Like most of New York City, Manhattan was a sandwich of former villages, towns and districts forced to merge by the tremendous economic pressure of an ocean meeting a river, where the lion’s share of trade and immigration met with opportunity seekers and investors. Raw resources had been close at hand, and expansion had been cheaper than good planning.
Manhattan around Grand Central Terminal had blown up during the 20s. Industrialists had turned oil and railroad fortunes into diverse empires and rebuilt the area around Central Park to manifest a vision of prosperity in granite and steel. Their growth had pushed south against poverty-stricken Greenwich Village, threatening to devour and gentrify, forcing a metamorphosis from a marshy slum to the heart of counterculture. It was a necessary adaptation. Business encysted the area, even flourished around it. Lower Manhattan was a garden of skyscrapers and the physical embodiment of a new postwar economy. In the shadow of that mighty avatar, only a strong identity could bind the community together.
In every little decision, when there was opportunity to reinforce or erode, to sell out or hold on despite the costs, Greenwich survived because it was a place which resisted and resented, which celebrated iconoclasts. It was a good place for a secret meeting.
As far as the Baron and the Zombie could tell, nobody followed them on the cab ride south to Greenwich Village. After telling the cabbie to take them to Caffe Reggio, they closed up the cab’s central window partition to talk.
“Why were we being tailed?” the Zombie asked.
Baron d’Holbach idly patted his jacket pocket. He knew he hadn’t brought any cigars with him, and he definitely couldn’t smoke in the cab, but he was feeling the urge. “Malik has his own agenda. He and Denisov weren’t in agreement about hiring us.”
The Zombie hummed thoughtfully. “Denisov was the ranking cultist. He had an Apple of Perun and the Lazy Woman.“
The significance of those artifacts was clear. Not only was Denisov highly regarded and trusted back in Russia, but he was a member of the inner circle of the conquered Orthodox cult. Technically he would be a member of the Unified Soviet cult, but the Orthodox / Bolshevik division was still widely known. “Do you think Malik was Bolshevik?”
The Zombie shrugged. “Hard to say.”
The Baron agreed. “No Bolshevik would be caught taking orders from an Orthodox, not while they’re running the secular government, but Denisov was clearly in charge.”
“We’ll have to ask him,” the Zombie said.
They pulled up at the end of the block in Greenwich Village, paid the cabbie and got out onto the walk facing MacDougal Street. In classic New York style, the bottom floor of every residential building had been hollowed out and converted into a cubbyhole shop capped by a giant glass window, while the upper floors were divided and redivided into hundreds of tiny, privately administered apartments. These residences were mostly meant for sleeping and were too cramped otherwise, so Greenwich Village spent its days outdoors. The sidewalk was full of people, many of them seated on lawn chairs or stools listening to local speakers, poets, and buskers with instrument cases cracked open for spare change. Food vendors hawked their particular flavors of meat and fat, while locals avoided the tourists from Upper Manhattan.
As long as the rooms were tiny and the streets were full of immigrants and outsiders, this neighborhood would be dominated by the working poor and the cultural vanguard. The Baron had seen its like before in Paris and Boston, and it was always wonderful while it lasted. Unfortunately, Greenwich’s charm and artistic innovation were self-defeating. Gentrification was inevitable, and the Baron predicted that before the century was out, upper-crust socialites would transform this street into a quiet, high-class neighborhood with one-third of the population and almost none of the charm.
Caffe Reggio had dominated this row of Greenwich shops since the interwar period. The owner Dominic Parisi had brewed the first Italian “cappucino” on American soil using an incredibly expensive, hand-crafted espresso machine of bronze and chrome, and as the drink’s popularity had grown, so had his wealth and the quality of his cafe. He’d given it the air of a curio shop, distributing sculptures, carvings, busts, paintings and other imported Italian miscellany across the brown plaster walls. Everything was suspiciously rustic; the chairs and tables were expertly hewn to look sturdy, not comfortable, while the surfaces were coarsely textured. It was as if the craftsmen had been allowed only five minutes to work before they were sent away for a lack of funds.
It fulfilled the beatnik’s dream of visiting an authentic Italian cafe, even though the Baron knew from personal experience that no self-respecting Italian would run a classy business out of a place that looked like a well-swept barn packed full of stolen art.
They stopped under the canopy over the front door and peered through the glass into the dark interior. Denisov was seated just inside at the nearest table, still wearing the amulet and the apple.
The Baron and Zombie stared expectantly at the Soviet.
After a moment, Denisov noticed them and stared back. It was safe.
The Baron opened the door for the Zombie and they walked inside. Before they could even sit down, the espresso machine hissed threateningly like a train boiler fit to burst.
Denisov lifted a finger at them to halt. “One moment,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the industrial grade coffee contraption. “He’s brewing my drink.”
Dominic was well-known, having been photographed numerous times for articles in newspapers and magazines. Even at his advanced age, he came down every day to operate the tremendous machine with his wrinkled hands. He held up a small cup full of milk, then pulled a lever. The boiler opened a valve, and a blast of steam ripped through a nozzle with a noise like someone detonating bombs in a munitions dump. Some of the patrons covered their ears automatically, shutting up while the milk was steamed and foamed. The deafening roar delighted the Zombie; he turned to listen like it was a distant melody.
Almost as quickly as it started, the lever was released and the sound stopped. “That happens every time they make an espresso?” the Baron asked wryly. “Who wouldn’t want to stay here and listen to that note again?”
No response from Denisov, nor from the Zombie.
The Baron glanced back and forth, meeting their eyes in turn. Neither was biting; Denisov’s mood was sour, and the Zombie was pretending disinterest for fun. “Either of you?” the Baron asked. “No? Well, I for one will remember that sound in my nightmares.”
“Were you followed?” Denisov asked, jumping straight to the point.
“We shook them,” the Baron replied.
The Zombie stuck his lower lip out, an exaggerated expression. “It cost me my blue coat.”
Denisov looked him over. “That explains why clothes are part of your fee.” His eyes darted back to the Baron. “I’d invite you to sit, but we’ll move in a moment.”
“Whatever you prefer,” the Baron replied.
Dominic Parisi was coming over with a single cup of cappuccino, its fine velvety head stiffer than a plank. “Your guests have arrived?” he asked Denisov.
The Soviet gestured at a door behind the counter. “Can we take this in the lounge?”
Dominic was very old, almost decrepit, and his mustache was shock white. He smiled, and his yellowing teeth showed gaps and spots of shining metal where cavities had been filled. “I recognize both. Salem, yes? Atheist and… Golem?”
“Please, call me Baron d’Holbach,” the Baron said.
“And I’m called the Zombie now,” the Zombie said.
Dominic laughed. “Like the movie!” he said. “I love zombie movie. Are you zombie?”
“I’ve never died.” The Zombie pulled a penny knife out of his pocket. “Want to see a trick?”
“No, he doesn’t,” the Baron said quickly. “Mr. Parisi, the name is a joke based on a pet philosophical theory. As far as you’re concerned, the Zombie is just a man.”
Dominic was wise enough to know when he’d pressed too far. “My apologies, I’m no cultist. I know names, a little history. Nothing more.”
The Zombie put his knife back in his pocket. “Can I touch your espresso machine?”
“No. It’s beautiful, but very hot. You’d burn your hands.”
The Zombie grinned and laughed, twice, almost like a bark.
“He can’t be burned, only insulted,” the Baron corrected. “Mr. Parisi, please, show us the back. Zombie, don’t leave fingerprints on his machine.”
Dominic led them through the back door and served Denisov his cappuccino at a small formica table in a brick corner stinking of tobacco smoke. The Soviet took a seat in an old metal chair, creaking beneath a cotton cushion. The Baron sat down across from him. This spot was tailored for private meetings—both occult and secular. d’Holbach thought he could make out the remnants of cocaine stuck in the table’s many hairline cracks.
“Do artists come back here often?” the Baron asked Mr. Parisi.
The old cafe owner stood back one step, then held an open palm towards Denisov. “With friends, girls,” he answered the Baron. “I serve them coffee.”
Denisov silently dismissed Dominic with a five dollar bill.
The owner grinned. “Very generous,” he said as he backed out of the door.
The Zombie was still standing.
“There’re plenty of chairs,” Denisov said to the invincible man.
“I like standing,” the Zombie replied. “It keeps my pants clean.”
Denisov sipped from his scalding cappuccino.
“I often stand all night,” the Zombie continued with a strange lightness.
“Ignore him,” the Baron said. “What’re we here for?”
“Malik.” Denisov set down his cup of coffee.
“Why? Aren’t you part of the Orthodox leadership? You must outrank him.”
“Things aren’t that simple.” Denisov leaned back in his chair a little and waved his hand slowly over the cappucino. “He’s keeping an eye on me for the Bolsheviks. He sent the tails. Very tedious.”
The Baron glanced back towards the door, a momentary twitch of paranoia. “Were you tailed then?” he asked Denisov.
“Yes, but they dropped my trail on the UN grounds. Then I rode here. As I said—very tedious.” The drink wouldn’t cool very quickly under a head of stiff foam, but he continued waving. “How much do you know about the Bolsheviks and Orthodox Church?”
“Mostly secular history,” the Baron said. “Distorted too, but I know that there’s been a constant struggle in the Soviet cult since the First World War.”
“Allow me a moment to explain. It will help you to understand.”
The Baron nodded. “If it matters, we have time.”
“We’re all ears,” the Zombie said, showing a rare degree of patience.
Denisov touched the side of the coffee cup to test for heat, then opted to cool it a little longer. “Before the 19th century, our cult was little more than a loose brotherhood. We used the Eastern Orthodox Church as a secular body, but we rarely organized above a local level. What we shared were beliefs and records. We could work together, plan together.”
The Baron knew this era well. “I assume this changed when London tried conquering Central Asia?”
“Just so. The Great Game forced us to centralize through the mid-century. We collected the Apples, the Cat, the Lazy Woman, Solovei’s Whistle—we went to war.” Denisov lifted his coffee to try sipping again. He drank a little deeper and seemed satisfied. “We had a rich tradition to draw from. Hundreds of major artifacts, thousands of minor artifacts, and a large pool of prestige. It was good for us, and for business.”
“You managed to bring down London during the Exhibition.”
Denisov wagged a finger. “No, no. That was the Apostate. Still, London’s cult was destroyed in the Fall of Truth, and the British Empire was in decline. Going into the 20th century, we were the largest cult in Europe. You know what they say about idle hands? We had no common enemy, so we fought ourselves.”
“The old guard versus the Bolsheviks?” the Baron guessed.
“Yes. Our neophytes opposed any contact with the Tsar or the nobility, while the Orthodox fathers were a little more forgiving of secular integration.”
The Zombie tilted his head slightly. “Did you induct any nobles?”
“Pfah, no,” Denisov said, chuckling over his coffee. “Those men never worked. No. We wanted to merely influence secular power, but the Bolsheviks wanted to take it for themselves. Lenin was the heart of their cause—influential, a true believer. Unlike Stalin, he aimed to improve the lot of industrial workers and would’ve made a benevolent dictator.”
“Their worst misfortune was his birth, their second worst was his death.” The Baron was paraphrasing Winston Churchill. Lenin had died of syphilis, upsetting Bolshevik power dynamics and setting the stage for the rise of Stalin.
Denisov scowled. “A fine quote, and mostly right. After Lenin’s death, Stalin was ruthless. He’d accrued a lot of occult power from the assassination of Rasputin, and he was ready to seize control of the party in ‘24. Most of my faction still blame the monk for Stalin’s rise to power. Rasputin’s antiwar counsel made him important to the course of history, and the gods put a task on his head to kill him before 1917. In response, we fed Rasputin the Cat to safeguard his life at the Tsar’s court, but he betrayed us to the Bolsheviks.”
“A mistake,” the Zombie suggested.
“Indeed.” Denisov sipped his coffee again. “The monk was killed by his new masters on the banks of the Nevka one day before the deadline. Stalin collected the prestige for the task and the Cat for the Bolshevik faction. He retired from the occult after that, but you can imagine how much money he made, selling wishes all over Russia.”
“Why didn’t you take the Cat back?” the Zombie asked. “You have the Apples.”
Denisov sighed. “They were still our comrades, and there was the war. We assisted the Bolsheviks in the revolutions. When the White Army received foreign support, we sided against them despite their Tsarist ideology. The Soviet cult was for Russia, first and foremost, and the Bolsheviks were responsible cultists. Stalin didn’t use the Cat. He kept it for us, waiting until we could offer him something valuable enough for its return to the Orthodox faction.”
“That didn’t last,” the Baron guessed. “Stalin was impatient.”
“Correct. The interwar period saw the purges and the suppression of the church. We’d worried about Marx’s atheism, but we’d never expected Stalin to use it as an excuse to persecute the Orthodox leadership. We persisted only because we had the most occult power. The artifacts, the prestige—it was a stalemate that lasted until World War II.”
“You said you fed Nagy the Cat. The assassin was Orthodox, but the Bolsheviks fed him?” the Baron asked. He was starting to assemble a picture from all this complicated history, though the exact stakes weren’t yet clear. He waited for Denisov to answer.
“It was World War II. London was toothless, New York was neutral, and Langley was occupied with the Americas. The Bolsheviks needed a capable soldier to kill members of the Thule Society.”
“The Nazis,” the Zombie corrected.
Denisov put a hand on his heart. “May Nagy’s soul be blessed for burying them all.” He dropped his hand to the formica, slouching over the table with an air of exhaustion. “My point—the Bolsheviks offered to feed the Cat to Nagy in exchange for operational command over him for the duration of the conflict. We agreed.”
“You must’ve wanted the Cat terribly,” the Zombie said.
“We wanted a known quantity. If the Cat was in Nagy, it was safe, and we were optimistic that our reconciliation would unify the Soviet cult. Of course, it didn’t.”
“Then Nagy comes to America and dies. What was he here for?” the Baron asked.
“I don’t know, and I don’t think Malik knows either. It was a mission handed down from Stalin himself. A rare dip into the occult from an old man, waiting to die.” Denisov lifted the cup and finished his cappuccino in a single draught. He wiped a line of milk foam from his lips with the back of a knuckle. “The situation is dire though. It’s vital that you find Nagy’s corpse, find his killers and retrieve the Cat.”
“Why? What’s at stake here?” the Baron asked.
“When we asked for the Cat, the Bolsheviks demanded a security. If Nagy betrayed them or died and let the Cat fall into enemy hands, we promised to give them these.” He touched the amulet and the golden apple. “Two artifacts for one, and far more offensive power than they’ve ever had. Malik already demanded payment, but the Orthodox leadership bargained for a brief stay while I attempted to recover the Cat. I have a few days left, maybe a week at most, to return the Cat to the Bolsheviks.” Denisov squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry for putting this much responsibility on your shoulders.”
“What do you mean?”
“Except for me, all Russian cultists in America are Bolshevik, and Malik’s men will attempt to retrieve the Cat. Malik could then claim that Nagy betrayed the Bolsheviks, demand the security payment, and keep the Cat for his faction. If we didn’t pay him, the Orthodox leadership would be rightly labeled as traitors within the party. If we did pay him, the Bolsheviks would own half of the Soviet cult’s most powerful artifacts, and we’d be shamed for trusting the Cat to Nagy. There’s already talk of Bolsheviks seizing the Orthodox banker, and we could be forced to pay up or lose our lives in the coming months. Our fate hinges on the recovery of the Cat, and I don’t have any manpower except what I can hire.” He pointed at the Baron. “You.”
“If I find the Cat, I save the Orthodox leadership?” d’Holbach asked.
“More than that, you shift the balance of power within the USSR. The Bolsheviks are dangerous men, Baron. They want to use Orthodox artifacts and prestige to fight the Cold War. They think they can succeed where London failed and create an empire founded on the marriage of occult and secular might. The Orthodox cult opposes cultic action for a reason. This world teeters on the edge of a nuclear war. An occult conflict could easily escalate to secular armageddon.”
“Why not someone else?” the Baron asked. “Why only us?”
“We’re worth it,” the Zombie said.
“I’m not saying we aren’t up for the job, but you’re putting all your eggs in one basket.”
“There’s nobody else,” Denisov said. “New York would just take the Cat, if they haven’t already. They have no respect for the Soviet cult. The local Vatican chapters are under New York control. Langley keeps an eye on secular mercenaries using CIA resources. The Mormons? Langley control. The Jews? Would they risk crossing the major powers, even if by accident? All the other major cults are too far away to intervene. Could you imagine trying to contact Ethiopia?”
“And you can’t fly in your own men without alerting Langley.”
“We can’t do anything without tripping over a CIA spook.”
The Zombie spoke up. “Have you considered the possibility that Malik’s men double-crossed Nagy?”
“The Soviets are all accounted for, and the Bolsheviks would face the same personnel issues that I face now. Who would they hire to kill Nagy that wouldn’t take the Cat for themselves? How would they hire them without alerting Langley or New York? It’d be a massive risk, not one Stalin would take. If they wanted the Cat back, Nagy would’ve let them cut it out. I admit, it’s a real possibility that Malik is still at fault, but how he’d do it and why—I don’t think he’s that much of a fool. Nagy’s death has already put the Soviet cult at great peril. If New York or Langley knew what’d happened, this city would become a war zone until the Cat was seized.”
The Baron rapped the table with his knuckles. “Whether or not Malik is involved in losing the Cat, he still needs to find it. If he had it already, he wouldn’t be spending the resources to trail us. He’d be framing the story to implicate Nagy while running back home.”
“I’ve seen Malik’s preparations,” Denisov said, “He’s already started an investigation. Gods help us if he steps on somebody’s toes or loses a cultist to a rival cult, but he’s in the search with full force and has no more clue than you or I about the Cat.”
“Is he a threat to the locals?” the Baron asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him run an operation.”
“I hate to ask this, but it’s for your own safety. Would he be a threat to me?” The Baron leaned slightly over the table. “Would he threaten my life or attempt to kill me?”
Denisov hesitated. He glanced at the Zombie. This question clearly hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, but it was very important that the Baron gauge the danger to himself.
For the first time today, the Zombie stopped smiling. “Denisov?”
Denisov furrowed his brow, steeling himself. “Please, understand, the Orthodox faction cannot make decisions for the Bolsheviks.”
The Zombie spoke quietly, but his voice was filled with steel. “Fight him if you have to, because I won’t bend the rules. It’s mutually assured destruction.”
The Baron didn’t say anything. He waited for Denisov to react.
The old man took a deep breath before he spoke. “If Malik attempts to take your life, Baron, I will see to it that the full force of the Soviet cult comes down on his head. But I can’t promise that he won’t try. I don’t know him well enough.”
The Zombie pulled out the second penny he’d taken from the cabbie, jammed it between his front incisors, and started biting it in half. The copper sliced cleanly and quietly, and he caught the front half with his palm. Then he smiled and started chewing on the bit in his mouth. Little flecks of shining, fresh copper could be seen on his teeth.
“Frightening, isn’t he?” the Baron asked.
“Yes,” Denisov said slowly.
“Your promise is as good as a contract.” The Baron smiled; his point was made. “Don’t worry, Denisov! I value my life for a reason. The Zombie gives no exceptions. His Pact wouldn’t have any force if he started favoring third parties.”
“It’s principle,” the Zombie said. He popped the second half in his mouth and swallowed without chewing. “Nothing personal.”
“No offense taken.” Denisov reached for his pompadour as if to smooth it, but caught himself and didn’t touch it. “Just do whatever you can to finish the job. Many, many lives might depend on the result.”
The Baron nodded once, curtly. “We’ll do everything we can to recover the Cat, even if we have to take it out of someone’s gut. But this doesn’t make us Soviets. We’re not vassals to your cult, and we won’t help you beyond the bounds of this job.”
“Of course not, but I know you have limited allies. If you do this, I’ll make sure the Orthodox leadership understands that they owe you both a favor.”
“That’s good,” the Baron said, “I’ll hold you to that.”
Denisov tapped the rim of the cappuccino cup. It made a ceramic clink on the formica. “If I go back to Russia without the Cat, I’ll be abandoned by both the Orthodox leadership and the Bolsheviks. If you find it, you’ll have saved my life.”
The Baron had little to say to that. They hadn’t saved him yet. There was one thing, however, that he was interested in. “Speaking of personal favors—Denisov, before you came to America, you were the record keeper for the Soviet cult in Stalingrad, yes? I’m interested in the Fall of Truth, the last ageless person. The wish she made.”
Denisov was surprised. “You want our file on the Apostate?”
“On Elizabeth, yes. Rumors in Boston say that she’s still alive.”
“She probably is. During the interwar period, she killed a man and evaded Nagy in Germany. That was the last time we saw her.”
The Baron shifted in his seat. “Do your records detail that encounter?”
“They do.”
“Then I want a copy. That’s my personal price.”
Denisov nodded. “After this is over, I’ll hand deliver our current file on the Apostate. Maybe you’ll find something useful inside.”
“Thank you. That’s more important to me than you’ll know.”
“Do you really think she can help you answer your questions? The legends—”
“I know the legends. I was alive when they were made.”
“Do you doubt them?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then what do you expect?”
“I don’t know yet,” the Baron said succinctly, “but I won’t until I meet her.”
“The Lady of Our Fall,” Denisov said.
“She’s Elizabeth,” the Baron said. “Not any of those ridiculous names. Just Elizabeth.”
“Of course,” Denisov said, though it was obvious that he didn’t agree. He checked his watch. “We’ve been here too long already. I need to return to the UN grounds before Malik figures out I’m missing. After today, assume that I’ll be followed and watched at all times. Avoid contacting me unless absolutely necessary. I’ll spend most of my time at the diplomatic mission.”
“It’ll be best if we play this close to the chest,” the Baron agreed.
“I’ll leave first. Gentlemen.” The old Russian diplomat rose from his chair. “I hope to see you with the Cat o’ Nine Lives in hand.” He left, and as he opened the door leading out of the back, they could hear Dominic Parisi’s terrifying espresso machine like the Trumpet of Jericho bringing ruin to the walls.
The Zombie very carefully patted the Baron on the shoulder from behind. “Keep your mind on the Cat,” he said. “We’ll worry about the Apostate another time.”
“Yes,” d’Holbach said. He didn’t correct the Zombie. When a nameless man only had a title, he couldn’t begrudge him the right to apply titles to others.
“Where should we begin?”
The Baron pushed back his chair and stood up, rolling his shoulders back. There was a lot to do, and the balance of power might depend on it. “We’ll start by looking for reasons Nagy might’ve been in town.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out Denisov’s letter. “There’s a temple in the 8th Street Bookstore. We can walk over there and question the Oracle of Greenwich. Maybe there was a task Nagy was here to finish.”
“Or to stop someone from finishing,” the Zombie suggested.
The Baron balled up the letter. “Eat this. We don’t need any evidence lying around in trash cans. Not even ashes.”
The Zombie grinned. “You’re always telling me not to eat things.”
“Today is an exception. I already let you get away with the pennies.”
The Zombie took the paper ball, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed without chewing.
“You didn’t want to taste it?” the Baron asked. “So greedy.”
The Zombie laughed.
The Baron checked his own watch. In the dimly lit room, its radium dials were bright enough to glow gently green. “That’s long enough. Time to save the free world.”
Author’s Note:
The stakes have been set. It’s time to start our investigation!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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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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It was the spring of 1952 on a warm Saturday morning in New York City, and Lower Manhattan was swarming with the nouveau riche, flaunting their postwar prosperity. Heavy 4-door sedans clogged the streets. Pedestrians strolled across unmarked crosswalks, a parade of mutely colored polyester suits and nylon dresses. The old rich showered disdain over them from the windows of penthouses and rooftop eyries, but the common people were ignorant and unaffected by the resentment of movers and shakers. Despite the ever present atmosphere of engine exhaust, the city felt clean. Brick facades were well-washed. Cars were waxed and glossy. Paint shone like candy shells. It was desperately happy.
A yellow and red taxi stopped outside the Permanent Mission of the USSR to the UN, two blocks east of Central Park. There was a delay reaching the curb. Park East Synagogue was finishing up its Shabbat services on the far side of Hunter College, and Orthodox Jews were spreading out along 67th, Lexington, and Park to meet with their gentile drivers. The words on their lips were “atomic” and “nuclear.” Attendance was at a record high, and every good family was doing their part to hasten the World to Come.
Two hurried men hopped out in the middle of Park Avenue. One was a notably tall, lightly-bearded, self-described Asian gentleman with short hair, a fine black bowler, and an exquisitely pressed navy blue jacket. He grinned broadly at the chaos and hooked his thumbs under his lapels. The other man was a European, bald with high cheek-bones over a clean-shaven face. He projected a tight, compact energy like that of a wrestler.
The cabbie complained about the fare, but the European only laughed at the pettiness of it all and passed a second bill from his wallet through the driver side window.
The sedan stuck behind the cab beeped its chintzy little horn, but the taller man was unmoved, and he remained relaxed as if the rude noise was as sweet as a songbird.
The European hotfooted it around the back of the cab, gently tapping the Asian on the shoulder as he passed. “Out of the street,” he cried.
“Get off the road!” added the driver of the car behind them. He was leaning out the window, an obvious target for a rude gesture.
The Asian man obliged him with a finger.
The European waved his friend over. “Come on, damn it. We’re late.”
“I’m coming,” the Asian man said, walking out of the street about as slowly as possible. He paused and cast the irate driver one last smile before mounting the curb.
“Wonderful first impression,” the European groused. “You know the Soviets are watching.”
The Asian man wandered onto the sidewalk, ignoring his friend’s idle discipline. A Jewish child was standing beside his mother, staring at him like he was something out of a zoo. A little two-tone leather bag dangled from the child’s fist.
“Hello,” the Asian said to the kid.
“Can I help you?” asked the child’s mother. She was young and serious, commanding and wealthy. She wore a real silk blouse with ruffled shoulders.
“Is that a bag of marbles?” he asked the child.
The kid nodded very slowly and lifted the bag towards the Asian, unsure.
The man reached for his wallet. “Five dollars for it?”
“No sir!” the mother snapped, pulling her child around behind her with an arm.
The European interrupted the exchange physically, standing face-to-face in front of his friend. “Marbles later. Soviets now.” After delivering that command, he whirled about to smile at the young mother. She was sharp and pretty like a glass flower. “My apologies. He finds the strangest ways to bother beautiful women.”
“It’s a good day for work,” said the Asian, his thick eyebrows rising above his grin.
“It is,” the European agreed, lingering only long enough to see the mother’s flattered smile.
They marched up to the portico of the Soviet mission, passing between two ionic columns in the shade of a small balcony, and the European keyed an intercom set beside a locked door covered in decorative iron gratings. At ground level, the facade was all white limestone, though every floor above was made of the same red-brown brick as every other turn of the century building in this part of Manhattan.
To either side of the portico, wrought iron fences launched out and sharply turned, tracing the exterior to separate a diminutive lawn from the surrounding sidewalks. Beyond a few trees, this grassy gap wasn’t much for decoration, but the Soviets had kept it in place as a paranoid buffer between the walk and the building. Flag poles struck out diagonally from the second story, flying the large red flags of the USSR. A light breeze swept up the street, making them snap low and soft like someone was unfolding sheets to make a bed.
“This looks like a nice place,” the Asian said.
“Quiet now,” the European said.
“I’m a house mouse.”
The European couldn’t help but smile. “Not a church mouse?”
“The Christians wouldn’t have me.”
The intercom crackled to life. “Name?” asked a man with a mild Russian accent.
The European replied promptly, “Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. My associate should be on your appointments as the Zombie.”
There was an audible shuffling of papers. “Zombie? Yes, one second.” There were a few more clicks on the intercom system before the voice returned, confused. “I’ve been told to ask you to leave your weapon outside?”
“He’s not my weapon,” said Baron d’Holbach, “and he’s non-negotiable. Tell your boss that you couldn’t keep him out anyways. That’s not a threat, just a fact.” He looked at the Zombie, who shrugged. This happened sometimes, but the Baron was experienced at handling the mix of fear and rumor that preceded the Zombie’s arrival at a secure location. He pressed the intercom again. “Ask Viktor Denisov and Andrey Malik. They expected us ten minutes ago.”
There were another couple of clicks from the internal switchboard. The guard would be talking with Denisov for a few seconds.
Then a final click. “Welcome to the Mission,” the voice said.
There was a buzz and the snick of an electronic lock, and a uniformed security guard opened the front door to let them in.
“After you,” the Baron said, gesturing to his friend.
“Of course.” The Zombie grinned and stepped forward. “Safety first.”
They followed the guard into a lavish anteroom with wood-paneled walls and checkered granite flooring. The door hissed on pneumatic hinges and shut behind them with a heavy whuff of chilled air. They were led past a hardwood security desk, where a couple of other men in uniform were taking turns watching a bank of heavy CCTVs and reading magazines and newspapers printed in Cyrillic. They glanced up expectantly at the leading security guard. Pat these men down? Give them name tags?
The guard shook his head and guided them out of the anteroom, around a corner, and into a broad hall, where a narrow old-century elevator was nestled into an alcove. The security guard pressed the call button, then turned to frown at his unusual guests.
The Baron waited calmly while proper security measures were waived on his reputation. The Zombie rocked impatiently on his heels and smiled at whatever cameras he could find and the places where they might be hidden. The door finally opened with a mechanical bell.
They all stepped in the elevator—a cramped vehicle likely meant for one man and his servant-operator. With only centimeters between the guard and the Zombie, the guard’s frown deepened.
“I have a weapon on me,” the Zombie remarked as the doors were beginning to close, with all the gravitas one would use to comment on the weather.
To his credit, the man froze but did not otherwise panic.
“Don’t worry,” the Baron assured the guard. “If he wanted to stab you, he wouldn’t have said anything. Really.”
The Zombie pulled a closed penny knife. “Want to see a trick?”
Baron d’Holbach looked sidelong at the Zombie. “The question is, do you want this job?”
“Damn.” The Zombie pocketed the blade. “I do.”
The Baron smiled at the guard. “Thought so.”
The elevator opened on the fourth floor, all wood-paneled walls and hardwood floors, and Denisov and Malik were already waiting by a secretary’s desk with serious looks on their faces and nobody else in sight. The Baron and Zombie stepped forward to meet their guests. The security guard remained in the elevator.
“Baron d’Holbach,” Denisov said curtly. He was a middle-aged man, broad-faced and craggy, with silver hair slicked back in a Stalinist pompadour. He so perfectly fit the mold of the Russian politician that the Baron would’ve pegged him as a diehard Bolshevik, if not for the prominently displayed ikons on his neck and waist. There was an iron amulet of a reclined woman and a small net bag hooked to his belt. It held a single golden apple.
He was carrying two of the Orthodox cult’s “nuclear options.”
“Can you throw that indoors?” the Baron asked.
There was an instant when Malik’s face screwed up with disdain, but it quickly passed. “We’re precautious, not foolish,” he said. He was young, severe, and bore a thin mustache trimmed with almost mechanical precision. It was meant to be masculine, but the dark hair only emphasized a mild pallor and the thinness of his lips on an already long, narrow face. Even when calm, he looked a little angry. The Baron immediately suspected that Malik was high on cocaine, a habit picked up from American politicians with 20-hour workdays.
“Only an idiot would take offense,” the Baron said, testing the man’s attitude.
Malik snorted derisively.
Denisov smirked. “You’re well-versed, Baron.”
“I’ve had an Apple thrown at me,” the Baron replied. He offered his hand to Denisov, who shook it generously. “I understand though. Precaution.”
“Thank you. Yakov, we’ll take them from here.”
The guard punched a button and descended with the elevator.
“I’ll be honest,” Malik said to the Baron, his tone suggesting he was going to be more hateful than anything. “I don’t have confidence in your discretion. Half of New York will know you were here today, and you have no control over your…” He sneered at the Zombie.
The Zombie looked away and started circling around the room with his eyes on the ceiling, as if the conversation didn’t concern him in the least.
“Tammany Hall already knows,” the Baron said, referring to the New York cult. “We needed a letter of passage before we could check in at the temple. Didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Denisov waved a hand dismissively. “Your objection is noted,” he said to Malik, “but this is my decision. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll come to my office, time waits for no one, and there’s a man missing.”
The Zombie was already by the hall, so he ambled along in front of Denisov until they reached an open door to a corner office. The shaded windows let in more than enough light to see by, but the room was otherwise unlit and dim, and it smelled like stale cigarettes. Denisov settled down behind his desk and indicated a plush chair for the Baron.
He accepted it with a smile, sitting across from the Russian. Both Malik and the Zombie remained standing just behind him.
Denisov nudged an ashtray towards the Baron. “Do you smoke?”
“Only cigars,” the Baron answered, “I can’t stand the taste of burnt paper.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. And you, Zombie?”
The Zombie held out a hand. “Can I eat one?”
Denisov pulled out a pack from a desk drawer and offered one. The Zombie took it, sniffed it loudly, and popped the whole thing in his mouth like it was candy.
Malik scoffed audibly. “Foul.”
Denisov lit his own cigarette with a paper matchbook. “Baron d’Holbach,” he said after his opening draw, “We need a neutral party. One of our best agents went missing two days ago.” As he spoke, the air puffed out of him in staccato bursts like a smoke signal. His punctuation was a complete exhalation. “We suspect foul play.”
The Baron had been called for this kind of job before, but generally the client wasn’t so coy with the details. This was the first he’d heard of it. “From who,” he asked, “and why?”
Denisov sniffed. “I don’t know, and I couldn’t tell you why. That’s why we need someone we can trust, someone without outside interests.”
“This sounds like work for secular police.”
Denisov nodded and took another draw on his cigarette. “Unfortunately, there are circumstances to consider.” He glanced at Malik, as if looking for permission, but then he steeled himself visibly and pushed onwards. “Do you know the name Janos Nagy?”
“The assassin!” the Zombie said happily, his mouth still full of tobacco, paper, and filter-foam.
“Is this a trick question?” the Baron asked.
“He was in service to the Soviet cause since the February Revolution,” Malik said sharply. 1917, the first of two revolutions in Russia. “He was a soldier.”
The Zombie swallowed his cigarette mash and laughed. “We know him. He killed Nazis before they were called Nazis. Gods—why wouldn’t we know him?”
The Baron not only knew Nagy, but also knew why Nagy shouldn’t have had anything to do with the United States of America. “You’re implying a Russian assassin is in New York City.” It was more of an accusation than a statement. When Denisov didn’t respond, he said louder, “The cultic assassin, in Langley’s backyard!”
“You’re well aware of the gravity of the situation…” Denisov began.
Malik spoke over him, “We should be taking care of this ourselves.”
“Quiet!” Denisov snapped at Malik. “Someone must’ve recognized and killed him, Baron.”
“How do you know?”
“His loyalty is beyond question—”
“How do you know someone killed him?” Baron d’Holbach pressed.
Denisov snubbed out his half-finished cigarette and rubbed his forehead with a thumb. “During World War II, we fed him the Cat o’ Nine Lives.”
“The Cat!” The Zombie was ecstatic.
The Russian covered his brow with a hand. “He had six lives left when we dropped him off at the harbor. He didn’t meet six accidents in one evening.”
Denisov was right, of course. If Nagy hadn’t returned, it had to be murder, plain and simple, but Nagy wasn’t the kind of man that could be killed by just anyone.
“You want the Cat back,” the Baron said incredulously. He left out—in the middle of New York, in Langley’s shadow, out of the hands of assassin-killers. This job was absurd.
“Yes, and I want justice for Nagy.”
The Baron stared at Denisov with awe. “We’re not hitmen. We only kill in self-defense.”
“I’m not asking for you to sic the Zombie on Brooklyn.” Denisov straightened in his chair. “I want a minimal body count. Once we know who the murderer is—assuming the Cat is in our hands—we won’t even have to take action. Diplomatic pressure will do the job. At worst, we ask New York to police their vassals. It’s as easy as that.”
“Easy is a bad choice of words.” Malik crossed his thin arms. “Nothing here is easy. If you aren’t ready for the work, you should leave. We’ve no time for half-measures.”
The Baron couldn’t tell if Malik actually wanted him to leave or if he was trying to goad him into defending his reputation as a cultic mercenary. “It’s not a question of strength or resources,” the Baron explained. “Information and recovery are tricky. We might fail, and I want some guarantees of payment before I go chasing after dead men.”
“I’ll pay a bonus for starting today,” Denisov said promptly. “Fifty-percent.”
“On top of the price we discussed over the phone?” the Baron asked.
“Of course. It’s a generous offer.” Denisov tugged on a cigarette in his pack, then thought better of starting to smoke another and set the pack down. “More than enough.”
The Baron glanced at the Zombie, who grinned encouragingly. The Cat o’ Nine Lives and a killer—this was the kind of entertainment that the Zombie lived for, and it was the kind of challenge that he encouraged the Baron to take. “The price is adequate,” d’Holbach agreed, “but there are also big risks hiding the Cat from other cults. We could lose our reputation for neutrality.”
“Depending on the circumstances…” Denisov said. “Maybe.”
“Those risks are yours alone,” Malik said. “We offer money, not guarantees.”
Denisov glared at his hands. Flexed his fingers. Baron d’Holbach studied him closely. The division between Denisov and Malik was difficult to gauge but it was clearly there; Denisov wanted outside help. He didn’t want Soviet footprints in American soil or Soviet fingerprints on American throats. Malik seemed to believe he could operate with impunity in foreign territory—a dangerous attitude. There was value in accepting the job simply to discourage Malik from running an operation.
“I know you’re a responsible man,” the Baron said to Denisov. “If you’ll do your best to protect our reputation as independent agents, we’re your men.”
Denisov answered d’Holbach before Malik could respond. “Of course, we’ll exercise discretion at all times. Do we have a deal?”
The Zombie clenched and unclenched his fists rapidly. He was too excited for anyone’s good, but he was keeping it to himself. This was the Baron’s negotiation, and he knew it.
“One more question,” the Baron said, “how much can you tell us about Nagy’s mission?”
“Very little except that he was last seen in Brooklyn on Thursday.”
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all I know,” the man said regretfully. “We can’t even call for his ghost in a temple. New York and Langley would both hear about it within a day.”
Baron d’Holbach found that to be suspiciously ignorant, but Denisov seemed earnest. “If you learn anything more, will you drop us a message?”
Denisov played with the inner wrapper of the cigarette pack, tugging on the paper idly. “Without question,” he said after a few seconds. “Where are you staying?”
“The Biltmore on 43rd and Madison. Under my false name.”
There was a crinkle of paper while Denisov closed and pocketed the pack. “It’s settled then.” He offered a hand to the Baron. “Your assistance is a tremendous relief.”
They shook, and the Baron felt a thin piece of paper folded in Denisov’s palm. The Russian flexed gently to deposit the note and released the shake smoothly.
The Baron dropped his hand below the desk and slipped the paper in his pocket. “We’ll begin immediately.”
Malik grunted. “Fine, I’ll see you out.”
“Nagy,” the Zombie whispered to himself with glee.
Malik walked out the door, and the Baron quickly stood to follow. The Zombie trailed close behind them, laughing quietly. Denisov closed his office door.
Their footsteps pattered out into the silent hall of an empty floor. Nobody else was around to witness the deal or prepare arrangements. It occurred to the Baron that for the moment, they might be the only four people in the world who knew exactly what work had been accepted. It was unusual to see back room deals made in actual back rooms.
The course of history usually turned on violence and speech. Decisions were made before hundreds of eyes, and even the most secret plots were arranged with the implicit knowledge and approval of vast and powerful organizations. Rarely did one or two men craft the fate of nations. Even rarer did those men pass their labor to hired mercenaries.
In secret, in an empty place, the Baron and Zombie had accepted responsibility for something larger than themselves. The exact scale and shape of their role wasn’t visible, but if Nagy and the Cat were involved, their influence would be larger than it had any right to be.
The Baron couldn’t yet look at the note in his pocket, but he knew the truth in his bones. Bigger stakes would soon reveal themselves, and this job would matter. Great events would begin here and now—on a fine Saturday in New York City.
Author’s Note:
We’ve met our well-dressed heroes!
As always, thank you to my beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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