by J A Deriu
“Who is coming?”
“It is the sultan’s torturer.”
Pierre’s body spasmed. He spilled the cocktail. Ernest convulsed, too, and emitted a sharp howl.
“Do not worry, little man,” Taymoor said to Ernest. “The torturer will only want him.” He pointed to Pierre. The Ottoman laughed mirthfully at Pierre.
Pierre glared at him as though it had been sadistic. He had images of the Ottoman torturers from the cheap stories and films he consumed as a teenager. They were always portrayed as evil, ugly caricatures, grossly barbarous and sickly perverted.
Taymoor looked at his watch again. “Should be here soon.” He stood and paced across the room.
Pierre urgently looked at Ernest. His manservant frowned for a moment and then sipped on his cocktail. Pierre leaned across and slapped his knee. “What are you doing? We have to get out of here. Is it too high to jump from this balcony?”
Ernest nonchalantly glanced toward the fall. “I would say so.”
Pierre growled. “Oh, I see. You are not worried. He said that they only want me. Well, I am going to tell him that you are the one that knows everything.”
“It won’t be that bad. We have been through plenty. This Taymoor seems affable.”
Pierre tensed and closed his fist. “Easy for you to say.”
There was a sharp knock at the door, and they both stiffened. Taymoor rushed to the door, opened it, and then reverently stepped back.
Pierre’s breathing was seized as he stretched his neck to watch who would enter. Taymoor bowed. Ernest gasped. The person who walked into the room was tall. A woman. She had lush, long, flowing black hair. She ignored Taymoor and majestically strode into the room. Her magnetic eyes quickly settled on Pierre. She said something to Taymoor. He hurried to Ernest, grabbed the little man by his arms, and yanked him up and toward the door. Ernest looked helplessly back at Pierre.
The door closed. He had not moved. She turned her imposing physique to face him. She was wearing tightly fitted clothes. Her body was incredibly feminine and also physically intimidating. He pushed back on the sofa. She took short steps toward him. “I understand that you only speak the language of Englishmen,” she said in a strong voice.
“Yes,” he answered meekly.
Her skin was a beautiful fawn color. Her cheekbones were very high like the people who were said to have originated in the very north of Old Europa. She sat across from him without taking her eyes off him. She stared at him as though he was an oddity. “My name is Tarja. Do you know who I am?”
He did not want to say what Taymoor had told him. She did not look like the comic-book torturer. His mouth opened. “I am not sure.”
“I am from the Secret Service of the Sultan. I report to the Shadow of God on Earth himself. We have spies in all corners of this earth, including the great city you are from. We know who you are. We know that you were at the great battle of the Qing fortress. You are a very important man who has seen great events.”
“I am not, really, and I did not see a single bit of action during the battle.”
“You are the head of the Fugger Press, which is the premier press publisher in the Metropolis.”
“I’m not really that involved with the press – I only read the sports section.”
“Do not be shy.” She smiled warmly. “We know all about you.”
“I only took the job as a favor.”
“Yes, your wife. We know about her too.” She looked at his hand. He realized he was holding an empty cocktail glass. “Yes, I would like one of those too. What are you drinking?” She stood up and moved gracefully to the bar. She left behind her sumptuous and intoxicating scent. “We have much to discuss.”
Pierre looked at the glass. “I don’t know what this was. Taymoor made it. It tasted like there was rum in it.”
“You are nervous. Do not be. I do not know what Taymoor told you, but you have arrived at the most civilized city on the face of this earth.” She busied herself behind the bar. “I will make my favorite. There is no rum but plenty of raki.”
She returned with two glasses and handed Pierre one.
“You may be asking yourself – what would the most powerful man on earth want with you?”
Pierre tasted the drink. It was sweet and highly alcoholic. “That was not really explained by Taymoor.”
“You are speaking to me now. Things will make a lot more sense to you.” She giggled conspiratorially, leaned forward, and touched his knee. “The sultan wants the people of the world to know what really happened in the Qing. He wants them to know who was responsible for the war and why it ended like it did.”
“This, I don’t know.”
“Oh, but you do.”
Pierre looked at her quizzically.
“We all know that the people of the Qing beseeched the sultan to intervene in their land to alleviate them of years of mismanagement by the emperor and his Grand Council of Advisers. The people were starving, desperately poor, and spiritually bereft. The looked to the empire of the Ottomans and saw how diverse people can live together and excel. The sultan reluctantly agreed and sent his best general with the task of liberating these sad people from their travails.” She stopped to taste her drink. Satisfied, she smiled at Pierre. Her English was superior to many who only spoke the one language. “It is with misfortune, though, that sinister forces intervened. Again, I am stating what is known. The cretins of New Europa once again inflicted the Templars on the world. This time they were not vanquished as they always had been. The general of the Janissaries was bribed and bowed and groveled like a child. This is what the sultan knows, and this is what he wants the world to know. It must be known that the suffering of the people of the Qing, the betrayal of the general, the war crimes of the Templars, are all the doing of the powers that rule in the states of New Europa.”
“The Templars are not part of the establishment. They are reviled.”
“It does not seem to be. They have numbers approaching a proper-sized army. Our agents tell us that they have much support and growing.”
“Not where it matters, I would say.”
“The sultan would debate that with you. Oh, do not worry. That will not have to happen. Howbeit, the sultan does want the world to know the truth. And what better man is there to attest to this? You were there. You know the corruption that dominates in New Europa. You are a pressman.”
“I am not sure that I am following you.”
“We are intending to conduct an interview with you. Something that would be filmed so that many people can see it. It would be a very important interview.”
“I see.” Pierre paused to think about this strange turn of events. It was much better than the torturing he had feared. Yet what could he possibly say about all of these things she spoke of? He did not care about the Templars, or the war, or anything else but getting home.
“Do not be worried. We will spend much time together.”
“I would really like to return home,” he said. “It has been a long time, for no reason. I should not have been in the Qing, and I was on my way home from there when it was ruined by pirates.”
“I am sure that your case will be considered justly, as all things are in the empire of the Ottomans.” She held up her glass. “Let us drink to a path home for you.” She took a long drink and moved next to Pierre. She settled seductively next to him and rubbed her side along his. She eyed him aggressively. Some of his drink splashed out of the glass.
“I will help if I can,” he said. “It seems like serious business for the sultan to be involved.”
“It is. The sultan has much to consider. There are those calling for war. And it is an easy pathway when the truth is known.”
“Calling for war. With whom?”
“New Europa, of course.”
Pierre finished what was left in his glas
s.
“More to drink? This would almost certainly be the case if the truth of the Qing fortress battle was widely known. It would shut up those that simply, for their own politics, want to blame the Janissaries, behead them, and forget about the whole catastrophe.” She took Pierre’s glass from his hand, stood, and walked to the bar. She turned back toward him. “You seem dazed. Do not worry. Yes, these are serious matters, but we will work together.” She looked at him with the surety of a superpredator. “I am not one for a long seduction, so let us drink like we will wake in hell in the morning.”
She busily searched the bar, clinked glasses together, and splashed haphazardly. She lifted her eye in moments to watch Pierre as if he was about to bound away. She returned with two tall, overflowing glasses. She fell next to him. Her firm body pressed into his. He handled the glass and took it directly to his mouth. He coughed. The drink tasted like fire. He spat droplets. She drank her glass in one swallow and let the glass fall to the cushion. Her hands slid over his body. He drank another sip. Her fingers stabbed into his skin. She grimaced a smile and touched his face with her sharp nose and jaw. He felt her teeth against his neck. Her palm swept under his chin. Her other hand curled around the back of his head. He could sense her strength behind those hands and was undecided whether to struggle or succumb.
She swung her hand around so that it was between them. She moved it low. He watched it with intensity. She felt at her middle and uncoiled her belt. It was made of a soft, see-through silken material. She guided his hands together and began wrapping the belt around them, pulling it tighter. The torturer, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The greenery reminded her of Pierre’s estate. She smiled at her reflection in the window of the motor vehicle. She noted among her thoughts that she would find a way to save the age-old estate from the debt collectors. She stared strangely at the smile on her face. It was genuine.
Krass interrupted her thoughts. He was talking about something. His head was screwed toward her, and he shot short sentences. She tuned into what he was saying. “They are unchecked. Any person can make them. Then they stuff them in letterboxes.” Krass drove without paying attention to the road. He saw the blankness on her face. “I am talking about the political pamphlets. Everyone claims that they don’t read them, but they do. The ones aimed against you have been colorful and vicious. Cleverly done to get attention, so that people do sneak a read of them. I have kept an eye on them. To keep you informed. Read every one, I have. They are typical of the salacious nature of these things. There is a lot of gossip about your private life. A lot. If even a small part of these stories were true, you would be dead from exhaustion. Then there are the ones that dive into your politics. These are full of conspiracy. Who is pulling your strings? And what strings are you pulling?”
“What do they say?” she asked showing some interest.
“Huh?”
“Who is pulling my strings? What do the pamphlets say?”
“The usual dark, unnamed forces. Cabals and fat industrialists. I read one that claimed you were Vandergrift’s proxy.”
Ida scoffed.
“Yes, I laughed too. However, these pamphlets are having an influence. They are like throwing stones at a locomotive. Someone hits the right spot, and it is derailed. I say that because there is solid talk that one of the Livery companies is thinking of withdrawing their endorsement for the election. The Worshipful Company of Drapers, I think, or it may be the Taylors. You do not look concerned. The election is not far away.”
She gave a slight shrug and looked out of the window. They passed fields scattered with sheep and cows.
“It would be handy in situations like this to have your own army, like Vandergrift did,” Krass continued.
“Was that true?” she asked with little interest. “I thought you made that up.”
“It was more true than not,” he answered. “The Red Dawn always seemed to be belting his opponents. I’m saying that an outfit like that would be useful. They could smash the presses of these losers that are making these dumb pamphlets and give them a good beating for their trouble.” He looked at her, twitched his nose, and then glanced at a sign. “We are not far. We have crossed the border.”
He drove off the main highway and, without checking his map, turned at several crossroads until they were on a narrower dirt road. Krass ran out of things to say and drove quietly. Or perhaps, Ida thought, her lack of engagement had sapped his spirit.
Krass slowed as they drove through small villages and tooted the horn to scatter goats and other animals from the road. “You seem to know your way well,” she finally said.
“I have used this place before. It’s quiet. Perfect for the occasion. You will see.”
He turned off the road and under a stone archway that led to a residence. No fence joined the archway, and the lawns were uncut. The house was a small-sized manor covered with creepers.
“What is this place?” Ida asked.
“Hmm.” Krass lowered his head to better see out of the window. “I have come here many times. It is what they call an artist’s retreat. I like to listen to the poetry.” He glanced at her face in the rear-view mirror. “Ha, I do like people. Only not the ones that inhabit the world that we do. There is a gazebo in the rear. I have organized the meeting for there.”
He parked the motor vehicle. There was no one to be seen. It was too early. They walked under thick-branched trees to the rear with a cacophony of bird songs above them. A path twisted through gardens. Krass lit two cigarettes and offered one to Ida. She shook it away. “Given up, have you?”
She shrugged and looked over a hedge. Two men stood in a gazebo holding up their hands to block the sun so that they could watch them approach. She stopped for a moment. “That is him. You have done very well, even for your high standards.” Krass could not stop a satisfied smile cross his face that was unfamiliar to the look. She remembered the thin, elderly frame of Carsten Cheval. Her nemesis. They had met only once before. He lifted a hand to show that he had seen them.
The gazebo was missing boards. Stabs of sunlight fell over the two men. She stepped up the two steps to stand on the floorboards. “I am grateful for the meeting,” she said to Carsten.
“I owed you are meeting, at the least,” Cheval said.
“Can we meet alone?”
Carsten looked at his man. “We can.” The man kept a blank face. He had short, graying hair and a hard face. He went down the steps without a word. Krass stood with his arms crossed. They looked at each other. “Fancy a walk in the gardens?” Krass said to break the uncomfortable silence. Carsten’s butler said nothing and started walking toward the gardens. “There are some nice sculptures about,” Krass said and followed him. “Would you like some tobacco?”
Carsten held his hand toward a bench and bent to brush leaves away. Ida sat on the bench before he could touch a single leaf. The old man lowered himself onto the bench across from her with a grimace on his face.
“Your man stated that this meeting is not to be known other than by us, Rovis, and your man. He said that you do not wish to meet me in any of your official political or business capacities.”
“This is true.”
“I am intrigued. This is not expected. I would like to open by stating that the matter of your husband is something I am regretful to hear about. It should be noted that myself and the Grand Master of the Order of the Templars kept our side of the bargain. We cannot control pirates on the high seas. In fact, Templars lost their lives defending your husband.”
“I am aware of the circumstances of his kidnapping at sea as best that can be deduced by the sketchy and unreliable reports, and no, I do not hold yourself or the Templars responsible for his unfortunate situation.”
“I am pleased to hear this, and I am praying for the safe return of your husband.”
“It is, however, the Tem
plars that I wish to discuss, and your arrangements with them.”
Carsten’s body, which must have been one used to tense sentences, moved involuntarily. He was wearing a plain jacket with a white shirt underneath. “You would have heard that I am ruined,” he offered.
“I know that you are not,” she answered. “Why are you in the Habsburg State? It mainly exists for its secret bank accounts.”
Carsten did not answer. He lifted his chin slightly for her to continue.
“I will tell you what I will tell you next to give you context. You are a trustworthy man. You kept silence for our last deal. In spite of the intense interest in regards to it.” She rubbed the nape of her neck. “I am not as ambitious as you would think from reading what is written about me.” The old man’s distinguished face frowned. This was what his conceptualizing mind had least expected. “In recent days, my ambitions have waned even more. To the extent that they are extinguished. To consider if they were really mine in the beginning is where I started. You do not need to hear more of this. It is sufficient to say that I intend to limit my tenure in the Forum.”
Carsten’s mouth dropped open. “I must say that I am greatly surprised. Since our meeting I have become an avid reader of the substantial number of articles that are concerned with you and your rise in the Metropolis. It seemed inexorable.”
“This is not your concern,” she said and watched a leaf fall onto the boards. “I have a focus for my husband, Pierre. Each day that he is lost, the dangers multiply. This matter must be ended. Those popular papers that you have referred to call for patience. That my support will flourish in the role of a staunch victim. The establishment that crows their support for me does nothing, not even lift a finger for him.” He nodded gently. “In this environment strange ideas have percolated in my head – perhaps those that could help are those that helped before. Albeit, for their – your – own purposes, but, as you said, your side of the bargain was kept.”
“I see,” Carsten said. He kept his mouth open as if to continue and then restrained himself waiting for her.
