“To be quite frank, I am concerned about the productivity of your enterprise, Otto,” the Baron replied. “Your revenues are consistently falling, and yet every communication I get from Wardenclyffe is that this is a minor setback, and profits will return.”
“The opium market has become more complicated. Bloated politicians have outlawed its recreational use. Regulatory agents have sprung up in every major city, closing my dens. But rest assured, opium moving to the black market will make it more taboo, alluring, and curious. All these will serve to raise prices and our profits. I simply need more time.”
“How are you moving it now with so many regulatory agents?” the Baron asked.
“I have contracted German merchants to move it through Mexico. They are already running guns and ammunition there to capitalize on the revolution. It is that revolution that allows my shipments to go unnoticed across the border. I have also found the resistance fighters are becoming consumers.”
“The organization has big plans, Otto. Very big. Now is not the time to be losing money. There are those who are losing faith in you,” the Baron said.
“Is it my fault you don’t control the number of politicians that you used to? Their legislation is hindering. Perhaps you should infiltrate deeper into their ranks!”
“We are comfortable with the pieces we have in place, Otto.”
“I am doing the best I can, Baron. What else would you have me do? I just need more time.”
“You were recruited specifically for this operation because of your adaptability and knowledge of the industry.” The Baron paused. “So adapt. You have three months to get your profits back on track.”
“Or what? You will have me disposed of?” van Donderbus asked, fuming.
“Or you will be relieved, Otto. It is that simple. I have the utmost faith in your ability to accomplish this task. Prove yourself on this, and perhaps The Council will even see the value in promoting you.”
Otto van Donderbus nervously lit another cigarette and scratched his chest. “A promotion?” he asked.
“I will recommend it to The Council personally, Otto,” the Baron replied.
“You will? Thank you, Baron. You are most gracious.”
“Come, the balloons are almost full.” The Baron removed his smoking jacket and patted van Donderbus on the back, jarring him slightly. “I did not call you out here simply for ultimatums. There is great hunting ahead of us. Warwick! Prepare our things.”
The Baron and the businessman approached the balloons while Warwick walked behind them with cases in each hand. Warwick unloaded the luggage into the respective baskets while the hunters met with their pilots individually. The Baron’s personal balloon pilot was also his chauffeur, mechanic, and when called upon, his bodyguard.
His name was Khalid Francois Deschamps, and he was the bastard son of a French army officer who had an unhealthy desire for the women in Algiers. When he was 10, it was discovered that his mother had an illegitimate child, which is when the local authority condemned her to be publicly stoned. Khalid’s new home became an orphanage run by militant French nuns, and at the age of 17, he ran off to join the French Foreign Legion. Admittedly, the Foreign Legion felt like a vacation compared to Benedictine nuns. After heroically serving in the Mandingo War in 1898, Khalid received full French citizenship and went to Normandy by way of Paris, where the strapping, olive-skinned, square-jawed man with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes left a wake of heartbroken women in his trail. Comparable, of course, to his own father’s philandering.
“If my calculations are correct, the winds should take us just south of the hunting grounds, Baron,” Khalid said as he adjusted the goggles on his leather aviator cap.
“Does Mr. van Donderbus’ pilot have the coordinates?” the Baron asked.
“Yes, I gave them to him. I told him I would signal when we reached the site, but I am not sure he is happy about it. He said he does not take orders from an Arab,” Khalid said.
“Ludicrous,” the Baron replied.
“I know. I told him I was a Berber, but he did not believe me.” Khalid smiled, revealing teeth as white as the clouds, save for one that was polished gold.
“Happy hunting, Baron,” van Donderbus yelled before getting into the dark brown wicker basket tethered to a midnight-blue balloon with gold stitching. “I will see you in the air.”
“And to you, Otto,” the Baron replied before entering his own maple-colored basket tethered to a pale yellow balloon. Khalid Francois waved at the other pilot, who made an obscene gesture in return. Warwick untied the lines of both balloons and quickly climbed into the Baron’s basket. Moments later, both balloons began to rise into the sunny Normandy sky. Like unbridled heavenly bodies, the two balloons bobbed and soared over the hills and forests. All the while, the Baron stared at van Donderbus’ basket. The head of America’s opium empire looked squeamish, sweaty, and unwell. He smoked constantly, and his hacking could be heard across the province.
“The hunting grounds are about two kilometers out,” Khalid called out in his native French.
“Excellent work. Signal the other pilot and increase your altitude,” the Baron replied.
The pilot looked confused, but he knew better than to question his employer and fired up his burners. Warwick saw the reflection of the flame in the Baron’s tinted lens. Khalid began making grand hand gestures to the other pilot, who floated roughly 50 yards away. “Warwick,” the Baron said. “Hand me my shotgun.” Warwick bent over and opened the case he had stowed earlier. Inside was an intricately engraved double-barreled shotgun with a heavy oak stock. Warwick loaded the shotgun and handed it to the Baron.
“I am afraid Mr. van Donderbus has outlived his usefulness. He has more opium in his veins now than blood, and opium clouds your judgment—makes you weak. I am afraid our organization has no room for such weakness,” the Baron said before taking aim at the other balloon with his one good eye. He waited a moment and then fired. The deafening blast caused countless birds to fly away from the treetops. The Baron reloaded the shotgun quickly in choreographed fashion. He fired again, and again.
Seconds after the third shot, van Donderbus’ balloon began to descend rapidly as hot air poured out of numerous gaping holes. The other pilot fired up his burners in a futile attempt to keep the vessel airborne, but to no avail. After all hope was lost, the pilot yelled at the top of his lungs and shook his fist at the skyward onlookers. Khalid couldn’t help but smirk. The balloon continued to descend faster and faster before hitting the ground at breakneck speed. The Baron watched as the basket tumbled end over end, ejecting both passengers who, afterward, lay limp and lifeless on the ground.
“Warwick. A cigarette,” the Baron said.
“Yes, my lord,” Warwick replied.
The Baron inhaled deeply a few times. “Warwick. Send word to The Council that Mr. van Donderbus will not receive his promotion and instead has died in an unfortunate ballooning accident.”
“Yes, my lord,” Warwick said, pulling out a pencil and notepad from his inner pocket.
“Also, send word to Grand Vizier Delacroix. Tell him I am passing off our opium operation in the States to him, and he is to find a suitable replacement for van Donderbus as soon as possible.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Warwick.
“And inform Holstrom and Grand Vizier Bannerman of the new appointment and subsequent vacancy.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very soon, France will no longer be safe. Make arrangements to return to England by way of Vienna. I have some business to conclude there.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Warwick again.
Baron DeLacy turned to his pilot. “Bring us down, Khalid. I need you to retrieve something off Mr. van Donderbus.”
Detective Simon Porter
May 25, 1914
Smythwyck Estate
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
“Detective Simon Porter from Pinkerton Detective Agency is here to see you,
Mr. Hamilton,” Mr. Humphries said from the door to the study.
“Send him in,” Hamilton snapped, sitting behind his desk in his high-backed wooden wheeled chair with the Smythwyck crest etched over his head. His dark hair was pomaded tightly against his head, and he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal wool suit and black tie.
The detective’s black suit, vest, and matching tie had no trace of lint or dust. His perfectly angled bowler hat hiding dirty blond hair refused to shift as he slowly walked to the chair in front of Jonathan Hamilton’s desk. After he sat down, the ebony grip of his revolver handle became slightly visible in a cross-draw holster on his belt. The only things of contrast on his suit were his bright silver watch chain perfectly festooned across his vest and a small golden broach attached to his lapel - the all-seeing Pinkerton eye, the infamous symbol of the nation’s largest private detective agency. At first glance, Detective Simon C. Porter may have looked youthful and inexperienced. A more careful analysis, however, would reveal a man almost 40 with finely etched wrinkles around his eyes—the result of constantly focusing them, spying and recording the minutiae of human existence. He folded his hands across his lap. He quickly catalogued the number of game animals that surrounded them and then recorded Mr. Hamilton.
“I asked your Washington bureau for the best. Are you the best, detective?” Jonathan Hamilton III asked.
“I am,” he replied.
“I also asked for someone who understands discretion. Do you understand discretion, detective?”
“I do,” he replied.
Hamilton slid a large envelope across the desk in Detective Porter’s direction. “In here, you will find a recounting of the incident, as well as witness statements from all those who encountered the gentlemen you are looking for, Captain Wage Winchester Pascal.” The stolid detective took the envelope and peered through the contents as Mr. Hamilton recalled the story about the mysterious, Cajun-sounding man claiming to be a Rough Rider and looking for work from the wealthiest families in tobacco country.
“In addition to crippling me, this Pascal took something very dear to me,” Hamilton continued. “A medallion of great value that I wore about me. It is that medallion I need returned. Find this man, find my medallion.”
“Your report says there were more items taken from you.”
“Yes,” Hamilton said. “This criminal took my pocket book containing thirteen dollars cash and a silver pocket watch, much like yours.”
“Do you suspect him a petty thief?” the detective asked.
“Truth be told, I cannot be certain. What I do know is, I need that medallion back,” Hamilton replied.
Detective Porter put Hamilton’s report on the desk and pulled out a small sketchbook and pencil from his interior pocket. “Could you describe the medallion?”
“About a quarter inch thick, round stone, roughly the size of your palm with a small hollow center, and an ancient script written about it.”
“What kind of script?” the detective asked, furiously sketching.
“It’s nothing. Artistic. Made to look like script with no real meaning.”
“What is its significance?” the detective asked as he continued to draw
“It is a family heirloom, one that I am embarrassed to have lost, which is why I require your . . . utmost discretion.” Hamilton replied.
“Would Captain Pascal know the value of the medallion to you?”
“No.”
“Forgive me for asking, but what exactly is so concerning about a stone?”
“Discretion, Detective. All you need to know is that it is priceless to me, and I do not want anyone, anyone, to know it’s gone.”
“Does this look accurate, Mr. Hamilton?” the detective asked as he turned his sketch around.
“Accurate enough, yes.”
“You were married once. Long ago,” the detective announced, replacing his sketchbook to his inner pocket.
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“The first room on the right from the staircase, a hobby room, containing a loom and studio camera coated in dust. These were your wife’s? She died during childbirth roughly 20 years ago, yet you still wear your wedding ring?”
“I don’t believe I mentioned that in the report, Detective. Nor do I see how that matters to this case,” Mr. Hamilton replied.
“Every photograph I observed on the way to your study was a picture of you, and you alone. They were all taken by your wife, who had a passion for photography as well as weaving, but the thick dust covering her equipment suggests it hasn’t been used for years. The fact that there were no photographs of your daughter Cynthia, the one you mentioned in your report, leads me to believe your wife died giving birth to her. A tragic event that you never recovered from. You never remarried, and you keep her memory alive by still wearing your wedding ring. A wedding ring that any fool can see is made of gold. A wedding ring that would fetch a rather handsome price if stolen. Yet it was not stolen. It was left behind. But your pocket book and watch were not. A pathetic attempt to conceal the real impetus of the crime: pilfering your seemingly worthless medallion. This Captain Pascal may be a mindless-idiot thief, but that would make it difficult to infiltrate your daughter’s engagement party. Furthermore, it is my experience that thieves generally don’t confront their victims as forwardly as this one did. It is more likely that he is a calculating middle-man who targeted you for your medallion. A medallion he may not know the worth of, but perhaps the man who hired him does.”
“Amazing,” Mr. Hamilton proclaimed.
“Seeing as you were targeted, and Captain Pascal was allegedly a military man, I am quite certain he spent a great deal of time gathering intelligence. Weeks. Perhaps a month. So tell me, Mr. Hamilton, where do the ne’er-do-wells find recreation in Winston-Salem?” the detective asked.
Jonathan Hamilton III reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a smaller, thick envelope and slid it across his desk. “Here is your advance,” he said. “Five thousand. And another 15 when the medallion is returned to me. Enough to retire for half a lifetime after Pinkerton gets its cut. As for the ne’er-do-wells, try the June Bug. Horas runs the place, though he may not be of any help on account of his blindness. But nevertheless, it is a start. I am quite certain someone with your impeccable deductive skills will find a few clues. Mr. Humphries can take you there.”
Detective Porter stood and took the cash advance and report before he tipped his hat. “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. And rest assured, we at Pinkerton never sleep. I will find your man,” he said before abruptly turning around and walking toward the door.
“Detective,” Mr. Hamilton added, “If at all possible, ensure Captain Pascal does not survive, or at the very least, has difficulty walking for the rest of his natural life.”
The detective put his hand on the doorknob before he replied, “I am not an assassin, Mr. Hamilton, and nobody will get in my way of fetching your property. I will be in contact.”
The gray-haired Mr. Humphries stood upright and quiet in the hallway, awaiting a command. The droplets of sweat on his ebony skin reflected the faintest of light in the dark hallway. “Mr. Humphries, I shall require a ride into town,” the detective announced.
Detective Porter sat in the passenger seat of the Model-T Touring Car as Mr. Humphries sped down the dirt road, leaving the white mansion behind them. “Excuse me for asking, Detective, but you have a rather unique accent for a northerner,” he said, his eyes focused on the road.
“My father was from England; I spent nearly every summer there as a child,” the detective replied.
“And your mother?”
“New Jersey, where I grew up,” he answered.
“Well how’s-bout-that. That explains it, it sure does.”
“Mr. Humphries, pull over immediately,” the detective ordered. The hawk-eyed investigator hopped out of car and approached the side of the road. He knelt by tiny plots of dark soil surrounded by dried tire tracks. “Mr. Humphries, did anyone
see if Captain Pascal drove an automobile to Miss Cynthia’s engagement party?” he yelled.
“Not that we know of, no sir. Seemed to appear right out of thin air, he did.” replied Mr. Humphries from the car.
The detective fingered the dark soil and smelled it. Oil. Plenty of it. An engine without proper amounts of oil smokes and sputters.
“Very good, Mr. Humphries. Let us continue to town,” the detective said, getting back into the car.
Two- and three-story buildings arose from the horizon as the dusty road turned to cobblestone streets that traversed the city. “The June Bug ain’t exactly a high-end establishment anymore, but you will find it about two blocks up 6th Street,” Mr. Humphries said as the car came to a stop.
The detective thanked and dismissed Mr. Humphries and walked down a few secluded blocks off the main street. He found the June Bug, a tall dilapidated building shedding gray paint flakes, flanked by a boarded-up private residence on one side and on the other, a condemned monstrosity that seemed to be the source of whatever ailment spread to the June Bug. A round, orange painted bug graced the sign above the swinging shutter doors. The detective entered the building and noticed that the inside of the building was in much the same shape as the exterior. The few patrons, including the piano player asleep on his bench, did not seem to fare any better. Detective Porter approached the corner of the bar and called over the bartender, a heavier-set, balding man with pale eyes wearing a dirty white apron. The wad of tobacco in his rotted mouth was obscenely large.
“The name’s Horas, stranger. How’s about a whiskey to cure what plagues ya,” the bartender said as he spit tobacco a mile off from the brass spittoon at his feet. Suddenly the putrid smell of the establishment made more sense.
“I am looking for someone who may have frequented your establishment over the past few weeks,” the detective said. “A military man, perhaps, and charismatic.”
“Well, I don’t see much at all these days, but lucky me, the good lord blessed me with four other senses. Heroes and has-beens describe all my patrons, and unfortunately, they both sound the same to me.”
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 3
