“Ati Me Peta Babka,” the Baron said in a language Khalid did not recognize.
“Ana Harrani Sa Alaktasa La Tarat,” the hooded man replied.
“It is an honor to speak with the Voice of The Council again,” the Baron said. “May I introduce my disciple, Khalid Francois.” Khalid nodded. “Khalid, may I introduce The Voice; he speaks for The Council.
“And him?” Khalid asked, looking at the stolid Turk.
“That is The Ottoman. The Voice is always accompanied by one of our six Idimmu.”
“Idimmu?” Khalid repeated.
“Consider them . . . the fists of The Council,” the Baron explained. “Now,” the Baron turned to The Voice, “why has The Council been ignoring my requests for an audience? Why did it see fit to have Archduke Ferdinand disposed of? He was a key piece to the puzzle. I needed him in place.”
“It was not The Council’s will to have the Archduke assassinated. It remains to be known who pulled the trigger,” The Voice answered in a creaky German accent.
“What? Whose will was it, then? I demand to know!”
“That is a matter for another Architect. There is a different matter at hand, one more pressing that The Council wishes you to handle with the utmost expediency.”
“Ridiculous!” the Baron cried. “I am the Architect of what will prove to be the greatest war in our history, and The Council wishes me to change my post? The Archduke is assassinated by unknown players, and you wish me to just leave? I will not!”
“Another capable Architect has been assigned to your post, I assure you.”
“Who!?” the Baron demanded.
“That is of no importance to you,” The Voice replied.
“WHO, DAMMIT!”
“Heir Lukas Clemens Hermann,” The Voice said in perfect German.
“You and The Council insult me with such a replacement,” the Baron said. “That bastard son of a Hapsburg could barely grow a beard the last I saw him. And now he is an Architect!”
“He has shown great aptitude, much like you did once.”
“I demand The Council let me see this war through. Let your new Architect boy handle this matter,” the Baron said, his one eye fixed on The Voice. Beads of sweat emerged from all over his bald head and glistened in the torchlight. “Years of work. Why now?”
“Your job is not to question, but to accept,” The Voice replied. “Your work on this matter will surely give you consideration for The Council in the future. As you know, Umma’s health is failing.”
The Baron placed his hand on the handle of his gun and adjusted his stance. Khalid thought of the cans of pea soup and got ready to witness The Voice evaporate into thin air. “Very well,” the Baron said with a bow. “How may I serve the will of The Council?” Khalid noticed the Baron’s trademark sarcasm.
“You are to be dispatched to New York immediately,” The Voice commanded.
“America? What for?”
“Kasper Holstrom has vanished.”
“Hardly a concern,” the Baron said. “All the snake oil he has consumed over a lifetime, he’s probably dead. This is hardly work for an Architect. Send a savvy Disciple, send a Vizier, bloody hell, send an Idimmu to investigate!”
“That is part of the problem, Baron; an Idimmu has gone missing as well. We have reason to believe he is now working against us, or worse—”
“For them” the Baron interrupted. “Tell us then, who was it? Who should be so foolish? Was it The Norseman?”
“The Shinobi,” The Voice answered.
The Baron shook his head.
“The Shi-no-bi?” Khalid asked, drawing out the name.
“Our most skilled assassin,” the Baron explained.
The Ottoman grunted.
“How do you know Kasper isn’t working with our defected assassin?” the Baron asked.
“That is precisely what The Council would like you to find out. We received a transmission from Kasper through Wardenclyffe just before his disappearance a month ago.”
“What did he report?”
“That The Shinobi was missing, believed to have defected, and a disturbing number of Disciples were losing their stones. Nothing more.”
“That sounds like Illuminati tactics.”
“May I suggest you approach this issue with the utmost discernment, Baron. You do you recall the last Idimmu to defect?”
“I do,” the Baron answered.
“What happened?” Khalid asked.
“A Mongolian chap decided to conquer Asia,” the Baron said. “I will secure passage within the week.”
“The Council thanks you for your service, Baron,” The Voice said.
“Tell The Council it was my pleasure.” The Baron’s sarcasm struck again. “Now, as previously discussed, I would like to promote my Disciple.”
Khalid looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘promote?’” he asked.
“You are to officially become my Medjai,” the Baron said.
“Medjai?”
“They are Disciples who have proven themselves capable of getting their hands dirty. Unlike Scribes, such as Warwick, they are official bodyguards and we use them in all manner of martial tasks. They are identified by their brand.”
“Brand?”
The Ottoman stepped to the side, revealing a long bar stuck in the ground. The stoic assassin picked it up to reveal the circular brand attached to the bottom. He held it over a nearby torch.
The Voice approached Khalid and handed him a small dagger. “Cut the ties to your stone, Disciple.” Khalid removed his shirt and in doing so, his flask fell out. “Does your god approve?” The Voice asked. “It was my understanding that fermented nectars were prohibited among Muslims.”
The Ottoman looked over in disgust as his branding iron began to glow a dull orange, and he spoke a guttural and condemning Arabic phrase.
“In vino veritas, Voice,” the Baron said as he started to walk away.
“What does that mean?” Khalid asked.
“It means you’re the most honest person I know, Khalid,” the Baron called over his shoulder.
Halfway back to the car, the Baron heard Khalid’s screams echoing against the rolling green hills.
Mink Callahan
June 12, 1914
St. Catherine’s Home for Children
Chicago, Illinois
Mink rapped three times on the solid oak door to the orphanage. She could hear the shouts of children inside, followed by the reprimands of nuns. It brought back memories. Memories of when she was sent to an orphanage after her father passed. Her father died in a railroad accident when she was 17. A locomotive had become partially submerged in a sinkhole. It was Michael Callahan’s job to salvage it, but in the process the sinkhole widened and swallowed them both.
Mink’s mother abandoned them at an early age—Mink was only 11, her sister was 4. From then on, it had just been their father and their countless nannies who attempted to reign in the Callahan girls. Often Mink would even follow her father to work, learning the ins and outs of the railroad industry. A skill that made it easy to talk to Ronald Thomason IV; a skill that had helped her fill the bag she now carried.
A small wooden slat opened on the door, and wizened eyes peered through. The slat closed. Locks began to turn on the inside, and the heavy door squeaked open. An old, short nun whose robes covered a stout and imposing figure, opened her arms. “Ah, dear Mink! God bless you, child! It has been a while since we have seen you.” The nun hugged her with bear-like arms.
“It’s wonderful to see you again, Sister Gerta. How are the children?” Mink asked. As if on cue, a child streaked behind Sister Gerta, laughing and holding a habit. Moments later, a habitless nun furiously shuffled across the hall.
“Children never change. Children never change,” Sister Gerta replied.
“Well, I have more donations for you.” Mink patted the bag she carried.
“Yes, about that.” Sister Gerta stepped out onto the street and closed the door
behind her. “The Reverend Mother is asking questions again. She thinks some of the donations may not be . . . well . . . so willingly donated, what with all the engraved keepsakes and jewelry and what-have-you. Those are not the typical donations we are used to.”
“I assure you, Sister, they are all willingly donated,” Mink said.
“Are they, now?”
“I can be very persuasive,” Mink said with a smile.
“I’m afraid we can’t accept it, not after what happened last time.”
“What happened the last time?” Mink asked.
“Well, we were exchanging some of those generous donations at the pawnbrokers down on 18th Street, when a gentleman spotted a watch we were exchanging that belonged to his brother. I told him he must be mistaken, but the gentleman was able to correctly describe the engraving on the back of the watch without even looking at it, an engraving that he had put there himself!” Sister Gerta leaned in and whispered, “He said his brother told him in a correspondence that he lost it in a robbery while on a train traveling through Virginia.”
Mink grabbed her chest. “Oh my, that’s dreadful! How on earth did it come into my possession?”
“Yes, that is what the Reverend Mother is wondering also. I’m afraid we cannot accept your donations until further notice; it just wouldn’t be prudent. I’m very sorry, child.”
“I understand. I am very sorry to have caused you or any of the children distress.”
“It’s all right.” Sister Gerta put her hand on Mink’s arm. “I am sure this is just a misunderstanding. We just need a while to clear things up, and I am sure it will be worked out in due time.”
Mink nodded. The stout nun hugged Mink again and wished her well. Mink walked back to the car, where James Penny waited and whistled happily while patting the side of the car like a drum. It was the Thomason summer touring car, the finest Ford made, freshly washed with four seats and the canvas top pulled all the way back.
“Jimmy, do me a favor,” Mink said, throwing the bag of donations into the backseat. “Take this bag to Holy Name Cathedral and leave it discretely on one of the pews. Ensure no one sees you leave it.”
“Ma’am?”
“Please, Jimmy. For me,” Mink said.
James knew when to follow an order without question. He nodded. “Shall I pick you up here afterward? Wouldn’t want to be late to the pier. Mr. Thomason wanted to launch by two o’clock.”
“I am capable of walking there, Jimmy. I will be fine, thank you. Besides, I could use the fresh air.”
James handed Mink her small purse, tipped his cap, put the car in gear, and sped down the street, narrowly missing a horse-drawn carriage. Mink watched him turn right at the corner, this time narrowly missing a jaywalking pedestrian. She walked south on State Street, searching for fresh air to clear her mind. Unfortunately, at this time of day, it smelled like a mixture of gasoline and horse manure. After a few blocks, she turned west on Randolph Street toward Dusable Harbor. After battling waves of oncoming crowds, she came to the intersection at Michigan Boulevard, which was shut down by a gang of about a hundred shouting women. The women, and the few men that joined them, spanned the entire length of the boulevard. The women looked sweltering in their long dresses and despite the shade their large circular hats provided. They held signs that read, “Wilson Is Against Women!” “President Wilson, How Long Do You Advise We Wait?” “Wilson Opposes National Suffrage For Women!”
Two policemen, no doubt waiting for reinforcements, tried to contain the situation and redirect the heavy traffic flow. Mink crossed the intersection directly in front of the protesters. A few of them yelled for her to join them, but her display of solidarity would have to wait—but, as it turned out, only until the next block, when she walked past a few steel workers on their lunch break. They stood on the street beneath the skeleton of a building they were erecting. They looked ragged and stained, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and eating boxed lunches of bread, cheese, salted chips, and pickles. A few of them whistled at Mink, who ignored their advances and continued to walk. Another worker, an older man of about 40 with jagged teeth and a white tank top under his denim overalls, commented on her walk. “You can tell a lot ‘bout a women who walks like that, woo!” He lewdly stroked the shaft of the mallet that hung from a loop in his overalls. The rest of the workers whistled and commented now.
Mink stopped in front of the jagged-tooth ringleader and adjusted her jet-black velvetta hat, crowned with three towering blue quills the same color as her long azure dress. “Excuse you, sir, your behavior is crude and insufferable.”
“What’s a matter, doll? Can’t take a compliment?” said the ringleader, whose lifetime of labor endowed him with an unhealthy tan and lean muscles.
“That was hardly a compliment, sir,” Mink replied.
The ringleader lifted his flat cap and ran his fingers through his coarse, grimy brown hair. He placed the hat back on his head. “It’s a compliment from where I’m standing. If you don’t like it, how’s about you go join all the other broads down the street. They can’t take no compliments neither.”
Mink clenched her teeth and imagined shoving her pointed umbrella in his face, but she hadn’t brought it today. “You are right, good sir. Excuse me for misunderstanding. Allow me to make it up to you.” The ringleader smiled widely. “Could you follow me just around the corner for a moment?” Mink smiled back, only her smile conveyed something more seductive. The rest of the steel workers hooted and hollered as Mink paraded slowly to the nearby alley. The ringleader took a bow to his coworkers, “Tell the foreman I may be back a little late from lunch, boys!”
Mink stood in the alley nearby a dumpster. She pulled a compact mirror from her purse and began adjusting her hat and collar. The ringleader came up from behind and grabbed her backside. Mink closed the compact, put it in her purse, and turned around. She put her gloved hand on his cheek, smiled and nudged him backwards until he was against the brick wall. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her in close. She dropped her purse and nuzzled his neck so close he could feel her breath. He squeezed her hips and closed his eyes. She seductively grabbed his collar and violently propelled her knee to his groin. He screamed in agony and doubled over. She plucked the mallet from his overalls and brought it down crashing on his back. The ringleader fell to the ground in a small pool of brown, stagnant water. One hand held his privates, while the other stretched out trying to brace himself. Mink put the heel of her laced boot deep into the back of his hand. A small crack of bone echoed in the alley. The man screamed louder, and Mink tossed the mallet away.
“Now . . . about your behavior,” Mink said as she lifted her skirt, revealing black stockings with a Steyr-Hahn Model 1912 pistol wedged in the garter straps. She drew it, letting her dress fall back to the ground. She cocked the hammer and knelt down. The ringleader screamed as more weight from her heel bore down on his hand. She put the barrel of her pistol on his temple. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Mink said.
“Wa . . . Walter,” he replied.
“Walter. Excellent. Listen to me carefully, Walter. I have eight bullets. One for you, and plenty for your friends. But this first one, Walter, this one pointed at your head, this one has your name on it.”
“No, no, please, don’t,” Walter cried. He continued to wince and breathe heavily.
She jammed the pistol deeper into his temple. “Walter, do you swear to show respect to all women?”
“Wh . . . What?”
“So help me divine Jesus, Walter, I now have a second bullet with your name on it, do you understand?” Mink yelled.
“Yes, yes, please.”
“Good, now swear to me you will change your ways, Walter. Swear to me to have a healthier respect for women. SWEAR IT!”
“I swear . . . I swear . . . please,” Walter pleaded.
Mink stood up. “A wise choice.” She took her heel off his hand and retrieved her purse. She slipped the gun discretely back into h
er garter straps, and took a deep breath. “Do me a favor, and tell you friends that this broad was more than you could handle.” She said as she stepped over him, giving him one more heel dug deep into his back, and continued to the street.
Randolph Street ended at the bustling Dusable Harbor. Mink strolled to the pier where Ronald Thomason IV kept his weekender yacht. Artemis was 30 feet long, with a single mast and foresail. Ronald Thomason paid extra to have a Hacker 2-cylinder motor installed, which made it easier to maneuver around the seawall into Lake Michigan.
“Darling!” shouted Ronald, dressed in crisp white pants and matching button up. He met her on the gangway and escorted her up to the deck. Even atop an elevated gangway, Mink was still taller than he was. “It is a wonderful to see you,” he said when they stepped onto the deck. He kissed her gloved hand delicately. “Darling, you looked flushed. Are you all right?”
“It’s nothing, dear. I just walked here from St. Catherine’s, that’s all,” Mink answered.
“Nonsense, why didn’t James drive you?”
“He ran an errand for me; it’s nothing, truly,” Mink said.
Reginald came up the stairs from the cabin below, wearing the finest yachting attire including white shorts, a form-fitting tee shirt, and custom brown boating shoes. “Hello, Mother! It’s so good to see you again.”
“Ah, darling,” Ronald interjected, “I hope you don’t mind, but Reginald insisted he come with us this afternoon.”
“Yes, Mother. I do hope that is OK?” Reginald asked.
“Of course, Reggie. It will be a splendid day with just our family, the wind, and the water.”
“And . . .” Reggie said, moving to the edge of the boat. He pulled up a weighted line from the water that was tied to the railing. At the end of the line was a bottle of champagne. “I was keeping it cool in the lake,” he said. “Come, let us toast our family.” Reggie popped the cork into the water and poured the frothing wine into glasses Ronald had already brought up. “To our family,” Reggie toasted. “Together, may we set a course for happiness!” Their glasses clanked, and Reggie winked at his step-mother.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 11
