by Alan Russell
“He’s the one who pulls your strings, isn’t he?”
“Ours is a symbiotic relationship. I have always liked that word. Symbiotic. He does his job, and I do mine. We complement one another.”
“Your Gray Man is not a very good shot. Instead of hitting me, he shot down his own man.”
“No. What he did was leave you for me.”
Graham heard his death sentence announced. Their death sentence. Jaeger was going to kill both of them. Their only hope was sitting in a drawer in the kitchen. Graham had to free his hands, and somehow get to the gun. He looked around the room, desperate to see anything that might help. The point of Jaeger’s sword was keeping him pinned close to the mat. Jaeger’s sword . . .
“I challenge you to a duel,” said Graham.
Jaeger laughed. “You jest.”
“Why? Your fraternity brother said you were quite the swordsman. As I understand it, you only lost once.”
“I never lost. Never.”
“But the man who gave you your scar—”
“Was kicked out of the corps cum infamia. He struck me well after the end of the round, and by doing so he disgraced himself.”
“Your fraternity brother said he was stabbed to death by skinheads.”
“Most believe that.”
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
“We finished our match, yes.”
“Match? Is that what you call stabbing someone in the back?”
Graham never saw the sword move. But suddenly it was under his chin, pressing up into his neck. “It happened as I said. He died with a sword in his hand.”
“Honor was served,” Graham said, his Adam’s apple rubbing against the edge of the sword.
“Honor was served.”
“I would like the same opportunity.”
“What do you know about swordplay?”
The sword came away, slightly, from Graham’s neck. “My father was a foreign service officer. He served in consular posts abroad. I was educated overseas. Most of the schools had fencing programs. I have some experience with the foil.”
“You played with buttons.”
A button is the safety tip on the end of a practice sword. What Jaeger said was true enough.
“I know how to handle a sword. I can understand, though, if you’re afraid.”
Jaeger smiled. “Am I supposed to take offense at that? Should I respond to your insult by doing something so rash as to jeopardize my position?”
“You should show me that you’re the swordsman they say you are.”
“First you insult, then you flatter. What will you appeal to next?”
“Your honor,” Graham said. “You have been challenged.”
“Sind Sie satisfaktionsfähig?”
Graham worked out a translation: Are you capable, or even entitled, to give satisfaction? “Haven’t I proved myself a worthy opponent already?” said Graham.
“Still,” Jaeger said, “when all is said and done, you’re merely a paparazzo.”
“And you’re merely a hired killer.” Graham repeated the man’s challenge back to him: “Sind Sie satisfaktionsfahig?”
Jaeger laughed. “When you challenge someone to a duel you’re supposed to prove that you’re equals. I fear you don’t present much of a contest.”
“I want to duel, and you want to hide behind some fencing pedigree. So much for history and tradition. I saw all those pictures hanging in the banquet hall at your university, and all those brave words that accompanied them. Your little dueling society even has its own saying, doesn’t it?”
Proudly, Jaeger recited: “Durch Kampf zum Sieg, durch Nach zum Licht. Through battle to victory, through night toward light.”
The light at the end of the tunnel, thought Graham. “Do you accept my challenge?”
“Putting a sword in your hand would be foolish.”
Graham felt his stomach drop. Their last hope was being kicked away.
“Foolish,” Jaeger added, “for you. I can offer you a much easier death. Dying by the sword will likely be painful, and slow.”
“It is the way I choose.”
Jaeger’s smile was rapturous. “Then your challenge is accepted.”
“When are you going to untie me?” Graham asked.
“When the house is secured,” Jaeger said.
He moved the hibachi table next to the door, barricading it. No one could easily enter or, more importantly, exit. Lanie and Graham watched him preparing the battlefield. She was already fighting a battle herself, struggling to keep her eyes open.
Graham said, “I am going to need time to stretch, you know.”
“We will not start until you say you are ready.”
“How about next year?”
Jaeger surveyed the empty living room. The space wasn’t overly large, but fencing was always limited to confined areas. He’d learned his early craft on the piste, the strip on which fencers fought, an area two meters wide and fourteen meters long. The room was longer than that, and wider. Jaeger would have preferred an even smaller area. In the Mensur, you did your fighting a sword’s length away from your opponent. You stood your ground with your Schläger, three feet from your opponent, with only rotational movements of the arm allowed. With arm and blade you guarded and attacked. Yes, the small space would be just fine.
To be safe, Jaeger decided to secure the other bedrooms. The windows would have to be barricaded. If the paparazzo thought he could run away this time, he was wrong.
When he left the room, Graham and Lanie looked at each other. Her eyes were determined slits. She wasn’t going to fall asleep. She was going to be there for him.
“Indiana Jones,” Graham whispered. Lanie nodded to show she understood. Movies were their own shorthand. The scene he referred to was the most memorable in that film. A fearsome, screaming swordsman suddenly appeared in front of Indiana Jones and, in a grand display of intimidation, showed his deadly skill with the blade, cutting the air in frightening fashion. But instead of quaking in his boots, Jones looked almost disdainful, pulling out his gun and shooting the man.
Graham wanted to do the same thing.
Jaeger reentered the room. He presented the two samurai swords to Graham. “As the one challenged,” Jaeger said, “I should have the choice of weapons, but I’ll defer to you.”
“I’ll take them both.”
“Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
“I’ll take the one closest to you.”
Jaeger bowed, placing the sword on the tatami mat. Then he used the other sword to cut through Graham’s hand restraints.
When Graham’s hands were free he didn’t pick up the sword. He didn’t even want to hold it. Instead he started stretching his wrists, then his arms and shoulders. He pulled one knee up to his chest, lowered it, and did the same thing with the other. Then he moved toward a wall, braced against it, and stretched out his legs and hamstrings. Jaeger watched his every movement.
In his mind’s eye, Graham visualized the location of the gun. During his visit, Lanie had showed him where the loaded gun was. It was near, very near. Hidden in a green tea container inside a chest. Graham took some deep breaths. They weren’t for show. Neither were the exercises. He needed to make the most important sprint of his life. God, he was afraid.
Jaeger was maybe eight steps away. Graham had to travel about that same distance to the kitchen. He would have the element of surprise. If all went right, he would be in the kitchen before the German reacted.
Graham took off his shoes. No sense chancing a slip. He figured he could travel the distance in a little more than a second. Getting the gun in his hand and pointing it should take another second. Graham had to assume that Jaeger was armed. There was a bulge under his shirt that was probably a gun. By the time he got to the kitchen, Jaeger might alrea
dy be firing at him. It was a good thing Lanie was off to the side. She would likely be safe from the gunfire.
There were so many things that could go wrong. But it was their best chance. Facing the German with a sword would certainly be suicide.
Go, Graham thought. Do it. But his feet remained rooted. He stretched some more. Jaeger’s snake eyes stayed on him. Graham looked over to Lanie. She could see how scared he was. Her eyes tried to encourage him.
If he didn’t run soon, Graham was sure he would collapse, but invisible bonds seemed to hold him. The first battle he had to fight was with himself. That was nothing new.
Graham looked toward the front door, and got Jaeger to look there as well. Then he made his break, racing to the kitchen. He never looked back, didn’t know if he was being pursued or if a gun was being leveled on him. The long second it took him to get to the chest, the eight steps, seemed like an eternity. He skidded by the chest, grabbing it by the handle and in the same motion yanked out the drawer and pulled out the tea box. His heart almost stopped when he saw only the green tea, but then he spied the gun. He grabbed for it, whirled to his side, and found his target.
Jaeger was caught flat-footed. The German hadn’t gone for his gun. He was still holding his sword.
“Drop the sword! Raise your hands in the air!”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll shoot you dead.”
Jaeger held his sword defiantly. Then, with his free hand, he started to reach down.
He was going for his gun. Graham pulled the trigger. Then he pulled it a second time. He dry-fired a third and fourth time.
Jaeger pulled out a nine-millimeter magazine from his pants pocket. He swung it between his fingers.
“Honor,” he said, spitting the word. “You know nothing of honor.” His face contorted in rage, and he touched his scar. “Saxe taught me well. In this modern world, honor does not exist.”
Lanie started sobbing. While she had been sleeping, he must have found the gun. Instead of telling her, he had said nothing, playing them for dupes.
“You failed your final test,” said Jaeger. He reached under his shirt and pulled out a gun. “You were not worthy of a duel. Now you die like a dog instead of a man.”
“Your test was rigged,” said Graham. “I offered you fair warning. I didn’t pull the trigger before giving you a chance. That’s more of a chance than you apparently planned to give me.”
“You lie. All you had to do was pick up the sword.”
“Had I done that, you would have shot me.”
“Never.”
“That’s easy to say now, isn’t it?”
Jaeger stared at him for a long moment before holstering his gun. Then he casually reached out with the tip of his sword, flipping the second sword into the air. It landed several feet from Graham’s feet.
“Pick it up, if you dare.”
Graham looked at the sword. How many years had it been since he’d played with a foil? That was the word for it—played. He had learned a little footwork and the basic moves, enough to know that he knew virtually nothing. Dedicated fencers were masters of second- and third-intention attacks. They were like chess masters; they didn’t even have to think about the basics.
Graham tried to visualize the fundamentals. Jaeger would be the aggressor, forcing him to parry. In his mind, he went through the nine forms of parrying. Prime. Seconde. Tierce. Quarte. Quint. Sixte. Septime. Octave. Neuvieme. In some the blade was up, in others down. Depending on where the attack came, the sword had to be positioned inside or outside. And the wrist had to be supinated for some parries, and pronated for others.
It was hopeless. He didn’t remember any of it. The sword stayed on the floor.
“This is not a duel to see who will die of old age,” said Jaeger.
Jaeger enjoyed having “conversations with blade.” The Corps Normannia excelled in Knattern, the American equivalent of trash talking.
“Stop this!” screamed Lanie. “Stop this!”
He wasn’t only fighting for himself, Graham realized. There was no choice.
Graham picked up the sword.
“Better late than never,” said Jaeger.
The sword was a little over a yard long. It wasn’t like the foils Graham had practiced with; the blade was shorter and heavier, thicker and more curved. He swung it in the air to get a feel for it. His arm already felt weighted down, and the finger that Jaeger had cut was stinging from all the sweat pouring into it. He wiped his hands on his pants, but that didn’t help. A moment later he was dripping again.
“I need powder,” Graham said.
“Have you wet yourself already?”
Jaeger enjoyed the mind games almost as much as the dueling. He motioned with his head toward the kitchen. “There’s cornstarch in one of those drawers. And just to save you the search, earlier I removed anything that could be used as a weapon.”
Graham retreated to the kitchen and coated his trembling hands with cornstarch. This was crazy. He was about to be impaled by steel. People didn’t die like that these days. This was an age of mass destruction. Nuclear bombs. Biological weapons. Drones. Assault rifles. Rocket-propelled grenades. Improvised explosive devices. Death was impersonal, delivered from a distance.
From the other room, he heard Lanie pleading their case. “Please. Stop this madness. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Silentium,” said Jaeger.
“I’ll double whatever you’re getting. I don’t care how much I have to pay.”
“If you don’t shut up, I will gag you.”
Graham also coated his feet with the cornstarch to prevent slipping. Then he poured some of the powder on the hilt of the sword. His hands and wrists were covered with the stuff, but he was afraid that he was sweating so much that it would soon be cornmeal. Graham thought of the Abbot. He wished he had been raised a Catholic, but his father had been indifferent about religion. It would have been nice if he could have confessed all his sins.
He was sorriest about Paris. That would never change.
Graham reentered the living room. Jaeger used his sword to point at his powdered shirt. “I think you missed a spot there.”
“I like my shirts starched.”
Jaeger smiled. “That’s the spirit, Pilgrim. There’s a right way to die, and a wrong way.”
“Why don’t you fall on your sword and show me?”
The German didn’t even have a hair out of place. He looked relaxed, even comfortable. He raised his sword and saluted Graham.
Graham didn’t answer his salute. That would signal the start of the duel. Instead, he took a last moment to consider his attack. His best chance, he decided, would be to throw his sword at Jaeger. It might hit him, or it might not, but either way the German would have to evade it. He could come in right behind his sword and tackle him low.
Jaeger got tired of waiting. “En garde,” he said in a sarcastic voice. That was the salute of Hollywood screenwriters, not words uttered by any true fencer.
Graham’s reply was to pull his sword arm back, but he never got the chance to throw his spear. In an eye blink Jaeger closed the gap between them and attacked, thrusting his sword at the left side of Graham’s chest. Instinctively, Graham parried and then riposted. Their blades met again, and Jaeger delivered a cut-over, his sword passing around Graham’s tip.
Stepping back, Jaeger announced, “Rote plume.”
Blood flowed along Graham’s forearm.
Jaeger immediately pressed the attack again. Graham backpedaled. Any strategy he might have had was lost in his desperate attempt to keep Jaeger’s blade away.
“Mal-pare,” Jaeger said, giving his sword hand a moment’s rest.
It was a fencing expression that announced the parry had failed to prevent a hit. The words were unnecessary, though. Blood was flowing from a cut o
n Graham’s shoulder.
Jaeger went on the attack again. It was all Graham could do to keep the sword in his hand. He backpedaled, all but running to get away, while Jaeger relentlessly closed. Jaeger used the room like an experienced boxer uses the ring, cutting him off at angles and forcing him to engage.
Graham neared where Lanie was sitting. Their desperate eyes met each other for an instant. Graham didn’t want her near the flying swords and tried to move away, but Jaeger blocked him in. Their blades met. Jaeger’s advance was challenged on a second front, though. Lanie kicked hard at his calf, throwing him momentarily off stride. He aborted his cut, stepping back. With the foible of his blade he slapped at Lanie’s head, knocking her down.
“Bastard.”
Graham jumped forward, pressing the attack. The sound of metal striking metal rang out in the room. Fury propelled Graham. He swung wildly, his body out of sync with his blade. Trained fencers are taught never to use their off hand or their feet. Going corps-à-corps, having any body-to-body contact, is illegal, and something automatically avoided by fencers, but that was the very thing Graham initiated. His rage brought him close. Where his blade was stopped by Jaeger’s guard, his left hand wasn’t. He struck out with hand and foot simultaneously, striking Jaeger’s eye and doing his best to trip him, but instead of falling, Jaeger moved away using a backward cross, a passe arrière. As he glided by Graham, he reached out with his sword and made two quick cuts, scoring on the forehead and chest. Only because he was moving away was Graham spared deeper cuts, but they were still bad enough. Blood started coursing down his face, making it hard to see.
“You like my marker points?” asked Jaeger.
Graham managed to gasp, “I think they’d look better on you.”
Fencers had once used ink points to show hits on their opponents. Graham’s body was already a patchwork of red. The only mark on Jaeger was a puffy eye.
Graham was breathing hard. His lungs strained to take in enough air. There was a fresh, grainy scent to the air, activated by the pounding the tatami mats were taking.
He looked over at Lanie. She was just beginning to stir. “So much for honor,” said Graham. “Did it make you feel proud striking a bound woman?”
