by Will Thomas
“What do they have you working on, may I ask?”
“A new and improved form of dynamite at their request, a malleable form that can be pressed under a bridge or against a building. To tell you the truth, I am tinkering with it but not very hard. I have reached the twilight of my life, and this is the best an old bomb maker like me can expect. Believe me when I say I have no intention of giving anyone yet another and more dangerous type of bomb with which to inflict more carnage on the world.”
“How did you meet Mr. Barker?” I asked.
“He scooped me up in the street. I had only been in London a few days, and he hailed me from a passing cab. He said he recognized me from a photograph in an obscure Yiddish newspaper, the only one I have allowed to be taken of me. He took me to the most unusual restaurant.”
“Chinese?” I asked.
“Ja! They served rice and watery tea and animal parts that even a witch would refuse. Your master is a very unusual fellow, but-what is the Scottish word? Very canny.”
“I’m sure he’d say the same about you,” I commented.
“I? I am merely an old tinkerer. One day some Serbian anarchists came into my laboratory in Bonn to ask if a bomb could be fitted into a coronation crown. The would-be king was deposed, it turned out, before he could be crowned, but I’d made the device and my career was born. My most difficult assignment was to build a bomb into the revolver belonging to a Russian general. I hollowed out the cylinder and handle, and filed the barrel down to the final inch. When it blew up, it took him and several of his closest subordinates with him.”
“Amazing,” I said, trying not to picture the carnage. “And what, if I may ask, are your politics?”
“I thought that would be obvious, young man. Like all makers of wholesale destruction, I am a pacifist. The bad thing about war is that it makes more evil people than it can take away, as Kant said. But come. We have work to do.”
I spent the morning assembling a picric bomb, the small metal sphere one sees in political cartoons, then we took it out and exploded it in a small bunker that had been dug for the purpose. Van Rhyn pointed out the pieces of shrapnel on all sides of the dirt walls and described in too-vivid terms the results if my sphere had been thrown under the carriage of the Czar or Emperor Franz Josef. At least he stopped at mentioning the Queen.
We ate in a small mess, a term which in every way describes the lunch I had there, then returned to the eccentric bomb maker’s little potting shed laboratory. Van Rhyn seemed no more particular about food than Barker, and he came away wearing much of it on his beard and shirtfront. He had another similarity to my employer, I thought, which was a detached air, as if while speaking to you, he was also thinking other, deeper thoughts. With van Rhyn it was abstruse chemical formulas and shrapnel trajectory, while with Barker … well, one never knew with Barker. He was either contemplating the universe or figuring out the most expedient way to get someone in a headlock.
In the afternoon, we made our own version of Mr. Nobel’s dynamite. We started out with a bowlful of crystalline silica, which van Rhyn insisted was known as kieselguhr, and a test tube that contained a yellowish liquid that he informed me was nitroglycerin.
“This is very unstable. The least thing could cause it to blow up-sudden jarring, a change in temperature. I would swear that sometimes it explodes out of sheer bad temper. I am very vain, Mr. Llewelyn, about the fact that I have all ten of my fingers, and each one is intact. You don’t know how many of my associates are missing digits. It is the badge of our profession. We are not a long-lived group, you see, and so far, there has been no need for pensions.”
One would think pouring some crystals into a cardboard tube, saturating them with liquid, and attaching a fuse and primer would be a matter of a few minutes, but producing dynamite is a slow and dangerous process. The kieselguhr is supposed to stabilize the nitroglycerin, so it can be transported and handled safely, but the old bomb maker handled the harmless-looking length of tubing far more gingerly than the lethal-looking sphere of the picric bomb. He also made sure the length of the fuse was long enough for us to get far away. Van Rhyn lit a little German cheroot that looked like a sausage, and used it to light the dynamite. He tossed it into the bunker and we didn’t need an invitation to run as fast as our legs would carry us. The second explosion was much louder than the first. I momentarily lost my hearing, and there was a high-pitched ringing in my ears when we came back to explore the bunker. Actually, “hole” would be a better word now. The shape had been altered from a rough rectangle to a circle, and there was a concentric ring of dirt clods around it. Van Rhyn was going on about the purity and simplicity of explosives, but I was catching only every fifth or sixth word.
That was my introduction to the world of bomb making. Johannes van Rhyn promised that the next day we would explore low-impact bomb making, followed by high-impact explosions on the next; and near the end, the course would conclude with me actually making my own nitroglycerin from scratch in van Rhyn’s little lab. I wasn’t looking forward to that. For one thing, I’m awfully fond of my fingers, every last one of them.
“Allow me, sir,” the German said, taking a heavily carved walking stick from a corner, and locking the windows and doors, “to walk you partway to the station.”
“That is almost two miles,” I said. “There is really no need.”
“I am a great walker, young man,” van Rhyn told me. “It shall give us a chance to talk further. How long have you been working for Mr. Barker?”
“About two months, sir.”
“This is quite a plan Barker has concocted,” he said. “Your employer will have to keep his wits about him, but he is essentially correct. The Irish have laid hands upon a supply of old industrial-use dynamite from America, but it had degraded. Some of it will no longer explode, and some will at the slightest provocation. They need an explosives expert, and I am the only recognized authority. I have been wooed by the Irish before. Some of them tried to recruit me half a year ago.”
“Really?” I asked. I was curious about the old German. “Why didn’t you join their organization, if I may ask?”
“I thought it unlikely that they would win, and I had just arrived in England and did not relish the idea of being thrown out.”
Van Rhyn and I walked along the side of the wide road talking, while uniformed soldiers marched and drilled at our elbows.
“So how did you get tossed out of your own country?” I asked.
“There was a little misunderstanding. Filling a statue of Bismarck with explosives did not necessarily mean that I wished it to be delivered to the Iron Chancellor himself.”
“Of course not,” I said, wondering what the English authorities would think of a hollow statue of Her Majesty, filled with explosives. “But, tell me, what do you get out of this?”
“Well, Mr. Llewelyn, I have been promised a small remuneration from your boss, but, principally, I am paying off a debt. It was he who helped to secure me this work. He spoke to the army, and told them who I was. They are not pushing me here, and, for once, I have room and board and a place to work in peace. They let me alone most of the time, and they are never so happy as when I blow something up. We shall make them very happy this week.”
“Do you really think you can train me in a week?”
“Well enough,” van Rhyn said. “If you can show them a few simple tricks, they will take you for a genius. My impression is that the slightest thing will impress them. Here we are.”
We were at the gate near the entrance to the drive. I had driven through in the cart before.
“Is this where you stop?” I asked.
“Ja. They do not use the word ‘prisoner’ around me, Mr. Llewelyn, but I cannot exactly walk about freely. The English are not so stupid as to let a German bomber go anywhere he wishes. Tomorrow morning, then. Be early. And bring some schnapps, if you can find some. All I can find here is English beer and Scotch whiskey.”
“Schnapps, then. Good day,
sir. Thank you for the lesson.”
As the train steamed out of the station back toward London, I wondered to myself what would happen if I couldn’t remember all the instructions that were to be given to me during this all too brief week of training. Could I carry out such complex instructions, in the midst of trying times? Then, a worse thought gripped me. What would happen if I could?
8
I came home tired from my day at Aldershot. The work itself hadn’t been strenuous, but emotionally I’d been conscious the entire afternoon that any moment I might be atomized. It did not make for a relaxing day, and I still had four more to go.
Having the cab drop me in the alleyway, I lifted the small ornamental latch and opened the moon gate. I always liked going from the rather ugly and prosaic alleyway into a miniature Eden. The latch clicks home and one is in another world entirely: a stream mutters, a small windmill turns. Birds come from miles around to congregate in our garden.
Using one of the little tricks Barker taught me, I inhaled slowly through my nose, then exhaled through my mouth, mentally sloughing off all the details and distractions that had mounted since breakfast. I’m not as good at it as Barker, of course. It took me a couple of times before I got it all out. I passed by an archipelago of black basalt rocks in a sea of white stones. One of the rocks stirred and looked at me. It was Harm, of course. He had a way of blending in among the elements of the garden, as he had the first day I’d seen him, when he’d impersonated a bush. I wondered if it was accidental, or if Barker had trained him-if in fact the little creature was able to be trained at all.
I came into the dining room just as Barker was finishing his meal, a feast consisting of roasted capon, potatoes with chives, an asparagus salad, rolls and butter, and lemon curd tarts. Barker’s little teapot sat on the end of the table, and my own silver coffeepot had been swathed in a linen towel, to keep it hot.
“Ah, Thomas,” my employer said. “Tuck in, lad. How was your training?”
“Good, I think, sir,” I said, helping myself to a slice of breast from the platter. “You knew what you were about when you said van Rhyn was eccentric. He realizes the need to stick to the schedule, however. I believe I can bear it for a week.”
“Good. A week is all we’ll get, I’m afraid. You shall be interested to learn that I have eliminated one suspect today. It is Rossa. He is on a liner bound for New York at the moment. He’s booked for a lecture tour. Davitt is doing much the same thing in Scotland, but with the railways as fast and efficient as they are, he could be here in a matter of hours.”
Barker charged one of his little handleless cups with green gunpowder tea, and sipped while I ate. Just then, there was a knock at our door. Barker got up, as if he’d been expecting a visitor.
Maccabee answered it, but the Guv was no more than a few steps behind him. I thought it might be Inspector Poole, but when Barker raised his voice, I distinctly heard him say “Pierre.” I put down my fork and turned around, expecting our visitor to be shown into the sitting room behind me. Instead, they all seemed to vanish. I wiped my mouth and put my head out into the hallway. It was empty. My ear told me they hadn’t gone upstairs. I walked to the end of the hall, but the back door was bolted and the kitchen and library empty. That left only one place where they could be. I opened the narrow door that led to the basement and crept downstairs.
Barker was waiting impatiently in our basement room, skirting the mat where we often practiced our physical culture throws. He was alone. I was about to make some comment when the door to our lumber room opened and a man stepped out. He was about my own size but a great deal more muscular. His hair was brilliantined to a high gloss, and his black mustache waxed to points, as Le Caron’s had been. There was nothing absurd about this fellow, however, and he wore a leather coat much like a fencing master’s tunic.
“Pierre, Thomas Llewelyn, my assistant,” Barker said. “Thomas, Pierre Vigny, of the Swiss Army, attached to the military college at Aldershot.”
“At your service, sir,” the Swiss said with a sharp bow and a click of his heels.
“At yours,” I responded.
He looked me over speculatively, as if I were a horse he was considering buying. I cast an enquiring glance toward my employer.
“All the faction cells are trained in stick fighting, lad, and I thought it possible we might have to defend ourselves. I couldn’t find an Irishman willing to teach his art to us, but Pierre here is the leading expert in the next best thing, la canne.”
“Cyrus,” Vigny chided with a wounded air. “You make it sound as if what I teach is inferior. Besides, you know I have made many improvements in the art of la canne.”
“My apologies, maitre,” Barker said, bowing.
“Accepted. Leave this little fellow to me.”
“I do have something to attend to,” Barker said. “Thomas, I shall see you in the morning.”
“Go, go,” Vigny said impatiently, waving him away.
To think I should live to see the day when Barker was dismissed in his own home like a schoolboy. Whoever this little fellow was, he was big enough to have my employer defer to him. I watched the man I’d seen order half London about bow almost meekly and climb the stairs, leaving us alone. He didn’t even issue the grumble he generally did when he felt put upon.
“Mr. Llewelyn.” Vigny called me out of my reverie. “I do not think you realize how fortunate you are to have been chosen to learn my art. I have reserved it solely for the officers of the Swiss and the British armies. Only a friend of your employer’s caliber could have prevailed upon me to give you private instruction. It is unfortunate that we have less than a week for something which should logically take a lifetime to learn, but as I have trained your employer, I hope the two of you will continue to practice together. He tells me you have had some experience in fencing and singlestick.”
“Just a little in school, sir,” I told him. “I never progressed beyond foil.”
“That is good. I do not want you to bring bad fencing habits into our La Canne training. Take this,” he said, placing a slender walking stick in my hand. “What do you suppose this wood is?”
I turned the stick over in my hands and examined it. It was made of some sort of light-colored wood with a silver knob at one end. When I held it in both hands, it flexed. “Willow, perhaps?”
“Very close, sir. It is actually malacca from Malaysia. Very strong and flexible, as you can see. One can lean upon it and it remains rigid, but one flick with the ball and it curves around a sword or another stick enough to deliver a sound thrashing. Like so.” He took up a second, identical one, and began to swing it by the bare tip back and forth; it hummed like an angry bee. I thought I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that silver head, which was just what happened next.
“Ow!” I cried, holding a hand over my waistcoat pocket, where it felt as if he’d just broken one of my ribs.
“My apologies,” the little Swiss said. “It is necessary to feel the effects of the stick firsthand before one can learn. It stings, no? Rub your hand across the wound several times, swiftly. It will pass. From the day the earliest man picked up a fallen branch to defend himself, it has been his boon companion. A pity that it is only now, with the advent of the pistol, that Pierre Vigny was born, to turn stick fighting into an art.”
I let the last remark pass without comment, though inwardly I smiled at the conceit.
“But come, sir,” he continued. “Time is precious, and we have much to do. Take the position on the floor, as I do, with your feet at a ninety-degree angle. Step forward with your right foot, but keep most of your weight on the back one.”
By the end of the lesson two hours later, I had shed my jacket and was perspiring freely, unlike my leather-clad companion, who looked fresh enough to go on for several more hours. I’d had a long day at Aldershot and had been looking forward to a tranquil night, studying the books Barker had given me. Instead, I was remarking to myself that while I was well paid
, as far as my employer was concerned, my time belonged to him. I would sleep well that night, provided he didn’t have yet another instructor waiting somewhere in the wings. What was left to teach me, Irish Gaelic?
Gradually, as my blocks got lower and weaker, Vigny saw that my arms were growing tired, not to mention sore. One of my hands was swollen from a sound whack, an ear was stinging, and I lost count of the number of blows he’d administered to my ribs or the top of my head, which would now interest a phrenologist.
“That is all for tonight.” Maitre Vigny stood in the formal stance, holding his stick vertically in front of his face. I did the same. He swished it forcefully down and away, and bowed.
“Your arms will be a trifle tired in the morning, Mr. Llewelyn. I suggest you do not coddle them. A few choice strokes with the cane in the air to improve the circulation will be beneficial. I give you the malacca stick from my personal collection as a present.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, surprised he’d give away such a beauty.
“Now, go take a hot bath in Cyrus’s bathhouse and go to bed…. Well, go! Don’t take all night.”
“Yes, sir.”
I awoke the next morning feeling like one of those bodies that had been unearthed from Pompeii: calcified, hard as stone. “A trifle tired” were not the words I would have used myself. I felt my exercises since becoming injured two months before had all been for naught. I was back to where I had started, unable to wave my arms.
Lying there immobile for the rest of the day seemed an excellent plan, but Mac had other ideas. He was throwing open curtains and welcoming the day in a rather loud voice.
“I’ve brought you some liniment, sir. I made it myself. It should do the trick for those sore muscles.”
I pushed myself into an upright position. There was a fresh cup of coffee next to an unlabeled blue bottle. I pulled the cup and saucer off the desk. They felt as heavy as a bucket of water, and I nearly dropped them.
