Stalemate: Clockwerk Thriller Book One

by Thomas Webb

  Several minutes later, she stood above the antique desk, barely able to grasp the magnitude of what she saw.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “This can’t be what I think it is.”

  She scanned the documents a second time, desperately searching for something, anything, that would let her be wrong, but it only confirmed the worst of her fears.

  “Christ the Healer,” she swore, her voice trembling.

  “Says here you and your manservant are guests of Congressman Wallace.” The Confederate soldier said, inspecting Greg’s invitation. “But I don’t see the congressman anywhere abouts.”

  Montclair and Greg stood at the top of the stairs leading to Rosetree Manor’s sprawling front porch. They’d been waiting a full turn o’ the clock to show their invitations. Behind them, a long line of invited guests stretched between the majestic oaks of the plantation’s main road. A string of torches ran the length of the thoroughfare as far back as the eye could see, providing the well-to-do invitees with light while they waited.

  The notes of a waltz drifted to Montclair’s ear from the gaily lit mansion. The party was in full swing. From inside, he heard snatches of conversation: the end of a toast to the late Jeff Davis, two men discussing the latest Freedmen insurrection, a woman’s laugh, the sound bright and clear over the music.

  The soldier squinted in the light of the nearest torch, trying to match the name Greg had given him to the one on the forged identification papers. He eyed them with suspicion.

  Montclair frowned at the private. Come on, boy, don’t be a hero. Just wave us through.

  Operational snags were an accepted part of the work they did. Montclair had come to expect them. He just hadn’t planned on running into one so soon.

  Greg smiled at the young soldier. “Well, I was told to say the congressman suddenly took ill, but between you and me, he’s not as young as he once was. I’m afraid I may have worn the poor dear out.” Greg winked.

  The young Confederate drew back in disgust. Suddenly, he was unable to get them past quickly enough. Greg laughed as they walked by.

  “Quick thinking,” Montclair said as they took a second set of steps leading to the mansion proper. The section of the porch was deserted, allowing them a quick respite from their tradecraft. “That’s some pretty good acting you’ve been doing lately.”

  “Don’t start with me, Julius. I’ve taken enough shit from my own men. I’m not about to listen to it from you, too. If a man feels the urge to lay with another man, who the hell am I to judge him? Not that my tastes run in that particular direction, mind you.”

  “Who to judge, indeed?” Montclair replied. He nodded to a group of gentlemen standing near the mansion’s grand front doors as they entered.

  Greg let out a low whistle. “I attended a ball at the French embassy once. It had nothing on this place.”

  Montclair took in the expanse of the room from the polished stone columns to the marble floors and the massive crystal chandelier and couldn’t help but be impressed. “The congressman certainly didn’t spare any expense.”

  A clockwerk draped in bright orange and blue and bearing a tray of drinks ambled by. Montclair and Greg each took a glass.

  Montclair sipped. “Not bad.”

  Greg laughed. “Up to the standards of Creole royalty?”

  Montclair raised an eyebrow and pointed toward the side of the room, at a small alcove that looked semi-private. When he and Greg were away from prying ears, Montclair resumed their conversation. “I’ve had my share of excellent French champagne, but calling me ‘Creole royalty’ might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “I’ve read about your mother, Julius. If it’s an exaggeration to say she was royalty, it isn’t much of one. Anyone who’s seen her daguerreotype wouldn’t have a hard time imagining her as a queen.”

  Montclair surveyed the vast ballroom with a practiced eye, noting the placement of each gray-coated soldier. For every one in uniform, Montclair guessed there were at least two dressed in evening clothes moving unseen amongst the crowd. It looked as though every wealthy family in the Confederacy was here. With a crowd like this, Smythe wouldn’t take any chances with security.

  “You’re sure Wallace won’t be waking up anytime soon?” Montclair asked, changing the subject the way he always did when conversation turned toward his family.

  “I’m sure,” Greg replied. Another clockwerk, its metal surface polished to perfection, made its way through the crowd with a tray of strawberries. Greg plucked one from the mechanized servant’s platter and placed it in his mouth. “I gave him diluted nightshade. Put it in his wine.”

  Montclair’s eyes grew wide. “You gave him what?”

  “Diluted nightshade.”

  “That stuff is nothing to fool with, Greg. One drop too many can mean the difference between ‘unconscious’ and ‘dead’. Where in hell did you get diluted nightshade anyway? Only members of the guild have access to poisons like that.”

  Greg shrugged. “One of my Marines was taken by the guild when she was eight. When the war broke out thirteen years later, she renounced the alchemists to fight for the Union.”

  “So, you’re telling me you not only have a Marine who speaks Croatan, but you also have one with an alchemist’s training? Don’t you think those might have been important details to share before now?”

  Greg swallowed his strawberry. “To be fair, Julius, you never asked.”

  Montclair shook his head. “You know, I’ve actually been foolish enough to believe I was in charge of this mission.”

  “You are, technically speaking. Can’t tell you all my secrets, though.”

  “When this is over, you and I are going to have a serious discussion about chain of command.”

  Above the ballroom’s main entrance, a tremendous clock as big around as a small fishpond hung on the wall. The hour hand crept perilously close to Roman numeral eleven.

  “Julius,” Greg said, grabbing Montclair’s arm and pointing him toward a grand marble staircase at the room’s far end. “You won’t believe who just decided to join the party.”

  Two men emerged from a dark alcove behind the staircase. It was pure luck that Greg even saw them. If he and Montclair hadn’t been standing exactly where they were, away from the bulk of the guests and near the back of the ballroom, they would have missed them. One of the men was short, rotund, and aging. His bald head shone under the lights of the chandelier. Snow-white hair, clipped close to the scalp, clung to the sides of his head just above his ears. His companion was tall, in his thirties, with the brawny build of a professional soldier. His black hair hung loose past the collar of his Confederate-gray dress uniform.

  “Everything I’ve read on him says the general’s a twisted sonofabitch,” Greg said. “Has a taste for hurting people, women in particular. Looks the part, too. The old congressman doesn’t appear to be much of a threat, though, does he?”

  “Don’t let appearances fool you. There’s blood on Smythe’s hands too. He may not have done the killing himself, but make no mistake, Smythe’s wealth and influence have ended plenty of lives.”

  “Easy,” Greg said. “I recognize that tone. Don’t go getting all righteous on me. This isn’t the time to let those sanctimonious Catholic sensibilities get the best of you. We need your head in this.”

  Montclair frowned. His mother’s Creole blood tended to run hot. Thankfully, his father’s strict obligation to duty and unquestionable view of right and wrong served to temper that heat. Much as he hated to admit it, Greg was right.

  “We’ve got Smythe and Horton together in the same place,” Greg said, “and neither of them knows who we are. We won’t get another opportunity like this. Can you keep your emotions in check?”

  Montclair nodded. “First thing we should do is get ourselves another glass of this excellent champagne. Then, we can meet our host and thank him for it in person. To do otherwise wouldn’t be polite.”

  There was a table near
the edge of the crowd. It was covered with champagne flutes, stacked in rows to form a four-foot high pyramid. The undercover Union officers retrieved fresh glasses as they passed and quickly made their way through the shadows to the alcove where Smythe and Horton stood.

  “Follow my lead,” Greg whispered as they approached. “There you are, congressman!” Greg shouted. He grabbed the politician’s arm and whipped him around so they were face to face.

  Smythe cried out in surprise, his eyes darting back and forth between Greg and Montclair.

  Smythe’s reaction had been just what Montclair expected. They’d achieved their goal to rattle the congressman’s cage and see what fell out. But Horton was a different story. Other than a subtle shift of his hand toward his gun, he hadn’t flinched.

  As Montclair sized him up, the two men locked eyes. Montclair’s body tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. An icy chill ran the length of his spine.

  “Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, sir!” Greg said. He gripped Smythe’s hand and pumped it up and down.

  “I’m afraid you have me at a loss, sir,” Smythe said.

  “William Trotman, congressman. At your service.”

  “Trotman, you say? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “My close friends call me ‘Bill’,” Greg said. “And since you and I have a mutual one in Congressman Wallace, I’d be honored if you would do the same.”

  A look of recognition dawned on Smythe’s face. “Ah! Of course, Wally’s new friend. Trotman of the Kansas Trotmans.” This time, Smythe extended his hand. “Wally’s told me so much about you, Bill. Speaking of, where is he? I’d expected the two of you would be attending together?”

  “The poor dear took ill just this evening. He asked me to send his deepest regrets that he couldn’t attend. He knows how much this night means to you. I’ll pass along your regards. He’ll be happy to know you were thinking of him while he was under the weather.”

  “Please see that you do, Bill. And who might your companion be?” Smythe looked up at Montclair, seeming to notice him for the first time.

  Montclair quickly got a sense of the man. Ambition. Greed. A willingness to devalue the lives of others in pursuit of his own desires, but not the same sense of malevolence he’d gotten from Horton.

  “Congressman,” Greg said. “Allow me to introduce my manservant, Jasper.”

  “Your manservant has an ill look about him,” Horton said. His gaze never left Montclair’s. “Where I’m from, niggers don’t look so into the eyes of their betters. Seems to me this one’s forgotten his place.”

  Smythe gave Horton a distasteful look. “And my very outspoken companion here is General George Horton,” Smythe said. “You’ll have to excuse him. A man doesn’t attain the rank he holds at such a young age without being forthright.”

  “Think nothing of it, congressman,” Greg said, placing himself between Horton and Montclair. “The next President of the Confederate States need not apologize to any man. Besides, the general is right. The fault is all mine, I’m afraid. With so many clockwerks at our disposal, we’ve become lax in disciplining our human servants. Jasper here has traveled with me so much he’s obviously grown too comfortable, a shortcoming I’ll see corrected very soon. Eyes down, Jasper!” Greg barked. “On the floor where they belong!”

  With more effort than he would have thought possible, Montclair lowered his eyes. Inside, he raged. Every fiber of his being wanted to strangle the dark-haired Confederate general.

  “I’d love to stay and make sure this insolence was dealt with properly. . .” Horton sneered. “But I’ve got an appointment to make.” He nodded to Smythe. “Congressman.”

  Montclair felt Horton’s eyes as the Confederate general walked passed. Montclair’s jaw ached from the force of gritting his teeth. He clenched his fists until his fingernails bit into flesh. His body shook with the effort it took to keep his sights focused on the floor. Montclair looked up just in time to watch Horton turn and make his way toward the exit, shoving guests aside as he pushed his way through the crowd.

  “And I think we’ve taken up enough of your valuable time as well, Congressman,” Greg said, breaking the tense silence.

  “Nonsense, Bill. If I hope to have the support of the Trotman family during this election, the least I can do is take a few minutes to make the acquaintance of the family’s eldest son. Besides, any friend of Wally’s is a friend of mine. But I do fear I must excuse myself. I have a speech to deliver in,” Smythe glanced at his pocket watch, “about a quarter turn o’ the clock. But it has been a pleasure, Bill.” Smythe shook Greg’s hand a final time. “Please, avail yourself of all the hospitality Rosetree has to offer. If I don’t see you after my speech, take care of our Wally. Let him know I’ll expect to see him as soon as he recovers.”

  “I certainly will,” Greg replied.

  When Smythe was gone, Greg grabbed Montclair by the arm and took him aside. “What the hell was that? That’s not at all what we discussed! You were to—”

  “Enough, Greg!” Montclair snarled. “You may have forgotten, but I’m still your commanding officer!”

  “Then you should act like it!”

  A look of rage flashed across Montclair’s face.

  “You can’t let revenge get in the way of duty, no matter how justified your actions may be,” Greg said, not backing down. “My commanding officer once told me that.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Montclair said, more calm than before.

  “This mission’s given us both scores to settle,” Greg said.

  “We’ve misjudged this whole thing, Greg. Smythe isn’t our primary target. It’s Horton.”

  Greg shrugged. “I’ve known you long enough not to question your instincts, Julius. What’s our next move?”

  Montclair looked up at the big clock above the ballroom entrance. “We need to find those DSI agents,” he said. “Horton has to be stopped. Permanently.”

  17 Outside Greenville North Carolina, Ballroom of Rosetree Manor, July 1864

  Montclair searched the crowd, his keen eyes sweeping back and forth across the ballroom.

  Greg leaned in close to Montclair’s ear. “It’s like a needle in a damned stack of needles,” he said. “There must be hundreds of people here. Not to mention the ones still waiting to get in. These agents could be anywhere.”

  “We’ll know him by his red ascot and the bright copper pin on his jacket,” Montclair said back, low enough so that only Greg heard him, “and they’ll know us from our daguerreotypes.”

  Greg cleared a path through a cluster of laughing partygoers. “A red ascot and a copper pin? Well, that narrows it down. Be a hell of a lot easier if we had daguerreotypes of them too.”

  Montclair searched among the revelers, desperate for a glimpse of a man with red neckerchief or the shimmer of copper on his chest. He pulled Greg off to the side, conscious of the vicinity of the other guests. “You know better than that. Strategic intelligence agents don’t generally circulate images of themselves.”

  Greg shook his head. “Damned DSI.”

  “You have a right to distrust them, but now isn’t the time.”

  “You’re one to speak about timing after what just happened with Horton.”

  “I know,” Montclair replied. “You and I both have scores to settle now.”

  Montclair and Gregory continued searching the crowd from their place in the shadows but with no luck. Montclair glanced up at the ballroom clock, a worried expression on his face.

  “This is ridiculous,” Greg said. “Is there a backup plan in case we can’t find these agents?”

  “There is, although I’d hoped to avoid wasting any more time. We’re to meet them near the serving tables if we haven’t made contact by—”

  The bells of the massive clock began to sound. They rang out eleven times before falling silent again.

  “Eleven o’ the clock,” Montclair finished. “Lead the way, Mr. Trotman.” Montclair sto
od aside so Greg could go ahead toward the serving tables. “And hurry. Every minute puts Horton that much further out of reach.”

  Greg pushed through richly dressed bodies until he and Montclair arrived at the serving area. Sturdy wooden tables groaned under the weight of gourmet fare, the likes of which Montclair hadn’t seen since the grand affairs his mother used to host.

  Two men stood next to the endmost table. The older of the two wore a black formal suit with a bright crimson ascot tied loose around his neck. On his waistcoat was a gleaming copper pin, fashioned in the shape of a slithering snake. He was tall and serious, with a clear set of eyes Montclair would bet missed very little. His companion, though, was a puzzle.

  The second man stood several inches taller than the first but was much younger. Early twenties, Montclair guessed. His dark brown hair was shoulder length but had been tied back neatly. His formal suit fit him well, but he fidgeted in it as though he’d never worn such clothes before. There was something else about him, something just beneath the surface that Montclair couldn’t quite read.

  “You make the introductions,” Montclair said as he and Greg approached the agents. “After that, I’ll be doing the talking. We clear?”

  “Crystal,” Greg replied.

  “Good evening, gentleman,” the older DSI agent said. “A balmy night here in our glorious Confederacy, is it not?”

  “Long live the Confederacy,” Greg said.

  The older man nodded and bade them follow him. When they were well away from the other guests, he extended his hand. “Phrasing is a bit hokey for my taste, but the words serve their purpose well enough. Major Gregory, isn’t it?”