"You mean that this Trepoff, who murdered your best agent in England—and who, incidentally, tried to kill me—is himself an agent of the Okhrana?"
"Unfortunately," Zyverbine said, sitting back down and staring across the great desk, "that is exactly what I mean." He held his hands out, palms up. "You must understand, the Okhrana is unlike any organization you are familiar with. For one thing, the Okhrana consists of tens of thousands of people—a population larger than that of many small countries. Most of them work for the Internal Agency."
"Russians spying on other Russians."
"That is right," Zyverbine said. "Indeed, even the External Agency is mostly comprised of Russians spying on other Russians. Over the past twenty years many thousands of Russians have left their homeland. Among them were many anarchist intellectuals fleeing the Okhrana and taking their plots with them. Many of them— indeed most of them—have settled in London. There are a few in Paris and one small group in Berlin and some old men in Vienna; but most of the younger, more active anarchists are gathered in the East End of London."
"I know of them," Moriarty said. "In fact, it would be hard not to. They are said to create all sorts of problems for the police. They have established their own private clubs, which are the gathering places for Eastern European revolutionaries, nihilists, socialists, and other political activist types that the police believe to be troublemakers."
"Indeed," Zyverbine said. "Tell me, in your country, what is the prevailing opinion of these émigrés?"
"I would say it is mixed," Moriarty replied, thoughtfully. "Most Englishmen would approve of their ideals, as they conceive them to be: freedom, social justice—high moral goals. And yet they go around shooting grand dukes and bombing trains, and that sort of thing is frowned upon. There is also a strong belief among both the police and the criminal classes that the anarchists support both themselves and their movement by robbing banks, also frowned upon."
Zyverbine nodded and looked satisfied. "Just so," he said, "just so!"
"This pleases you?" Moriarty asked.
"Of course," Zyverbine told him. "We work very hard to create this image. Not, you understand, that it isn't true. We just emphasize here, expose there"—he touched the air with his forefinger at different imaginary points—"and show these people up for what they are."
Zyverbine paused before he went on. "Trepoff, of course, is more difficult to deal with, and the damage he could do to our relations with your great nation is grave indeed. Which is why we have called for you. Will you take the job, and what are your terms?"
"I don't believe," Moriarty said, "that you have, as yet, defined the job."
"You are correct, of course," Zyverbine said. "We have been talking around it. Well—to the point: we have discovered that Trepoff is determined to so discredit the Russian émigré community in London that your country will be forced to deport them all. He plans to commit some act that is so heinous, so atrocious, that your English citizens will rise up and force your government into taking such action."
"Why?" Moriarty asked.
"The anarchist heads in London wag the tails in Moscow and St. Petersburg," Zyverbine said. "When the next attempt is made on the life of Alexander III, it will almost certainly come on orders and plans from London."
"If they are ejected from London," Moriarty said, "they will merely settle elsewhere."
"Our goal is to keep them in motion," Zyverbine said. "This makes it harder for them to plan or to raise money, and easier for us to infiltrate their organizations."
"I see," Moriarty said.
"But what Trepoff and the Belye Krystall are planning ..." Zyverbine shook his head. "A major outrage is not wise. It is too dangerous, too full of pitfalls. Who can tell what will happen if the plan backfires?"
"If he is caught," Moriarty said, "or if the Okhrana itself is otherwise implicated ..."
"At the least, a terrible revulsion of feeling in Great Britain against Russia," Zyverbine said. "At the most—war!"
Zyverbine sat motionless for almost a minute, his head resting in the palm of his hand. Moriarty made no effort to prompt him. At last Zyverbine spoke. "Who is to say what this madman Trepoff is planning? The destruction of a British battleship, the murder of a member of the Royal Family, blowing up Parliament, mass murder in the streets of London ... All are equally possible. And if he is apprehended and traced to the Okhrana—"
"I understand," Moriarty said.
"You must also understand that the Tsar, my master, is a great friend of Great Britain and your Queen."
"Three wars in the past sixty years," Moriarty reminded Zyverbine.
"His father." Zyverbine shrugged. "Besides, they were mere differences of opinion. But they have created a climate where England distrusts Russia. One little mistake—"
"The mistaken blowing up of one battleship," Moriarty suggested.
"Exactly! And so Trepoff must be stopped."
"Can't you recall him?" Moriarty asked.
"The Belye Krystall is a secret organization within a secret organization," Zyverbine said. "They are fanatical in their beliefs and actions. Even the Tsar himself could not order Trepoff to stop. He believes that he acts for the greater good of the state and expects no reward beyond the successful completion of his task. In fact, he would gladly sacrifice his life to accomplish his objective. Such men are infinitely dangerous."
"Have you considered informing Scotland Yard or the British Secret Service?"
"And tell them what?" Zyverbine demanded. "That a representative of the Russian Secret Police is planning to commit a violent crime against an unknown objective and we'd be obliged if they stopped him? First of all, it would make us look like fools; and second of all if they didn't catch him, they would always suspect that we had planned it that way. No. This way, if he isn't stopped, there is always the chance that he'll get away with it—and we'll have to settle for that."
Moriarty rubbed his slender hands together. "I must confess that I find the problem an intriguing one," he said. "You want me to discover one man, whom you cannot describe, out of the population of Great Britain, before he commits an unknown crime of magnificent proportions." He thought for a minute. "I suppose he speaks fluent English?"
"Like a native."
"Good, good," Moriarty said. "An intriguing problem, indeed. You must tell me what is known of this man and his methods. I assume something is known."
"We have an extensive dossier on Trepoff and the Belye Krystall," Zyverbine said. "Of course, much of it is guesswork, rumor, unconfirmed reports, gross exaggeration, and deliberately misleading facts planted by sympathizers."
"Better and better," Moriarty said. "This case will give free rein to the processes of logic—the one touchstone by which one can infallibly separate truth from fiction. I think I can promise you that, given sufficient time before he attempts this outrage—and I do not need much time—Trepoff will be apprehended."
"Then you will work for us?" Zyverbine asked.
"I shall."
"You see a way to proceed?"
"I see five," Moriarty said. "Two of them look especially promising."
"I will get you the dossier," Zyverbine said, rising from his desk. Moriarty held up his hand. "First," he said, "there is the matter of my fee."
FIVE — A BARGAIN
Have the courage to live. Anyone can die.
— Robert Cody
The mud-faced warder peered in through the small, barred window in the cell door. "Is here," he announced, positively.
Barnett sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What?"
"Is here! You see?"
"Who's here?" Barnett asked, squinting into the bright square of light framing the warder's face. "The American minister? Did the World's lawyer show up?"
"Is here," the warder repeated. Then he stomped away down the corridor.
It seemed hours before he returned, followed by a tall man in a black frock-coat. The warder worked the heavy bolt on the door and pulled i
t outward on its ancient hinges. "Go in," he said. "I wait."
Barnett's eyes took a moment to adjust to the light from the gas lamps in the corridor that now flooded into his unlit cell. "Professor Moriarty!" he exclaimed, recognizing his tall visitor. "What are you doing here?"
"I might well ask the same question of you. However, to be specific, I have come to talk with you." He looked about. "There is no chair?"
"Here," Barnett said, moving to the far end of his wooden cot. "Sit here, please."
"Very well," Moriarty said, sitting on the cot next to Barnett.
"How did you get here?" Barnett demanded.
"I bribed the governor of the prison," Moriarty said. "It seems to be the way they do things here."
"Yes, but I mean why?" Barnett asked. "That is, I'm delighted to see you. If you've come to help me, I'm overwhelmed." He passed his hand over the stubble on his face. "You will forgive my appearance. For some reason, they won't allow me to shave."
"It's almost impossible to notice your appearance in this murk. I would say that I've come to help you. Whether you agree or not will depend upon what, exactly, you think your situation is."
"What do you mean?" Barnett asked. He gestured around him. "This dank, tiny, stone cell is my situation." There was a tremor in his voice which he did his best to suppress.
"Describe for me," Moriarty said, "the events of the past two weeks as they seem to you."
"That—that—" Barnett paused, swallowed what may have been an involuntary sob, and took a deep breath. "You must excuse me," he said. "It's the damp."
-
Barnett thought back over all that had happened to him in the past few weeks. Two weeks and three days ago he had been a respected, well-paid correspondent for the New York World, and now he was reduced to the state of a wretch, chained to the wall of a cell in the great stone prison of Mustafa II.
"This all began," he said at last, "when the Garrett-Harris submersible blew up in the water. Have you heard about that?"
"Pay no mind to what I have heard, or what I may know," Moriarty said. "Tell me what happened to you. Tell it in your own way, relating what facts you think are relevant."
"But why are you concerned?" Barnett asked. "You know that I am sentenced to death?"
"We will discuss what I know and why I am here at the proper time," Moriarty said patiently. "Bear with me, please." He shifted his position on the cot, and put his hand down where he had been sitting. "The straw is damp," he said. "Intolerable!"
"I wish that were all I had to tolerate," Barnett told him. "You know they think I'm a spy? They question me hour after hour some days, and then days go by when I see no one at all."
"The fact that the Osmanli authorities believe you to be a spy is probably the only thing that is keeping you alive," Moriarty said. "The tradition here is to execute with the bowstring within three days after sentencing."
"The bowstring?" Barnett touched his hand to his throat. "I thought they cut off your head."
"Not in cases of espionage or treason. The sentence is to be garrotted by a fine bowstring. If you happened to be of royal blood, a silken bowstring is specified. You are not, I presume, of royal blood?"
Barnett jumped to his feet. "What do I care what sort of bowstring they choke me with?" he demanded angrily. "I did nothing! Nothing! Why won't anybody believe me?"
"I, for one, believe you. Tell me what happened. And please try to remain calm." He gestured toward the warder standing outside, who was becoming concerned at Barnett's activity. "He may decide that visitors overexcite you and request me to leave."
Barnett sat down. "I'm sorry," he said. "My story—let me tell you my story. I only hope to God that you can help.
"Lieutenant Sefton—the gentleman who came to your aid with me—was murdered in his room the evening after the submersible was destroyed. You've surely heard about the murder?" Moriarty opened his mouth to speak, but Barnett interrupted him, "Yes, yes; again I apologize. I shall pay no attention to what you may or may not know. I'll just tell you my story as it happened.
"Lieutenant Sefton was a British agent—a spy. He evidently had some information about the destruction of the Garrett-Harris. He asked me to aid him and I agreed. I was to meet him in his room at midnight, and we would proceed to some undisclosed destination. I had the impression that it would be wise if I came prepared for trouble, so I brought my walking stick.
"When I arrived at the door to Sefton's room, it must have been almost midnight. I heard a scuffling sound from within. The door opened when I pushed at it, and I entered. Lieutenant Sefton was lying across the bed with a great wound in his skull. The window was wide open. There was nobody else in the room—or so I thought at the time.
"I rushed to the bed to aid Lieutenant Sefton, who was still alive, but barely. Suddenly someone struck me from behind, and I fell, unconscious, to the floor."
"You saw no one?"
"I neither saw nor heard anyone. Were it not for the evidence of the bump on the back of my head, I'd have no reason to believe that there was anyone else in that room."
"And then?"
"When I came around—it couldn't have been more than a few minutes later—the room was full of men. The night manager, the floor man, and several guests were all milling about, waiting for the police to arrive. It was the night manager, as a matter of fact, who brought me around by pouring the pitcher of water from the bureau over my head.
"I immediately tried to go to Lieutenant Sefton's aid. He was so far gone now that I couldn't tell whether he was still breathing, but nothing had been done to staunch the flow of blood from his head wound." Barnett lowered his head into his palm and began sobbing softly, this one dreadful memory overcoming his already fragile composure.
"Yes," Moriarty prompted. "And?"
"And they wouldn't let me!" Barnett said without looking up. "Those moronic—those incredible idiots wouldn't let me touch him. They thought that I'd struck him, you see. So they held me back when I attempted to go to him, and by the time a doctor arrived, he had bled to death!"
"How do you know Lieutenant Sefton was a spy?" Moriarty asked.
Barnett looked up. "What?"
"Lieutenant Sefton," Moriarty said. "You stated he was a spy. How do you know?"
"He told me so."
"Ah. Continue."
"When the police arrived they searched me. They found my walking stick on the floor, with blood on the ferrule, and they found several papers in my jacket pocket that appeared to be sections of the plans for the valving mechanism of the Garrett-Harris submersible."
"You, of course, have no idea how they got there."
"They weren't there when I left my room," Barnett insisted. "Whoever struck me on the head must have shoved the papers into my pocket; although why anyone would want to do such a thing is beyond me."
"The motives of men," Moriarty said, "are often quite beyond rational explanation. Although, in this case, the reason seems quite clear."
"Clear to you, maybe," Barnett said. "I've been beating my brains trying to figure it out for these past weeks."
" 'Beating your brains,' although a fascinating idiom, hardly seems a way to induce profitable ratiocination," Moriarty commented. "However, continue. You were accused of this crime?"
"This crime?" Barnett laughed hoarsely. "What you mean, Professor, is those crimes! I was accused of the crime of murdering Lieutenant Sefton and of the crime of being a spy. For good measure, what they'd also like to believe is that I blew up their precious submersible. That's what they've been trying to get me to admit when they question me, hour after hour, until I think I'm going mad."
"There you are," Moriarty said, shaking his head. "If you are not beating your own brain, you are having someone else do it for you."
"Look—" Barnett said.
"Now, now," Moriarty said, putting his hand on Barnett's shoulder. "I assure you I do take this seriously—very seriously, indeed. I am willing to help you—if you believe and un
derstand that no one else can."
"What do you mean?" Barnett asked, staring at the professor.
"There was a trial?" Moriarty asked.
"You could call it that," Barnett said. "I wanted to wait until I could get legal help, but they weren't buying that. Three days after the murder I stood before a magistrate. I asked for the American minister to aid in my defense. An American counsel came as a spectator; the minister was otherwise engaged. I asked the World—my paper—to get me a lawyer. He hasn't shown up yet. Meanwhile, I was tried and convicted in something like three hours, and I've been here ever since."
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