Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (3 page)

“ONE!” the lieutenant shouted.

Wage’s fingers barely grazed the ivory grip of Ol’ Snapper.  Both men glared at each other like two famished hawks over the last kill on earth.  Winds stopped blowing, birds stopped chirping, insects stopped crawling—time itself seemed to stop.

“TW . . .”

Alexander barely started the word when Bill struck him over the head with a small wooden club permanently concealed in his pocket.  The lieutenant fell over holding his head.  Hamilton lost his focus and stared at the downed lieutenant.  Wage took the opportunity to draw and fire two quick shots at Hamilton’s gun-side hip.  Hamilton dropped where he was and screamed in agony.  Wage ran up to him before he had a chance to draw the .38 caliber revolver he collapsed on.  Bill gave the lieutenant a few more licks to ensure he stayed down.

Hamilton screamed again when Wage adjusted him and removed the gun from his holster.  Out of curiosity, he inspected the gun and found an extra two rounds.  “William, you’re officially fired as my second.  Kindly observe Mr. Hamilton’s revolver.” 

Bill inspected the revolver, noticing it almost fully loaded.  “Lieutenant must have slipped ‘em in when he gave the gun back.  Sorry.”

“Now, now, Mr. Hamilton.  I am very disappointed in you,” Wage said, kneeling over his fallen opponent.

Hamilton could barely speak as he winced in pain.  “You bastard.  You gutless bastard,” he muttered.

Wage looked closely at the blood pooling on the dirt from Hamilton’s hip.  “I’m no field medic, but I would say your hip is shattered.  That’s a painful one; a very long recovery, too.”  Hamilton was on the brink of consciousness from the pain when Wage started combing through his pockets.  “But seeing as you meant to cheat me at this here duel, I suppose I am entitled to some … compensation.”  Wage took Hamilton’s pocket watch and pocket book.  “It ain’t here!” he announced after further searching.

“Check around his neck,” Bill said.  Unbuttoning Hamilton’s shirt, Wage felt something unusual underneath.  He opened the shirt to reveal an odd sight.  Hamilton had a large medallion sewn to his left breast.  The round stone had a hollow center and a curious script carved about it.  The thread connecting it to his chest traversed smaller holes around the edges.  “God, Almighty,” Bill exclaimed.  “What in the hell is that thing?”

“Precisely what we are looking for, William,” Wage replied. 

The Baron

May 23, 1914

Château de Peluda

La Ferté-Bernard, Normandy, France

Grease ran down his cheeks as he devoured a Cornish hen topped with a poached egg.  At first, it seemed as though he might wipe his face with his sleeve ungraciously, but instead he chose the more aristocratic option—his hand-stitched silk napkin.  He dotted his face like a blood-soaked lion suddenly refined after killing a gazelle.  He elegantly sipped his typical morning stimulant: black tea steeped with South American coca leaves.

“Warwick.  My smoking jacket,” he demanded.

The attendant standing on the outskirts of the garden ran through a servant’s door directly to the kitchen.  Moments later, he returned with a red velvet smoking jacket embroidered with a pearl-topped coronet above the breast pocket.  The Baron, an imposing figure with the left lens of his eye glasses tinted an obsidian black, sipped the last of his tea and stood to be dressed.  Warwick slid the jacket around his twin-pocketed shirt and leather suspenders before he produced a cigarette much like a soldier might present his arms at a parade.  The Baron took the cigarette from his hand and smelled it slowly, while his gray-clad servant struck a match.  After another approving and curt smell, the Baron watched with his only good eye as the flame burned down to Warwick’s fingers.  The personal attendant, who had a soft and fair complexion, winced in pain before dropping the match.  The Baron smiled and produced his own match like a magician, lit his cigarette, and smiled with a puff of smoke.

“Warwick,” he said, “tend to the roses.”

The servant dallied around the garden, pruning and plucking the rose bushes with crimson buds already swelling.  As he did so, Warwick constantly stroked, as he always did, his unruly dark mustache.  In his three years of employment, he never removed his modest top hat, even when indoors; a reminder to himself and his employer that he was always on duty. 

On the garden terrace, Warwick sculpted a horticultural sanctuary in the bright morning sun.  The Baron stood near the edge of the terrace and stared out like one of the many statues on the grounds, evaluating the sprawling green acres still wet from yesterday’s rains.  Only a quarter mile down the hill side, great balloons tethered to ornate baskets began to fill with hot air.

Two more servants, portly and identical, spilled out into the garden entrance through double French doors from the château. 

“My lord, Mr. Otto van Donderbus at your request,” one servant said.  “Mr. van Donderbus, his lordship William Hardwin FitzOsbern DeLacy, the Baron of Pontefract,” the other servant said.

Otto van Donderbus was a thin man approaching fifty, whose long travels and rampant opium use etched deep lines into his clean-shaven, squirrely face.  His tiny dark eyes, magnified by gold wire-rim glasses, looked almost inhuman.  His hunting apparel was a deep navy blue, as though he preferred nocturnal stalking.  He smoothed his cropped brown hair and joined the Baron in looking over the land and the nearly assembled hot air balloons. 

“Good morning, Baron,” he said with a Dutch accent.  “A marvelous day for ballooning, no?”  Donderbus lifted his shiny brown cane underneath his arm and pulled out a cigarette case from his inner jacket pocket.  “Do you like my balloon?  I had it custom made in Paris by the Blanchard Brothers.  I also hired one of the greatest pilots in all of France.  I am excited to finally see it.”

“A better day for hunting,” Baron DeLacy replied before snapping at Warwick for another cigarette. 

“Yes,” Donderbus replied. “I have never hunted boar before.  I pray we land in a well-populated area.”

Baron DeLacy wiped the sweat beads beginning to form on his shiny bald head with a kerchief.  “There will be no need for landing.  The pilots will get us low enough where we can shoot from our baskets.  Boars are clever beasts—they have a keen sense of smell and approaching them from the ground is difficult.  Approaching from the sky gives us the element of surprise.”

“Speaking of beasts, I hear the townspeople talk of a beast that haunts the countryside.  Will we be hunting it as well?”  Donderbus chuckled, and smoke came out of his nostrils.

“The Peluda, yes; it is my estate’s namesake” the Baron replied.  “It is local folklore.  A horned beast, hairy and dragon-like, it is both fire-breathing and poisonous, according to myth.  I assure you, though, if any such a beast existed, he would be above my mantle at Pontefract.”  Donderbus looked back at the château and noticed the surrounding gargoyles sculpted in the likeness of the Peluda; only they spit water instead of fire.  “The people here,” the Baron continued, “after generations of hearing this fairytale, are naturally fearful and distant.  It is why I prefer it to my estate in England at times.”

“Well, Baron, it is indeed lovely.  I do appreciate the invitation.  However, did you call me back from the United States solely for some folklore and hunting?”

“To be quite frank, I am concerned about the productivity of your enterprise, Otto,” the Baron replied.  “Your revenues are consistently falling, and yet every communication I get from Wardenclyffe is that this is a minor setback, and profits will return.”

“The opium market has become more complicated.  Bloated politicians have outlawed its recreational use.  Regulatory agents have sprung up in every major city, closing my dens.  But rest assured, opium moving to the black market will make it more taboo, alluring, and curious.  All these will serve to raise prices and our profits. I simply need more time.”

“How are you moving it now with so many regulatory agents?” the Baron asked.

“I have contracted German merchants to move it through Mexico.  They are already running guns and ammunition there to capitalize on the revolution.  It is that revolution that allows my shipments to go unnoticed across the border.  I have also found the resistance fighters are becoming consumers.”

“The organization has big plans, Otto.  Very big.  Now is not the time to be losing money.  There are those who are losing faith in you,” the Baron said.

“Is it my fault you don’t control the number of politicians that you used to?  Their legislation is hindering.  Perhaps you should infiltrate deeper into their ranks!”

“We are comfortable with the pieces we have in place, Otto.”

“I am doing the best I can, Baron.  What else would you have me do?  I just need more time.” 

  “You were recruited specifically for this operation because of your adaptability and knowledge of the industry.”  The Baron paused.  “So adapt.  You have three months to get your profits back on track.”

“Or what?  You will have me disposed of?” van Donderbus asked, fuming.

“Or you will be relieved, Otto.  It is that simple.  I have the utmost faith in your ability to accomplish this task.  Prove yourself on this, and perhaps The Council will even see the value in promoting you.” 

Otto van Donderbus nervously lit another cigarette and scratched his chest. “A promotion?” he asked.

“I will recommend it to The Council personally, Otto,” the Baron replied.

“You will?  Thank you, Baron.  You are most gracious.”

“Come, the balloons are almost full.”  The Baron removed his smoking jacket and patted van Donderbus on the back, jarring him slightly.  “I did not call you out here simply for ultimatums. There is great hunting ahead of us. Warwick!  Prepare our things.”

The Baron and the businessman approached the balloons while Warwick walked behind them with cases in each hand.  Warwick unloaded the luggage into the respective baskets while the hunters met with their pilots individually.  The Baron’s personal balloon pilot was also his chauffeur, mechanic, and when called upon, his bodyguard.

His name was Khalid Francois Deschamps, and he was the bastard son of a French army officer who had an unhealthy desire for the women in Algiers.  When he was 10, it was discovered that his mother had an illegitimate child, which is when the local authority condemned her to be publicly stoned.  Khalid’s new home became an orphanage run by militant French nuns, and at the age of 17, he ran off to join the French Foreign Legion.  Admittedly, the Foreign Legion felt like a vacation compared to Benedictine nuns.  After heroically serving in the Mandingo War in 1898, Khalid received full French citizenship and went to Normandy by way of Paris, where the strapping, olive-skinned, square-jawed man with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes left a wake of heartbroken women in his trail.  Comparable, of course, to his own father’s philandering.

“If my calculations are correct, the winds should take us just south of the hunting grounds, Baron,” Khalid said as he adjusted the goggles on his leather aviator cap. 

“Does Mr. van Donderbus’ pilot have the coordinates?” the Baron asked.

“Yes, I gave them to him.  I told him I would signal when we reached the site, but I am not sure he is happy about it.  He said he does not take orders from an Arab,” Khalid said.

“Ludicrous,” the Baron replied.

“I know.  I told him I was a Berber, but he did not believe me.”  Khalid smiled, revealing teeth as white as the clouds, save for one that was polished gold.

“Happy hunting, Baron,” van Donderbus yelled before getting into the dark brown wicker basket tethered to a midnight-blue balloon with gold stitching.  “I will see you in the air.” 

“And to you, Otto,” the Baron replied before entering his own maple-colored basket tethered to a pale yellow balloon.  Khalid Francois waved at the other pilot, who made an obscene gesture in return.  Warwick untied the lines of both balloons and quickly climbed into the Baron’s basket.  Moments later, both balloons began to rise into the sunny Normandy sky.  Like unbridled heavenly bodies, the two balloons bobbed and soared over the hills and forests.  All the while, the Baron stared at van Donderbus’ basket.  The head of America’s opium empire looked squeamish, sweaty, and unwell.  He smoked constantly, and his hacking could be heard across the province.

“The hunting grounds are about two kilometers out,” Khalid called out in his native French.

“Excellent work.  Signal the other pilot and increase your altitude,” the Baron replied.

The pilot looked confused, but he knew better than to question his employer and fired up his burners.  Warwick saw the reflection of the flame in the Baron’s tinted lens.  Khalid began making grand hand gestures to the other pilot, who floated roughly 50 yards away.  “Warwick,” the Baron said.  “Hand me my shotgun.”  Warwick bent over and opened the case he had stowed earlier.  Inside was an intricately engraved double-barreled shotgun with a heavy oak stock.  Warwick loaded the shotgun and handed it to the Baron.       

“I am afraid Mr. van Donderbus has outlived his usefulness.  He has more opium in his veins now than blood, and opium clouds your judgment—makes you weak.  I am afraid our organization has no room for such weakness,” the Baron said before taking aim at the other balloon with his one good eye. He waited a moment and then fired.  The deafening blast caused countless birds to fly away from the treetops.  The Baron reloaded the shotgun quickly in choreographed fashion.  He fired again, and again.

Seconds after the third shot, van Donderbus’ balloon began to descend rapidly as hot air poured out of numerous gaping holes.  The other pilot fired up his burners in a futile attempt to keep the vessel airborne, but to no avail.  After all hope was lost, the pilot yelled at the top of his lungs and shook his fist at the skyward onlookers.  Khalid couldn’t help but smirk.  The balloon continued to descend faster and faster before hitting the ground at breakneck speed.  The Baron watched as the basket tumbled end over end, ejecting both passengers who, afterward, lay limp and lifeless on the ground.

“Warwick. A cigarette,” the Baron said.

“Yes, my lord,” Warwick replied.

The Baron inhaled deeply a few times.  “Warwick.  Send word to The Council that Mr. van Donderbus will not receive his promotion and instead has died in an unfortunate ballooning accident.”

“Yes, my lord,” Warwick said, pulling out a pencil and notepad from his inner pocket.

“Also, send word to Grand Vizier Delacroix.  Tell him I am passing off our opium operation in the States to him, and he is to find a suitable replacement for van Donderbus as soon as possible.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Warwick.

“And inform Holstrom and Grand Vizier Bannerman of the new appointment and subsequent vacancy.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very soon, France will no longer be safe.  Make arrangements to return to England by way of Vienna.  I have some business to conclude there.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Warwick again.

Baron DeLacy turned to his pilot. “Bring us down, Khalid.  I need you to retrieve something off Mr. van Donderbus.”