The Great Game (9 page)

             
After a little while he was joined by Feodor Hessenkopf, who paused to smoke a cigarette before joining the meeting. They kept the door open a crack, so they could hear what was going
on inside. Hessenkopf had forgone the humpback and was now dressed as a railroad conductor. Perhaps, Paul thought looking at
him,
the little man truly
was
a railroad conductor. The gray uniform showed the proper sort of wear that suggested that it was not a costume. Hessenkopf was to be called "Number Eleven" while at meetings; members were under strict orders to address each other only by their numbers and they were not encouraged to know each other outside, although most of them frequented the
Café
Figaro and could easily be identified by any of the waiters.

             
For the first half hour the members heard the reading of a new anarchist manifesto called
The Coming Revolution,
which had just arrived from Paris. It was supposedly written by the anarchist Brakinsky from his jail cell shortly before his execution for murdering three policemen.

             
A young man named Mandl with a vibrant voice and a sense of pathos stood under the gas mantle in the center of the meeting room and read from the pamphlet.
" 'The
day is coming when the landlords and the bourgeoisie shall no longer snatch the bread from the mouths of the children of the workers,' " he read fiercely. And, further on:
" 'They
would have you fight for your country, like a lamb fighting for its shearing pen, or a swine fighting for its abattoir. You are enslaved by fetters of the great lie called patriotism; they are invisible but they hold more surely than iron chains!' "

             
While Mandl throbbed on, the Ferret slunk outside, saw Hessenkopf,
screeched
, "My god! That uniform!" and immediately grabbed Hessenkopf and pulled him around the corner of the building. Paul could hear the muffled voice of the Ferret evidently bawling out Hessenkopf, but he couldn't make out what was being said. He thought of sneaking over to listen, but decided it wouldn't be wise. In a minute the Ferret came back, paused to glare at Paul, and went on to the meeting room. Hessenkopf did not return.

             
After Mandl had finished and sat down, the group ardently discussed the manifesto. What their argument lacked in logic it made up for in fervor, which increased as the discussion hopped from member to member. They spoke of man's inhumanity to man, and touched on man's inhumanity to woman and child. They dissected the inherent contradictions in the capitalist system that must surely cause its downfall. They reviewed the inherent evils of monarchy and agreed bitterly that kings would never voluntarily vacate their thrones.

             
These things, they agreed, made it necessary to agitate the masses,
who
were too mired in their own misery ever to agitate themselves. Strong measures must be taken to make the lumpen proletariat aware of its own helplessness, of the need for change. Eggs must be broken so that the omelet of social justice might be achieved.

             
Then on to the business of the night.
Paul was called into the meeting room, where the entire group once again renewed their anarchic vows, raising their right hands and swearing never to reveal the secrets of the organization, under pain of death. They swore to obey the orders of their leaders, which Paul found particularly amusing for an organization of anarchists, but he did not smile. Then the new members were taken aside and taught the elements of the anarchists' cipher, which was not a cipher but a book code based on the Lutheran Bible. Then
they all went around the room, shaking hands with each other, replying "Anarchy and revolution!" to each murmured salutation of "Justice and equality!"

             
Number One smiled, not an attractive sight. "With this renewal of our vows we once again pledge to fight to liberate the slaves from their masters, the working men from their bosses, the governed from the evil hand of government," he said. "I trust you will prove to be brave and resourceful." He turned and pointed to Paul. "Number Thirty-seven, there is a message that must be delivered." He pulled a large envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket and appeared to consider for a moment before saying, "In the name of the League I entrust you with this letter."

             
Paul took the envelope. Number One handed him a slip of paper. "Here's the address. Memorize it and destroy the paper. Deliver it as soon as possible, and only to the person named."

             
"Now?"

             
"Yes, now.
Tonight.
You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"

             
Paul grinned. Was that sarcasm or solicitude? No matter. He stared at the paper for a moment and then handed it back to Number One. "You destroy the paper. I'll go."

             
Paul left the cellar, climbed up the half flight of stairs to the alley entrance, and paused to think. The address was across town, and there was a cab rank at the corner of Bosestrasse, a few blocks away, but a good long walk would be just the thing to clear his head. He paused to button his coat up to the neck and then strode off down the street.

             
Inside the cellar room Number One nodded at the man in the gentleman's disguise, and he and one of the sneak-thief trio left and fell in behind Paul. They kept at least a block away and alternated which was closest, changing hats and manner of walking every few blocks so that Paul would not notice he was being followed.

-

             
Number One gathered the remaining league members around him and said, "
you
will all leave here shortly, but one will stay behind. One of you will undertake an important action for us, one that has been planned for some time.
One simple act which will prove our seriousness, and strike a blow for our cause.
Since I'm sure you would all be eager to volunteer, just gather around the table and we'll draw straws."

             
They gathered and each of them pulled a straw from the bunch in Number One's fist. Member Number Five drew the short straw. The Ferret had arranged that Member Number Five would draw the short straw, but he was clever with his hands and nobody had noticed. The others congratulated Number Five and filed out of the damp cellar until only he and Number One were left.

             
Number Five was Carl Webel, a twenty-two-year-old art student, who felt that there was something drastically wrong with society; a feeling not uncommon to twenty-two-year-old art
students. He had been led to believe that the poor needed to be shaken out of their complacency in order to rise up and establish a classless society, and that only random acts of violence on their behalf could do the shaking. He wanted desperately to be one of the shakers.

             
Number One went to a cupboard in a corner of the cellar and removed the heavy padlock. Inside were two packages, a bulky one wrapped in layers of oilcloth, and a small, rectangular one wrapped in brown paper. He removed them both and returned to the table. With the air of a man disclosing a religious artifact, he
unwrapped
the oilcloth, revealing an aging Shugard Seuss revolver. "Here it is, Number Five," he said, passing the heavy weapon across the table. "You think, perhaps, you can handle it?"

             
Webel took a deep breath and hefted the revolver, willing his hand not to shake. "I just point and pull the trigger, right?" he asked, assuming the sort of bravado he thought was required of him. "I can do that, Number One."

             
"You open the weapon like this," the Ferret said, demonstrating, "and you put the bullets in thusly. And then you snap it closed like this. You see?"

             
"Simple," Webel assured him.

             
"Even so, practice it."

             
"Of course."

             
"Very good.
You keep it concealed until the last second. You pull back the hammer thusly as you draw the weapon from your pocket. The Shugard Seuss is double action, but it has a very heavy trigger pull, which is liable to throw off your aim, unless it is cocked first. When it has been cocked, a feather touch is sufficient to fire it. You'd better practice shooting it with no bullets in it."

             
"I shall."

             
"Take the time to aim carefully. At a distance of no more than five meters you cannot miss.
Any further than that, and it becomes problematical.
Then you casually walk away, escaping in the confusion. Everything will be arranged for your escape. Make sure your pockets are empty, and destroy anything you have at home that might connect you with us in case anything goes wrong."

             
"I intend to be much closer than five meters!" the art student said fiercely.
"For the Cause!
For Freedom and Social Justice!
For the Dignity of Man!"

             
The Ferret smiled, displaying two rows of crooked, yellowed teeth and repeated the litany.
"For the Cause!
For Freedom and Social Justice!
For the Dignity of Man!"
He slapped Webel on the back. "There remains some more preparation to be done. I will meet you at noon tomorrow at your rooms with final instructions." Webel nodded, and the Ferret handed him six well-greased cartridges from the paper-wrapped box and watched him leave. Three minutes later
the Ferret extinguished the oil lamp and left himself, carefully locking the small door behind him.

-

             
As the Ferret's footsteps faded away outside, there was a stirring from inside one of the small packing crates. The end popped off, and a man's feet appeared. Slowly the rest of the man emerged from the crate, a tall, lean man with a large, hawklike nose and piercing eyes. He stood and dusted himself off, then stretched and twisted his body in an effort to relieve the cramped tension that four hours crouching in a small box had given to his muscles.

             
"So," the man said, softly, "the game is afoot!" He let himself out the door with a key that was a duplicate of the one the Ferret had used, and then carefully locked the door behind him.

There is a time, we know not when,

A point we know not where.

That marks the destiny of men,

For glory or despair.

—Joseph Addison Alexander

             
The Villa Endorra stretched precariously along a steep hillside outside of Bellagio, overlooking Lake Como. Above and behind it a thick stand of pine forest cut off the view of all but the surrounding mountains, providing, as the joyously random English of the Italian guidebook put it, "a splendiferous emotion of isolation among the beatitudes of Italian harmonies without the necessitude of discommoding the tourist with the inconvenience of veritably being isolate."

             
Before and below the villa, a hundred feet down a vine-cluttered, rocky hillside, the blue waters of the lake reflected dappled April sunlight off its choppy surface; the azure near the shore quickly deepening to a somber dark blue as the bottom fell away to uncharted depths.

             
Benjamin Barnett ended his morning run at the lakeside of the villa and, panting heavily, leaned over the rail that separated the path from the hill to watch a trim white sloop beating across the lake. As he watched, it made a final tack that would bring it alongside the pier below. The blue-jacketed man at the boat's helm handled the wheel and sails with an agility and grace that spoke of years of practice.

             
"What are you watching, my love?" Cecily came across the garden and joined him at the rail. "Has a monster of the deeps suddenly surfaced?"

             
"It's that white sailboat," Barnett explained, putting his arm around her waist. The week they had been at the villa had been good for her, he thought. The pain was disappearing from her face. The spring air, the beautiful countryside, and even the continuing mystery of who was interested in them, and why, seemed to take her mind off the recent past, and the dreadful miscarriage that had so debilitated her.