"I wish I had phrased that question differently," Zyverbine said, "although I commend your honesty. You understand it does not make one whit of difference to me whether you believe in one god or twelve. You would seem to be the best man to handle this job, and your private beliefs are not my concern. But the Grand Duke is certain to feel differently."
"A grand duke," Moriarty said. "Of the royal line?"
"Yes. Of course. You will respect his incognito."
"Naturally. And I can appreciate his concern for religion. One who claims to rule by the will of God must dislike even the thought of atheists."
-
The man who entered the room was fully as tall as Moriarty but with massive shoulders and a barrel chest beneath his severely cut gray sack coat. His hair was gray, but his square-cut beard was pitch black and his eyes were light blue.
Zyverbine jumped to his feet. "Professor Moriarty, may I present Count Brekinsky," he said.
Moriarty stood and gave a bow that managed not to look too much like a parody. "Your Grace," he said.
"Yes, yes," Brekinsky said. "Sit down. Professor Moriarty, I am a blunt man. I have a question for you."
Moriarty remained standing. "Ask," he said.
"Why do you do what you do?"
"For money."
The man calling himself Count Brekinsky held out his left hand toward Zyverbine. "The file!"
Zyverbine pulled Moriarty's file from the drawer and handed it across the desk.
Brekinsky studied it. "Our information is that you control the greatest criminal organization in Great Britain."
"Not so," Moriarty said.
Brekinsky looked up from the file and fixed Moriarty with his gaze. "Our information is wrong?"
"There is no such organization," Moriarty said. "I have some men in my employ. The number varies, never more than ten or fifteen. Occasionally the acts they perform in the course of their duties are contrary to the laws of the land. The other, ah, criminals that your informant would have me controlling merely consult me from time to time. If my advice is useful, they pay me for it. I in no way control their actions or give them orders. That is not my concern."
"But they pay you for this advice?" Count Brekinsky asked.
Moriarty nodded. "That is my concern," he acknowledged. "I sometimes describe myself as the world's first consulting criminal." There was a hint of a smile on his face.
"You think of yourself as a criminal?" Brekinsky asked. "Does not this bother you?"
Moriarty shrugged. "Labels," he said, "do not bother me. The fact that I am, on occasion, in conflict with the laws of my country does bother me, but it is the laws that must give way. I live by my own ethical and moral code, which I do not break."
"You have a right to live beyond the law?" Zyverbine asked. "If I do not get caught."
"And yet you consider yourself — trustworthy?" Brekinsky asked.
"When I give my word," Moriarty said, "it is never broken."
Brekinsky tapped the file. "Our records indicate that you are trustworthy," he said, clearly doubtful.
"One does not have to believe in the God of Abraham and Moses to keep his word," Moriarty said.
"Ah," Brekinsky said, grabbing at the phrase. "Then you do believe in some sort of deity?"
"I am willing to admit of the concept that there is a guiding force in the universe," Moriarty said, choosing his words carefully.
"I will interpret that as a belief in God," Brekinsky said. "I could not return to Moscow and tell the Tsar, my brother, that we have employed someone in this matter who does not believe in God."
"He is acceptable?" Zyverbine asked.
"Yes," Brekinsky said. "He is acceptable. I pray God he is acceptable! You may tell him."
"Very well, your Grace."
Brekinsky stuck out his hand, and Moriarty took it. "You are shaking the hand of a Romanoff," Brekinsky said. "We have long memories for good and evil." He turned and left the room.
Moriarty sat down. "Well?" he said to Zyverbine.
"Russia and Great Britain have been to war three times this century," Zyverbine said, "but each time it has been a minor conflict, of marginal concern to the real interests of either country."
"Yes," Moriarty said. "So?"
"A war between the two countries, with both sides fully committed, would be a horrible thing. The world's greatest land power against the world's greatest sea power. It would go on for years. Millions of people would die. It could turn into a global conflict, pulling the other nations of the world irresistibly into its vortex."
"Yes."
"It is possible that one man, in England now, could cause this tragedy. He is a madman. You must stop him. He calls himself Trepoff."
"Trepoff!" Moriarty said. "I have seen the name."
"Indeed?" Zyverbine said.
"Yes. I received a communication from someone wishing to speak to me concerning one 'Trepoff,' who said he would call in the evening. It seemed to assume some prior knowledge of the matter that I did not have. Shortly after the note, I received a bomb. The man never called."
"So!" Zyverbine said, clasping his hands together. "Was the note signed? If so, with what name?"
"The letter 'V' was affixed to the bottom."
"Vassily!" Zyverbine exclaimed, nodding his head almost imperceptibly up and down. "Vassily!"
"Vassily?" Moriarty asked.
"Yes. We did not know that he had tried to seek your aid, although it was from him that we first got your name. He was our best agent in England. He is dead."
"Dead."
"Some weeks after warning us of Trepoff's presence in England, and of his intentions, Vassily Vladimirovitch Gabin, known in London as Ned Bunting, the street artist, died of drinking poisoned soup."
"I'm sorry," Moriarty said.
"His widow received the Imperial Order of Merit, Second Class, and a pension of thirty roubles a month," Zyverbine said. "Very thoughtful," Moriarty said.
"I understand Vassily was a very good street artist. They paint directly on the pavement, do they not? Street artists?"
"They draw on the pavement," Moriarty told him, "with colored chalks. A very transitory art form."
Zyverbine sighed. "Transitory," he said. "Impermanent. The epitaph of a spy."
"Tell me about this Trepoff," Moriarty said. "The man has evidently already tried to kill me once, and was undoubtedly responsible for Bunting's death as well. I'd better at least know what he looks like."
"I wish I could help you," Zyverbine said. "There is no man who knows what Trepoff looks like. He has at times disguised himself as an old man, a youth, and even a woman, and gone undetected each time."
"I see," Moriarty said. "Can you tell me anything about him? How is he going to bring about a war between Russia and Great Britain?"
"I don't know," Zyverbine said.
"I somehow suspected that you were going to say that," Moriarty said.
"It is, perhaps, not as stupid as it sounds," Zyverbine said. "Permit me to explain."
"I encourage you to explain," Moriarty told him.
"Yes," Zyverbine said. "Tell me, Professor, how much do you know of Russian history?"
"What any educated Englishman would be expected to know," Moriarty said, "which is to say, practically nothing."
"The history of my country over the past thirty years," Zyverbine said soberly, "has been written in blood. When Tsar Alexander II ascended the throne in 1855 and liberalized the policies of his father, Nicholas, he was rewarded by increasingly frequent assassination attempts. He dissolved the hated Special Corps of Gendarmerie, and in 1866 the nihilist Karakozoff shot at him in St. Petersburg. He reduced the power of the Secret Third Section, and in 1867 the Polish anarchist Berezowski attempted to assassinate him in Paris. He later abolished the Third Section, and the nihilist Solovioff attempted to murder him on April 14, 1879.
"The Okhrana attempted to infiltrate these nihilist groups and to protect the life of the Tsar, but althou
gh we had fair success, it was too late. On March 13, 1881, as he was passing a cheese factory on Malaya Sadova Street, on the way to visit his former mistress, the Princess Catherine, a white handkerchief was waved by the nihilist Sophya Perovskaya and two bombs went off by his sledge."
"I remember reading of the assassination," Moriarty said, "although not in such detail. The bombs did the job, then?"
"The first bomb killed two of the Tsar's Cossack guards. Alexander dismounted to go to their aid, and the second bomb killed him."
"That was four years ago," Moriarty said.
Zyverbine stood up. "Four years ago, Alexander III became Tsar of all Russians," he said, crossing himself, "and we of the Okhrana took a blood vow to protect him and his family against anarchists, nihilists, and revolutionaries. We intend to keep that vow."
"Very commendable, I'm sure," Moriarty said. "Trepoff is, then, a nihilist?"
"On the contrary, Professor Moriarty," Zyverbine said. "Trepoff is the leader of the Belye Krystall—the White Crystal, a group of right-wing fanatics within the External Agency of the Okhrana."
"You mean that this Trepoff, who murdered your best agent in England — and who, incidentally, tried to kill me — is himself an agent of the Okhrana?"
"Unfortunately," Zyverbine said, sitting back down and staring across the great desk, "that is exactly what I mean." He held his hands out, palms up. "You must understand, the Okhrana is unlike any organization you are familiar with. For one thing, the Okhrana consists of tens of thousands of people — a population larger than that of many small countries. Most of them work for the Internal Agency."
"Russians spying on other Russians."
"That is right," Zyverbine said. "Indeed, even the External Agency is mostly comprised of Russians spying on other Russians. Over the past twenty years many thousands of Russians have left their homeland. Among them were many anarchist intellectuals fleeing the Okhrana and taking their plots with them. Many of them— indeed most of them — have settled in London. There are a few in Paris and one small group in Berlin and some old men in Vienna; but most of the younger, more active anarchists are gathered in the East End of London."
"I know of them," Moriarty said. "In fact, it would be hard not to. They are said to create all sorts of problems for the police. They have established their own private clubs, which are the gathering places for Eastern European revolutionaries, nihilists, socialists, and other political activist types that the police believe to be troublemakers."
"Indeed," Zyverbine said. "Tell me, in your country, what is the prevailing opinion of these émigrés?"
"I would say it is mixed," Moriarty replied, thoughtfully. "Most Englishmen would approve of their ideals, as they conceive them to be: freedom, social justice — high moral goals. And yet they go around shooting grand dukes and bombing trains, and that sort of thing is frowned upon. There is also a strong belief among both the police and the criminal classes that the anarchists support both themselves and their movement by robbing banks, also frowned upon."
Zyverbine nodded and looked satisfied. "Just so," he said, "just so!"
"This pleases you?" Moriarty asked.
"Of course," Zyverbine told him. "We work very hard to create this image. Not, you understand, that it isn't true. We just emphasize here, expose there" — he touched the air with his forefinger at different imaginary points—"and show these people up for what they are."
Zyverbine paused before he went on. "Trepoff, of course, is more difficult to deal with, and the damage he could do to our relations with your great nation is grave indeed. Which is why we have called for you. Will you take the job, and what are your terms?"
"I don't believe," Moriarty said, "that you have, as yet, defined the job."
"You are correct, of course," Zyverbine said. "We have been talking around it. Well — to the point: we have discovered that Trepoff is determined to so discredit the Russian émigré community in London that your country will be forced to deport them all. He plans to commit some act that is so heinous, so atrocious, that your English citizens will rise up and force your government into taking such action."
"Why?" Moriarty asked.
"The anarchist heads in London wag the tails in Moscow and St. Petersburg," Zyverbine said. "When the next attempt is made on the life of Alexander III, it will almost certainly come on orders and plans from London."
"If they are ejected from London," Moriarty said, "they will merely settle elsewhere."
"Our goal is to keep them in motion," Zyverbine said. "This makes it harder for them to plan or to raise money, and easier for us to infiltrate their organizations."
"I see," Moriarty said.
"But what Trepoff and the Belye Krystall are planning…" Zyverbine shook his head. "A major outrage is not wise. It is too dangerous, too full of pitfalls. Who can tell what will happen if the plan backfires?"
"If he is caught," Moriarty said, "or if the Okhrana itself is otherwise implicated…"
"At the least, a terrible revulsion of feeling in Great Britain against Russia," Zyverbine said. "At the most — war!"
Zyverbine sat motionless for almost a minute, his head resting in the palm of his hand. Moriarty made no effort to prompt him. At last Zyverbine spoke. "Who is to say what this madman Trepoff is planning? The destruction of a British battleship, the murder of a member of the Royal Family, blowing up Parliament, mass murder in the streets of London… All are equally possible. And if he is apprehended and traced to the Okhrana—"
"I understand," Moriarty said.
"You must also understand that the Tsar, my master, is a great friend of Great Britain and your Queen."
"Three wars in the past sixty years," Moriarty reminded Zyverbine.
"His father." Zyverbine shrugged. "Besides, they were mere differences of opinion. But they have created a climate where England distrusts Russia. One little mistake—"
"The mistaken blowing up of one battleship," Moriarty suggested.
"Exactly! And so Trepoff must be stopped."
"Can't you recall him?" Moriarty asked.
"The Belye Krystall is a secret organization within a secret organization," Zyverbine said. "They are fanatical in their beliefs and actions. Even the Tsar himself could not order Trepoff to stop. He believes that he acts for the greater good of the state and expects no reward beyond the successful completion of his task. In fact, he would gladly sacrifice his life to accomplish his objective. Such men are infinitely dangerous."
"Have you considered informing Scotland Yard or the British Secret Service?"
"And tell them what?" Zyverbine demanded. "That a representative of the Russian Secret Police is planning to commit a violent crime against an unknown objective and we'd be obliged if they stopped him? First of all, it would make us look like fools; and second of all if they didn't catch him, they would always suspect that we had planned it that way. No. This way, if he isn't stopped, there is always the chance that he'll get away with it — and we'll have to settle for that."
Moriarty rubbed his slender hands together. "I must confess that I find the problem an intriguing one," he said. "You want me to discover one man, whom you cannot describe, out of the population of Great Britain, before he commits an unknown crime of magnificent proportions." He thought for a minute. "I suppose he speaks fluent English?"
"Like a native."
"Good, good," Moriarty said. "An intriguing problem, indeed. You must tell me what is known of this man and his methods. I assume something is known."
"We have an extensive dossier on Trepoff and the Belye Krystall," Zyverbine said. "Of course, much of it is guesswork, rumor, unconfirmed reports, gross exaggeration, and deliberately misleading facts planted by sympathizers."
"Better and better," Moriarty said. "This case will give free rein to the processes of logic — the one touchstone by which one can infallibly separate truth from fiction. I think I can promise you that, given sufficient time before he attempts this outrage — and I do
not need much time — Trepoff will be apprehended."
"Then you will work for us?" Zyverbine asked.
"I shall."
"You see a way to proceed?"
"I see five," Moriarty said. "Two of them look especially promising."
"I will get you the dossier," Zyverbine said, rising from his desk. Moriarty held up his hand. "First," he said, "there is the matter of my fee."
FIVE — A BARGAIN
Have the courage to live. Anyone can die.
— Robert Cody
The mud-faced warder peered in through the small, barred window in the cell door. "Is here," he announced, positively.
Barnett sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What?"
"Is here! You see?"
"Who's here?" Barnett asked, squinting into the bright square of light framing the warder's face. "The American minister? Did the World's lawyer show up?"
"Is here," the warder repeated. Then he stomped away down the corridor.
It seemed hours before he returned, followed by a tall man in a black frock-coat. The warder worked the heavy bolt on the door and pulled it outward on its ancient hinges. "Go in," he said. "I wait."
Barnett's eyes took a moment to adjust to the light from the gas lamps in the corridor that now flooded into his unlit cell. "Professor Moriarty!" he exclaimed, recognizing his tall visitor. "What are you doing here?"
"I might well ask the same question of you. However, to be specific, I have come to talk with you." He looked about. "There is no chair?"
"Here," Barnett said, moving to the far end of his wooden cot. "Sit here, please."
"Very well," Moriarty said, sitting on the cot next to Barnett.
"How did you get here?" Barnett demanded.
"I bribed the governor of the prison," Moriarty said. "It seems to be the way they do things here."
"Yes, but I mean why?" Barnett asked. "That is, I'm delighted to see you. If you've come to help me, I'm overwhelmed." He passed his hand over the stubble on his face. "You will forgive my appearance. For some reason, they won't allow me to shave."
"It's almost impossible to notice your appearance in this murk. I would say that I've come to help you. Whether you agree or not will depend upon what, exactly, you think your situation is."
Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 5
