Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “So you see my problem,” Sidney Reilly said to the Austrian, his manner serious and his intention plain. “I need someone who is absolutely reliable. It will not suit the problem if I worry or doubt. I, and my associate, must watch this man without being recognized, or revealing my purpose, and without betraying my presence while doing it. I must also,” he went on, cutting off anything his companion was about to say, “discover if anyone else is engaged in watching this Ragoczy, and if so, at whose behest, and to what ends. There is also the possibility that Ragoczy himself may be watching someone. If I carry out the surveillance wholly on my own, it will probably not be possible to accomplish it all.” To emphasize this, he glanced back over his shoulder as if to point out a feature of the Tiergarten to the man walking with him. “So far I have not been aware of anyone assigned to observe me, but it will come, without doubt. It is probably inevitable that this will happen.”

  “Why do you say so?” the Austrian asked, a slight whine in his voice that went with his threadbare greatcoat.

  “Because I am not wholly unknown in Germany,” said Reilly, not without satisfaction. “I have undertaken various projects in this country before now. I would like to keep my presence as unremarkable as I can. The authorities do not forget such activities, and when they real-

  ize I have returned, they will have questions to ask. Once questions start, well—” He shrugged.

  “Why should questions start? For what reason?” The Austrian all but bolted.

  “Lukas, Lukas, Lukas,” said Reilly at his most placating, “if I can avoid being recognized, it might not happen. If we prepare, if we anticipate, there might not be any questions at all. Or they will be asked only of me, and I will know what to say. You need not concern yourself.”

  Lukas Strauss was not convinced; he persevered, an annoying note of cowardice in his words. “Who would question me? Tell me. I have to know.”

  With utmost patience, Reilly said, “No one will, if we work out our plans now. That is why we are talking.” Wind snapped at his greatcoat; he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “Listen to me, Lukas. We have work to do, and we will do it best if undetected. I can do some of it, certainly, and without attracting suspicion. Ragoczy and I both have businesses in Saint Petersburg, and it would follow that I might have need of his expertise. I will not ask you to do anything more than watch him. You will not have to deal with contacts other than me.” He made sure Lukas heard that. “If we do not expose ourselves, we should be largely undetected. Which is why I need you to be willing to be the observer of Ragoczys automobile. We must know where he goes. One more student on a bicycle will not attract much attention—”

  “Late at night, I would,” Lukas protested.

  “I do not expect you to follow him late at night. It isn’t safe.” He let Lukas put whatever interpretation he liked on the last.

  “I’m too old to be a student,” said Lukas, growing more desperate. They were alone on the path now, and he remembered that Reilly was a very dangerous man.

  “Not if you dress the part.” Reilly resisted the urge to shake him. “You’re an actor, aren’t you? Making yourself look enough like a student to convince the average passerby that you are one shouldn’t take much more than a slight change in your . . . costume.” He saw a semblance of pride in Lukas’ eyes and made the most of it. “I’ve been told you are skilled. That is why I came to you.’’ That, and the information that Lukas was also a petty thief and desperate. “Of course, I will pay for any clothes you may need. And a bicycle as well.” The funds sent from England would handle these expenses, Reilly knew, but made no mention of this to Lukas; it would only spur him to more questions which would demand greater assurances.

  Writ in Blood

  115

  Lukas walked more confidently, his head up, his face calmer. “You’re right. I should be able to do as you suggest.”

  “And no doubt you will have a use for the money,” added Reilly. “It should go a long way to helping you out of your current predicament.” This reminder, mixed with the appeal to Lukas’ vanity seemed to Reilly to be enough to set the hook.

  “I suppose I can do it for a week, at least,” Lukas conceded, making an effort to look confident. “At the end of it, we will negotiate again.” He stopped walking and repeated. “We will negotiate again.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Reilly as he halted, confident that he would be able to make Lukas capitulate on every point if he had to. “We will both know more about Ragoczy and that will make it easier to decide how to deal with him.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” said Lukas, taking on the suggestion of jauntiness now that he had been reassured by Reilly. “I will need to purchase a bicycle and some clothes tomorrow.” This last was almost a question, a testing of the waters. “You’ll have to give me money to do it.”

  “With pleasure,” said Reilly as cordially as he could. “Will cash do, or do you want a bank draught?” He knew what the answer would be before it was spoken.

  “Cash would be best.” He was becoming excited now, revealing his avarice more blatantly than he realized.

  Reilly had put a small roll of bills in his greatcoat pocket; he handed this to Lukas, saying, “Is this sufficient?”

  Lukas riffled the edge of the bills with his thumb, eyes widening as he did, then did his best to appear unimpressed. “It will do.” He pocketed the money before Reilly could change his mind.

  “Fine,” Reilly said, and resumed walking, knowing that Lukas would follow him. “You will do your best to observe his house the day after tomorrow, so you will know his servants’ faces, particularly his chauffeur. Whenever he drives out in the day, you will follow him on your bicycle.”

  “What if he has a fast automobile, and I cannot catch up with him?” The whine was back in his voice again as he tagged after Reilly.

  “That is why you will learn who the chauffeur is, so you can encounter him if you need to, and find out where his employer has been.” Reilly saw hesitation in the Austrian’s eyes. “You may, for example, ask for help with a punctured tyre, or for directions. You may speak to him to thank him for any minor service he might perform, such as showing you a map.” They came to a crossroad and paused briefly. “I will meet

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  you at Glanzend Strasse, across from number forty-five, at two in the afternoon. Tomorrow. Have your clothes and your bicycle by then, and arrive in your student character. Decide before then what that character will be, and maintain it.” He narrowed his deep-set eyes. “If you fail to show up, you will regret it, I promise you.”

  Lukas was not able to conceal the fear that ran through him. “I will be there. You have no reason to doubt me, Herr Reilly.”

  “Of course,” said Reilly, and looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the largest cages. “We will meet by the leopards promptly at nine in the morning each day, and you will tell me all— all —that you have observed. Do not consider anything trivial or unimportant. Forget nothing. Carry a notebook, so you will not omit one item or person.”

  “But,” Lukas said, trying to sound reasonable, “don’t you think that would be too risky? Someone might notice.”

  Reilly shook his head once. “That is why you are to dress as a student. No one thinks twice if a student is seen taking notes. Students are expected to do that.” He realized he was being too stern with Lukas, and held back the sarcasm he wanted to heap on the Austrian.

  “Very well, Herr Reilly. I will do as you tell me.” He ducked his head as a show of contrition. His voice was muffled; he was not a skilled actor but he had a good deal of native talent. “I didn’t think.”

  “No, you did not,” said Reilly. “And you had better start thinking right now.” He nodded once in Lukas’ direction. “Leave by the south entrance. I will go another way, in a while. It will not do to be seen together too often.”

  “Then why meet here every morning?” Lukas asked.

  “W
e will arrange other places if they are necessary. Many people take morning constitutionals through the Tiergarten. Provided we do not arrive together or leave together there should be no problems, at least not for a week or so, when we may decide to make other arrangements, if they are needed. By then we will know how long Ragoczy will be in Berlin.” He moved a few steps away from Lukas. “So,” he said more loudly, “you will find what you are seeking down that path.”

  “Danke,” said Lukas, and hurried away with mixed emotions, and a growing certainty that he would be a fool to treat Reilly with anything but careful respect.

  Reilly watched Lukas go and sighed once. He disliked having to use such unreliable tools as the Austrian so clearly was, but he had not time enough to put a more dependable operation into effect; any extended efforts to bring that about would lead to the scrutiny he was hoping to

  Writ in Blood

  117

  avoid. His stay here was supposed to be brief, and he intended it would be. Frowning slightly at his own troubled thoughts, he made his way out of the Tiergarten and ambled in the direction of Unter den Linden. He would have to call on Meyer to find out who was working in Berlin just now. It was an exposure he did not welcome, but it was safer to go directly to Meyer than to have Meyer come to him.

  By five that afternoon he had located Renfred Meyer; a contact-of-a-contact had supplied the information for a hefty fee and the assurance that Meyer would not be harmed. Reilly made his way to the address scrawled on the grubby slip of paper, doing his best to take the most circuitous route possible, so that a walk which would ordinarily take fifteen minutes required that Reilly spend slightly over an hour to complete it. He entered the rundown building cautiously, making his way up the steep, unsteady stairs with care, his hand in his pocket gripping a small Borchardt automatic pistol. At the landing he paused to look upward before continuing to the floor above.

  “Who is it?” demanded an ancient female voice from the other side of the door, in response to Reilly’s double-pause-double knock.

  “Sidney Reilly,” he answered truthfully, knowing that Meyer would not accept a lie, least of all from him.

  There was a short, whispered conversation within the apartment, then the door was opened just enough to permit Reilly to squeeze inside.

  “Give me the pistol while you are here; I know you carry one,” the old lady demanded, her hand extended for the weapon; Reilly surrendered the Borchardt at once.

  Renfred Meyer s apartment was a dark warren of trails through stacks of books, newspaper, magazines, and unbound sheets. Ancient curtains over the windows muted the fading winter light to a faint glow. The man himself, middle-aged, balding, stooped, and cocooned in a shapeless, colorless cardigan, greeted Reilly tersely. “I heard you were back.”

  “Not for very long, I trust,” said Reilly, following Meyer through the chaos of his sitting room to a small desk with a single lamp above it. “If you can help me, my visit here will be shortened. That should encourage you.”

  “Possibly,” Meyer allowed. “It will depend on how you use the time you are here.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “You have your ways, Captain Reilly.”

  “I have-no wish to bring about trouble. In fact, I want to be as invisible as possible.” He strove to give Meyer a sense of his mission without revealing much. “The matter is not deadly, only complicated.”

  Meyer made a derisive noise that was part snort, part bark. “So you say.”

  “Why else would I seek your help after the last time?” Reilly expected no answer and received none. He went on smoothly, “If you do not like what I ask, you have only to refuse to help me and I will go away.”

  “My mother will bring you tea,” said Meyer as he sat down, making no gesture for Reilly to do the same, though there was a rickety chair set across from the desk.

  “It isn’t necessary,” said Reilly, deciding to sit down.

  “Well, she’s getting some for me. If you want a cup, tell her.” Meyer adjusted his glasses on his nose and glanced once at Reilly. “What do you want to know?”

  Long acquaintance with Meyer had taught Reilly to take no offence at the man’s brusqueness. He cleared his throat. “I have been sent to observe Franchot Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain. But I’d like to know if anyone else is doing the same thing.”

  “Ragoczy. He’s the one in Glanzend Strasse, isn’t he? Foreigner with lots of money; there’s been some talk about him in important circles. They say he has investments in fuels.” He squinted as he took a cigarette paper and began to fill it with dark Turkish tobacco. “Questions are being asked, and not from the usual quarters. There is a man, Paul Reighert, defrocked Jesuit, very dangerous in his way, works out of the Chez Noir. That’s a brothel near Apostel-Paulus-Kirche.” He licked the paper and rolled it shut.

  “Who is he working for, do you know? The former priest, not Ragoczy.” Reilly waited for his answer while Meyer fumbled for a match, lit his cigarette and exhaled.

  “Word is that von Wolgast is paying him,” said Meyer.

  “Von Wolgast,” mused Reilly. “He’s a Baron, isn’t he? What would an arms manufacturer want with a man like Ragoczy?”

  “Ragoczy has that fuel business,” Meyer said quietly, enjoying his cigarette. “It may be that von Wolgast wants the fuels Ragoczy has developed.”

  “Why not approach him directly?” Reilly asked. “Why bother with this former Jesuit who works in a whorehouse?”

  “Why take the risk if the man is not what he seems?” Meyer countered. “Better to know what he has before you try to buy it. And it may be Ragoczy has sold his fuels already.” He coughed twice, and spat out a bit of tobacco. “It may be that von Wolgast is worried about Ragoczy s connection to the Czar, whatever it is.”

  Reilly concealed his interest well; he did not rise to the bait offered.

  Writ in Blood

  119

  “What else could von Wolgast want from Ragoczy?”

  Meyer sounded disappointed. “Well, von Wolgast has been keeping Nadezna for three years now, and Ragoczy is known to be the patron of her ballet school. It could be that von Wolgast is afraid Ragoczy is going to want an expression of her gratitude.”

  “Do you think that’s likely?” Reilly inquired, waiting to return to the matter that interested him most.

  “Its possible,” Meyer allowed. “But I don’t think it is Ragoczys purpose for his visit.” Then he realized that Reilly had caught him.

  Reilly’s smile was as sweet as his severe features would accommodate. “And what do you think that purpose is?”

  Grudgingly Meyer said, “Very clever. I should have realized what you were doing. I must be getting old.” He tapped his fingers on a stack of photographs. “I think,” he continued with full deliberation, “I think that Ragoczy is here on the Czar’s business. I think von Wolgast would like to know what it is, so that he can make the most of it with his arms sales. I don’t believe there is any connection between Ragoczy and Franz Josef, no matter what your friends in Saint Petersburg may think, but there is no reason to suppose that Ragoczy is working only for the Czar, either. His knowledge—whatever it may be—could command a high price.” He stared distractedly at Reilly. “It is being whispered that the Croats have arranged to buy field artillery from von Wolgast: he will need fuels if he is going to sell to the Croats and Ragoczy has fuel. No one is certain that this will happen, but since Tancred Sisak was seen with von Wolgast in the last ten days, that is a reasonable assumption. Sisak has made no secret of his activities. His intentions are obvious, what with his history.” He straightened up as his mother approached carrying a tray with two tall glasses of black tea on it. He did his best to clear a space for it on his cluttered desk.

  “Drink it while it’s hot,” said the old woman. “It’s already sweetened.” This last was for Reilly’s benefit.

  “I didn’t realize Sisak was still in business,” said Reilly very carefully as Meyer’s mother left them alone once more. “
I heard he was persona non grata all over Europe.”

  “Yes, that’s true, as far as it goes. He has been in Greece for a year or two, and in Egypt before that, while Mustapha Kemal was alive, but he has continued his work no matter where he lives. The government in Turkey threw him out just last year, for dealing with the Armenians and the Georgians.” Meyer took one of the two glasses of tea and began to stir it with a pen-holder. “It was only a matter of time before he resumed his work in Austria and Germany.”

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “But isn’t there still a price on his head?” Reilly asked, curiosity finally exceeding his reserve.

  “Technically, yes, I suppose there is. But realistically, he is safe unless he does something flagrant. It was Bismarck who was his enemy, and now ...” He turned his palms up to show how little it mattered now with Bismarck out of power. “There are many who welcome men of his talents, and seek to exploit them for their own ends. Not only the factions in Greece and the Balkans have use for his services. There are many in Poland who do not want their guns traced, Bohemian Separatists who are still trying to preserve thier country. And with the Austrians in Bosnia and Herzogovina, the Croats will want to protect themselves. Sisakwill—”

  “—deal in arms to anyone willing to pay him: Croat, Serb, Bosnian, Turk, or Hottentot,” Reilly finished for him. “And von Wolgast manufactures arms for anyone who can afford them.”

  “That’s about the way of it,” said Meyer, holding the rim of his glass and drinking in small, practiced sips.

  “Then why does Ragoczy’s presence matter to von Wolgast, if he has made a bargain with Sisak?” Reilly was thinking aloud, and for once he did not care that Meyer overheard him.

  “That I do not know,” said Meyer, reluctant to admit such defeat. “I have been wondering about it myself.” He set his glass of tea down carefully.

  “Do you have any guesses you would care to make?” ventured Reilly, leaning forward, elbows planted on the edge of the desk.