Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  “What if it’s nothing more than a child’s imagination?” Margarita was unrelenting.

  Sidabras shook his head.

  “No, Margarita. It has nothing to do with his imagination. Please believe me, I’ve seen things before.”

  They both fell silent and gazed at each other for a minute.

  “Fine,” Margarita gave in. “But only on condition that the child is happy to go with you. And only after he has had a proper sleep.”

  Sidabras smiled.

  “Would you offer me some tea? I have the patience of a saint, I’ll wait.”

  * * *

  It took two hours for Solomon to wake up.

  Had Sidabras known him before, he would have felt baffled – the boy had gone back to the same boy that he was prior to the encounter with the monster – cheerful and somewhat of a rascal.

  He heard out Sidabras’ request without batting an eye.

  “I will walk with you. I will show you the opening into the underground tunnels. I wasn’t attacked by the monster after all, was I?”

  Sidabras scratched his head.

  “Maybe it doesn’t touch children,” he wondered gloomily. “Maybe it only goes for grown men.”

  He didn’t know whether to believe his own statement though.

  Chapter XXXIX

  Vilnius, 7:00 pm

  26 04 1905

  At 7:00 in the evening it was raining pitchforks and hammer handles with bolts of lightning flowing across the sky.

  Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus squinted at the window. “If I could only throw some cold water on these men’s heads – it would surely cool them down a bit,” he glanced over the heads inside the Town Hall.

  Passions were flying high– the room was boiling like the water in a Russian samovar. Following the break, during which the guests had watched Adam Gaber-Volynskiy’s flight under Green Bridge, the time had come for the key debates on how to resolve international disputes. The issues that the Alliance representatives were mostly concerned with were: number one – convincing the greatest European powers that the Dispute Resolution Committee would be the best institution to carry out the task; two, persuading them that the Dispute Resolution Committee should be set up within the Alliance itself; and three, achieving the strict observance of The Dispute Resolution Committee by all the European countries who were parties to the dispute.

  By way of establishing such a committee in the Alliance, the Rothschilds and the cities of the Alliance would increase their political and economical influence, the free cities would be protected from the conflicts brewing in Europe, at the same time safeguarding their independence, not to mention gaining a convenient opportunity to position themselves firmly in the very centre of European intrigues (a dream of the leaders of the Alliance).

  However, this agreement was proving to be an elusive prize.

  Representatives of some European countries reprimanded the cities of the Alliance for being subservient and held on a short leash: Vilnius and Reval were being controlled by Russia; Prague, by the Austro-Hungarian Empire; Krakow, by Germany; while Constantinople was in the hands of the Turks. Moreover, a few countries, and most of all Germany, vehemently opposed the idea of a Dispute Resolution Committee whose decisions everyone was obliged to implement. They were not going to rest their case.

  “I will repeat myself: any country has every right to employ all possible measures when it comes to the protection of its interests. No Dispute Resolution Committee with its judges pulled out from God knows where will make us implement its decisions if Germany does not approve of them,” Prussian Minister of War Karl von Einem was cutting the air with the side of his hand.

  Baron Nathan Rothschild bit his lip. It wasn’t by accident that Germany had sent The Parsifal and its most renowned war hawk von Einem – they were to serve as a reminder to Rothschild that the German Kaiser had to be taken seriously. Von Einem was already putting obstacles in the way of suggestions by the British and the French regarding arms reduction in Europe.

  “You, the French and the British are trying to convince Germany that you care for peace, but what you really are is a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” von Einem said bluntly. “You want to reduce the size of the navy? You think we don’t know how many ships you get into the water in your great Plymouth and Brest factories? Peace has always been Germany’s ambition. But we are not blind – we see what is happening in other countries.”

  The British and the French fell somewhat quiet, and the Austrians and the Turks chose the option of staying out of it, but Lamsdorf lunged at the Prussian, hurling harsh words. “Just look at you discussing peace here with your monstrosity The Parsifal suspended above the city. What purpose does it serve? Why is it here? What is German Kaiser trying to prove? You want to intimidate us? Or are you after something else?” he yelled, his double chin shaking with anger.

  “And why is Vilnius surrounded by an iron ring of your armoured trains? Maybe honorable Baron Rothschild would tell us what a military dirigible of the British Empire is doing here?” von Einem snapped. “For peace and safety? That’s what we do – look after peace and safety, especially during an event of such paramount importance. This being the only reason why The Parsifal is here – for peace and safety.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Baron von Rothschild attempted to intervene. “We have not gathered here to throw accusations at one another. Let’s think clearly. The entire Alliance, and Vilnius in particular, is very pleased about your countries...” – the Baron motioned his head towards the representative of the Russian Empire Vladimir Lamsdorf, then Prussian War Minister von Einem and finally, towards Foreign Minister of the British Empire Lord Petty-Fitzmaurice – “...looking after our city and making it a safe place to be. Isn’t that right, Burgomaster?” he turned to Venslauskis-Venskus.

  Woken from his day-dream, Venslauskis-Venskus acknowledged the comment with a sudden jerk of his head.

  The tension in the hall grew so thick you could have cut it with a knife. The rain on the other side of the window lashed even hard, and a bolt of lightning slashed and whipped the sky.

  Speeches were given by other participants of the event – Austro-Hungarian envoy Count László Szögyény-Marich, and Secretary to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire Izzet Pasha El-’Abed. The latter rambled on and on – speaking about the common railway which would connect the European countries, the Alliance and the Ottoman Empire.

  The Russian Foreign Minister Lamsdorf did not seem to take the Turk’s monologue very seriously but carefully watched War Minister von Einem with a faint sneer on his face (twirling his mustache around his finger, von Einem pretended not to notice), before casting a quick glance at his gold watch. It was three minutes to eight in the evening.

  “Three minutes to eight,” announced the driver.

  The snake charmer Emilia acknowledged his message with a nod, before removing a silver stick and a tuning fork from her suede bag and clambering out of the steam carriage. She then stretched and looked around.

  The carriage was parked on top of a low hill with a good view of all four places in possession of her “gifts.”

  At that point Actual State Councillor Alexander Ignatyevich Golytsin was in the captain’s cabin at The Ilya Muromets. With arms crossed over his chest he was watching the hands of a substantial wall clock. The captain of the dirigible was poised. Another move of the minute hand brought it very close to the number eight.

  “Attention.” Golytsin gave a quiet warning.

  The Muromets crew took position.

  The captain of The Star of St George Scotsman Milton Mabrey was in his cabin, reading his favourite Burns, sprawled across a bed with his booted feet on the chair. Poetry always helped him calm his nerves, and there had been a lot of stress in his life lately. If it was The Parsifal yesterday, today it was the second adjutant Finley. When O’Braitis had finally got back to the dirigible, he was so agitated and so incoherent in his story, that the only thing Mabrey managed to make out was
the fact that Finley had deserted.

  O’Braitis had tried stopping him but to no avail. He was not able to explain the reasons behind his friend’s decision, but kept mumbling something about freedom and travelling around the world. It must be said that at first the captain did not take the news well. Clutching his head in his hands, he had yelled some choice words at the first adjutant, and had even threatened him with a military tribunal by the close of his angry tirade. Having let the steam off though, he admitted that most likely O’Braitis had nothing to do with it, and then apologised to him, before, still feeling rather distraught, sitting down to write a letter to Airforce Headquarters. A deserter British military officer was no joke, and even more so if he chose to act at the time of the Summit, when the city was teeming with Russian, German, Austrian and even Turkish agents. Adjutant O’Braitis was prepared to swear on his life that it had nothing to do with politics, and kept babbling something about a confused mind and some femme fatale with whom Finley had fallen head over heels in love. He was so distraught and so muddled that Mabrey told him to take a rest, while he sent out his letter and went back to his Burns collection to contemplate the scolding he was to receive tomorrow.

  With a loud yawn the Scotsman lifted his eyes from the book to look at the wall clock – a farewell present from his fellow servicemen. A minute was left to eight o’clock. It was time for the evening inspection. Mabrey turned down the corner of his page and closed the book. He got up and started to look for his hat.

  Ding dong! Ding dong! – sang St Casimier’s bells in their copper voices, for a moment drowning those of the squabblers in the Town Hall. They were soon echoed by other churches, their waves of tolls drifting above the city as far as the hill where Emilia waited. She glanced over at the crying sky and turned to face her targets – the gloomy buildings looking even more miserable against the background of pouring rain. Emilia knew the bombs were safe. Novovileysk would be soon blown up.

  The woman raised the U shaped tuning fork above her head and struck it with the silver stick. The deceased Kniaz’s instructions were clear as day: strike it twice and get out; don’t wait to see the result – you’ll get what you want.” Emilia stroke the tuning fork for the second time.

  The invisible ripples of sound shot in all directions, also reaching their recipients. The bottom of the glass tubes shattered to pieces with a clink, allowing the violet jelly penetrate the insides of the clay balls. Emilia wasted no time and darted back to her carriage.

  “Go!” she yelled to the driver.

  The carriage roared before setting off along the road leading to Vilnius.

  The woman, seemingly not bothered by the rain, stuck her head through the window to look at the sky, where somewhere in the clouds above Vilnius The Parsifal floated. The woman pulled her head inside before turning back to have one last glimpse at Novovileysk, now receding in the back window. It seemed that the time had stopped – seconds turned to minutes.

  Inside the balls the jelly mixed with chemicals, produced by Kniaz according to his own secret recipe. The balls began to shake.

  The Head Physician of Novovileysk hospital for sickly factory workers, the same who had only recently been visited by an attractive “inspector”, was getting ready to leave for the day. For no particular reason he paused in the doorway and looked at his desk, before turning back and walking over.

  A split second later he was thrown up in the air.

  The blastwave ripped the building to shreds, shattering partitions as if they were made of matches, and throwing people out of their beds as if they were nothing more than dolls. The windows were broken and one of the walls shuddered, before turning into a pile of plaster and rubble, which was then instantly soaked by water from the torrenting skies.

  The four balls exploded in unison and the four blastwaves banged against one another like four glasses clinked together by drinkers. And star-bright rays spread in all directions, wiping everything in their path from the face of the earth. Glass shattered, factory chimneys split, bricks flew dementedly through the air, while moans and screams resounded. Novovileysk collapsed like a sand castle washed away by the sea.

  Despite Emilia’s carriage rushing as fast as its boiler allowed, the ruthless blastwave was hard on its heels.

  “Faster!” the woman screamed, Kniaz’s last words ringing in her head: you must be very quick. Exceptionally quick.”

  “I hope he counted his sagenes right,” a thought flashed through Emilia’s head before a wave of hot air caught up with the carriage, flung it in the air and turned it upside down, before dropping it into the ditch by the road. Shards of glass slashed Emilia’s soft complexion, before especially cruel splinters faster than lightning cut through her throat.

  Suddenly an odd rumble rolled across Vilnius – the Town Hall windows began to vibrate, while the grand chandelier swung underneath the ceiling. All participants in the Summit rushed to the windows.

  “What is it now?” Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus gasped.

  Far away in the distance, on the right, someone with sharper eyes could discern a strange black cloud – its shape fluctuating due to the rain.

  The hall hummed and murmured. Everyone tried to outshout one another, people were jumping up in order to get a better view.

  “What is that over there?” one of the guests shouted.

  “Mirth City,” Venslauskis-Venskus muttered before spontaneously climbing on top of a chair. “And... Markuciai... the Vitamancer manor...” he lifted himself up on the tip-toes. “What are they...”

  “Could it be a dirigible crash?” someone gasped. “Maybe The Parsifal? I can’t see it in the sky. And that bang...”

  Venslauskis-Venskus cupped his head in his hands, nearly falling off his chair.

  Then came the sound of doors being slammed, and some guests hurried out into the corridor to give instructions to their waiting adjutants. By then the commotion had spilled out of the hall.

  Concern wrinkled Baron Rothschild’s forehead, while his eyes gleamed a weary light. The greatly experienced governor of the Alliance could sense a nearing tragedy. Had he had a closer look at the guests’s faces, he would have certainly noticed one person who did not seem to be touched by the odd occurrence at all. The Russian Foreign Minister Lamsdorf unassumingly snapped the lid of his watch closed before putting it away in the pocket.

  A sweating signaller, a piece of paper raised above his head, darted inside through the door.

  “Urgent dispatch! For His Highness Russian Foreign Minister Alexander Lamsdorf.”

  “Here,” the Russian spoke before stepping forward to collect the paper. His eyes scanning the letter, his brow gradually clouded with worry. Lamsdorf looked up from the paper and gazed over the people in the hall with a dramatic pause. He was once a popular actor in his local theatre.

  The hall fell deathly silent.

  “Two minutes ago, an attack on Novovileysk – a city of the Russian Empire – was carried out without any warning and for no known reason. Four bombs exploded, great numbers of people have been killed and injured, a hospital, a military barracks and a few other buildings demolished. According to preliminary findings it was an air strike.”

  “What?!” voices yelled.

  “An air strike,” Lamsdorf repeated slowly for emphasis. “The only military dirigible, suspended above Vilnius and capable of reaching Novovileysk is The Parsifal.”

  Every head in the room turned to the Prussian Minister of War von Einem. The man became red in the face.

  “Have you gone totally mad, Lamsdorf!” he yelled. “Do you think that...”

  “You have gone mad yourself, you shabby German!” howled the brightest star of Russian diplomacy. “So that’s why you needed the flying fortress! To show off your power! What is your rotten peace worth then?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Baron Rothschild tried to calm him, but the Russian wouldn’t listen.

  “For no reason and without the slightest warning you carried out
an attack on an innocent town of the Russian Empire!” he screamed. “You bombed a hospital!”

  “Madman!” von Einem barked.

  Lamsdorf threw himself at him, waving his clenched fists, but fortunately the fight was broken up before it even started, as the Burgomaster of Krakow and the Sultan’s Secretary squeezed themselves into the space between the two would-be duellers. Lamsdorf, however, was in no mood to give in.

  “You are saying Germany wants peace? You liar! What do you need peace for when you have The Parsifal? You think the shadow of your fortress or a few bombs will frighten the devil out of us? You think Russia can’t bare its teeth to you? Oh how wrong you are, you... you German!” he spluttered madly. “You don’t believe me?” having pushed Krakow’s Burgomaster aside, he rushed to the window. “Here!” he pointed the finger at the sky. “What will you say now?”

  The sky was slashed by a bolt of lightning.

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch!” Burgomaster Venslauskis-Venskus heaved.

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch!” also heaved the controller of the Navigators’ Tower before starting to turn the alarm signal handle with all his might.

  A heartbreaking howl slit the city like a blade. Confused residents began to mill about, people left the inns and spilled into the streets, asking one another why the Navigators’ Tower had released the siren. But as soon as they raised their eyes skywards, none of them had any more questions.

  “Russia always pays its debts in full!” Vladimir Lamsdorf screamed triumphantly.

  A dirigible of unbelievable proportions ripped through a sheet of cloud and hung above Vilnius. Its enormous propellers sprayed fountains of steam.

  The duty officers in the Navigators’ Tower leaned over the binoculars. On top of the monster, on the oval, metal-bound dome, they saw a number of military biplanes with tiny dots moving about them.

  “This is the end of the world!” Venslauskis-Venskus clutched his chest.

  “People on top of a dirigible balloon?” the controller’s mouth gaped.