“You mean the one in Paris? To a degree, yes. I have seen several copies of a publication called The Grimoire; Rogers, my cousin’s manservant, told me a fair amount about them.”
“Are you aware that all the group’s members were considered to be sympathetic to the Soviets and Communism?”
“I have become aware of that, yes,” Rakoczy answered. “I have encountered correspondence between him and his authors within the group.”
“Have you contacted any of those group members? The ones published by Eclipse Press?”
“No. My cousin’s attorneys have done so, in accord with his instructions. Thus far, no emendation to the contracts is required.”
“Do you know that your cousin—second cousin—and Professor Treat were having an affaire? at the time of the bomb-blast?”
“Rogers said something of the sort, in passing.” Rakoczy rubbed his chin, trying to determine what Merryman was looking for.
“No doubt you have an opinion?”
An abrupt, intense memory of his time with Charis in Orleans came back to him, vivid and evocative. “I do, but it is not a fact, and would not help your investigation in any way.” He waited for Merryman to respond.
Merryman leaned forward. “Why not?”
“All right, if you want it. My second cousin liked intelligent women. It would have been surprising if he weren’t pursuing Professor Treat.” He offered a quick half-smile. “There, you see? Nothing useful for you.”
“Um. Speaking of Rogers, can you put me in contact with him? He seems to have disappeared.”
Rakoczy knew at once that this question was crucial to Merryman. “I have surmised from the carbons of some recent letters that Rogers had been preparing to accompany my cousin in a hunt for Lord Weldon, who has been missing for more than a year. My cousin was planning to go in search of him. Rogers undertook the mission as soon as he saw my cousin to his resting place.”
“Any idea where this Rogers is?”
“There was a letter at the end of May, sent from Karaganda, saying he was pressing on to Pavlodar—they’re in the Soviet Un—”
“Union. Yes, I know. Those are pretty remote places.”
“That they are; if I understand what Rogers told me, Lord Weldon prefers remote places,” Rakoczy agreed. “I would recommend sending word to the police in Pavlodar if you feel you must reach him. They will know of any foreigners in the city; Russian police are like that. I don’t know if they will help you, but the police in Karaganda were very helpful when I wrote to them. I can show you the letter, if you’d like.”
“I doubt I’ll need it. I can have the CIA handle it.” He cleared his throat. “How long do you reckon Rogers will be gone?”
“No idea,” said Rakoczy. “We never discussed that.” He felt a poignant sadness come over him; he disliked the need to lie, even as insignificant as these lies were. But the truth would lead to more questions and revelations that he and Hrogre would not want to endure, as had almost happened in Marin County on the day the Golden Gate Bridge was opened; nor did he want to have to vanish again, not so soon, not in this world of telephones and photographs and fingerprints and medical innovations with more of the same to come, so he offered a tight smile. “Or I could send him a note, via the police of Pavlodar.”
“That won’t be necessary. We learned a bit from Tolliver Bethune, who was a member of the Ex-Pats’ Coven, and who was involved in several legal issues on behalf of the Coven members. He pointed out a few buildings in Paris that Weldon owns, or owned.” He gave a diplomatic cough. “Your cousin lived in one of them; a handsome apartment building, about forty years old, in excellent condition.”
“That may well be,” said Rakoczy with a hint of boredom in his manner; he realized the last had been a test of his veracity, so he said nothing more.
“Bethune doesn’t think your cousin was a target of the bomb, and neither was Missus Treat,” Merryman went on. “Bethune thinks that it had to do with the Coven, to warn them away from Eclipse and to keep you from helping them by publishing them.” His voice rose at the end of this statement as if it were a question.
“I understand that the bomb’s trigger was linked to the ignition, which suggests that my cousin was the target, wouldn’t you think? The explosion was intended to kill anyone who turned the key in the ignition, and almost all the time, it would be he who turned it.” He said it more brusquely than he had intended, but saw that this had not bothered Merryman.
“How could the bomb-maker know whose car it was?”
Nettled, Rakoczy answered unceremoniously, “My second cousin liked fine automobiles. The drop-nose black Bugatti Typo 101 in front of this building is one of several bequests from him. The car that was blown up was a Jaguar XK120. Not many of those in Paris, or anywhere else.”
“That does make it unlikely that there had been a mistake.” Merryman paused. “Would any of the Coven be able to plant such a bomb?”
“I suppose so,” said Rakoczy, remembering Steve diMaggio’s skill with electronics, and Hapgood Nugent’s reputed familiarity with ordnance. “But I can’t think why any of them would do such a thing.”
“Political reasons?” Merryman inquired.
“Because they left America due to political pressure?” Rakoczy paused in a show of thought. “I never met any of them, but I have seen a few issues of The Grimoire. All political material in its pages related to the American anti-Communist craze. My second cousin was not much involved in politics once the war ended.”
“He worked with—”
“—refugees, during the war. People wanting to get away from the Nazis. He occasionally worked with the Resistance, but not politically.” He folded his arms.
“You seem to believe he was a humanitarian,” said Merryman.
“Indeed: I was aware it was his goal to be one.”
“Do you know if Rogers had any political affiliations?” Merryman asked almost as an afterthought.
“I wouldn’t have thought so. My cousin never mentioned that in his few letters, and given my cousin’s stance in such matters, you’d think he would. He and Rogers agreed more often than not. Neither was inclined to participate in politics; it is not wise for foreigners to do so.” Rakoczy had a valise that contained a great deal of communication to and from his various heirs, establishing their identity for the purpose of being able to settle estates quickly, as he had done for establishing his claim when he went from being Ferenz Ragoczy to Germyn Rakoczy. He had already created two possible heirs for his present self. “Let me ask you something, Merryman.”
“Of course, Rakoczy,” he exclaimed eagerly. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you think there could be a connection between the bombing of my second cousin and any American intelligence organization? One of the Coven members mentioned it to Rogers, I’m told. Would such a thing be possible?” He stopped, and continued, more circumspectly, “I know this is what some of the Coven think. Most of the Coven knows of instances when such interference has occurred, and are inclined to see this as another such example.”
Merryman gave the idea some thought. “That seems a little convoluted to me.”
“But not impossible.”
“No.” Merryman shook his head heavily. “No, not impossible.”
“Ah.” Rakoczy made himself hitch up his shoulders. “In your opinion, would there be any point in pursuing such a possibility?”
“I wouldn’t bother. Even if such a foolish endeavor were associated with the bomb, you are in no position to discover it.”
“I have dealt with bureaucracies in Italy and India and China,” he said, not mentioning that he had done so for nearly three thousand years. “I ought to be able to function with the Americans.”
“It is apt to be more trouble than it is worth, for if you should unearth a scandal like that, one that would implicate men in high places, it—and very likely you—would be buried deeper than a uranium mine.” He patted the file. “Have a look at what
we’ve gathered, and you and I will talk again.”
“Thank you, I will.” To emphasize his determination, he stood up, picked up the file, and carried it to his desk. “Do you have any more questions for me, Mister Merryman?”
“Not just at present. I’ll make an appointment with your secretary for next week.” He offered a good-natured smile as he got to his feet. “I’ll have a few more questions, and I believe you will have some for me, too. Do me a favor and don’t let anyone know I’ve loaned you this.”
“Does that mean you want it back?”
“Naturally. I couldn’t do this if the file had been logged into the archives, but it will take another six weeks before that happens, so we have a few days to take advantage of what it has to say. I imagine you can get through in two or three days.”
Rakoczy put his hand on the file, snapping one of the two rubber bands that held the sheets of paper within it. “That is a likely guess,” he said as he got to his feet in order to escort Merryman to the door.
“No need to stand on ceremony with me, Rakoczy,” Merryman said, waving him back to his chair. As he reached the door, he turned back to scrutinize Rakoczy’s face. “Your resemblance to your cousin … second cousin is really quite uncanny. I would have believed you were twins, had you made such a claim.” He pressed down the latch and let himself out; the door banged behind him.
Sitting behind his desk, Rakoczy turned on the reading lamp that stood at the top of the blotter-pad; the small pool of light was briefly dazzling, then resolved to a sharp-edged type on the outside of the file:
CAR BOMB
1 FATALITY
PARIS, FRANCE
There was a stamp of the American flag in the upper right corner of the file.
Rakoczy removed the rubber bands and put them in the empty ashtray on the desk, then opened the file. The first page was an account of the event. It was accurate as far as it went, offering no theories or opinions, simply reciting the facts of the explosion to the extent they were known. Rakoczy read it carefully, and set it down to the left of the file. The second page was the report of the first policeman on the scene, and after that was a chemist’s report on the bomb, running three typewritten and stapled pages. What came next were photographs. Rakoczy swallowed hard against the sudden knot at the base of his sternum as he saw the glass tray with the recovered bits of bone and clothing that were all that was left of Charis Treat. A scrap of her handbag was set at the end of the tray, and at the other end was half a shoe. There were three photographs from various points around the explosion; in one there was a heap of blurry, unshapen tissue, shiny, slick, and red. He realized it was a photograph of himself, lying where he had fallen after the fireball engulfed him. He stared at it, though it remained out of focus, and the shine from the flashbulb created stark shadows around the place where the Jaguar had been, making the burn-scar seem ominously larger. He put the photographs, face down, next to the reading lamp. Then he sat for a while, unbreathing, his gaze fixed on distant places and times. He could sense a smoldering urge to take vengeance for Charis, if only he could learn who had made the bomb, and who ordered it made, but could not forget what killing the five men who murdered Laisha had cost him, and he told himself that neither vengeance nor justice would return Charis to life; with all the death he had seen over the millennia, he had never grown used to it, and could not bring himself to add to the carnage by continuing the killing; it had robbed him of his humanity for a time, after the slaughter of his family, leaving him indifferent to his life and refusing to engage in the touching love provided. This had happened occasionally during his long, long undead life. The last had been a quarter-century ago, and he felt its lure now, but knew he would not risk so much—it would be an appalling tribute to Charis, as it had proved to be for his ward Laisha—for until he was in America, and had once again seen his American friends, and the gulf of sorrow began to close, he had had to fight the impulse within him to cut himself off from humanity, since that was the truth of his existence. Vengeance was a most seductive solution to the pain that gripped him, but it would also prolong the alienation. He shook his head and turned up the desk-lamp, making the room a little brighter; he shook himself mentally and looked at the file. For as long as he walked the earth, he told himself, there would be irrevocable loss, and knowing that could ease his anguish, restoring the bonds he had with the living and lessening the unspeakable loneliness that had transfixed him while he healed.
More than half an hour had passed before he shook himself and resumed his examination of the file. He was methodical, steady, all emotion carefully banked though he felt as if his skin had been newly seared by his healing burns.
There was a tap on the door, and Hrogre asked in Medieval Spanish, “It is full dark, master. Do you wish to leave?”
The question took a few seconds to penetrate his concentration; Rakoczy blinked and glanced toward the windows. “Oh. You’re right. Yes, it would probably be best. Give me a moment or two and I’ll join you.”
“I’ll go check the Bugatti,” said Hrogre.
Rakoczy paper-clipped what he had already seen of the file and put the papers back in their original place, then used the rubber bands to secure it all. This done, he pulled a sueded mail-sack out from under his desk, deposited the file in it, and turned out his reading lamp before he left his office, taking care to lock it as he left.
Hrogre was holding the Bugatti’s driver’s door open. “Nothing underneath that shouldn’t be there,” he assured Rakoczy. “The fuses are all in the right place, the seats are as we left them.”
“Fine. Thank you, old friend,” said Rakoczy as he climbed into the elegant automobile.
“Do you think we’ll ever reach a time when you won’t have to bother with such precautions?” Hrogre asked, not yet closing the door.
“I would like to think so,” Rakoczy answered, then frowned. “But I am not sanguine about it; I am not sanguine at all.”
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM PHILETUS ROTHCOE IN SINGAPORE TO PETER LEELAND IN CHUGWATER, WYOMING, WRITTEN ON ONIONSKIN PAPER AND SENT REGULAR AIR MAIL IN AN AIR MAIL ENVELOPE, DELIVERED FOUR DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
Sept 27 th, 1951
Peter Leeland
Thermopile Ranch
Chugwater, Wyoming, USA
Dear Peter,
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been officially demoted. Singapore may be a hotspot for espionage, but if you ask me, it’s just another small office in a place that gets too hot to think. I’m beginning to see why you decided to resign—but Chugwater, Wyoming? You might as well have stayed in the Agency; they might have sent you somewhere exotic. Okay: your salary is better than what the government pays, a lot better, and you say there are plenty of chances to provide intelligence for the big companies with projects abroad. You said you’ve already done a security survey on a US company’s oil-drilling installation in Siberia, and that all went well. I’ll take your word for it, but I can understand your leaving. There was too much gossip about Broadstreet. I don’t know what Jimmy Riggs told them, but it screwed up Broadstreet’s career, and that got us out from under the merde we were in.
Speaking of Broadstreet, did you hear he had a lucky escape last week? He’s on assignment in Ulaanbaatar—and we both know what that means to a career officer like Broadstreet—working on interceptions and transmissions: he went out of the city in response to a report that sounds a little peculiar. He followed the directions he had been given and ended up on some kind of remote back-road, and at that point his car apparently broke down—out in the wastes of Mongolia. So he, knowing he was on a lightly traveled road, started back on foot toward Ulaanbaatar, and in three miles was picked up by a farmer with a load of ducks and chickens bound for market, who came along, and carried him back to Ulaanbaatar. When they found the remains of his car, it was riddled with bullet-holes, and the tracks of at least six Mongol ponies around the car. There were paint-scrawls on the car, anti-US slogans and such. Apparen
tly Broadstreet wants to hunt the group down that did it, and would, but I’m told that he’s been spooked and is talking about resigning from the Agency. I can understand why someone in his position might want to get of the target area, but given Jimmy Riggs’ testimony, I have to accept that what happened to Missus Treat and the Grof was by design at the demand of someone in the intelligence business. To be sure, much of this remains speculation, but Channing has accepted that Broadstreet is most likely responsible for the Paris bombings, and possibly for the destruction of his car in Mongolia, pony hoof-prints notwithstanding. Channing’s still trying to locate this Baxter fellow whom Broadstreet was using as an informant. I’ve requested an opportunity to call upon Channing when I am next in Washington. I would like to know everything he knows.
You have been wise to get out with only a few unhappy notes in your file. If I had the chance to join you, I might well do so, no matter how demanding it is to be in your company. The industrial sector of our economy is demanding of the support we are trained to provide. No dispute on that point. I would welcome even Chugwater, Wyoming, over my current work here in Singapore. If you will tell me where to send for an application, I would be grateful. I’ll have a break at Christmas, and would like to get together then, if that’s possible. I think it’s time for me to absquatulate.
October 2nd, 1951
Sorry for the break. I had a call that took me out of my apartment for a couple of days. Nasty business. I was working with an Australian guy who’s fluent in several Oriental languages, and thank God for it. My Chinese—Mandarin and Cantonese—is good enough, but Douglas Brenner has Thai and VietNamese and Laotian. I think we’ve scotched the chance of a large, meaning multi-ton, shipment of the stuff to get out of Singapore, bound for the US and Europe. I’m getting reassigned next week. They tell me I’m a marked man, so I might end up on your doorstep by Hallowe’en.
More in a week or so, when I know what the next step is.
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