Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  Smythe ravaged his plate and then washed it all down with great gulps of the finest illegal French champagne money could buy. He licked his lips and gazed at the crystal flute in his hand. “In France, a bottle of this sparkling liquid fetches the same price as a horse,” he told his wife. “On the Confederate black market, it costs twice that amount.”

  Christina nibbled her caviar. “Perhaps it cost you a little less since your friend the Gambler procured it for us?”

  Smythe’s lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps. . . but tonight, for my influential guests and I, this liquid gold will flow as quickly as the clockwerk servants can pour.”

  Christina Smythe took a sip of champagne “Then they’ll realize what you truly bring to the table, my love.”

  “They will indeed.”

  As Smythe and Christina finished their meal, the congressmen from Mississippi and Florida made their way over. The politicians and their wives were in attendance at Smythe’s urging. He desperately needed their support for his presidential bid to be successful, and he was willing to do whatever it took to ensure he had it.

  Smythe instructed Christina to occupy the men’s wives while he and the two congressmen discussed business. The tall blonde with the piercing gray eyes did as her husband bade. She and the congressmen’s wives floated off, the women cooing with envy as Christina discussed the finer points of ballroom decoration. Smythe secured a corner space away from the crowd where he and his colleagues could speak freely. Half a turn o’ the clock later, Wagstaff tapped Smythe’s shoulder and pointed at someone approaching from across the ballroom.

  George Horton forced his six-foot, heavily muscled frame into the close conversation. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I’ll need to be borrowing Congressman Smythe from you.”

  “You did me a service, George,” Smythe said after the two politicians were gone. “I’d been trying to extricate myself from that conversation for at least the last ten minutes.” Smythe shrugged. “But what can you do? I must have the support of Tennessee and the Florida territory. Both are critical.”

  Horton popped a handful of cold shrimp into his mouth and began to chew. “I did happen to overhear some of that conversation, congressman. Sounds like they got real trouble down in Florida. Word is that Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arkansas aren’t faring much better. With the Mexican Empire threatening to invade Texas, it could spell real trouble for the Confederacy.”

  “Nonsense,” Smythe scoffed. “I’ve read the reports out of Louisiana. I have assurances they’re more exaggeration than fact. And if the distinguished gentleman from Florida can’t properly manage his own territory, I’ll replace him with someone who can. Once the election is over, obviously. You’d best stick to matters of strategy and tactics, George.” Smythe gave the general a pat on his broad back. “Leave the governing to the professional politicians.”

  “Sounds like good advice to me,” Horton said, his mouth still full of shrimp. “When the governor of Florida calls me in to swoop down and save his sorry ass from Freedmen insurrectionists, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Smythe smiled as Horton laughed at his own joke, but inside, he was seething. If it wasn’t for his need of Horton’s guns and men, Smythe would simply rid himself of the cur. Wally was right. Horton was a killer and could only be trusted to do what was in his own best interest.

  Smythe swirled his champagne in its glass flute and got himself under control. “Not to be rude, George, but I do have a speech to give shortly. You mentioned you wished to speak about something?”

  “I do. It’s urgent, I’m afraid.” Horton nodded toward Smythe’s hulking head of security. “I’d rather speak in private if possible.”

  Smythe didn’t think much of going into his private offices alone with Horton and without the benefit of Wagstaff, but with a party full of people, what could Horton possibly do? Besides, Horton needed him as much as he needed Horton. At least for the time being.

  “Mr. Wagstaff,” Smythe said, “why don’t you help yourself to something to eat? I recommend the maple cured ham and ginger deviled eggs. Both are excellent.”

  “You sure about that, sir?” the big Georgian asked.

  “Of course. No need for concern. Perhaps you can check in with your men outside afterward? I’d like to make sure the grounds are secure.”

  Wagstaff eyed Horton with a look of mistrust. “As you say, congressman,”

  Horton chuckled. “Don’t worry, sergeant. The congressman’ll be safe as a babe in the cradle. I’ll see to it you get your boss back in one piece.” He gave the big Georgian a wink.

  Smythe watched Wagstaff lumber off, the bodyguard’s displeasure apparent as he shouldered his way through the crowd. Smythe headed in the opposite direction, pushing through the ballroom of adoring constituents with Horton following close behind. It was slow going as every few feet Smythe was forced to stop and speak with a wealthy party member or kiss the hand of some donor’s wife.

  A quarter turn o’ the clock later, they reached the foot of the ballroom’s marble staircase. Underneath it and tucked into a dark alcove was a battered, dust-covered wooden door. After making sure no one had seen them slip into the shadows of the alcove, Smythe reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a rusted iron key.

  “Follow me, George,” Smythe said, unlocking the door and stepping into a pitch-black space. “Mind your step.”

  Smythe felt along the wall from memory until his hand closed around a torch. He pulled it from its sconce and lit it. The flame gave off an eerie flickering light, revealing worn wooden beams and cobwebs. The damp stone landing was a stark contrast to the magnificence of the ballroom they’d stood in only a moment before.

  From the ballroom, Smythe heard the distinct bong bong bong of the massive wooden clock. The bells rang out ten times, once for each hour, with the last ring ending precisely at ten o’ the clock.

  Horton closed the door behind them, the music of the gala fading as it creaked shut. The two men spoke in hurried, hushed tones as they navigated a steep set of stone stairs leading to a subterranean passageway.

  They walked for several hundred feet before turning a sharp corner, taking the feeble torchlight with them and leaving the entrance to the underground corridor in darkness. Neither of them noticed the comely redhead in the midnight blue ball gown slip in behind them.

  Scarlet stood outside the old wooden door, muscles tensed like a lioness stalking her prey. Even in the shadows of the alcove, she felt exposed. If anyone saw her there, she’d have to think fast.

  On the clock’s tenth ring, she removed her shoes and lashed them to her wrist. She tried the door handle. It was unlocked.

  Excellent. Saves me the fifteen seconds it would have taken to pick it.

  Scarlet took a deep breath, opened the door, and slipped inside. She eased it shut behind her, careful not to make any noise. Afterward, she froze in place, her back pressed flat against the door, the rough wood biting into her bare shoulders. She breathed in deep and exhaled, willing her heartbeat to slow. She heard Horton and Smythe’s murmured voices from the passageway below. The light from their torch flickered and faded as the two men rounded a corner several hundred feet away.

  Scarlet stood in the pitch black, letting her eyes adjust. She felt the clammy floor of the landing, slick with condensation, soak through the sheer blue silk of her stockinged feet. A quick check under several layers of satin evening gown assured her the derringer was still strapped to her thigh. Satisfied, she crept down the worn stone stairs, following the sound of Smythe’s voice and the stomp of Horton’s heavy riding boots.

  Scarlet kept her arms in close to her body as she moved. Soon enough, conscious thought ceased, and training took over. She walked heel to toe, her body crouched. Her weight was distributed evenly, her every muscle was engaged. She chose her following distance carefully, not close enough for them to detect her behind them but not so far away she couldn’t hear their every word. She clun
g to the shadows just as she’d been taught, her footsteps soft as a housecat’s.

  The tunnel construction became older the farther they went. The rough-cut granite floor gave way to stone worn smooth from countless years of footsteps. The wooden support beams, still green near the tunnel’s entrance, began to show signs of rot. The musty smell of decay became more pronounced. Scarlet followed behind them like a ghost, the scent of damp earth and mold strong in her nostrils.

  Suddenly, they stopped, catching her off guard. She wedged into a corner and froze, not daring to move a muscle. The midnight blue satin of her dress blended perfectly into the darkness. She hadn’t chosen this gown just because it brought out the sapphire in her eyes.

  Risking a glance from her hiding place, Scarlet spotted Horton and Smythe farther down the passage. The flickering torchlight revealed them standing next to a recessed door of black oak. Underneath the door’s handle was a pewter lock engraved with filigree. Smythe pulled a long black key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. There was an audible click of the tumblers, and the door swung open.

  As the two men walked in and closed the door behind them, Scarlet crept closer. She raised her skirts to better position herself in the space in front of the entrance. Taking a knee as best she could, Scarlet braced her hands against the weathered black wood and put her eye to the keyhole. She watched as Smythe placed the sputtering torch in a wall sconce and lit an aether lamp. Soft light filled the room, spilling from the cracks and the edges of the door and into the passageway. A quick glace left and right verified she was alone in the corridor.

  Through the keyhole, Scarlet studied Smythe’s office. The wood paneled walls and the grand Revolutionary War-era desk fit with what she’d read in the congressman’s file.

  “Narcissistic with an overly developed sense of self-importance.” Sums it up quite nicely from what I can see.

  Horton collapsed into a seat next to Smythe’s antique desk and propped his feet up on a nearby table. The general pulled a cigar from the pocket of his dress uniform, struck a match from his boot heel, and puffed the stogie to life.

  Smythe, dressed in a formal black suit, champagne glass still in hand, remained standing. “You know, George, that bureau you’re resting your feet on once belonged to your namesake. We purchased it from an auction of President Washington’s personal belongings. We had it delivered via airship, straight from Virginia.”

  “You don’t say?” Horton replied, puffing away at his cigar. He placed his hand on the sturdy piece of wooden furniture. “Damn fine footrest it makes too.”

  Scarlet shifted her body in an attempt to get a better view inside the room. Horton really is a bastard. Be a pleasure clamping him in irons if we don’t have to kill him first.

  Smythe took a seat on the edge of his desk. “What was so urgent as to warrant dragging me from my own party?” Smythe glanced at his silver pocket watch. “I have a speech to deliver in less than a three-quarter turn o’ the clock.”

  Horton exhaled, and a pungent cloud of smoke wafted toward the ceiling. “In the interest of helping you keep your speaking engagement, congressman, I’ll cut to the chase. We’ll be needing to move a bit sooner than originally planned.”

  In the darkness, Scarlet heard a chittering sound. She winced as tiny sharpened claws dug into her skin. The soft, hot belly of what she guessed was a rat slid across the top of her foot. Its coarse fur brushed against the bone of her shin and caused her reflexes to betray her. Before she realized it, she’d kicked the creature away in disgust.

  She heard a satisfying chunk as it impacted against the far wall. Then. . . nothing. She gasped, covering her mouth as it dawned on her what she’d done. She stood statue-still, hand poised above her derringer and ears straining for even the slightest indication she’d given herself way. Lucky for her, the two men in the office hadn’t seemed to notice anything.

  “From what you’ve told us, everything seems to be in readiness,” Smythe said. “I don’t think moving a little sooner will be an issue. Of course, we’ll have to speak to the other members before we do anything. When were you thinking of launching?” Smythe took a sip of champagne.

  “Sometime later tonight,” Horton replied.

  Smythe choked on his bubbly. “You can’t be serious?” Smythe asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “We’ve been planning this for the last two years, George. We all agreed moving too soon would put our larger plans at risk. Not to mention the others need to be included in a decision of this magnitude.”

  Horton sighed. “Congressman, are you or are you not the head of the cabal?”

  “That’s not the point, George. You know I—”

  “And,” Horton interrupted, holding up his hand, “as the head of the cabal, did you or did you not grant me power over all operational matters requiring military tactics or strategy?”

  Smythe set his glass down and folded his arms. “You’ll at least enlighten me as to why you think this is a good idea.”

  “Simple.” Horton crossed his feet on General Washington’s bureau. “If anything good came of what happened at Beth Juniper’s farm, it’s that the Union tipped its hand. DSI knows something’s going on. I’d bet my best horse they have agents in the area already. They know something’s up, but they don’t know what. More important, they don’t know when. They’ll need time to figure that out. If we strike tonight, we take that time away from them.”

  Smythe picked up his champagne glass and studied it closely. “You’re saying they’ve forced our hand? I don’t like making forced moves, George, but it seems we have no choice in the matter.”

  “Not much, congressman.” Horton got up and leaned in over some documents on Smythe’s desk. “Look here,” he said, pointing to one of them. “We’re close enough to early fall that the prevailing winds will be in our favor. Telacivic assures us they’ll carry the residue a good distance. He says we might be able to expand the effective radius another fifteen or twenty miles.”

  “Can Telacivic be trusted?”

  Horton laughed. “Only insofar as a man who’s been kidnapped, tortured, and pressed into service can be. I believe we can trust him well enough. He knows what will happen if he misleads us.”

  Smythe nodded and pointed to another document. “You’d originally planned to move in the dark of the new moon. How is it tonight? Will anyone spot the Raven?”

  “Moon’s been in retreat the last several days,” Horton said. “Should be sufficient cover for a black airship to fly unnoticed. I saw clouds rolling in from the east when I rode here tonight. That should help.”

  “And the telegraph lines?” Smythe asked.

  “Already been cut.”

  “You had this done before you knew the rest of the group would agree?”

  Horton shrugged. “Had no choice, congressman.”

  “I see. And your men?”

  “Ready to move on my command.”

  Smythe looked at his pocket watch again. “Well, I suppose that settles it.”

  “Suppose it does,” Horton said. He straightened his uniform jacket and took a last puff from his cigar.

  Smythe held his hand out toward the door, inviting Horton to leave first.

  A jolt of adrenaline shot through Scarlet as she readied herself to move. She couldn’t afford to be caught, but she needed to wait until the last possible second before looking away from the keyhole. Something very bad was going to happen tonight, and she couldn’t run the risk of missing anything that might help them stop it.

  “You’re sure you won’t be needing anything else in the way of assistance?” Smythe asked.

  “Don’t expect I will, congressman.” Horton smashed the life from his cigar with a stone paperweight from Smythe’s desk and threw the cold stogie into a brass waste bin. “Anything we need from here on in, my boys and I will see to ourselves.” Horton pulled a plug of tobacco from his uniform and placed it in his mouth.

  Smythe stared at the general’s distended left cheek.
“Disgusting habit, George. At least try and wait until you get outside before you start spitting all over the place. Oh, be a good man and grab that torch, would you? As for the change of plans, I’ll break the news to the rest of the group tonight after you’ve already left.”

  They moved toward the door.

  Scarlet looked up, judging the height of the space above her. Smooth as glass, she braced her hands and feet against the opposing walls. She scrambled toward the ceiling like a spider, wedging herself between the opposing walls to keep from falling. She looked down and swore. The skirt of her gown hung in folds, blocking the front of the door. Grunting with the effort of supporting herself with only three limbs, she reached down with one hand and gathered her skirts.

  The door swung open, a whispering swish as the hem of her gown brushed against the head jamb. Smythe exited the room, followed by Horton. They paused in the entryway, mere inches beneath her. Close enough that she caught the scent of the lavender oil the congressman used in his bath. Close enough that she could see the fold in the top of Horton’s Cavalry Stetson. Could smell the rich, acrid scent of his chewing tobacco. Scarlet practically willed herself invisible, not daring to move. Not daring to breathe.

  “I’ll explain why the change was needed and why there was no time to consult the group before we took action,” Smythe said. “I’ll take care of Louis and Silas. You just focus on the work at hand. I assume we’ll know when it’s done?”

  “Oh, you’ll know, most certainly. It will be historic.”

  Smythe slammed the door shut behind him. The lock snapped into place with a loud clack.

  It wasn’t until she was alone again in the dark that Scarlet dropped to the floor. She allowed herself to exhale. The two men had spoken outside the door for only a few seconds, but to her screaming muscles, it had felt like an eternity.

  Satisfied she hadn’t been discovered, Scarlet shook the knots from her limbs. She pulled a pair of matching pearl combs from her hair, retrieving a long, thin piece of metal from each one with practiced ease. She smiled at the thought of those tortuous hours spent picking locks. Copperhead had insisted. She’d done it in broad daylight, in total darkness, even underwater. Within seconds of placing her pins into the pewter keyhole, all her practice paid off. She pushed the heavy oak door aside and slipped into Smythe’s office.