The Great Game (39 page)

The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.

— Charles Darwin

             
For the past few days powerful men had been arriving at Schloss Uhm. The carriages that pulled up to the portcullis were large and ornate and smelled of fresh paint, and they were drawn by matched quartets of spirited horses. Some had the dust of the road thick on them, as they had come from a great distance. Several had canvas panels on the doors where coats of arms or other devices had been covered to keep them from the eyes of the hoi polloi. The men who arrived by train came in their own private cars, and were met by a closed carriage from the castle.

             
The appearance of these important men went largely unnoticed among the arrival of so many for the fete. This was, after all, the Festival of St. Simon, and rich as well as poor enjoyed a good festival. Friday had dawned bright and warm, with just enough
breeze
to make the crowd feel alert and truly festive. The meadow in front of the castle held over six score tents as well as entertainment areas and spaces for the vendors of St. Simon medals, Turkish warrior dolls, and other bright and shiny objects. Close to two thousand people were on hand this first day—and it wasn't even the weekend yet. This year's festival promised to be a good one. The mountebanks were clever, the jugglers and acrobats were agile, the food was tasty, the beer was thick, rich and foamy, the little St. Simon twists—a crescent-shaped pastry filled with whipped cream, made locally just for this festival—were a special treat.

             
In a tent toward the rear of the meadow a small group of people stood in rapt attention. They had never witnessed anything quite like this before. A small sign on the tent door read:
DR.

ALEXANDRE SANDAREL—
ASK
AND YOU SHALL BE TOLD.
And the
telling went on throughout the day. Professor Moriarty, in his guise as Doctor Alexandre Sandarel, wearing a black, fur-trimmed frock coat with wide lapels, that emphasized his height; his chest crossed with a red sash that emphasized his importance, stood on a platform in the middle of the tent gazing down at his audience with eyes that, as one onlooker put it, "seemed to burn into your very soul." On a tripod stand by his side was a brass brazier about a foot and a half across, holding a small heap of glowing coals.

             
Madeleine Verlaine, in a pearl-colored gown that emphasized what it was meant to emphasize, handed each member of the audience a piece of paper, a pencil, and a small white envelope as he or she entered. "If you have a question for the doctor," she whispered, "write it down and seal it in the envelope." Periodically she collected the envelopes and brought them up to Sandarel on a silver tray.

             
Sandarel took a sealed envelope from the tray and held it up. "The young gentleman by the door, in the brown leather coat," he said. "This is from you, I believe."

             
"And what was my question?" the youth by the door challenged.

             
Sandarel thrust the envelope into the brazier and it burst into flames. He studied the rising smoke intently. "Yours is the oldest of questions," he said. "You want to know if she loves you—although you put it in earthier terms."

             
One man in the audience chuckled, and looked around to see if anyone else had gotten the joke.

             
"The answer to your question," Sandarel continued, "is in two parts: the first is 'yes,' and the second is," and here he shook a finger at the man, "not a chance, and you should know better than to ask—not until you get married!"

             
Most of the audience laughed nervously, several of them merely looked shocked.

             
Sandarel picked up a new envelope and ran his fingers over its surface. "From a young lady," he said. "Her name is Susanna, I believe. Are you here, Susanna? I won't embarrass you."

             
An attractive blond girl of perhaps sixteen in an aubergine chemise with a large bow in back and an abundance of lace trim raised her hand shyly.

             
"Ah, there you are," Sandarel said. "Let us send your question into the sky, and see what answer we can pluck out of the space between this world and the next." He dropped the envelope into the fire and it burst brightly into flames and was quickly devoured. "There, it's gone," he said. "And now no one can ever know what you wrote. But nonetheless let's see if I can get an answer to your question." He put his hand to his forehead and stared at the rising smoke.

             
"You want to know where someone—we won't mention his name—is right now. But wait! That's not what you really desire to know. You desire to know whether he loves you, whether he is being faithful to you. And let me reassure you, the smoke says yes. He is thinking of you even now as I speak."

             
With that the girl burst into tears and fled the tent.

             
The audience murmured amongst themselves. They were impressed with what they were seeing, but weren't sure of what to make of it. One old man backed out of the tent, making the sign of the cross in the air with his right forefinger, but nobody else seemed inclined to follow him.

             
Sandarel retrieved another envelope and studied it briefly and then tossed it onto the flames. "I will not identify the writer of this note by name, nor will I look at him directly, for I don't want to embarrass him," he said, his deep voice resonating throughout the tent. "But I am now going to tell him more than he wanted to know." Sandarel's gaze swept the audience. "Put back what you took right now and confess all. Those you have wronged will forgive you. Make restitution for what you cannot return. You know in your heart that this is what you should—what you must—do. If you continue down the path on which you have started, you will find nothing but ruin and heartbreak."

             
A gasp ran through the crowd, and they all looked around to see if they could tell who the writer was and guess just what he had written.

             
Sandarel picked up the next envelope.

-

             
It was now three in the afternoon of Friday, 18 April 1891. Outside the gates of Schloss Uhm the Festival of St. Simon was doing its raucous best to outdo all previous festivals. At the same time, in a private dining room of the castle, guarded by a phalanx of Graf von Linsz's private guards distributed about the halls and corridors, the officers of the New Order of the Knights of Wotan held their yearly meeting; this one, they knew, would be the most important meeting they had held since the founding of the order a dozen years before.

             
There were twenty-six people gathered around the dark walnut dining room table. Nine were high ranking officers in the armies of either Austria or Germany. Seven were of the European aristocracy (there was an overlap here, four of the officers were of noble birth). Three were ordained priests. Six were bureaucrats or elected officials: three Austrian, two German, and
one French
. Five were what the popular press was beginning to describe as "captains of industry": two armaments manufacturers, one owner of coal mines and newspapers, one textile manufacturer, and one exploiter of labor in the far-off colonies of various European countries.

             
There were also two trusted waiters to see to the needs of the order, and, squeezed into the bottom cupboard of an ancient oak sideboard where she had been hiding for several hours before the meeting began, was an operatic contralto named Jenny Vernet.

             
The large, throne-like chair at the head of the table was occupied by "Der Alte," (the Old Man), Herzog Robert Franz Willem von und zu Agberg, one of the co-founders of the New Order of the Knights of Wotan, and the highest-born of the membership since the other co-founder, Prince Meinhess, was killed recently in an unfortunate accident while boar hunting in the Black Forest. Der Alte, now well into his eighties, was the final arbiter of the customs and procedures of the order. He did not overly concern himself with what the order actually did, except to nod his approval whenever it was called for, but he was stern about their adherence to the ancient rules of Teutonic knighthood while they were doing it.

             
Graf von Linsz, who sat on Der Alte's right hand, chaired the meeting, calling it to order and nodding at each member to give him permission to speak. Each member got up in turn, began speaking with a ritualistic, "May it please the order ..." and then told what he had been doing "on the order's business" for the past year. And much of what was said did please the order, judging by the appreciative murmurs Jenny overheard from her hiding place.

             
Jenny Vernet's cramped and uncomfortable presence in the sideboard was an act born of frustration. For the past few weeks she had been trying to convince von Linsz, not that she was on his side because the count didn't really care whether a mere woman was on his side or not, but that she was not interested in men's politics—and that she considered all of his mysterious shenanigans, including the kidnaping of the Barnetts, some form of politics that concerned only
men and didn't concern her. But all she'd managed to get out of him were hints and threats and vague references that something big was on its way.

             
But now, at last, as she lay concealed, she was learning something more than hints.

             
"Now on to the most important affair," she heard von Linsz say. His usually dry and raspy voice had an undertone of excitement she had rarely heard before. "The event for which we have planned takes place next week.
Probably next Thursday.
The principals, we are assured, will be arriving.
England, France, Germany, and Russia.
And, of course, Austria.
Everything is in place.
The capture, the threat, the killing.
It cannot fail to have the desired effect."

             
"And who gets the blame?" a voice asked. Jenny thought it was the textile man, but she wasn't sure. "Has it been decided?"

             
"Of course.
The people are picked, letters have been written.
"

             
"
But who?"

             
"Serbian nationalists.
Specifically a group called 'Free Serbia.'
"

             
"
Serbian nationalists," someone said musingly. "I like it! Austria will mobilize to send troops into Serbia, just to keep the peace, of course."

             
"And then Russia will mobilize," someone said. "The tsar will come to Serbia's aid.
"

             
"
Even after—?"

             
"Those who want to blame
Serbia,
will blame the Serbian nationalists," the voice said. "Those who
don't,
will blame the Austrian Army for the aftermath. And Imperial Russia feels that it has blood ties with Serbia."

             
"Ah!
Of course.
And Germany will come in on the side of Austria.
And France on the side of Russia."

             
"France and Russia are not allies," someone said.

             
"Yes, but after 1870, France will welcome any excuse to go to war with Germany."

             
"True."

             
Jenny felt the need to sneeze coming over her. She gritted her teeth and held her nose, and felt her eyes water, but she fought off the sneeze.

             
"We must be prepared to nudge, to whisper, to demand," one of them was saying.