protocol. It was chaos. Kate Warne was in the rebel
south, trying to solve a murder in Wilmington. Ernie Stark dug up the body of
Timothy Webster and was following a slave from Shreveport to Wilmington as
well. The Pinkerton men, father and son, were alone.

How does any of this justify detonating a bomb at the Library of
Congress? Hirsch has warned me against trying to draw straight lines between
our work and what happened. He reminds me that, beyond the controversy that has
always surrounded our project, my trip to New Carthage is the sort of thing
that makes new enemies as well.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

My name is Allan Pinkerton. The date is December 8th, 1861.

“That will do.”

Would you like me to set the scene as well, Baker? For the record.

“If you wish.”

We are on the airship Protocol. New York City is being swallowed by
fire. My son hovers ahead of us on a platform of steam in a flyer no sturdier
than a dessert crepe. Mr. Lafayette Baker has seen fit to commandeer the
Protocol from Dr. Lowe in order to interrogate me about a message he believes I
received from Major Robert Anderson. He is threatening to let my son slip off
the platform and fall into the fire if I do not cooperate.

Would you say that is accurate?

“Accurate enough.”

I see him. Robert is not yet too far beyond. He thinks that flimsy
thing can maneuver on its own. Dr. Lowe believes the same.

“But not you.”

Look at it. The flyer is round and almost flat, built out of woven
steel. I can see the edges flapping in the wind. It will tumble from the sky.
Robert will die in the fire. We can save him. There is time.

Do you hear me, Baker? Tell your men to release Dr. Lowe. We have to
keep the Protocol close. If he gets too far ahead, Robert will fall. There is
no need.

“I agree. Your son does not need to die.”

Yet we are wasting time. Why am I tied to this chair? What are these
metal plates you've positioned at the side of my head?

“Those are magnets, powerful ones, like those on a northern railway.
They are misaligned at the moment. The poles aren't pulling against each other.
If I shift them just a little, your brain will shiver inside your skull. If I
line them up precisely, such as they would be on the rails, I'm not exactly
sure what would happen to be frank. I am a bit curious.”

You are a maniac. What could you possibly hope to achieve?

“Cooperation, Pinkerton.”

I am cooperating. My son is going to die, damn you!

“Give me the note you received from Major Anderson.”

I told you. It is destroyed.

“The magnets will help you focus.”

Baker, for pity's sake! I will tell you everything.

“Be quick, Pinkerton. Your boy is pulling away.”

Listen closely, then. There will be no time to repeat. It started a
month ago. You and I met for the first time along with the President and his
new General at the White House.

“I remember.”

The discussion turned to that blasted flotilla of slave ships seized in
the President's naval blockade of the south. It was decided that the slaves
would be rescued and brought north by canal. The Union army was to secure the
route to Washington. You supported the idea. You also told the President that
my operative Kate Warne fled south to avoid facing charges for her actions at
Bull Run.

“But that's not quite the truth, is it?”

No. I sent her south. In part, it was to shield her from the charges
and protect her from you. It was also my intention to make her an informant
inside rebel territory. It was a stupid decision on my part. I did not
understand what it meant to be a spy.

Does it make you happy to hear me say that, Baker? I thought it would
be easy. Kate Warne would earn the trust of a southern banker by solving his
son's murder then become my informant in the Confederacy. I was a fool.

“Yes.”

As part of the plan to bring those slaves north, President Lincoln
asked me to look for signs of rebel activity along the canal route. I had no
idea how to go about this task. You tried to offer me advice.

“You would have been better off listening to me.”

Maybe. I preferred to leave your company as quick as possible. My
departure was slowed by a crowd in the East Room. Most were too drunk to
remember why they had been invited to the White House in the first place. That
is how Harry Vinton prefers his soirees to end. I tried to avoid the scene by
cutting through an adjoining office but you were waiting.

“Do you remember what I said?”             

You told me that effective spies use leverage that appeals to them the
least. They put sentiment aside and choose the foulest path. It shames me to
admit it but, in a sense, I followed your advice.

“You went to the canals.”

Not straight away. First, I went to Chicago to see my older son,
William. My work for the President was to occupy a great deal of time. William
stayed in Chicago to run our Agency. He acquitted himself well. Our affairs
were under control.

One of our open cases involved a merchant sailor from New York named
Jay Thayer who approached the Agency for help with a family matter. He could
neither resolve it himself nor refer it to police.

Thayer was born for the water. He spent his youth on the open seas.
Trade routes between Europe, America and the southern islands were home to him.
Over time, he earned a reputation for speed and reliability even in bad water.

Thayer made enough money to outfit a ship and start his own operation.
His rise reflects all the good things that are possible in modern America but,
like every person who achieves a measure of success, Thayer paid a price in his
personal life.

He was close to his sister, a pretty girl named Adele. As children,
they were inseparable. During his seafaring years, Thayer visited her at every
opportunity. He worried when she started turning the heads of young men in the
city. She wore jeweled rings and silk dresses given to her as gifts from
suitors whose names she could not remember. She relished the attention.

For a time, Thayer's anxiety was eased. Adele fell for one of his
fellow sailors, a common sort of man named Ed Henry. They were married. Thayer
made it his business to ensure that Henry was a success. He knew it would
benefit his dear Adele.

Ed Henry made a good living thanks to Thayer. He bought a small home in
New York and was a committed husband. In the months that followed, however,
there was a change. Ed Henry spent more and more time at sea. He complained
about never earning enough to satisfy Adele's tastes. Eventually, he stopped
going home altogether because he could not afford to let his earnings wane. 

Thayer cared about his sister and feared she lost her way. He sold his
ship and returned to the mainland. His skills as a boatman were in high demand
among shipping companies who ran the canals. It was dirty work with no
prestige. He chose the love of family over the lure of commerce. It was a fine
gesture from an honorable man.

To his dismay, Thayer found the situation in New York was worse than he
imagined. Adele was pregnant. The unborn baby's father was not her husband.
Adele freely admitted she was having an affair. She was in love with another
man, a Manhattan hotelier named Linus Pattmore.

Thayer was mortified. Adele drove her devoted husband away so she could
give herself to a primped up society man who was, himself, married. His sister
had willingly, even happily, become Linus Pattmore's pregnant mistress. It
galled Thayer to the marrow in his bones.

Ever the dedicated brother, he abandoned every ethical impulse and paid
for Adele to have an abortion and insisted she break off the affair. No sooner
was this illegal procedure performed than Pattmore started visiting Adele
again. Thayer demanded that it end. He begged her to recommit to her husband.

Adele refused. She said Pattmore's wife was gravely ill and the lovers
looked forward to a new life together, a life in Washington high society no
less, after that poor woman died. However, Pattmore was not a politician. He
had no legitimate connections in the government. All he had was a portfolio of
properties, expanding with every derelict building and far flung piece of land
he purchased around New York.

Thayer tried to make his sister understand that her lover was a fraud
and would never be elected to the Senate or to Congress, or whichever he
claimed. All Adele could see, sadly, was a sunny future in which she and
Pattmore would no longer need to hide their romance.

In utter despair, Thayer came to us. He asked my son William to devise
some means of finding her lawful husband, Ed Henry. We were to assist in
bringing him home and breaking Adele away from Linus Pattmore.

William wanted to help but, other than the abortion, no crime had been
committed. He decided that our Agency could not accept the case. It was the
right decision. William was shocked when I instructed him to contact Jay Thayer
and imply that we might take it on after all. I ordered him to make no
assurances, only to tell Thayer that I wished to meet. When I admitted that my
true aim was to press Thayer for information, William protested and even
refused to comply.

“But your boy yielded in the end.”

Of course he did.

I met Jay Thayer in one of the many filthy villages built for canal
workers deep down in the earth near the transport channels themselves. The man
traded a life on the world's open waters for dank squalor underground.  

Almost a half century has passed since the original Erie Canal was
built. That first experiment connected Buffalo and Albany to New York, merging
the primary waterways between the Atlantic Ocean and the Great Lakes. The Erie
was such a success that New York became the busiest port on the continent. This
led to expansion.

Lateral connections were built. Canals were widened to accommodate
heavier traffic. The great frontier of the west opened up. If politicians had
left it alone, canals would rival trains today as the primary mode of transport
in America. Instead, they planned one more expansion.

The idea was to liberate commercial barges from the meandering pace of
some rivers. They wanted to make the speed of traffic uniform and controllable.
Engineers could not make the canals wider so they dug deeper. Some were lowered
so far that they resembled underground pipes. Pumping stations were installed
at key junctures. Every channel in the network was soon capped. From a
technical standpoint, it was a success.

The flow of water inside the closed channels maintained a steady pace.
Barges were redesigned to bob below the surface. They travelled in the current.
The entire system was synchronized from pumping stations. The problem is that
people do not want to travel in the dark, underground. The expansion destroyed
passenger traffic.