He no longer knew how long he had been imprisoned in this chamber of horrors two stories beneath the brownstone mansion. He only knew that after all the torture, the sleeplessness, the hallucinations, more torture, and the recent amputations, he desperately wanted to die. And when he admitted this fact to his tormentor—a young man with a pointy face, beaky nose, and pronounced widow’s peak—he was left alone, assured that if he answered all the questions the Triumvirate had for him, he would be granted a very quick death. The same young man now cleaned his bloody hands in a nearby wash basin underneath one of three buzzing light bulbs in the windowless room.
“I understand you wish to tell us everything,” Mr. Vault said, a voice Kasper recognized immediately. “At least that’s what Mortimer tells me. Isn’t that right, Mortimer?”
The young man scrubbing his hands only nodded.
“Wha . . . What do you want to know?” Kasper breathed heavily and quickly. “Please, just end it. Please!” Kasper jerked his body hard enough that a tube leading into his left arm dislodged, spraying thin streams of blood across the room.
“Jesus, Mortimer, please fix this,” Mr. Vault demanded.
Mortimer rushed to replace it. “I will give him a small dose of morphine,” he said. Mortimer disappeared for a moment, then returned and injected Kasper with a large syringe. Kasper’s breathing relaxed and slowed. His pupils dilated to the size of dark grapes.
“Now Mr. Holstrom, tell me everything you know about The Council. Your mission. Dr. Fatum’s work. Tell me about Baron William DeLacy. Tell me what you were doing in that billiard hall. Tell me everything, and I will ensure a quick, painless death.”
“I . . .” Kasper said and then hesitated. He just opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.
Mr. Vault pressed his shroud into his forehead and groaned. “Very well. I will make this as simple as I can. Where is The Council now? Who are your leaders?”
“There are 12 of them,” he replied, staring into the shadows of the room. “They represent the original 12 cities of Sumer.”
“Sumer?” asked Mr. Vault. “That part of history escapes me.”
“The world’s first civilization in the land between the rivers. The forbearers of all humanity. For millennia, they have watched over and commanded everything. And with every passing generation they are replaced, and the cycle continues.”
“Have you seen them? Where do they reside?”
“They reside everywhere. As civilization progressed, they scattered. Most never see them. I met them only once, in Baghdad, when they conferred upon me the title of Architect."
“Yes, tell me of Architects. How many of you are there? Where can I find the others?”
“There are 24 Architects in all. We are scattered about the entire world as well. The best Architects will one day be asked to join The Council.”
“Who reports to Architects? Viziers?” Mr. Vault asked.
“Forty-eight Grand Viziers who control all Viziers, Scribes, Medjai, and Disciples.
“How many Disciples are around the world? Give me a number.”
“Exact numbers are difficult at that level, but around 12,000 operate worldwide.”
“And you promote the best?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I certainly applaud such meritocracy. What about those who aren’t promoted? “
“Some stay in their position forever; others are disposed of.”
“Darwinism at its finest,” Mr. Vault uttered. “And tell me of the Idimmu?”
“Protectors. Warriors. Assassins. Operatives who only take orders directly from The Council. They are the most dangerous of men.”
“And how many of them are there?”
“Six. Always six.”
Mr. Vault turned to his companion by the door. “Mr. Steel, are you getting all this?”
Mr. Steel pointed to his head in an assuring gesture. He often referred to his mind as a steel trap.
“Excellent.” Mr. Vault said, patting the prisoner on his intact leg. He walked over to Mr. Steel and whispered, “He has just validated everything I have come to know about The Hand.”
“Anunnaki.”
“Beg your pardon?” Mr. Vault said, turning around in surprise.
“The Hand it is not our name—it is what you troglodytes call us. We are the Anunnaki. We have come from the heavens and we shall return there.”
“Interesting. Anunnaki.” Mr. Vault pronounced it slowly. “Do you intend to return to the heavens with the help of Dr. Fatum? Tell me of his work,” Mr. Vault said, changing the subject.
“I already told you. He has nearly lifted the curse of human mortality, finding the cure that plagues every man. Soon they will be immortal. Soon they will be gods.”
“Who?”
“The Council.”
“The Council wishes to be immortal?”
“It is The Transcendence.” Kasper said with a cough. “This Council wishes to be the last, to rule over everything for all time.” He coughed again. “It was my mission to facilitate The Transcendence. To find the man who could grant them all eternal life.”
“So that’s where Dr. Fatum fits in then?”
“Tell me—did he find it?” the feeble man, Mr. Black, yelled from atop his stool.
Kasper ignored the question. “They have all agreed to this undertaking. They will go through the process, The Transcendence, together, at the same time, so that the power of everlasting life will not be initially concentrated into the hands of only a few members. It is more equitable, safer this way.”
“And when is this supposed to happen?” Mr. Vault asked. Who knows about it?”
Mr. Black rose from his stool. “I need to know if he found it. Eternal life!”
“That idiot, Fatum, has been unable to perfect the process as of yet. He has succeeded at producing only mindless beasts,” Kasper replied.
Mr. Vault slammed his hand on the metal table. “When, man! When is this supposed to happen?”
“When I call for them. They will come here . . .”
“Where, dammit!”
“To Bannerman Castle. When they see proof that the process works, they will undergo The Transcendence themselves.”
“Who all knows about it?” Mr. Vault demanded.
“Only me and The Council.” Kasper said.
“What about Baron DeLacy? What is his role in all this?”
“The Baron? He is an Architect like me.”
“I already know he is a damned Architect!” Mr. Vault shouted.
Kasper Holstrom smiled into the darkness. His morphine-induced impairment worsened. “If you are mentioning him, then he must be here, which means he is probably looking for me, which means he will find you, and he will kill you. He kills everyone. Destroys everything.” He laughed quietly to himself.
“We tracked you for weeks, you know. What were you doing in that billiard hall? Who was the boy you were with?”
“He is the reason why The Transcendence will fail . . .” Kasper coughed uncontrollably before continuing. “. . . Even if Fatum figures out the process. What good is immortality on this Earth when there is a man capable of destroying it, a man who will split the Earth?”
“Split the Earth? What do you mean by that?”
“The . . . the prophecy. I have found him. The man who will split the Earth. The man who will reduce everything to ruins.”
“What does that mean?” Mr. Vault asked again, agitated.
“Men who rule over ruins, rule nothing,” Kasper answered.
“Who is the boy then? Does this boy know this Earth-splitter? Is the boy the Earth-splitter?”
“He is . . . he is . . .” Kasper hesitated again.
“I have no patience for cryptic prophecy,” Mr. Vault announced. “Tell me how you communicate with The Council.” Mr. Vault stepped closer and raised a hand over Kasper’s sharp Nordic features. He ran his fingers through the Architect’s long, stringy blonde hair. “How will you reach them?�
�
“Wardenclyffe,” Kasper whispered.
“Tesla’s old place? Impossible! I own that property; my father was the primary investor. I thought it was vacant, in shambles now? Mr. Steel, didn’t Westinghouse put in an offer to purchase it?”
Mr. Steel shrugged his massive shoulders. Not a steel trap after all.
“Impossible! You . . . you are operating under my own nose!” Mr. Vault slammed a fist on the metal table again.
“The message goes through Wardenclyffe,” Kasper reiterated.
Mr. Vault leaned in closer and demandingly whispered back, “Tell me how it works.” Kasper Holstrom, with his final moments of coherence, whispered into Mr. Vault’s ear, and then fell asleep for the last time.
Mr. Vault stood up finally. “Mr. Steel, we will need to transfer Wardenclyffe immediately to one of our subsidiaries. Mortimer, I am afraid you will need to evict its current tenants, and please keep at least one alive. Mr. Black, I need you to make a cash offer for Bannerman Castle and invite Doctor Fatum to continue his research there. It appears you and The Council have similar agendas.”
“How do you know Fatum will agree? How do you know Bannerman will agree?” Mr. Black snapped.
“How could they refuse the veritable fortune you will offer?” Mr. Vault replied.
“And after we secure Wardenclyffe—what then?” Mr. Steel asked.
Mr. Vault smiled. “Kasper is going to formally invite The Council to New York.”
PART III
Sinners & Scientists
Wage W. Pascal
August 14, 1914
Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
Manhattan, New York
Ol’ Bill stared at the maraschino cherry that floated atop the swirling, yellow concoction. “That was way too close, Wage,” he said, taking his inaugural sip. He swished it around, tasting the gin, orange, and vermouth. “Way too close for my liking.” Ol’ Bill grazed the bandaged stab wound on his stomach with his fingers.
Wage sat next to him and threw back a shooter of bourbon and then refilled it with the half-full bottle that sat on the bar. “How the hell did those bodies disappear, William?”
Mrs. Macy and her alleged “new husband,” who just so happened to a very large, very difficult man to kill, bled all over the first-class lounge car. Immediately, Wage and Bill retreated to their cabin. Ol’ Bill grabbed what was left of Wage’s bottle of bourbon on the way and used it to sterilize the puncture wound in his stomach. In the cabin, Wage reloaded his six-shooter with shaky hands, and Bill went straight to his valise, opened it, and dug through to the secret compartment where he kept his sawed-off his shotgun. He sat in the small booth, cauterizing and patching his wound with one hand while his other held the shotgun toward the door.
“I mean, the bodies,” Wage threw back another. “They just disappeared.”
About twenty minutes after finding refuge in their train cabin, an angry conductor impatiently pleaded for them to open it. Wage slid the door open only a quarter of the way, hiding Ol’ Snapper behind the rest.
“I’m beginning to think Ol’ Edison was right, Wage,” Bill said. “These people are more dangerous than we anticipated.” He drowned the cherry in his drink with his finger.
The conductor, an older man with a winged mustache and dangling bifocals, had said he understood there was an incident in the lounge car and apologized personally for the disturbance. Wage said nothing, not trusting the conductor, fully prepared to place six of Ol’ Snapper’s lead teeth into his torso. The conductor had assured Wage that a set of steamed towels would be delivered immediately as well as two drink vouchers.
“Something ain’t right, Wage. Maybe we should hightail it, disappear again. I’m sure there is plenty of work in California.”
When Wage and Bill went to investigate the lounge car, ready for another fight, they found the car sparkling clean, with fresh mop lines against the hardwood. Despite the bullet holes and trace amounts of blood, the lounge was clean and empty. No bodies, chairs straightened, no signs of a double homicide. Wage and Bill stayed up all night in their cabin, neither one of them sleeping, just waiting, watching the door, fingers on triggers, waiting. When morning came, they departed the train surprisingly without hassle and tiredly made their way to the Waldorf-Astoria.
“I think we’ve crossed the Rubicon, William. There ain’t no turnin’ back now. We are now blindfolded pawns in a game whose rules we don’t know and with no idea how to win.”
Ol’ Bill nodded and finished his drink before rescuing the drowned cherry and eating it. “So what’s the plan now?” he asked.
“We are going to sit in this bar and wait for this one-eyed Baron to show.” Wage pointed to the front entrance of the Waldorf that they could see through the entrance of the barroom.
“And when he does?” Bill asked.
“Tail ‘em, I guess. Find out his routine, who he associates with, then report back to Edison. Either way, I figure we get a good night’s sleep and hit up Kasper’s tomorrow.” Wage poured another.
“What’s the plan for Kasper?”
“Plan A, we kick in his door and force him down, tie him up, and see if we can’t take off these blindfolds, figure out this game. Then we’ll hand him over to Edison’s people, collect our money, and hightail it to California on the midnight train. I call it the Manhattan Door Buster.”
“What if we encounter resistance? “ Bill asked. “A doorman, maybe?”
“Plan B. We will preemptively identify ourselves as some of New York’s Finest, claim we have recovered some of Kasper’s effects from a thieves’ den—the extent to which we are not allowed to disclose—and cordially invite Kasper to join us down at the police station to reclaim them. And by ‘the station,’ I mean you will club him over the head when we lead him to the alley. It’s the old Boston Bluffer. You remember that one, don’t ya?”
“What about armed resistance?” Bill asked.
“One-armed? Or multiple?” Wage replied.
“Just one.”
“Plan C. The Tallahassee Shuffle.”
“Do I use the club or a right cross?” Ol’ Bill asked.
“Always a tricky one, but the billy club will do just fine.”
“How about multiple-armed?”
“Ah, Plan D then.” Wage held up a finger. “We will give them the old Portland Dancehall.”
“That only works if they have long guns; what if they have pistols?”
“Excellent point, William. You’re right. Let’s try the—”
“The San Antonio Salesman,” Ol’ Bill interjected.
“Do you want to be the haggler?” Wage asked.
“I prefer the salesman.”
“Has that plan ever worked?”
“None of our plans ever work,” Bill said .
“The San Antonio Salesman it is. Plan D.” Wage lifted his bourbon shooter.
“Excuse me,” said a soft voice, soliciting the bartender. “I would like a Manhattan, please.” Wage looked over his left shoulder and saw the thirsty angel. Her wavy blonde hair fell past her brow from a red bonnet, framing a face of painted porcelain. She wore a matching dress of such a red that Wage half expected her to have a pointy tail and carry a pitchfork. She turned to look at him with her blue eyes that looked like icy ponds littered with autumn leaves. “Well hello, handsome.”
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here. Men only,” the bartender barked. He was a bald man with a slanting forehead and wore the standard black vest and bowtie with rolled-up sleeves. “If Mr. Randolph knew you were in here again, he would—”
“Oh, put a cork in it, Phil, honestly,” she said, looking squarely back at the bartender. “Mr. Randolph is in a meeting and it’s only 4 o’clock—all those stuffy Wall Street bores won’t be here for another hour at least. Now pour me a Manhattan, dammit.” The bartender huffed and mumbled under his breath as he mixed her drink. He slid the glass over to her and a little of the crimson liquid splashed over the side. The b
artender made no apology or attempt to clean it. She remained standing and daintily sipped.
“Well, ain’t you just a ruby,” Wage said.
“And aren’t you just a Cajun Casanova,” she replied, looking back at him. “Do you mind if I join you? I’m afraid I can’t stay long, otherwise Phil here might crack like the giant egg he looks like.”
“Ha hah. Giant egg.” Wage slapped Bill on the shoulder.
“Well, what brings you boys in here this time of day?” she asked.
“Oh you know, just having a chat, having a drink, looking for a Baron with one eye. You seen him?” Wage laughed and took a drink of his bourbon.
“As a matter of fact, I have. He’s having lunch with my husband-to-be at this very moment. They’re over in the Astoria building in the 17th-floor suite.”
“No shit,” Wage said. Ol’ Bill hit his friend’s shoulder as a friendly reminder not to swear in front of a lady.
“No shit,” she replied.
“17th floor? Is that where the Baron is staying?” Wage asked.
“I believe so. Why? You thinking of going up there?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
She sighed. “I wouldn’t go up there. There is a whole bunch of them, and they seem rather . . . dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Now what makes you say that?”
“Devil only knows. Might be their cold eyes. Could be their scars. The way they chew with their mouths open. But more than likely, it’s all those guns they carry.”
“They have guns? How do you know?”
“Clearly their tailor does not take into account the extra material needed to conceal a firearm.” She took another sip. “Sort of like the one you are carrying in the back of your pants.”
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 25
