The Empty Birdcage

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  Cardwell’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about this?”

  “I know his future father-in-law, Deshi Hai Lin, along with Lin’s daughter, who is engaged to be m—married to Shi,” he replied, detesting the way his voice frayed at the word ‘married.’

  Cardwell drummed his fingers upon the tabletop, then tugged at the bristly brownish-gray whiskers upon his cheek until he resembled a howler monkey readying itself for confrontation.

  “Bingwen Shi was indeed kidnapped,” he confirmed, dropping his voice, “while walking to Zaharoff ’s offices in Berkeley Square. His crime was that he, a Chinese national, was selling arms to Japan.”

  “But why would Zaharoff give a Chinese national such an assignment and risk losing an employee? It does not appear to be an error that he would make,” Mycroft said. “Unless Shi was to be a sacrificial lamb. The question then becomes ‘why?’”

  “Why indeed. Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, boy, pour!” Cardwell thundered to Parfitt as Mycroft’s stomach twisted at the sight of the full teacup—his third, along with two cakes, at least one of which he would have to consume before leaving.

  Cardwell took another sip of tea and said, “Zaharoff was not in your purview while you were here at the War Office, yes, Holmes? For you dealt with armed forces, as opposed to armaments or arms merchants.”

  “Yes, sir, that is correct.”

  “Hm. Well. You have certainly guessed it: Zaharoff not only did not make an error, it was he—from what I am told—who alerted the Chinese authorities to Bingwen Shi’s perfidy.”

  Mycroft leaned forward. “Why would he do that?”

  “I cannot say. Whatever the reason, I have no interest in the man’s intramural squabbles. Only in forcing him to remain on the right side of the law whenever he is in England. But if you are hungry to find out, I shall provide a messenger with a proper introduction… on your word that you will not go there alone, or unarmed. Are we in agreement?”

  “Whatever you wish,” Mycroft said.

  “Might you meet with him this afternoon, then?”

  “If he is in town and available, do you mean?”

  “Oh, he is, I assure you. I am always well aware when that man is anywhere near London. As for ‘available,’ yes, he shall be. Unless he wishes to be sent packing, he is ‘available’ to this office whenever we choose, not he!” he exclaimed, eschewing his quieter tone for his more familiar bombast.

  “Sir?” Mycroft said. “Might I take an hour to peruse whatever information you have on Zaharoff?”

  “Well, naturally,” Cardwell said, rising. “For you can do in an hour what most could not accomplish in a week! Parfitt, put down that teapot and go fetch the Zaharoff files, and put them on Mr. Holmes’s old desk.

  “Your speed comes in handy,” he added, turning to Mycroft again, “for I want this expedited, Holmes. Whatever your dealings with the man, strike first and strike hard. Do not give that fox enough time to strategize any moves against you. For I still consider you one of us and always will. Now eat your cakes quickly, man, and be about it!”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mycroft said right before pushing one of the cakes, very nearly whole, into his mouth.

  29

  OUTSIDE A FOUR-STORY BRICK TOWNHOUSE ON BERKELEY Square, a stately carriage and pair were waiting. The driver and chestnut horses, the initials ‘VZ’ inscribed in silver upon their liveries, had a covered space reserved for them, a rare sight indeed in the congested West End. The townhouse itself had a very fine view of the square, as it lay diagonally across from the Lansdowne fountain by Alexander Munro with its water-bearing nymph. A row of remarkable plane trees shaded “her rather woebegone labors,” as Mycroft muttered to Douglas when the latter arrived at the entrance to meet him.

  “Why woebegone?” Douglas asked, glancing back at the fountain as the two hurried up the steps of Zaharoff’s offices.

  “Her expression is filled with ennui. And, speaking of labors, I hope you will forgive me for pulling you away from yours.”

  “Perhaps she is woebegone because her creator was dying of consumption as he sculpted her,” Douglas replied. “Speaking of which, your message seemed a bit breathless.”

  “Cardwell’s idea,” Mycroft explained as a doorman held open the door. “He desired we visit post-haste. You brought your gun?” he added, lowering his voice as they stepped inside.

  Douglas patted the pocket that held his trusty firearm: a Smith & Wesson top-break, single-action Model 3. “Were you expecting a shootout?”

  “I promised Cardwell that I would not come alone or unarmed.”

  “Ah. So, I am to be your second. Should I wield the thing about as I enter, or simply pat my pocket meaningfully? I imagine an international arms dealer will be caught hopelessly off guard by such a show of brute force.”

  “Well, aren’t we the jolly valet this afternoon,” Mycroft replied. He passed his calling card to the attendant on duty while Douglas stared at nothing and followed Mycroft down the hall.

  “Gallows humor,” Douglas whispered before recanting. “In fact, things are going rather well at Nickolus House. Shortly before your note arrived, several boys whom I was having difficulty placing in apprenticeships were able to secure not just suitable but impressive employment.”

  “How very good to hear,” Mycroft said. He had meant his tone to sound even, not flat; but his preoccupation with other matters betrayed him, for as they followed the attendant to Zaharoff’s suite, Douglas muttered:

  “So, you had nothing whatever to do with it. The timing is sheer coincidence. All promises to me notwithstanding.”

  “I happen to need your undivided attention on this matter,” Mycroft said in his defense.

  “And you have it. I told you I was in. What is more in that ‘in’? You are being manipulative for sport!”

  “Surely you cannot be too put out to know that your charges now have the possibility of living past the age of seventeen,” Mycroft replied.

  Their conversation was halted by a secretary who barred the way to the suite.

  “Kindly include the time and date of your arrival,” the secretary said, handing Mycroft a ledger and indicating a line just below the signature of the previous visitor.

  Douglas dutifully passed Mycroft a pen, while Mycroft managed to fumble the ledger onto the floor.

  “My apologies, sir,” Douglas murmured to Mycroft, assuming the blame.

  Both Douglas and the secretary reached for the ledger, but Mycroft was quicker.

  “No bother, I have it!” he exclaimed while leafing through the pages. “Here we are! No, wait, here…”

  “Please allow me,” the secretary said, nervously reaching for it, but to no avail, for Douglas—in an attempt to be helpful—got in the way.

  After a bit more fumbling, Mycroft found his place, signed and dated it, and they were allowed inside.

  * * *

  The brisk efficiency of Vizily Zaharoff ’s offices, and the casual air that belied its costly furniture and well-regarded but inoffensive art, seemed to Douglas to reflect the man himself. He was tall and angular, with close-cropped white hair, and dark eyes framed by broad, gold-rimmed glasses that obscured rather than enlightened. He was approaching fifty but looked ten years younger, with the rolling gait and brusque familiarity of the sailor he had once been—although, this many years later, he exuded none of the sailor’s innate suspicion of worlds beyond his comprehension but instead carried the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being in charge.

  When Mycroft and Douglas were introduced, Zaharoff reacted not at all to Douglas’s height, nor to his hue, giving nothing away beyond a gracious hello. So rare an occurrence was this that Douglas had to remind himself that his relief (and the possible lowering of his guard) could prove deadly, for Zaharoff was nothing if not a cunning foe.

  The three of them sat in a beautifully appointed but comfortable drawing room populated by rare books and punctuated by more fine art, while a manserva
nt poured afternoon tea. Mycroft sighed quietly as his cup was being filled, something that Zaharoff noticed at once.

  “My friends, forgive me,” he said in a suave, smooth tone accompanied by an apologetic smile. “I do not indulge in alcohol: at least, not before darkness falls! Moderation must perforce accompany daylight, yes? But perhaps you would care for something more… robust?”

  Both men assured him that tea would do just fine, and Douglas thought to himself that this man, with his agreeable countenance and mellifluous voice, could have made his mark in any trade he wished, savory or otherwise. How egregious that such charisma had been put to such questionable use.

  “Now gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Zaharoff asked pleasantly.

  “Mr. Zaharoff,” Mycroft began. “I fully realize with whom I am dealing. In Vienna recently, I watched a man sail out of a window, rather than face you with a loss of your capital. Another has cloistered himself in a sanatorium, hoping against hope that your Mr. Schliemann will discover the hidden gold of Troy, so that he might be able to repay your money, and leave Switzerland and his confinement with his head intact.”

  Douglas was startled that Mycroft would open his volley with such a blatant show of force. But Zaharoff seemed nonplussed.

  “Weak individuals,” Zaharoff said with a shrug. “To be pitied. As for Schliemann, he will find the gold. Perhaps you should invest, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I was asked to do so by Schliemann himself,” Mycroft admitted. “But I am not fond of uncovering strata via dynamite—simply blowing everything to kingdom come. It may be perhaps less efficient to preserve artifacts as one goes, but I do believe it is the right idea. Now, Mr. Zaharoff. During the Crimean War, you cornered the market on saltpeter, lead, and sulfur, the constituents to ammunition, and sold to Her Majesty’s enemies.”

  “Naturally. I sell munitions to many nations. Everyone is quite aware when they do business with me that I play no favorites. For me, it is solely a question of supply and demand—”

  “This very year,” Mycroft interjected, “you are helping to arm the Ashanti Empire against Britain. Granted, you are not a British national, but you own a business here, and property in London.”

  Zaharoff looked suddenly like a child who’d been told there was to be no Christmas.

  “Mr. Holmes,” he said, his tone thick with disappointment, “news of your excellent brain precedes you. And, much like Herod Antipas of old, I expected to be dazzled by your miraculous intellect. I even heard talk that you predicted, to the hour, the collapse of Austria’s economy. Instead, here you are, regurgitating commonplace news.”

  “Forgive me, sir, if I do not dazzle,” Mycroft replied. “But, since you steadily venture into arms sales with countries upon the brink of war, or at opposite sides thereof, surely selling to Japan and China at the same time would not be an unusual move for you. Nothing that would cause one of your employees to be taken by force and charged with high treason.”

  Mycroft paused for a reply. But when Zaharoff said nothing, he explained:

  “I am here to glean but three things: the whereabouts of your employee, Bingwen Shi; an understanding as to why he might be in his current predicament; and a method of extricating him from same. I would appreciate if you would bestow upon me, as a personal favor, said information at your earliest convenience.”

  Zaharoff rose to his feet.

  “I am one of the richest men in the world!” he said indignantly. “Why should I do a favor for you, Mr. Holmes? I too have the means of unearthing whatever I wish to unearth. I know of your wealth, but in comparison to mine, it is a fleabite. The talk of your great brain intrigues me, but unless it entertains or it can be used to line my coffers, it is just another disposable piece of gray matter.”

  “What makes you so certain I cannot use my ‘great brain’ for just such purposes, Mr. Zaharoff?” Mycroft countered. “Both to entertain and to line?”

  “I cannot utilize you or your brain, Mr. Holmes, because you are a patriot, and of the worst kind. You are well aware of England’s faults, yet you slavishly align yourself with her all the same. Even in this, your reputation precedes you. As for you, Mr. Douglas,” he added, “you have seen more of the world than has our young Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you can agree with me that the notion of a ‘good’ versus a ‘bad’ country is naïve at best, and foolhardy at worst.”

  “I agree that patriotism can be a cudgel, Mr. Zaharoff,” Douglas said as mildly as he dared. “But I also believe it can be a badge of honor. That is how I view it in my friend—not because I choose to, but because I believe it to be the truth.”

  “Well then you disappoint me as well, Mr. Douglas. As I have no use for a patriot, or his blindly loyal friend, I am now obliged to bid you both a good day.”

  Having been thus dismissed, Douglas began to rise… until he realized that Mycroft had not stirred so much as an inch, nor did he intend to. Douglas resumed his seat, though he was not at all hopeful as to where it would lead.

  “It seems, from my studies of you—and I have studied you, Mr. Zaharoff, do not doubt,” Mycroft said, “that your real skill is in knowing precisely when and in what matters to offer and solicit bribes. Firearms laws, export control laws: all sticky wickets. Your maneuvering in that regard is uncanny.”

  Zaharoff’s head darted towards him like a curious bird.

  “You were not, however, successful in bribing my former employer, Edward Cardwell,” Mycroft went on, “to look the other way whenever you choose to sidestep a legal regulation or two. For if you had been, I would not now be sitting here.”

  “On this we agree, Mr. Holmes. Your Edward Cardwell is a very stubborn man, with a streak of impracticality. I heard in the wind that the famous ‘Cardwell Reforms’ were in truth orchestrated by you.”

  “Then the wind has misled you, Mr. Zaharoff, and I am not susceptible to flattery.”

  “And you have no proof of the bribes,” Zaharoff replied as if suddenly enjoying the repartee. “I know you do not.”

  “No, I do not,” Mycroft admitted. “Everyone who has ever been in the position of revealing that particular skill of yours, at least from first-hand experience, is either just as culpable, and so will not; or has been disposed of, and so cannot.”

  “And so. Notwithstanding my need to bow to your Mr. Cardwell and the War Office, you have no proof of wrongdoing,” Zaharoff said. “Once more, I bid you a good day.”

  When Mycroft again remained where he was, Zaharoff looked highly displeased. As the tension in the room increased, Douglas placed his hand on the pocket that held his Smith & Wesson.

  “There is something that I find terribly queer,” Mycroft said, staring up at their host. “That you should choose Bristol as a holiday spot for three years running.”

  Mycroft’s gaze seemed unflustered, his tone more curious than combative. Nevertheless, the innocent-sounding query seemed to catch Zaharoff unawares, for he removed his glasses and, with his eyes at half mast, glared down at his unwelcome guest.

  “Do not misunderstand,” Mycroft added, his bland-as-milk expression belying the steel in his tone. “Bristol is a fine city, as good as any in England. Still, I am not certain that it suits one of the richest men in the world.”

  “An easy explanation for that, Mr. Holmes,” Zaharoff said, sinking into his chair again as if there’d never even been a hint of ire between them. “I studied at Oxford. As a student, I did not possess the capital that I do now. I spent several happy summers in Bristol with friends; and I find that, as I grow older, sentimentality can trump both luxury and awe-inspiring settings.”

  “Of all of the adjectives that I might use to describe you,” Mycroft said, “‘sentimental’ would not top the list. Nevertheless, it is strange that, among reams of information about you, some true, most embellished, all from widely circulated, noted periodicals the world over, I should come upon an article in one of Bristol’s papers, dated two years ago. Instead of lauding your notoriety and financial prowess, th
is local rag—which caters to the small Ottoman community—seemed fixated on your humble beginnings as an immigrant from Turkey, treating you as a sort of ‘native son makes good.’ Oh, and this was not regurgitated fare; some quotes came directly from you. It was almost as if its intent had been to make a positive statement not of your money or power, but of your character. Naturally, I was curious. Whom were you trying to impress, in Bristol, with your faithfulness and uprightness? At Somerset House, I found my answer. The record of your marriage to a Greek girl, only twenty years of age, dated 18 March 1872, that I believe would come as an unhappy surprise to the wife you married in Rotterdam in 1860.”

  Zaharoff stared at Mycroft as if he wished nothing more than to murder him where he sat. But then, his expression crinkled with what Douglas could only describe as sheer delight.

  “Well played, Mr. Holmes, well played!” he said, clapping his hands. “Excellent. Please, address me as my friends do: Zed-Zed, for you have earned the right! To reward you for such thorough work, may I gift you with the newest Winchester, the 1873?”

  Zaharoff rose with a flourish, popped open a mahogany cabinet, and drew out the rifle.

  This time, Douglas did more than lay a hand; he was retrieving his own weapon when Zaharoff turned to them, holding up the rifle for inspection.

  “Glorious!” he crowed. “Walnut stock, twenty-inch-round barrel, chambers a more potent, centerfire cartridge, I praise it to the skies!”

  “A fine piece,” Mycroft said mildly, while at the same time Douglas slowly replaced his pistol in its holster. “Not a complete surprise, for, as I recall, you do business with the Winchester Repeating Arms Company.”

  “Yes, I do, Mr. Holmes! From whence did you ferret that out? Another obscure newspaper article, perhaps?”

  “From the War Office,” Mycroft replied in the same mild tone of voice.

  A shadow passed over Zaharoff’s face, but it was fleeting.

  “I confess they do not cost me as much as they would you,” he parried. “All the same, they make a very nice gift. And I can, of course, provide its twin for Mr. Douglas, should he wish it.”