His face lit up again as he took a sip of champagne. “And I am Sebastian Leblanc, but my friends call me Guillaume.”
I smiled. “And what should I call you?”
“Why, Guillaume, of course.”
“Then Guillaume it is. That’s not a German name.”
“No, no,” he said, a thinly veiled look of disgust passing over his face. “I am from Paris. I came here to study ancient religion with Dr. Zann. He is one of the foremost experts in the area, you know? Almost as famous as Dr. Weston.”
“Yes, you mentioned Dr. Weston,” I said, looking over my shoulder. One of the party-goers seemed entirely too interested in what we were doing for it to be natural. In Germany, one is never alone, it seems. “May I ask why?”
“Oh, no particular reason. I just thought I heard you mention him when you were speaking with Dr. Zann, and as he has always been a personal hero of mine, I couldn’t help but listen in.”
“I see.” I don’t know why I thought he might help us. Was there any reason to believe that things would turn around now, when they had seemed so dark for so long? But then he said something that sent my heart into my throat.
“And also, I would have sworn that I saw Dr. Weston only yesterday.”
Journal of Henry Armitage
I followed Zann to the bar, though not knowing where Rachel had gone troubled me deeply. Curse me for not thinking things through. We’d walked like lambs into a den of lions, and Zann was chief amongst them, the blood-soaked leader of the pride. But there was nothing for it. He had begun the game, and it was mine to play.
He said something in German to the man behind the bar, holding up two fingers as he spoke. The man gave him two glasses of white wine, one of which he passed to me.
“An excellent dry wine from Alsace. One of the best that Germany has to offer.” I took a sip, and indeed, it was a fine vintage.
“Most excellent,” I said. “Though I was under the impression that Alsace now belonged to France.”
A tremor of rage flashed across Zann’s face, and I wondered again if I had gone too far. He was a man of roiling emotions, just below the calm surface he portrayed to the world. I little doubted that he was given to bouts of unbridled passion, nor did I doubt he was the kind who had no compunction about killing someone who stood in his way. But control was there as well, and after only a moment, Zann had reasserted it.
“On the maps, perhaps. But I can assure you that Alsace is still very much part of the fatherland, as it was and as it always will be. Surely you would agree that culture and its influence know no borders? The German nation is strong, and we are one people, no matter what the politicians may say.”
“As long as Germany remembers, this time, that borders do have meaning, then I can see nothing amiss with that view. Cheers.”
Zann watched with cold eyes as I drank half of the wine left in my glass.
“Is that why you came here, Dr. Armitage, to debate German politics and German foreign policy? I must say, it’s not my area of expertise, nor are they subjects which I enjoy discussing.”
“No, politics has never interested me.” I downed the rest of the glass, gesturing to the man behind the bar for more. His incredulous glance towards Zann was met with an irritated flick of the hand, and my glass was refilled.
“Then what then? A tour of our wineries, perhaps?”
“No,” I said, downing the glass in one drink and calling for yet another, “I never cared all that much for wine, either.”
Dr. Zann sighed. Deeply, and I relished the moment.
“Actually, Dr. Zann, I came here to discuss Dr. Weston with you.”
Zann arched an eyebrow. “Carter Weston? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Surely you know that you were one of the last people who saw him alive?”
“Well,” Zann said, leaning on the bar, “I did go to see him. At the end of last year, if I recall correctly. I was sent there on business for the University. He had a book in his possession, one of rather ancient lineage. The University was interested in borrowing it. All and all, nothing extraordinary.”
“But he didn’t give it to you.”
“No, actually, he did not. I was surprised. I had heard that he was a reasonable man. So I left empty-handed.”
He was lying, and I knew it.
“I think you know more than you let on. I think you got exactly what you were looking for, and I think you know exactly where Carter Weston is.”
The corners of Zann’s mouth started to creep up, and his tremulous lips could not be kept from breaking into a smile.
“Do you now, Dr. Armitage? Ah yes, we come to your true purpose here. Tell me, if I was the sort of man who could make a person simply disappear, even thousands of miles from home, then what powers do you think I might possess here, in Germany?”
His eyes flashed from the left to the right, and it was only then that I noticed the men closing in on me.
Diary of Rachel Jones
“Saw him?” I almost screamed it, and when I grabbed Guillaume’s arm, I thought he might jump out of his skin from shock. “Where?”
“At the University,” he stuttered. “It was late. Very late as a matter of fact.” He scrunched up his brow and rubbed his chin, trying to recall every detail. “I couldn’t sleep. I rarely can these days, it seems. And I was walking about the grounds. There’s a building on campus, an old army barracks. Built before the war, in the 1800s. And I could have sworn I saw Dr. Weston and two other men go inside. It was strange. I only noticed because I recognized him from his books…and because he seemed ill. The two men were helping him, carrying him even.”
Guillaume rambled on, but I was barely listening. I reached down and found a chair to steady myself. If it hadn’t been there, I might have fallen straight away. I’d come with Henry out of a sense of obligation, whether to him or my father I can’t rightly say. I had expected to find little. Perhaps the man who was behind my father’s disappearance, the man who had likely killed him, the man whom I was sure was now in this room. But to hear that my father might live? And in Berlin? That was too much to be hoped.
And in that moment, I felt a rage towards Erich Zann greater than I thought possible. My eyes searched the room, and then I saw him. He was standing next to Henry at the bar. Men in dark suits—the same suits in fact, subtlety not becoming them—were closing in on them. And they weren’t the only ones. The man who’d been trailing me was moving in my direction.
Guillaume had stopped talking and was staring at me. If we were going to get out of this, I’d need his help.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
“Madam?”
“I’m going to need a distraction.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Something like this.”
Poor Guillaume. He didn’t know what he was getting into. I grabbed his arm, and in his shock it was easy to throw him into the approaching German. The party was in full swing, and with the blast of the band and the dancing couples around us, no one even really noticed as Guillaume and the suited thug went flipping over a table. Guillaume jumped up, apologies pouring out of his mouth.
“Come on!” I said as I yanked him back, “I don’t have time for it and he doesn’t care.”
“What were you thinking? Do you know what you just did?”
“It doesn’t matter! Let’s go!” I grabbed his shoulder, veritably dragging him through the crowd to the bar. “Can you throw a punch?”
“What?”
“Do you know how to hit a man?”
“Um...yes, I suppose?” he stuttered, not grasping the point.
“Good, cause I’m going to need it.”
Henry noticed us before the good doctor, and I saw real fear in his eyes.
I clasped Henry’s hand and pulled him towards me. “Excuse me, Dr. Zann, but I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”
The smile was now a sneer. “Quite.” The
first of his goons came running up behind him.
“All right, Guillaume, time to shine.” I spun him around, and by God if he didn’t swing with all his might. By some miracle, his fist connected with the German and down he went. But then I heard a woman scream, and I knew our cover was blown. I grabbed the open wine bottle and turned. The other German had already wrapped his arms around Henry’s shoulders. I brought the bottle down hard, connecting with the side of my target’s head. The bottle smashed, and wine exploded along with shards of glass, one of which dug deep into my palm. Blood mingled with wine, and pain was the product. Now the whole room was in chaos. Women were crying and men were screaming, and the police were already at the door.
“Let’s go!” Henry cried, pointing towards an exit in the back. We started to run. Zann raised his glass and grinned.
“Farewell, Frau Jones. Something tells me we will be meeting again very soon, indeed.”
The three of us left him behind, bursting through the rear door and into the cold night.
Chapter 12
Diary of Rachel Jones
July 24, 1933
The rain had stopped, but the storm was just behind us. Henry grabbed a metal rod and jammed it between the handles on the doors. I wasn’t interested in waiting around to see if it held. Guillaume was cursing in French, but not so loud that I didn’t hear the sound of police whistles getting closer with every moment.
“We have to go, and go now,” Henry said.
I turned to Guillaume, who was still muttering. “We need to get off the streets. Some place safe, just for a little while. Do you know somewhere?”
He thought for a moment and was about to speak when someone slammed into the doors behind us. The bar held, for the moment.
“Now, Guillaume!”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “There is a woman. A friend of mine. Come.”
I grabbed him by the arm. “Can she be trusted?”
He hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes. At least, as much as anyone.”
“That’ll have to do.”
He led us down the alley before turning into an even smaller one that ran off to the right. I had no idea where he was going, but the faster we got away from the Esplanade, the better. We stayed in the shadows, avoiding the streets and the light. Though if anyone had seen us—three well-dressed foreigners dashing from alley to alley—no amount of talking would have allayed suspicions.
We emerged only when we were close, following Guillaume across the street to a nondescript walk-up. We made our way to a garret on the top floor. Guillaume knocked twice. There was a voice from behind the door, and he answered in German. It opened and, before the woman could say a word, we pushed our way inside.
Guillaume slammed the door behind us and locked it, while the woman—a beautiful girl of no more than twenty—screamed at him in words I did not know. Guillaume held up his hands and began to shout over her.
“Can we keep it down? The last thing we need is someone hearing us,” I said to Guillaume. “Hi,” I said, turning to the girl. She fell silent, assessing me with suspicious eyes. “I’m sorry to barge in. It’s hard to explain, but we need your help.”
“Guillaume says that the police are after you. Is it true?” Her English was nearly perfect, even with the accent.
“Yes,” I answered. She was young, but something about her told me that she suffered neither fools nor liars. “But we didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I am sure they would beg to differ. Still, the police have never been friends of mine, so for now you can stay.”
She turned to Guillaume and spat something in German. That she was opening her home didn’t mean that she was happy about it.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to spare Guillaume another tongue-lashing. “My name is Rachel Jones. This is Henry Armitage.”
“And my name is Margot. You are American?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Foreigners,” she said, turning towards the kitchen before casting yet another angry glance at Guillaume, “always bringing trouble. I’ll make some tea, and I’ll get a bandage for that cut on your hand.”
Guillaume collapsed into a chair next to us and buried his head in his hands. I couldn’t help but notice they were shaking.
“Friend of yours?” I asked him.
He looked up at me over his splayed fingers, and he seemed totally exhausted.
“She was. Before you two showed up.” He cursed again in French and stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the window, peeking nervously through the curtains every time we heard a sound from below. Margot returned with a tray on which sat four porcelain cups, all but one chipped badly. Not that I cared. I was just glad to have something to calm my nerves and, perhaps more importantly, Guillaume’s. She sat down beside me and took my hand in hers. She dabbed iodine on the cut with a cloth. I winced from the sting.
“Now that we are acquainted, why don’t you tell me what happened?” Margot asked, as she wrapped a bandage around my hand.
“Yes, why don’t you?” The color was only now beginning to return to Guillaume’s face. “I hope you know the mess we’re in. If anyone recognized me…” He trailed off. There was no need for him to finish.
“Carter Weston, Dr. Weston, you say you saw him?”
“Yes,” Guillaume said, confused. “What of it?”
Henry leaned forward in his chair. “Carter Weston is dead.” He let it hang in the air, watched the effect wash over Guillaume’s face. “Or at least, that is what we have been led to believe. Seven months ago, Dr. Weston disappeared. When the police searched his office, they found nothing amiss. No evidence of a struggle. Nothing taken. Nothing, except a single book, one of a pedigree both ancient and profane.”
“Incendium Maleficarum,” Guillaume whispered. He saw the surprise in my eyes and chuckled. “Of course, I know of it. It is the work that made Dr. Weston famous. I would have killed to get my hands on it.” The smile faded as he realized what he had said.
“Yes, and it seems as though someone may have done just that.”
“But I saw him. I know it. I would have known him anywhere.”
“And that is why we are here. The last person to meet with Carter was your very own Dr. Zann. We know from a message Carter left behind that the good doctor had but one request.”
Guillaume leaned back, his chair creaking beneath him. “The book,” he said, his tone one of resignation.
“Exactly. But if my theory is correct, Dr. Weston is too valuable to kill, his knowledge of the book too great. No, I believe that he is here, in Germany. Your eyewitness testimony merely confirms that.”
“But why have you come? Why didn’t the University send someone else?”
Henry and I caught each other’s eyes across the room.
“I see,” Guillaume said with a sigh that bordered on a moan. “So you are alone, then.”
“Carter is my father,” I said. I noticed Margot, who had been paying little attention to the conversation until that point, perk up. She leaned forward in her chair, suddenly interested. “I don’t know if he is alive or dead, but if there is a chance that he is here in Berlin, I have to see it through. Henry and I can handle this on our own. All we need from you are more details about where you saw Carter. We can take it from there, and no one need ever know you were involved.”
Guillaume nodded, but before he could answer, Margot spoke.
“You should not go alone. What two can do, four can do better. We will go with you.” Guillaume looked as if she had slapped him in the face.
“Margot!” More words followed, in German, a language with which I am completely unfamiliar. But no understanding was necessary. An argument erupted immediately, and after only a few moments, it was clear that Margot had the better part of it. Or at least, enough to beat Guillaume into submission.
She turned to me, and there was purpose in her eyes. “My mother was, in her younger days, a beautiful woman,” she said. Looking at Margot, I could believe it
. “And the thing I remember the most about photographs from her youth was her smile. It was a big, brilliant, perfect smile, the kind that I am sure lit up a room. But that was only pictures. By the time I was old enough to remember, my mother didn’t smile much anymore. These two teeth,” she said, pointing to her mouth, “were missing. Perhaps my father wasn’t always a bastard, but when he drank, he got angry. And when he was angry, he liked to hit us. He threw me out when I was fifteen, and it was the happiest day of my life. I pray God every night that he will die, and that my mother will have some peace. But to this day, he remains. We will save your father, because your father is worth saving. And when death loses its prize, perhaps it will take another.”
I understood then why Guillaume had fallen silent. How does one answer something like that?
“We must move quickly,” Henry said. “Zann knows we are on to him, and it is impossible to say how he might react.”
“Then we go tonight.” We all turned to Guillaume, who suddenly flashed a smile that I imagined was his trademark in happier times. “After all, if we go to our deaths, no reason to keep the Reaper in suspense, eh?”
“In that case,” I said, “what are we waiting for?”
Chapter 13
Excerpt from Memoirs of a Crusader, Dr. Henry Armitage, “The Tunguska Folly of 1919”, (unpublished)
We arrived in Irkutsk to the sound of distant thunder. But the booming was too regular to be natural.
“One of the big 305s,” I said. “Probably a hundred miles out still.”
If we were lucky, it was a hundred miles out. The 305s were not mobile weapons, and if the Red Army was using them, then they had arrived in force and with only one purpose—to sweep over the Republicans like a crimson tidal wave.
“Let’s find Rostov,” Carter said. “And quickly.”
We stepped out of the train into a swirling chaos that made what we had seen at Vladivostok seem calm. The shouts of commanding officers, the cries of wounded soldiers. The evacuation was in full swing. I looked into the eyes of the men—boys, really—who poured off the train with us, set to replace the wounded being ferried back to Vladivostok, to plug the holes they left behind. In those eyes I saw a fear that was heartbreaking.
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