The Baron made no move to check the note in his pocket. Before he could investigate anything, they had to step outside the easy surveillance of the Soviet Mission. The Baron fell in alongside the Zombie, following Malik down the hall towards the elevator.
“What’re you thinking?” the Baron asked his friend.
The Zombie pulled off his bowler, spun it around on the side of its curled brim, and tossed it back up onto his head with practiced ease. It landed slightly askew. “This is better than I imagined,” he replied, adjusting its fit with a quick tug.
Malik stopped at the elevator and pressed the call button.
The Baron smirked at the Zombie’s whimsy. “Don’t get too excited about cracking heads. We’ll spend most of this weekend asking questions.”
“A waste of time,” Malik opined. The elevator door opened, and he ushered them into the car. “Unlike comrade Denisov, I don’t put any faith in your success.”
The Zombie stood at the back of the car, and the Baron tucked himself into a corner and smiled up at the Russian man. “Do you know something we don’t?”
“Nothing you ought to know,” Malik said.
“Ha, a politician’s answer. As true as it is empty, I’m sure.”
Malik scowled but otherwise refused to dignify the Baron’s insult.
“Do you think Nagy killed anybody?” the Zombie asked.
“He went down in a fountain of blood, I’m sure,” the Baron said.
The elevator reached the ground floor, and the door opened onto that narrow hall off the anteroom. “Yakov!” Malik barked. “Show these men off the property.”
The security guard materialized with both hands already outstretched to grab shoulders and pull on garments, swiftly approaching. A mistake.
“Don’t!” the Baron snapped, all humor out of his voice.
The guard paused and looked to Malik. The Zombie was standing utterly still, staring at the guard’s nearest hand like a dog admiring a steak.
“Don’t touch the Zombie,” the Baron said quietly. “Not if you want to keep that hand.”
The guard asked, “Malik?”
“It’s fine,” Malik said coldly. “Just walk them out.”
The guard snatched his hand back and gestured for them to follow. A few hurried footsteps later and they were deposited outside the front door of the mission. The guard already escaping behind the imaginary safety of iron bars, terrified mostly because the Zombie was a threat that he couldn’t properly measure or engage.
“I wouldn’t have hurt him that bad,” the Zombie said, stepping out from under the portico.
“Oh, I believe it, but it’s a secular mission run by a secular diplomat. We’d be behind bars before the hour was up.” The Baron shaded his eyes and looked up at the fourth floor. He almost expected to see Denisov looking down at them from one of those windows. They needed to review the note in his pocket as soon as possible. “Let’s find a cab.”
The Zombie followed the Baron to the roadside, idly chatting all the while. “I don’t know. They waived security measures for us. That’s a lot of freedom.”
“Yeah?” The Baron waved a hand towards a coming cab, raising and dropping his arm with the ease of someone used to receiving service. “Freedom for what?”
The Zombie rubbed his hands together like a man considering a menu. “Hmm. I wager you could’ve kicked the guard in the testicles and they wouldn’t have complained.”
The first cab swept by without stopping, but the Baron couldn’t see anyone in the seats. “You’re incorrigible. Help me flag down the next one.”
The Zombie scoffed. “You’re standing by the curb. You do it.”
“I’m not a beanpole.”
“I’m not a white man.”
“This isn’t the time for your racist taxi driver theory.” They both waved at the next cab, and it rolled up to the curb. The Baron opened the door for the Zombie.
The Zombie paused in the door, just before sitting down. “They think I’m your servant. That’s the only reason they stop.” The cabbie looked back in the rearview mirror at him as if to say, I’m right here. Please don’t talk about me when I’m right here.
“They stop because we’re paying customers.”
The Zombie scooted over, and the Baron hopped in after him.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked. He was an old white man in an Ascot hat with a cauliflower nose. He sniffled and wiped it with the back of his sleeve.
The Baron shut the door. “Start for the Biltmore.”
“Madison and 43rd,” the cabbie confirmed.
With the door shut, the cab pulled away from the curb but passed no more than a couple meters before someone in a Sunday suit, holding a newspaper, put his foot out into the street and tried to flag it down. The cabbie slowed.
The Zombie thumped the center partition with his fist. It made a startlingly loud noise. “Double fare from both of us,” the Zombie said, “don’t stop.”
“Do what he says,” the Baron added tersely.
“Yes, sir.” The cabbie pulled away from the curb and sped up.
The Sunday-suited man took one step further into the street and shouted at the departing cab. “Stop! I’m going south!” He even reached out to rap on the window, but the cab was already going too fast. He gave up and threw the newspaper after them.
“No company?” the cabbie asked.
“Confidential discussions. Just keep your eye on the road,” the Baron said.
“Understood, sir.”
“That man?” the Baron asked the Zombie to confirm.
The Zombie nodded and briefly made the sign for binoculars with his hands. Espionage. A spy, scout, or tail. “He might’ve been questioned later,” he explained.
The Baron understood. They had to watch what they said in here. The man in the Sunday suit was probably a tail, and the cabbie would be questioned later. So far, the only thing anyone could learn from this conversation was that they had something to hide from the public. It’d be plausible that they were referring to the job they’d just accepted.
“Can’t be too careful,” the Baron said, patting his pocket meaningfully. The Zombie gave him a questioning look, and the Baron pulled out Denisov’s note. “I’ve been thinking of some places to start,” he said. He unfolded the note and showed it to the Zombie.
It read: Multiple tails. Shake and meet at Caffe Reggio at 10AM. Wait no more than 30 minutes. Eye contact to confirm privacy. If under surveillance, depart for 8th Street Bookstore, New York cult temple. Greenwich Oracle at that location.
“Are we heading back to the Biltmore first?” the Zombie asked.
“We’ll look for somewhere to get lunch,” the Baron said, tapping on Caffe Reggio.
“Speed up a little,” the Zombie said to the cabbie. He leaned a little towards the window and watched the passenger mirror in his peripheral vision. They’d be heading south on Park for about twenty blocks, so this was a good strategy to check for tailing vehicles.
The Baron folded up the note and put it in his pocket. “Grand Central Station have any good restaurants?” he asked the cabbie.
“Yes sir. The lower concourse is all bars and diners. I eat there myself on Sundays.”
“Change of plans then. Can you drop us off on 42nd?” That was the main entrance to Grand Central Terminal, and a good starting point for shaking any pursuers.
“Yes, sir.”
A few seconds later, the Zombie grinned. “You know, I really like the Chevies this year. They’re keeping up with the newest styles.” He tapped the partition lightly. “Nothing like a classic Checker cab though.”
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said with a smile.
The Baron leaned over a bit and looked in the rearview mirror. There was a black Chevy 4-door following about half a block back. It was moving a little faster to keep up with the cab, and at least two men were inside.
“Good eyes,” the Baron said, settling back into his seat.
The Zombie grinned with effortless cheer. He had an experienced eye for tactics and violence, while the Baron was better with strategy and negotiation. Together, they summed up to one excellent spy. Hopefully, it’d be enough for the challenge at hand.
There was some kind of conflict between Denisov and Malik’s factions, and the Baron and Zombie had already agreed to take sides in it. This wasn’t a surprising complication, but it was disappointing. They’d have to be extra careful while taking their first steps in the investigation, and any extra friction could scare off potential informants.
The Baron leaned against the cab door, looking out the window to savor this small moment without choices or consequences. On the center median rested beds of seasonal flowers—irises, tulips, and other spring plants. Long ago, he might’ve known their specific names, but nowadays, he could barely identify anything. Gardening was a time consuming skill, and he hadn’t practiced it after immigrating to the New World. In general, the life of leisure he’d once led in France seemed increasingly abstract and frivolous.
The best things he could remember were the discussions in his salon in Paris, and only because he was fond of discussing philosophy with the Zombie or teaching neophytes about his unusual views on the occult and the system of prestige.
More and more, he found himself busy with jobs like these instead of standard tasks from the gods. Cultural memories were shorter in North America, that much was certain, and the major powers treated him with a measure of respect that he’d never found on the other side of the Atlantic. Even resentment in Boston was beginning to fade. The Salem task would be 38 years unfinished this June, and most of the old guard was retiring or dead.
The 20th century was strange, changing everything. The Baron didn’t resent it, but instead of growing familiar with the years, the world had become increasingly alien.
A few blocks further, the Zombie asked the cabbie, “How much do you think the fare will be?”
A quick glance at the fare meter. “90 cents after doubling.”
“25 cents first quarter, a nickel each after, then doubled?”
“Yes sir.”
“Here’s a dollar.” The Zombie pulled a full dollar out of his wallet and passed it through the partition window. “Do you have a couple of pennies?”
The man reached a tray at the foot of the dash and came back with a pair. He dropped them in the Zombie’s outstretched hand. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.” The Zombie leaned back, surreptitiously popped one of the pennies in his mouth and started quietly chewing. The other went in his pocket.
The cabbie turned on west 46th, a one way street that’d cross Vanderbilt after a block. The Zombie took off his bowler for a second and rubbed his hair with his hand. Then he looked around, as if merely shifting in his seat, and settled back down. “There’s a lot of traffic.”
“Terminal is always busy,” the cabbie replied.
The Baron grunted. The Chevy was still behind them. Otherwise the Zombie would’ve said, “Not too much traffic,” or something to that effect.
They pulled onto Vanderbilt, heading south again. “You good at the corner?” the cabbie asked politely.
“Corner is fine,” the Baron said.
The cabbie stopped at the curb near the southwest corner of the terminal, at Vanderbilt and 42nd. From here, they’d have to enter the building, pick a stairwell to descend, isolate their tails, and then shake them in that order.
“Thank you,” the Baron said.
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie replied. “You have a good day.”
The Baron got out, followed shortly by the Zombie. They took a few steps onto the walk towards the south facade of the building, and they paused in the middle of pedestrian traffic, stretching and looking around. A few faces cast irritated glances towards them, but in general, the crowd flowed past them like river water. The people here represented all walks of life, rich and poor, immigrant and native-born. It wasn’t a good place to hide, but they needed a moment to assess the situation before entering Grand Central Terminal.
“We’re back in less than an hour,” the Zombie complained. They’d come to this part of New York by way of train; they were staying in the Biltmore here in Terminal City; and they’d come here again before they left. The movement of this place would aid them throughout this investigation, but the novelty of it would wear off soon enough.
The Baron tried to see it with fresh eyes one last time. It was a large building, monolithic and stately with twenty-foot arched glass windows reflecting the sunlight. Doric columns, balustrades beneath parapets and flowing sculptures adorned the otherwise empty facade, adding complexity through a blend of the geometric and organic.
The terminal covered forty-nine acres of land, and the main concourse alone was nearly twenty acres of open space. It handled the passage of more than one hundred rail lines across more than sixty underground platforms. People flowed through it in throngs so deep and thick that the population rivalled a small town at times, and the terminal had its own police department to keep order and investigate crime. Two men could be swallowed up in its vastness, slipping up and down ramps, stairways, elevators and tunnels. They could worm through the earth, fugitives. What hope did a tail have in there?
The Baron dropped his gaze and asked towards his feet. “See anyone?”
The Zombie chuckled. “They’ve parked north of here. Two or three men.”
“Anything else?”
“No. If they’re ahead of us, they’re probably at the Biltmore already.”
The Baron resumed his walk towards the terminal entrance, following the flow of the crowd along the block to the main entrance of the terminal. “We need to swap cabs and head south. Let’s hit a restroom in the lower concourse and come back up at the northeast corner.”
“A restroom visit,” the Zombie said. “Classic!”
They passed through glass doors into a chilled foyer—a sloped space that channeled the flow of the crowd towards a waiting hall between the south facade and the Main Concourse itself. The Baron and Zombie simply kept pace with the people around them, entering the waiting hall and its grand arrangement of benches like pews to the railroads themselves. Hundreds of people were seated here—families, couples, and single travelers, spending their time with conversation while waiting for the clockwork schedules of trains to whisk them away. The murmur of this mass was like the rumble of the surf, but it was nothing compared to the crowd ahead. That was a storm of people. That was the ocean itself.
The flow of the crowd passed between the ticket offices, heading down along a brass-railed staircase, passing below the ground floor and into the Main Concourse itself, while the ceiling ascended towards magnificent heights—nearly forty meters overhead. Behind them, those grand windows of the south facade finally found their space, releasing the golden light of the sun into the empty air, where the voices of thousands echoed and diffused into a dull roar.
They didn’t have to look back to know that the Russians were chasing after them, keeping them in view. In a place this open, there was no escape from good eyes. Quickly, they navigated through clusters of people in the vast field of the Main Concourse, weaving and negotiating passage with smiles and polite apologies, sometimes scattering nebulous arrangements of travelers or forcing them to collapse. In the soles of their feet, they felt the trains rumbling out of tunnels. The Baron recognized the industry of man at work, oily and metallic, but admirable if yoked and held in service of reason and peace.
They reached the north wall and skirted the edge of the concourse, popping in and out of shops and restaurants as if browsing, then made for a stairwell marked for the Lower Level Dining Concourse and the lower platforms. Down, down into the bedrock they fled.
They arrived in a large but shallow chamber, whose walls were made exclusively of storefronts and doorways. Any open path was marked with a lit sign, and at the end of narrow concrete tunnels, one would find train platforms buried like tombs. This was the belly of the station. They were here on the verge of the underworld, where souls could be lost.
The crowd in the Lower Concourse was thin this early in the day, and they made a point of stopping several times to look over bar menus set on stands. This gave them ample opportunity to note the presence of three men dressed in flat grey suits, who idled about a dozen meters away whenever they halted. Most of the time, these tails were clustered together, talking and laughing, as if they were sharing a joke while deciding on a place to eat.
“There’s a restroom.” The Baron pointed out a set of doors nestled in an alcove between restaurants along the eastern wall of the concourse. “The tails won’t follow us inside.”
“Professionals,” the Zombie agreed.
If the grey men followed them in, the Baron and Zombie would have a chance to study their features for identification. Nobody experienced in espionage would risk it.
The Baron pushed through a swinging door into a shallow tile cave lit by yellow, almost orange lamps. It gave the place an unfortunate urine ambience, even if washes of harsh soap dominated the senses and overwhelmed all other smells. There were a half dozen stalls, three of them occupied. As was custom, men had hung their suit jackets on the outside hooks rather than wear them into the same cold, claustrophobic boxes as the toilets.
They waited a few seconds in silence. There was a young man at the mirrors and sinks, checking the pimples and razor burns on his throat. Everyone else in the stalls was attempting to defecate with an impossible stealth. The Baron and Zombie would have to do everything in similar quiet.
d’Holbach pointed to the Zombie’s bowler. The Zombie passed it over and started stripping off his neatly pressed, navy-blue jacket. His white shirt was as clean as if it’d been worn by a mannequin.
The Baron put on the bowler, then took off his own forest green jacket and turned it inside out. It wasn’t exactly reversible, but the mix of colored edging and pale striped lining gave him the appearance of a carnival barker or entertainer at a glance.
With his navy jacket hooked over one hand, the Zombie pointed to some of the others on the stalls. The Baron nodded. Those would do.
The youngster had turned to watch them.
The Zombie chose one jacket that was true wool and light grey. Then he handed his own jacket to the Baron and started donning the stranger’s clothes.
“That’s not yours,” the youngster said.
“I’m taking it,” the Zombie replied flatly. He finished putting the grey jacket on, a little tight but close to the right size, and he took his own jacket back from the Baron.
“Who is taking what?” asked a man inside the stall.
The youngster spoke with bewilderment. “This Chinaman is taking your jacket.”
The Baron pointed to the door. Time to put on a show.
The Zombie started walking away.
“Just a goddamn second,” the man in the stall cried out, otherwise indisposed. “I see your feet!” he yelled. “Don’t walk away!”
“I’ll call the police,” the youngster said.
The Zombie snorted. “Shove it punk.” He opened the bathroom door.
“Stop him goddamnit!” the man in the stall yelled. “Somebody—Jesus.” There was the sound of feet shuffling and toilet paper being whipped off the spool in a hurry.
The youngster followed the Baron and the Zombie into the concourse. “Thief!” he barked, pointing at the Zombie. The Baron stopped and gawked.
“Who are you?” the Zombie asked innocently.
People were already stopping to take notice. At least ten people were approaching in small clusters. “What’s happening here?” asked a short, fat man with thin glasses.
The tails, a few restaurants down the line, were waiting for a man in a dark green jacket and a man in a blue jacket to emerge. They hesitated to approach the commotion.
“This kid,” the Zombie said sadly. “He was trying to swipe this jacket. We’re taking it to the lost-and-found first.”
“Bullshit!” the youngster yelled. “He’s stealing that grey jacket!”
The Baron scowled. “Do we need the police to sort this out? What happened to you boy? When did you get to stealing clothes at the station?”
The youngster was flabbergasted. “These men are lying!”
The door to the bathroom flew open, and a wiry, fit man with a heavy beard charged out and shouted, “My jacket!” The youngster whipped around to face the sound.
In one smooth motion, the Zombie unfurled his navy blue jacket, wrapped it around the youngster’s head, yanked it to bring him off balance, and then shoved him toward the oncoming man about as hard as he could manage. They collided with an audible thump, and the youngster slumped to the floor, groaning. The air was knocked out of the bearded man, but he was too tough to be put down by an accidental headbutt. He took one shuddering breath and drew himself up to his full height. Then he stepped past the fallen and put up his fists.
“I’m getting the police!” the Baron shouted, and he turned to run down the concourse towards the nearest stairwell. He looked back only once.
“I got him down,” the Zombie yelled, pointing to the youngster. “There’s your thief!”
The bearded man swung at the Zombie, a right hook, well-practiced. He was probably a lightweight boxer, a sportsman in his spare time. The Zombie flinched a little early, but the act would be good enough to convince the average onlooker that the punch hurt.
The man’s fist hit the Zombie with a crack like splintering wood, and his whole arm slung back, whipped away with serious force. The Baron hissed sympathetically. That was the worst possible result. The man faded from the Zombie, knowing something terrible had happened to his limb but barely understanding it. Numb for an instant.
The Zombie covered his face and howled, “My jaw! You broke my goddamn jaw!”
But most of his words weren’t audible, because the man with the shattered fist and fractured forearm looked down at his limp right arm and started screaming.
“Out of the way,” the Zombie yelled, “I need a doctor!” With his head down and his face covered with his hands, he shoulder-checked his way through the oncoming crowd. One person stopped him briefly, two reacted to his shoulder normally, but one big man went down like he’d been hit by a charging bull. Then the Zombie was through them, and the screaming man and dazed youngster were drawing the most attention. Before the inertia of the crowd could shift, he was gone.
The Baron was up the second flight ahead of the Zombie, who was sprinting after him at full speed. “Do you think they saw us?” the Baron asked.
“That was a nice blue jacket,” the Zombie said, blazing past him.
The Baron was fit, but he didn’t have the Zombie’s supernatural advantage. He charged after him, reaching the upper concourse at the top of the stairwell almost ten seconds after the Zombie.
“We’re clear if we keep moving,” the Zombie said, finally answering the Baron’s question. His appearance was still tidy and clean; he’d never sweat nor sag, no matter the effort. “I’ll take the lead. Try to look calm. You can’t look like you’ve been running.”
The Baron nodded and controlled his breathing by force of will. The Zombie walked ahead, slowly ambling and looking at the shops. The Baron relaxed his face in order to appear incredibly bored, a skill he’d refined among the French nobility a very long time ago.
Once they knew they were clear, they took the northwest exit as planned. The commotion had kept the tails back long enough to lose them. It was the spy’s instinct—to avoid the center of attention.
Once they were outside on 47th street, they crowded up against the building. The Baron took off the Zombie’s bowler and handed it back to him. Then he turned his jacket right-side out. “That was impressive, but we’ll have to be more careful around here.”
The Zombie tossed his hat onto his head, and this time, he didn’t even need to adjust its landing. “That’s not my fault. I didn’t expect him to actually punch me.”
“I’m not blaming you, but we have to avoid attracting secular authority.”
The Zombie looked at the Baron appraisingly. “Do you think it was fun?” he asked.
“Mostly,” the Baron admitted. “But you know the saying.”
The Zombie grinned. “Yeah. It’s all fun and games until someone else loses an eye.” They walked down to the curb. There were several cabs idling. “He’ll live.”
“He will,” the Baron agreed. “Let’s just keep moving. We don’t have that much time, and Denisov will be waiting.” It was time to take a cab to Caffe Reggio.
Author’s Note:
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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