The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (13 page)

The man took the tickets and then he and his associate left the room.

Renaud removed a white kerchief from his breast pocket and slowly wiped his hands clean. He never understood how working men could live with constantly filthy hands. He shook his head in disgust and threw the monogrammed kerchief into the wastebasket. He spared the woman a withering look.

“Do you think they will allow a woman to berth on one of the expedition vessels?”

“If my dear friend Professor Ollafson goes along, how could he ever leave his Aramaic and ancient-text expert behind?”

“If you are so trusted, Madame, how is it you failed to know about the little surprise that awaited me inside of the satchel?”

The woman stared at Renaud. She pulled a long hatpin from her wide-brimmed hat and removed her dark veil so she could see the man Paris had assigned her two years before. She angrily stuck the long pin back in the hat and then turned on him.

“The artifact was not inside?”

“No, it was not. But there was something quite interesting that the good professor did not share with his ancient-languages expert.”

“What was it?” she asked. “And why did you let it leave here without allowing me to examine it?”

“That will be determined by others in our government, not you. It seems Paris has lost faith in your efforts to uncover the real reason for the professor’s interest in fairy tales.”

“I have done my job. Perhaps you should also. Why the big push from Paris?”

Renaud smiled and walked toward the credenza where a silver service had been set up. He poured himself a glass of port while offering the woman none. He drank deeply from the crystal glass and then sat in the chair Madame Richelieu had vacated.

“Once certain people in power found out the Americans were involved in this ridiculous pursuit of myths and legends, naturally we had to become more aggressive in the quest to find out what it was they were going after and why.”

“You fail to realize that—”

“Enough.” The man stood and poured himself another drink. “Are you aware of what happened at Hampton Roads last year?”

“I fail to see—”

“That, Madame, is exactly why I was attached to you—because you fail to see.” He returned to his seat and relaxed, stretching his long legs out and fixing her with a kindhearted, poor-little-girl-doesn’t-know-anything smile. He shook his head. “The United States and the Confederate navies in one day made every wooden warship on the high seas obsolete.”

A look of dawning understanding came to the beautiful woman’s face.

“You refer to the battle of Hampton Roads between the Union
Monitor
and the Rebel vessel
Merrimack
?”

“Yes, now I see that you may be on the verge of understanding.”

“A little, perhaps. But I am no military strategist.”

The man chuckled. “No, Madame, you are not. But I and my department are experts. With the Americans on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line coming up with naval sciences such as the world witnessed in Carolina between two advanced warships, do you think we would allow an American expedition to go unnoticed? Will we let them recover something that may even place them further ahead of the world? Whether it be military or philosophical in nature is no matter. We must curtail this American arrogance. Whatever is there, we will recover it. If they think this artifact is important, who are we to allow them to get to it first? This is not the way the real world plays, and the Americans and their barbaric president must learn this.”

The woman remained silent as she realized once again that she had been used by ruthless men in Paris.

“Now our intelligence sources say that the British have become aware of Professor Ollafson’s discovery. They even had men ensconced in the last expedition to the area in 1859.”

“Then why did they not steal the artifact then?” she asked, becoming curious as to this man’s real intentions.

The tall man lost the look of arrogance for the first time. “Because, Madame, for reasons about which we still are in the dark, Ollafson was the only one to return from the expedition alive.”

“The professor never mentioned anything like that.”

“Because he knew how important this find was and he knows how to keep a secret, a secret your prowess as a spy failed to uncover, foolish woman.”

“And now?” she asked a little nervously, as Madame Richelieu knew she was in over her head.

He stood, placed the empty glass on the table, and turned on the woman as his arrogant smile returned.

“Simple. You had better be sure we are included on the roster of that expedition.”

“You? How am I to justify your presence when we are not even sure if President Lincoln will allow the professor to go?”

“I and your superiors have every confidence in your abilities—of persuasion at least.”

“And if I do, you expect to just take whatever is there away from the Americans?”

“Not us. We are only to observe and report. Others will take what we need. Paris has prepared far better than the Americans.”

“The fools are willing to go to war for what you believe is a fairy tale?”

“There will be no war. Paris believes the Americans will never make this public knowledge, not after the deaths of so many in their little familial squabble. To waste time and precious money on an expedition? No, whatever happens on the high seas will remain there. No one will witness the death of any wayward warships that get in our way. Whether they be American, British, or German, no one will ever know.”

Paul Renaud of the French Army looked at the novice spy like a new life-form that he had just discovered, and then laughed at the expression on her face.

“If the Americans want to play, we will play.”

Madame Richelieu knew at that moment that the Americans were not the only nation to have gone insane—it was the entire world.

BRITISH EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, D.C.

The courier from Her Majesty’s government droned on as First Viscount, Richard Bickerton Pemell Lyons, Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the United States, stood silently listening at the open window as he tried to catch the afternoon breeze that broke some of the summer swelter in Washington. The portly, mustachioed man listened and when the courier was finished, he stood waiting for the ambassador’s answer.

“Her Majesty and Lord Palmerston know my feelings and opinion on interfering in internal matters concerning the bloody Union. If they think the United States will take that interference lightly, they are not thinking very clearly in London.” Lyons went to his desk and sat heavily in the large chair. The captain remained at attention and that was just the way Lyons wanted him. He did not trust the military and never would. That prejudice was starting to show more and more as this American Civil War continued. Finally he placed the message from Victoria and Lord Palmerston on the desk, rubbed his tired eyes, and nodded at the captain. “Please sit, Captain. The heat has me out of sorts this afternoon and this message of yours has not made my day any easier.”

“Apologies, My Lord.”

Lyons waved off the false apology and reached for the crumpled message once more.

“And how are we supposed to infiltrate this … this … expedition?”

“I am to inform Lord Lyons that the army has already taken that step.”

The ambassador was shocked as he looked from the message to the courier. “Excuse me?”

“Her Majesty’s armed forces will have not one, but two personages onboard any American naval vessel leaving for Europe. One of these individuals will be in the inner circle of command.”

“If they are found out, the Americans may very well turn all of this advanced weaponry you’re so frightened of our way. Do they realize that at the palace?”

“Whatever happens over there, or on the high seas, will remain secret. No one the wiser. They cannot go to the press with this. Their President Lincoln would be committing political suicide if they did.”

“When are the Crown and the army ever going to realize that they cannot analyze the Americans in such broad strokes?” Lord Lyons stood from behind his desk and leaned forward to look the captain in the eyes. “The army underestimated American ability twice before, if I’m not mistaken, and here we are doing it again. Lincoln is unpredictable; the Crown must realize this.” He slammed the message on his desk. “Now, who are these infiltrators?”

“I am afraid I do not have that information available to give you, My Lord.”

The glare was famous. He held the man’s eyes, searching for the lie. It was there in the way the captain raised both brows.

“Does the Crown know why the Americans are doing this?”

“Again, My Lord, I have very little information to pass along. The P.M. and Her Majesty thought the less you know, the better for all … on an official basis, that is.”

“Do not play word games with me, Captain. If this thing goes public it will be a disaster. Our upper classes may favor a Confederate America, but our people are adamantly against the South. Slavery is distasteful, Captain, and if we are caught hindering an American reconstruction we could all feel the heat. Revolutions are not just an American and French invention; they have been going on for quite some time in the world.

“What happens if the Americans get what they go after? What then?” Lord Lyons walked around his desk and confronted the Captain, who didn’t know whether to stand or remain seated. “Go to war?”

“Her Majesty’s navy may have a surprise or two in store for the Yanks if they do succeed in their mission. A rather nasty surprise.” He smirked as if he were privy to the navy’s plans. “Do you have a return message for Her Majesty?” the captain asked as he finally stood with his black cap under his arm.

“None. Dismissed, Captain.”

The red-coated army captain clicked his polished heels together, bowed, and then left the well-appointed office. Lyons watched him leave and returned to the window. He watched more soldiers and civilians move along the street and then closed his eyes in silent prayer.

“Just what are you after, Mr. Lincoln?”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

AUGUST 1, 1864

The two men were sore from their long journey from Kansas. The train was full and everyone was looking out at a city that had very nearly been taken by Robert E. Lee a year before.

Colonel John Henry Thomas was not interested in the view as the train started to slow as it entered the station. Sergeant Major Dugan was also not looking out the window but making faces at the boy who kept popping his head up now and again from the seat in front of them. He would stick out his tongue and the boy would laugh and dip back below eye level. He finally tired of the game and looked over at Thomas, who lay half-reclined on the wooden seat with his dirty white hat tenting his eyes. Neither man had bothered to shave since their time on the plains. Their orders were clear—return to the capital at the fastest possible speed with no delay.

“We’re coming into the capital, Colonel,” Dugan said as he looked out of the filthy window to see the old wooden platform as the train slowed.

Before Thomas could remove the hat and answer Dugan, there were several screams of horror from the front of their car. Thomas heard the car’s conductor stutter as he shouted and women screeched.

“Hey, you can’t be in here! Get back to the baggage car where you’re supposed to be.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Dugan as he nudged Thomas with a sharp elbow. “Old dog-boy’s makin’ an appearance.”

John Henry Thomas finally removed the hat from his eyes and looked toward the front of the car where the shouts of fear and loathing could be heard. He immediately recognized four soldiers he had seen earlier and the train’s conductor holding a very angry-looking Gray Dog as he attempted to get by the roadblock.

“Damn it,” Thomas muttered as the mother of the small boy turned with a gasp at the colonel’s language. Thomas was about to apologize but decided he had better save Gray Dog from hanging first. He stood and tipped his hat at the woman and then made his way up the aisle as the train came to a stop at Harrisburg Station.

“Goddamn Indians and darkies are taking over the damn country, thinkin’ they can do anything they want,” said a gruff sergeant with a bandage around his head. Agreement was mumbled by the other three soldiers and conductor holding Gray Dog at bay.

The Comanche was dressed as he always was in a shirt of purple material that had been purchased for him at Fort Dodge for his trip east, and Gray Dog had thought at the time that Thomas’s gift was a wonderful joy to wear. The boy had been proud. But it wasn’t the shirt that was so frightening to the unenlightened—it was the breechcloth over the leather leggings and that infernal coyote head on his black top-knotted hair. All the passengers were leaning as far away from the Indian as they could get without jumping from one of the open windows. One middle-aged woman had already swooned and her outraged husband was tending to her.

The wounded sergeant and his friends held Gray Dog, who was struggling to escape the filthy hands holding him. Finally the sergeant drew a revolver and was raising it above his head to strike at the Comanche. As he brought it down a powerful hand grabbed the sergeant’s wrist and twisted.

“What the hell do you—”

The sergeant stopped abruptly when he realized a big man was about to break his wrist, and his eyes widened when he saw that the man had two embroidered silver eagles on his shoulder boards. The other three soldiers saw the same thing and immediately released the angry Indian. Thomas again twisted the sergeant’s hand until the pistol fell free, where he caught it and without wasted motion tossed it backward to Dugan, who was standing right behind the colonel. Thomas released the sergeant’s hand as the four soldiers came to an abrupt attention.

“At ease,” Thomas said as he reached in between the four troopers and the conductor and pulled Gray Dog free of the mass of men.

The sergeant didn’t know if he should salute or again reach for the Indian.

“This man is with me, and if anyone touches him again I’ll throw that man”—he looked at the people staring at him from their seats—“or woman through the nearest goddamn window. Is that clear?”