FOUR — ODESSA
Politics is a way of life.
—Plutarch
The room was large. Sunlight from the two floor-length casement windows fell into a tessellated parallelogram across the marble floor, intersecting the great oak desk in the room's center, but leaving the corners in perpetual dusk. The desk and two chairs were the only furniture in the room. The polished top of the desk was bare except for an ornate baroque inkstand and a plain, leather-framed blotter. Fifteen feet off the floor, a narrow balcony ran around three of the walls. The ceiling was lost in gloom.
Moriarty sat in an absurdly short chair in front of the desk and waited. Two burly men in identical brown suits had escorted him into the room, seated him in the squat, low-backed chair, then turned on their heels and marched out, their footsteps echoing across the marble. He was left alone.
There came occasional faint scraping sounds from above, as though someone on the balcony were observing him, but he displayed no interest in the sounds and did not look up. Shortly they ceased.
When the sunlight had moved from the inkwell to the edge of the blotter a man entered through a small door in the far wall. The door was instantly closed behind him. "Sdravsoitye, Gospodine Moriarty, " he said, taking his place behind the great desk. "Kak vye pojyevoitye?" He was a slender man who looked quite young, but his face was lined with his years and what he had seen and what he had done. He wore a thin mustache which looked alien to his face, as though he had put it on for the occasion.
"Nye panyemi Po-Russkie?" the man said. "You do not speak Russian? I am sorry. My name is Zyverbine. I am in charge of the Foreign Branch of the Okhrannoye Otdelenie, the Imperial Department of State Protection. You come to us highly recommended. Would you tell me something about yourself?"
"No," Moriarty said.
There was a long pause. "No?" Zyverbine repeated.
"You already know everything you need to know about me."
Zyverbine suppressed a smile. He touched a concealed stud on the desk and the top drawer slid open. He removed a folder from the drawer. "Moriarty," he said, reading from the folder, "James Clovis. Born in 1842 in Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire, of Thomas Moriarty, headmaster of the Bradford School, and his wife, née Anne DeFauve, a woman of French extraction. Has an older brother, James Francis, a booking agent for the Great Central Railway, and a younger brother, James Louis, a major in the Royal Gloucestershire Foote, a regiment which has the traditional privilege of remaining covered when in the Queen's presence.
"James Moriarty—James Clovis Moriarty, that is—enrolled at the University of Aberdeen at the age of fourteen, living with an uncle in that city."
"Named?" Moriarty interrupted.
Zyverbine flipped the page and looked up, his pale blue eyes now expressionless. "Paul DeFauve," he said. "Your mother's brother. Teaches music and tunes pianos. Now living in Bath."
Moriarty laughed, which seemed to displease Zyverbine. "That is not accurate?" he demanded.
"Quite accurate," Moriarty admitted. "You have impressed me with your ability to cull the public record and make files. Now, could we get on with this?"
Zyverbine closed the file and replaced it in the drawer. "I am not altogether sure that you are the man for this job," he said.
Moriarty shrugged. "That is your affair. You paid my passage to come out here and listen. I came out here. I am prepared to listen. I am neither impressed with nor intimidated by your stage setting, but neither am I offended by it. I suppose it serves some purpose in dealing with the children that usually face you across this desk."
"Stage setting?" Zyverbine put his hands on the desk, the slender white fingers pressed into the polished wood. "What are you talking of?"
"This room," Moriarty said, waving his hand about. "The artful gloom. The vast empty space. Leaving me here alone. The noises overhead. The sawed-off legs of this chair to make me lower than you. It is all stage setting. Reading me the file to intimidate me with your wealth of sterile facts. I'm sorry, but I'm not impressed. If you have a job for me, tell me what it is, and let's get on with it."
Zyverbine moved his foot, and the door in the far wall popped open. "Bring another chair," he directed the brown-suited man who appeared in the doorway. "You're right," he told Moriarty. "We of the Okhrana spend much of our time trying to intimidate everyone we deal with, including one another. It is all ridiculousness, is it not?"
Moriarty sat himself in the new chair, which was of normal height. He fixed his gaze on Zyverbine and remained silent until they were once again alone in the room. Then he said, "What do you want me to do?"
"Bear with me for another moment," Zyverbine replied, lacing his fingers together under his chin. "I have a few questions for you. We have, as you say, paid your way here for this interview. Surely we have the right to ask a few questions."
A scraping sound came from the balcony. Moriarty did not look up. "Proceed," he said.
Zyverbine nodded. "What do you know of explosives?" he asked.
Moriarty considered. "Of the chemistry," he said, "I know what is known. Of the history, I know very little. Of the utilization, I have a complete knowledge in some specialized areas."
"Such as?"
"I can blow open a safe without harming its contents," Moriarty said. "But I could not, without further research, destroy a building or a bridge. I am more familiar with the use of nitroglycerine than nitrocellulose or picric acid."
"What do you know of submersible boats?"
"I presume you mean warships, rather than diving bells or similar apparatus?"
"That is correct."
"The Turks are testing one."
"Yes."
"It is of American design."
"Yes."
"I know little further."
"Are you familiar with the scientific principles of operation?"
"Certainly."
"Ah!"
"Zyverbine!" a harsh voice called from the balcony above Moriarty. "Sprosy yevo ob anarkhistakh!"
"What do you know of politics?" Zyverbine asked, without looking up or acknowledging the voice.
"As little as possible," Moriarty said. "The subject does not interest me."
"Do you not feel that any one form of government is superior to another?"
"I have never seen it demonstrated to be so," Moriarty said.
"Do you believe that sovereigns rule by the will of God or the sufferance of the people?" Zyverbine asked.
Moriarty thought about this for a moment. "We are of different religions," he said finally.
"I am not asking about the fine points of dogma," Zyverbine replied. "Whether you are Orthodox, Roman, or a Protester is of no importance for the subject of this conversation."
"I am an atheist," Moriarty said.
This remark was greeted by an extended silence from Zyverbine and the unseen one above.
"Ateyst!" the unseen one said finally, "Bezbozhnik!" Zyverbine looked up. He and the unseen one had a brief, intense conversation. Then there was the sound of a door slamming on the balcony.
Zyverbine transferred his gaze to Moriarty. "That is not in my file," he said.
"That is not my concern."
"A man is about to enter this room," Zyverbine said, leaning forward. "Stand up when he comes in. Bow when I introduce you." Moriarty shrugged. "As you say."
"I wish I had phrased that question differently," Zyverbine said, "although I commend your honesty. You understand it does not make one whit of difference to me whether you believe in one god or twelve. You would seem to be the best man to handle this job, and your private beliefs are not my concern. But the Grand Duke is certain to feel differently."
"A grand duke," Moriarty said. "Of the royal line?"
"Yes. Of course. You will respect his incognito."
"Naturally. And I can appreciate his concern for religion. One who claims to rule by the will of God must dislike even the thought of atheists."
-
The man who e
ntered the room was fully as tall as Moriarty but with massive shoulders and a barrel chest beneath his severely cut gray sack coat. His hair was gray, but his square-cut beard was pitch black and his eyes were light blue.
Zyverbine jumped to his feet. "Professor Moriarty, may I present Count Brekinsky," he said.
Moriarty stood and gave a bow that managed not to look too much like a parody. "Your Grace," he said.
"Yes, yes," Brekinsky said. "Sit down. Professor Moriarty, I am a blunt man. I have a question for you."
Moriarty remained standing. "Ask," he said.
"Why do you do what you do?"
"For money."
The man calling himself Count Brekinsky held out his left hand toward Zyverbine. "The file!"
Zyverbine pulled Moriarty's file from the drawer and handed it across the desk.
Brekinsky studied it. "Our information is that you control the greatest criminal organization in Great Britain."
"Not so," Moriarty said.
Brekinsky looked up from the file and fixed Moriarty with his gaze. "Our information is wrong?"
"There is no such organization," Moriarty said. "I have some men in my employ. The number varies, never more than ten or fifteen. Occasionally the acts they perform in the course of their duties are contrary to the laws of the land. The other, ah, criminals that your informant would have me controlling merely consult me from time to time. If my advice is useful, they pay me for it. I in no way control their actions or give them orders. That is not my concern."
"But they pay you for this advice?" Count Brekinsky asked.
Moriarty nodded. "That is my concern," he acknowledged. "I sometimes describe myself as the world's first consulting criminal." There was a hint of a smile on his face.
"You think of yourself as a criminal?" Brekinsky asked. "Does not this bother you?"
Moriarty shrugged. "Labels," he said, "do not bother me. The fact that I am, on occasion, in conflict with the laws of my country does bother me, but it is the laws that must give way. I live by my own ethical and moral code, which I do not break."
"You have a right to live beyond the law?" Zyverbine asked. "If I do not get caught."
"And yet you consider yourself—trustworthy?" Brekinsky asked.
"When I give my word," Moriarty said, "it is never broken."
Brekinsky tapped the file. "Our records indicate that you are trustworthy," he said, clearly doubtful.
"One does not have to believe in the God of Abraham and Moses to keep his word," Moriarty said.
"Ah," Brekinsky said, grabbing at the phrase. "Then you do believe in some sort of deity?"
"I am willing to admit of the concept that there is a guiding force in the universe," Moriarty said, choosing his words carefully.
"I will interpret that as a belief in God," Brekinsky said. "I could not return to Moscow and tell the Tsar, my brother, that we have employed someone in this matter who does not believe in God."
"He is acceptable?" Zyverbine asked.
"Yes," Brekinsky said. "He is acceptable. I pray God he is acceptable! You may tell him."
"Very well, your Grace."
Brekinsky stuck out his hand, and Moriarty took it. "You are shaking the hand of a Romanoff," Brekinsky said. "We have long memories for good and evil." He turned and left the room.
Moriarty sat down. "Well?" he said to Zyverbine.
"Russia and Great Britain have been to war three times this century," Zyverbine said, "but each time it has been a minor conflict, of marginal concern to the real interests of either country."
"Yes," Moriarty said. "So?"
"A war between the two countries, with both sides fully committed, would be a horrible thing. The world's greatest land power against the world's greatest sea power. It would go on for years. Millions of people would die. It could turn into a global conflict, pulling the other nations of the world irresistibly into its vortex."
"Yes."
"It is possible that one man, in England now, could cause this tragedy. He is a madman. You must stop him. He calls himself Trepoff."
"Trepoff!" Moriarty said. "I have seen the name."
"Indeed?" Zyverbine said.
"Yes. I received a communication from someone wishing to speak to me concerning one 'Trepoff,' who said he would call in the evening. It seemed to assume some prior knowledge of the matter that I did not have. Shortly after the note, I received a bomb. The man never called."
"So!" Zyverbine said, clasping his hands together. "Was the note signed? If so, with what name?"
"The letter 'V' was affixed to the bottom."
"Vassily!" Zyverbine exclaimed, nodding his head almost imperceptibly up and down. "Vassily!"
"Vassily?" Moriarty asked.
"Yes. We did not know that he had tried to seek your aid, although it was from him that we first got your name. He was our best agent in England. He is dead."
"Dead."
"Some weeks after warning us of Trepoff's presence in England, and of his intentions, Vassily Vladimirovitch Gabin, known in London as Ned Bunting, the street artist, died of drinking poisoned soup."
"I'm sorry," Moriarty said.
"His widow received the Imperial Order of Merit, Second Class, and a pension of thirty roubles a month," Zyverbine said. "Very thoughtful," Moriarty said.
"I understand Vassily was a very good street artist. They paint directly on the pavement, do they not? Street artists?"
"They draw on the pavement," Moriarty told him, "with colored chalks. A very transitory art form."
Zyverbine sighed. "Transitory," he said. "Impermanent. The epitaph of a spy."
"Tell me about this Trepoff," Moriarty said. "The man has evidently already tried to kill me once, and was undoubtedly responsible for Bunting's death as well. I'd better at least know what he looks like."
"I wish I could help you," Zyverbine said. "There is no man who knows what Trepoff looks like. He has at times disguised himself as an old man, a youth, and even a woman, and gone undetected each time."
"I see," Moriarty said. "Can you tell me anything about him? How is he going to bring about a war between Russia and Great Britain?"
"I don't know," Zyverbine said.
"I somehow suspected that you were going to say that," Moriarty said.
"It is, perhaps, not as stupid as it sounds," Zyverbine said. "Permit me to explain."
"I encourage you to explain," Moriarty told him.
"Yes," Zyverbine said. "Tell me, Professor, how much do you know of Russian history?"
"What any educated Englishman would be expected to know," Moriarty said, "which is to say, practically nothing."
"The history of my country over the past thirty years," Zyverbine said soberly, "has been written in blood. When Tsar Alexander II ascended the throne in 1855 and liberalized the policies of his father, Nicholas, he was rewarded by increasingly frequent assassination attempts. He dissolved the hated Special Corps of Gendarmerie, and in 1866 the nihilist Karakozoff shot at him in St. Petersburg. He reduced the power of the Secret Third Section, and in 1867 the Polish anarchist Berezowski attempted to assassinate him in Paris. He later abolished the Third Section, and the nihilist Solovioff attempted to murder him on April 14, 1879.
"The Okhrana attempted to infiltrate these nihilist groups and to protect the life of the Tsar, but although we had fair success, it was too late. On March 13, 1881, as he was passing a cheese factory on Malaya Sadova Street, on the way to visit his former mistress, the Princess Catherine, a white handkerchief was waved by the nihilist Sophya Perovskaya and two bombs went off by his sledge."
"I remember reading of the assassination," Moriarty said, "although not in such detail. The bombs did the job, then?"
"The first bomb killed two of the Tsar's Cossack guards. Alexander dismounted to go to their aid, and the second bomb killed him."
"That was four years ago," Moriarty said.
Zyverbine stood up. "Four years ago, Alexander III became Tsar of all Russian
s," he said, crossing himself, "and we of the Okhrana took a blood vow to protect him and his family against anarchists, nihilists, and revolutionaries. We intend to keep that vow."
"Very commendable, I'm sure," Moriarty said. "Trepoff is, then, a nihilist?"
"On the contrary, Professor Moriarty," Zyverbine said. "Trepoff is the leader of the Belye Krystall—the White Crystal, a group of right-wing fanatics within the External Agency of the Okhrana."
The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 5
