Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  “Indeed, indeed I do,” croaked Rose. “My darling has been waiting for me, through ripples of dark water.” The old lady leaned down on her parasol. “But it’s you who is going on a rendezvous tonight, my silver falcon. The man wishes to see your bright face.”

  “What man?” Sidabras appeared baffled.

  “But you know, my falcon, you know. He will wait for you just before midnight in Smolianka inn. He told me, “Apologise to the Legate for such an urgent call. But you must come alone, my falcon, in order to avoid anxiety. And please reward me, the old woman messenger, with a kopeck for bringing the news to you.“

  As always, the Legate took half a rouble out of his pocket and handed it to Rose of the Troubles. Rose extended her heartfelt thanks and wishes for good health to him, then worked her way outside, aiding herself with her parasol. Sidabras scratched his chin pensively. Here we go! A meeting with the king of the Vilnius criminal underworld, Motiejus Kairys, lay ahead of him tomorrow.

  He was about to return to his office when his eyes stopped on yet another familiar figure.

  On the bench in reception sat the old cobbler Efraim, slowly swaying back and forth, his fingers knitted together in his lap. A faint smile played on his lips.

  “Why is Efraim here?” Sidabras asked the duty officer. “Has something happened?“

  All of Vilnius knew that this old storyteller would never hurt a fly.

  “Oh no, nothing happened,” the officer reassured him. He brought back some patched-up and metal-bound shoes that the men had left for him to mend. As it’s raining cats and dogs outside, he asked to wait here until it stops.”

  “That’s fine, let him sit here then,” Sidabras said before walking off. “Why don’t you offer him some tea,” he suggested over his shoulder. “Maybe it will stop people from blabbering that we are lacking in the art of hospitality here in Sluskai.”

  Lost in thought, old Efraim did not seem to hear the Legionnaires’ conversation. But his eyes started blinking more rapidly.

  Chapter XV

  The lands of Tsarist Russia near Vilnius, evening

  23 04 1905

  Evening came, spreading twilight across the sky. A small two-seater biplane gathered speed and rolled along the field, then lifted off the ground and swooped into the sky. The pilot made a circle in the air and waved to the people in the field picking up the torches that had been used to light his way. Anyone with the slightest understanding of aviation would have been perplexed – what business could a Russian Vityaz military biplane have next to Viscigavas airship port? The craft were suitable for short journeys only, Russian Vityaz biplanes did not ever set course to land in Viscigavas, and neither were they wanted there, and the nearest Russian airport was a considerable distance away. But the pilot seemed to know what he was doing and headed on up into the sky with clear determination.

  Occupying the passenger seat was Chief Editor and one of the owners of The Truth of Vilnius, Leib Volynskiy. He swallowed nervously, making every effort not to look down at the speedily receding land. He tried to think pleasant thoughts, like the contents of tomorrow’s issue of his paper. Since Lipskis’ purposeful men had visited the Editorial Office, the scandal regarding dead rats in his brewery’s vats had been discreetly buried. Since the men came carrying several stacks of three-rouble banknotes, the matter was, so to speak, closed. The story of the former Vilnius Councillor Buksa and the lost money from the estates was still captivating, if a bit tired, but the Viscigavas scandal was, without any doubt, the most delectable morsel of all.

  From the moment reporter Korsunas came back into the office, he had welded himself to his typewriter, and didn’t detach himself until he was triumphantly carrying his front-page story round the office. So tomorrow would be the day the story of the crazy Vilnius Legate and the mysterious murderer would be on everyone’s lips, and the sharp voices of Malachovskis’ newspaper boys would sing it through the air, making it the talk of the city. The thought of tomorrow’s commotion made the biplane passenger lick his lips in anticipation, although one reckless glimpse at the ground below nearly made him lose his recently gobbled dinner.

  Leib Volynskiy liked discussing things with his clients over a glass of wine in hotels, such as the Bristol or Geneva. But only when the bill was settled by the other party, of course. This client, however, was different. One beckoning gesture was enough to make Leib drop everything and, clutching a draft copy of tomorrow’s The Truth of Vilnius front page displaying the Legate’s enraged and distorted face, jump into his carriage and roll out of town in a blitz. Leib never tired of repeating: he who pays the piper calls the tune; and so he didn’t shun secret night-time encounters in a roadside inn or in the shadows of a wood either. Despite all that, the evening flight severely discomforted him.

  With his eyes fixed on the pilot’s helmet, Volynskiy essayed again to lift his mood. Perhaps thinking of the size of the commission that he would earn this time would help...

  The biplane soared into the nebulous clouds, which by now had turned into threatening black smudges. A dozen or so seconds later, when the cloud blanket had been left behind and the little plane was still pursuing its ascent, the editor’s eyes bulged to the size of dinner plates.

  Suspended in the sky in front of them hung the largest dirigible that he had ever seen. It was enormous, several times larger than the passenger airships of the Alliance, with a dozen or so propellers spinning like mad on either side, trying to keep the monster at a fixed altitude. Volynskiy was rather knowledgeable about dirigibles and knew that the consumption of promethelium sharply increased when the altitude went over a few hundred metres. One could only guess the insane amount of promethelium being fed to this monster, which could reach a height of several kilometres. And not just promethelium – the steam that was turning the propellers was belching out on all sides, caressing the lower part of the dirigible in a white wave.

  But that was not all. The sides of the dirigible were tightly girdled with wide metal strips, which held – the editor could not believe his eyes – a torch-lit runway on the top of the dome. On one side of it several biplanes were parked. It had just dawned on Leib why the little Vityaz was not looking for a patch of ground to land – it had its own airport in the sky.

  The pilot banked the biplane and started circling above the dirigible. In the shadow of the monster this little creature really looked like a toy. Leib drank in the sight of the long, open deck, designed for launching bombing raids, machinegun mounts pointing in all directions installed above the runway. The initial, somewhat romantic impression of this construction shrivelled without a trace.

  The little plane’s soaring last arc suddenly turned into a rapid descent towards the runway. Overcome by the fear that they would crash into the hangar at the end of the runway, or collide with the balloon and cause to it tear, the editor closed his eyes. But he didn’t need to worry as the experienced pilot reduced speed in good time, and gently landed the biplane on the runway. Only when it stopped a few metres away from the hangar door did Volynskiy realise that all this time he had been holding his breath.

  “Welcome to The Ilya Muromets,” said the pilot without turning round.

  When Leib Volynskiy got out of the biplane, a bitterly cold wind swept through his frame as if through a sieve. He realised that he was standing on top of the balloon at an altitude of one kilometre and possibly even higher. His whole body quivering, it took all his strength to take his first step.

  While the pilot of Vityaz whistled as he prepared for his return journey, a flight officer in Russian Military Air Force uniform came out to greet the guest.

  Volynskiy followed the officer to step inside a low and dark hangar. Attached to the hangar wall and hanging outside the perimeter of the dirigible dome was a hydraulic lift with grille screens for walls, ceiling and floor. The officer ushered the guest inside the lift, then also entered and slammed the iron grille shut. As soon as Volynskiy comprehended the dark abyss of the sky from the cage-lik
e lift, he had to struggle hard not to pass out. He squeezed himself into the corner, praying for this nightmare to end.

  The soldier sneered at the shivering man, muttered something in Russian and pulled the handle. The lift started to descend. Intense heat wafted off the surface of the balloon and their ears were filled with the hammering of the propellers, strips of steam winding around their legs. One last screech and the lift stopped. The soldier pushed the grille door to one side, and Volynskiy allowed himself a sigh of relief. Feeling the cold sweat on his body dry, he entered the innards of The Ilya Muromets.

  As open flames were not allowed in dirigibles, the long and narrow corridor was lit by a dim greenish light emanating from small glass containers – “salamander’s tongues” – which were an invention of the Alchemists of the Alliance. On both sides the corridor was lined with doors – possibly cabins and storage rooms. At the end of the corridor there was a door, beams of bright light streaming through its chinks. The soldier opened the door and gesticulated for the guest to enter, but stayed outside himself.

  Volynskiy surveyed room, thinking it reminded him of a both a dining and a meeting room. It was now empty, except for a solitary figure standing with his back to him, gazing out through a large round porthole. Upon hearing someone enter, the figure turned round.

  “Here you are!” Alexander Ignatyevich Golytsin, advisor to the Russian Empire, responsible for the ulcers in the Northwestern lands – the free cities of the Alliance – joyfully greeted his guest. “I hope the journey has not tired you too much?”

  Golytsin was a youngish man in his early thirties and upon their first encounter with him, people were often flabbergasted by the seniority of his position within the Russian Empire. Many of them could not help thinking, “This lucky whippersnapper has to thank his connections for being where he is now.” But they couldn’t be more wrong. Golytsin was an astute man, full of energy, wholeheartedly devoted to the Machiavellian idea of “The end justifies the means. “ A handsome brunet with a spark in his eyes, he could have been successfully climbing the career ladder in St Petersburg, breaking the hearts of high society ladies there. But not for Alexander the easy life: he couldn’t wait to be in the crucible of great inventions, feeling the pulse of progress. A romantic patriot, Golytsin deeply believed that Great Russia was to take its place at the forefront of the new world.

  Despite it being his first face-to-face encounter with Golytsin, Volynskiy immediately felt the high rank of his host. He was used to receiving commissions or rewards from lower rank diplomats or even middlemen.

  “The journey was rather unexpected, Your Honour.” The editor of The Truth, who had learned all the right ways of addressing people of importance at school, kept his reply brief.

  This had a very positive effect on Golytsin, who tilted his head slightly to the side in a satisfied way.

  “Obviously The Ilya Muromets does not often come to these parts. But as we are currently on manoeuvres, I thought that you, as a member of the press, might find it interesting to familiarise yourself with the new achievements of Russian aviation.”

  “Manoeuvres?” Volynskiy was surprised.

  “Yes,” nodded Golytsin. “Why not? This is Russian territory. Don’t worry, we are not going to bomb your city of Vilnius,” he laughed. “And the free press, which we hold in high regard, should really find this visit appealing. Please,” the smiling Golytsin waved over to the little table in the corner of the cabin.

  The table held an ice bucket containing a bottle of chilled vodka and a few plates of zakuski[22] – red and black caviar, deliciously smelling translucently thin slices of salo[23] and a bowl of cornichons. Golytsin knew how to please his guests.

  Suddenly a shadow detached itself from the wall and stepped forward. It was a steward in dark uniform whom Volynskiy had not noticed before.

  “What would you like, sir?” Alexander Ignatyevich enquired. “Red caviar, or black?”

  “Both,” the editor let slip heedlessly, which immediately threw him off balance. But Golytsin only laughed.

  He clicked his fingers and the steward (who, as Volynskiy had just realised, was an automaton) set to work. An instant later, a shot glass brimming with ice cold vodka and a plate containing a few open sandwiches and a cornichon daintily perched on a fork appeared on the table in front of Volynskiy. He had barely had a moment to let his briefcase out of his hands.

  “To progress!” the Russian State Advisor said, raising his glass.

  The men clinked their glasses together and downed their vodka. The steward hurried to top them up.

  “So, this is our Muromets,” Golytsin stretched out his arms. “This is the first plane carrier dirigible. It needs no airship port. It can take off and land anywhere – distance is no longer an object, which means that from now on, aviation can develop in a completely new way. But that is not all.” The young State Advisor beamed with enthusiasm. “Our Ilya carries a plentiful supply of bombs, it can ascend to an altitude of four or five kilometres, and you have already seen the machinegun batteries on your way here. If, God forbid, there was a war, The Ilya Muromets would ensure that air battles would be fought differently. “

  The editor’s jaw dropped in amazement, and his little eyes blinked. Of course, he had no idea that Golytsin was withholding part of the truth. The Muromets was enormous and clumsy, and it drank precious promethelium like a pig that had been kept starving for three days. Every attempt to ascend to the altitude of four kilometres resorted in the crew running for the first aid oxygen balloons, as they began to faint. The tiny Vityazes perched here were inferior to French and English biplanes in almost all of their technical specifications, while the Degtyaryov machine guns of the Tula gunmakers could hardly be compared to Maxims or Vickers weapons. On this point the Empire was strict – everything on it had to be Russian. But journalists did not need to know all the details.

  “I am thunderstruck,” said Volynskiy, hurrying to swallow his mouthful, although his condition could possibly have been caused by the second shot of deliciously crisp vodka that had just journeyed to his stomach.

  “You certainly are,” acknowledged Golytsin with a happy nod. “I am afraid I cannot give you permission to take photographs, but you can draw it. From memory. And when you write about it, make sure you mention that this is what the new Russian dirigible looks like, with all its biplanes and the rest of it, and that its imminent mass production is going to be the latest thing in the modern aeronautics. Well, but who I am to teach you?” he added. “And there’s another thing,” the Russian put his index finger in the air. “Don’t forget to mention that the dirigible will be primarily used for peaceful expeditions and scientific research.”

  Both men chortled at the apt joke, before amicably finishing their third shot.

  “But let’s go back to our business,” suggested Golytsin. “I have heard about some fascinating things happening in Vilnius.”

  “Yes, Your Honour” – the editor recovered his composure, regretfully putting his half-finished plate on the table. He took a few pages out of his briefcase, and extended them to the Russian. “This is tomorrow’s front page of The Truth.”

  The photograph portrayed Vilnius Legate Sidabras as a crazy murderer about to slaughter the entire population of Vilnius. Mysterious murder! Disturbed Legate turns violent towards the press! screamed the headline. Below there was another professionally posed photograph of a soaking wet Korsunas (he had poured water over himself when back in the office).

  Golytsin gracefully removed his pince-nez from his pocket. He only used it to add a certain flavour of importance to his image, as there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

  “Hmm, not bad, not bad at all,” he concluded. “I just think that maybe, maybe...”

  “Say it, don’t try to spare our feelings” – suddenly Volynskiy got excited. “We can still change it, but please... What is it?”

  Golytsin’s face communicated artistic torture and doubtfulness.

  �
��In no way I am an expert on this, while you are a true professional in your field,” he said reassuringly. “But maybe it would make more sense if the headline emphasised the fact itself, rather than exposing a guard people are barely familiar with. Well, maybe you could mention that the murder remains unsolved, that it’s likely to be the work of a maniac and that Vilnius residents do not feel safe and fear becoming the next victim of the maniac. Maybe something along the lines of Before summit, city paralysed with fear etc. But I have no doubt you can come up with something even better.”

  “Yes, of course, of course,” Volynskiy agreed with everything. “What a brilliant idea, Your Honour. It will sound more captivating and will make us sell more copies, so it will be beneficial to us as well as...”

  “It will be beneficial to the people,” Golytsin interrupted. “They do have a right to know what is happening in their city, don’t they?”

  “They certainly do!” This was obviously true and Volynskiy did not feel inclined to argue. He shoved his papers back in the briefcase.

  “Mikhail Savelyevich,” the Russian elegantly addressed the artificial steward. “Please assist our guest. Take his briefcase.” He then glanced over at the editor. “My men will see to it that you, respectable sir, do not leave The Ilya Muromets empty handed. Well, as they say, one more for the saddle,” he added.

  The shot glasses clinked one last time and a few moments later Volynskiy, feeling pleased with himself, said goodbye to Golytsin and, slightly unsteady on his feet, walked out into the corridor, where he was awaited by the soldier who had brought him here in the first place.

  Golytsin lingered for a moment waiting for the door to close, and then drew the fingers of both hands down his face as if removing a hated mask.

  “Can you imagine what scum I have to work with!” he muttered, adding some emphasis to his thought with a Russian word that would not be considered fit to be heard from the mouth of a State Advisor. He then filled his shot glass again – his fifth today – and finished it off, before undoing his collar and advancing towards the door that disguised a VIP cabin.