“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? Y
ou 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.
Mink Callahan
June 9, 1914
Estate of Ronald Thomason IV
Chicago, Illinois
The sun drowned in Lake Michigan, turning it an eerie purple and making the city of Chicago look as though it were constructed entirely of shadows. Mink stood alone on her veranda in a green tea-length cocktail dress. With her red hair down and sparkling topaz jewelry on, she looked like a displaced mermaid pining for her home.
“Darling!” the familiar voice said behind her. “Sweetheart! How I have missed you.” Mink turned to embrace her husband. He grabbed her hands and kissed her delicately on the cheek instead. The whiskers from his white sideburns were as soft as conditioned goose feathers. The older, short pot-bellied man wore a three-piece navy-blue pinstripe suit with a bright red tie and matching red carnation on his lapel. “I am so sorry to have missed dinner,” he continued. “Tell me, how was your trip to the South? I want to hear all about it!”
“It is wonderful to see you again, husband” Mink replied. “My trip was productive to say the least. I even ran into an old acquaintance of mine—”
“Wonderful! I hope it was reposeful for you,” Ronald Thomason interrupted.
“Yes, well, will you be joining me for drink, then?” Mink asked. “I would very much like to catch up on all your goings-on.”
“I am terribly sorry, darling, but I’m playing cards with Marcus this evening. Perhaps tomorrow. Oh wait, I have a meeting tomorrow evening with Leiber Textiles. We are discussing the reupholstering of some of our first-class cabins. You will absolutely love their fabric. A daisy yellow and amethyst purple. Bright and uplifting to the weary passenger!”
“Understandable. Perhaps Sunday then?” Mink asked.
“Sweetheart, I am profoundly sorry, but I will be at the lodge on Sunday. How about this? I will clear my schedule for Monday and we will go sailing for the day. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Plan for a two o’clock launch, and we shall return only when we have watched the sunset together, my darling. I will make sure James has the boat ready and looking marvelous. And speaking of marvelous, I did have James prepare something special for you this evening, assuming our ice house isn’t knee-deep with water yet.”
“Very well,” Mink said. “I shall look forward to our sailing adventure on Monday.”
“By the way, have you seen Reginald since your return?” Ronald asked.
“I have not,” Mink answered.
“Well, he and his college friends are downstairs in the parlor. If you don’t mind
, ensure that he does not . . . “redecorate” the place again. The repairs were quite costly last time,” Ronald said. He grabbed her hands once more, smiled and kissed her other cheek this time. “Good evening, darling.” The mighty captain of industry, a man who built his fortune on iron and on the backs of those who hammered it, waddled back inside.
Ronald Thomason IV was the youngest of six siblings in the Thomason family, and the only one remaining. Ronald III, his only brother, was the eldest and was once heir to Thomason Railways. He died fighting for the Union in the Civil War. He was only 19 when gangrene consumed him after losing both arms. Of his four older sisters, two died in childbirth, another of tuberculosis, and sweet Camilla strangled in broad daylight on Michigan Boulevard by her abusive husband. She was only 20. That left Ronald IV; once the shy, awkward child who liked nothing more than playing with dolls and being dressed up by his sisters, to lead Thomason Railways into the next century. And lead he did, creating an empire and fortune his father could have only imagined. The curious socialites and his lack of an heir were his only problems; the solutions to which were an adopted son and Mink Callahan.
James Penny, the house butler, walked onto a veranda with a towel over his arm, holding a drink in an odd-shaped glass. His large hands gave the chilled glass to Mink. “Your drink, ma’am. Mr. Thomason insisted I make it for you.”
“How kind of you, Jimmy. What is it exactly?” Mink asked.
“It’s called a martini, ma’am. It is all the rage in New York,” James replied.
Mink took a sip. “A potent concoction, to be sure. It’s delicious, Jimmy, thank you.”
“You hate it, don’t you?”
“It’s dreadful,” Mink replied, laughing. “Do we have any bourbon?”
James waved toward the French doors that led inside. Laura, a plump older maid in a long gray dress and white apron, shuffled outside with a tumbler of bourbon and ice chips. “I took the liberty, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind,” James said before he smiled and bowed. Laura, who looked like the grandma Mink never had, handed the glass to her.
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