“Go right ahead,” Reilly said, beginning to welcome the chance to observe Ragoczy without having to conceal himself.
As Ragoczy sat down, he opened his coat, for the restaurant was still quite warm; the starburst Order glimmered; if he saw Reilly’s brow
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twitch, he ignored it. “I am sorry it has taken me so long to attend to you, Captain.” He paused, then went on, “First, I must thank you for saving me from ... a great deal of trouble.”
“I? In what context?” Reilly asked carefully.
“In the context of Oertel Morgenstem’s statement to the Berlin police; is there anything else I should thank you for?” Ragoczy answered without preamble. “And pray do not demean us both by pretending you do not know what I mean.”
Reilly considered his answer. “Very well. Then I will say you’re welcome, as the Americans do.”
Ragoczy accepted this with a nod, his dark eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond Reilly’s right shoulder. “I appreciate the risk you took; what I would like to know is why you were watching me, and for whom.”
At this, Reilly chuckled. “You don’t seriously expect me to tell you, do you?”
“No,” Ragoczy conceded. “But I trust you will tell me who it was not for.”
A few bars of Dark Eyes strummed badly on a balalaika drifted in from the other room, and someone yelled for the player to shut up.
“I think I can do that. Within limits,” Reilly said, fascinated by Ragoczy’s composure. Most men in this situation would show some indication of unease.
“That is encouraging,” Ragoczy told him, meeting his eyes at last. “May I assume you were not working for von Wolgast, in any capacity, directly or indirectly?”
Reilly’s response was succinct. “That piece of shit had one of my best sources killed: Paul Reighert confessed to murdering Renfred Meyer and his mother, on von Wolgast’s order.” He reached for his cigarette case. “No, I was not working for him in any capacity whatsoever. Next question.”
Ragoczy was ready for him. “Were you gathering information on me for more than one agency?”
“Occasionally; however I told both agencies the same thing.” He tapped his selected cigarette on his thumbnail and put it between his lips, then took out a matchbox and lit his cigarette; each motion was precise, careful, and economical.
“Is that welcome news?” Ragoczy inquired.
Reilly shrugged. “Is there anything more?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” said Ragoczy. “I want to know if you are planning to watch me in future. And if you are,” he went on without giving Reilly a chance to answer, “I must warn you that I will not
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
treat your investigation with the same ... sangfroid that I have thus far. Until a month ago, I might still have been engaged in tasks for the Czar, and, as such, I expected that surveillance was an unappealing but traditional part of the process.”
“Would that others were so understanding,” said Reilly sardonically.
“But I am no longer engaged by Nicholas in anyway, as your sources will tell you, if you bother to ask them,” Ragoczy went on, “and I would consider any further probing into my affairs as a deliberate invasion; I would not hesitate to respond accordingly.” He leaned forward, his words clipped and level. “Captain Reilly, you are very good at what you do, but I would find you out.”
Reilly was glad that his cigarette bought him a few seconds to think. “Go on.” It was the safest response he could make.
Ragoczy sat back in his chair; the tone of his voice was suitable for drawing room small talk. Only the shine in his eyes was dangerous. “I advise you to stay well away from me. You have done me a service and I would not want to have to forget it. You would not like the consequences of interfering with me: believe this.”
Threats rarely impressed Reilly, but this one, so unconventionally delivered, gave him qualms. “Why should I watch you, if, as you say, you are no longer in the Czar s service?”
“Come, Captain Reilly,” Ragoczy chided him. “You are a capable and curious man. Do you tell me you have never watched anyone out of nothing more than speculation?”
Reilly nodded. “Once or twice.”
“Be content with what you know, Captain; it will gain you nothing but grief to look further,” Ragoczy said, rising. “I do not think we will see each other again, so I will bid you farewell.” He held out his hand again. “If I did not have the greatest admiration for your talents, we would not have had this conversation.”
This time Reilly did not release Ragoczys hand from his powerful grip. “Fairs fair, Count. I answered you, and now I have a few questions that I would like to have answered.” He put his cigarette aside, balancing it on the rim of an empty vodka glass. “You are a very puzzling man, you know.”
Ragoczy withdrew his hand without struggle or effort. “Life is full of puzzles, Captain Reilly,” he said. Then he turned and left Kubas, going out into the blowing, bitter snow, where Roger waited in the Dupres-soir to take him back to the affectionate warmth of Countess Amalija’s bed.
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Text of a letter from Rowena Saxon in San Francisco to Franchot Ragoczy, via his London solicitor, Carlisle Sunbury.
San Francisco, California August 16, 1912
My dear Count;
I am relying on Sir Carlisle to get this to you, wherever you are, and to do so without reading the contents. Let me apologize for taking so long to write to you, hut after that hideous confrontation with von Wol-gast, 1 fear I was unable to think of you without thinking of him. Poor payment for all the kindness you showed me that night, and all the other times we have spent together. My explanation must stand: I am learning how to forget von Wolgast without trying to blot the whole out of my mind. You told me it would take time, and I begin to perceive that you were right. I should have trusted you, but 1 thought, that with all your centuries, you had become inured to all the demands life makes, and no longer understood what impositions we all endure over the years. I now find I can go four or five nights without having von Wolgast intrude into my dreams, destroy ing my rest and my peace of mind with a single stroke.
As you can see, I am still in California. 1 have taken a house on Russian Hill—if you are still in Saint Petersburg, you may find this as amusing as I do. It is not a large house: seven rooms and a small apartment for my housekeeper over the stable-cum-garage. Aside from an eight-year-old gelding, I have bought a motor car, a Hudson, which is proving to be an excellent investment. Grand-father was willing to import a British or European one for me, but I decided 1 would do better with an American automobile in America. It took me a while to learn to drive on these astonishing streets; I am told that some of the hills are too steep for proper carriages and can only be got up on foot or riding a horse; a number of automobiles have come to grief on them. I haven’t found one of those yet, but I no longer think it is completely implausible.
Do not think I have spent every waking hour gadding about the hills, seeing which of them is undrivable. Quite the contrary. I have been painting with a fervor I have not know before. I recently did a series of sketches of the Chinese one sees everywhere in this city, and I will eventually work them into a series of paintings, but I have not done enough work yet. My first group of studies of ships is being shown, not at a gallery, but in the lobby of the Saint Francis Hotel. They are well enough, but nothing remarkable, although the public seem to like them.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
My time in Amsterdam has stood me in good stead for those works, for it made me familiar with the interplay of direct and reflected light.
You might find all the water here uncomfortable, but I think you would agree that it is a spectacular place. The mountains—which everyone here calls hills—are very handsome, and the bay presents so many visions of itself that I cannot begin to describe the variety of views I have contemplated since I arrived
here almost a year ago. Whether the sun is shining, or it is storming, or the fog has drifted in through the gaps in the hills, I am struck anew with the opportunities San Francisco presents to me as an artist. I am starting to think it will take more than five years to exhaust the sources of inspiration I have found. I may remain here beyond 1916. If I do, we will have to reschedule our meeting.
My grand-father continues to amaze me. He keeps up a routine of work men half his age would do well to manage. He has kept his word, and has made no attempt to run my life, or to try to line me up with any personable man. He tells me I am old enough to live the way 1 want to, and he is not about to tell me what that is. I have made it a point to dine with him twice a week. He tells me I do not have to, but 1 know it pleases him. He may have lived a long and good life, but I know that he, unlike you, will not always be here, and so I intend to make the most of the time he and 1 may have together. I have you to thank for this, too, for you have shown me that a life is more than the sum of its days, and that we must value what we have while we have it. A strange lesson to learn from one who is conditionally immortal, but there it is.
1 have attempted to do a second portrait of you, working from memory, but so far 1 am not satisfied with the results. There is something about your eyes that I have not captured, a depth that is unlike any 1 have ever seen. If 1 am able to complete it, 1 will ship it to Sir Carlisle, and hope that you are pleased with the results, when and if you see it.
Tonight there is a party I must attend, so you will not mind if 1 get on with dressing. I will be wearing your frogs. I am forever being complimented on them, so I will thank you again for them, and for so much more that 1 will never have words to express. 1 hope the paintings may, in part, suffice.
With all my heart.
Rowena Saxon
EPILOGUE
King George V
^yo/qj
c.
.
-Excerpt from the journal of King George V of England
June 30, 1914
What a terrible shock for the dear old Emperor, having his second heir carried off. One dead at his own hand, the other at the hand of an assassin in Sarajevo. Cant help but wonder if Nicky’s mad priest wasn’t on to something when he warned him not to make war; Russia might be ripe for trouble, but 1 wouldn’t reckon that it would touch the Czar. Shouldn’t think we have anything to worry about. No doubt the Austrians will put it all to rights. They say the stockmarket in Berlin hardly quivered when the news of Franz Ferdinand’s assassination was announced, and there were no noticeable repercussions here. What can events in Serbia have to do with Britain?
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Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Page 72
