The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (79 page)

___________

The Residency

October 24, 1833, 4 p.m.:

     The Ignatieff group had taken over Tom Wilder’s cubbyhole (it was, in fact, where Colonel Burr’s memorable interview with Renkowiitz had taken place). As the Colonel observed: “There’ll be no party planning at The Residency for quite some time…”

      The group had decided, at its first meeting Monday, to place a watch on the French Consulate. The surveillance, however, hadn’t been operational until Tuesday. By then, Jean-Claude had passed Ignatieff’s message on to the Russian C-G.  The surveillance had been fruitful, however: the steady stream of messengers and visits exchanged between the two consulates confirmed that, in all probability, they were working together.

      But now a Russian messenger was on the Portico, having walked over, apparently, from the Interior Department. The Colonel’s eyes twinkled wickedly as a doorman announced a message for Harper. “Well Mr. Harper, shall we see what this is all about? Perhaps the Countess needs some attention?”

       David, reddening, rose and, walking into the hallway, accepted a small envelope from a heavy-set woman---he recognized her as Caroline’s maid---who gave no indication of any sign of leaving. “Expecting a reply, Mr. Harper. Must be important…and immediate.” The Colonel was now openly grinning as he watched from the cubbyhole’s doorway.

      The message was short and, on the surface, correct: “Finding my schedule for this evening unexpectedly cancelled, I am now free to accept your supper invitation at The Hungry Peddler, 7 p.m. Caroline.”

       Harps quickly scribbled his confirmation and handed it to the Russian woman, whose bright blue eyes betrayed an intelligence not otherwise apparent on her round peasant face. She turned without a word and shuffled toward the doors.

       David watched her disappear across the Portico before turning to Burr with a strange smile on his face. “Countess Caroline has reconsidered, apparently, and accepted my invitation to dinner this evening. We’re to meet at 7 p.m. at a local tavern.”

      The Colonel grimaced. “My congratulations, but I had hoped for something more…appropriate…to the present situation than a social engagement.”

      “But Colonel: I issued no such invitation.”

       Burr stared. “Captain Bratton and I will await your return. No matter what the hour.”

___________

Grant Street Cafe (The Golden Eagle)

Grant & 18
^th
Streets

October 25, 1833, 1:30 a.m.:

    Nicholas had not been happy when informed that The Eagle had reopened. But the report he had received from Captain Drago, via the French agent who had also delivered a well-stocked carpetbag, was that the upper floors were unoccupied. Apparently, the new management lived elsewhere…

     He slipped out of his back room at the Ille de France at 14
^th
& I Streets after midnight and walked head down, the brim of his wide hat pulled low, unchallenged and virtually unnoticed the mile or so towards the alley behind the Eagle. Those he did come across included the usual assortment of drunks, thieves and honest workers coming or going about their own business. With the Army now settled at the Alexandria encampment and the remainder of the defense force stationed northwest of the capitol, there were few soldiers in Georgetown. The police presence, of course, was virtually negligible. Lightly carrying the carpetbag in one hand, his other resting on a pocket-held pistol, he arrived without incident.

     He extracted a tool from the bag and easily picked the newly changed lock on the kitchen door. He pushed open the door gently and stepped inside. No sign of life.
Drago is right: no one stays here overnight
. He grinned in the darkness:
fear of ghosts, perhaps?
He walked through the bar---nothing had apparently been changed---and dragged tables to the front doors. He piled them up to the top of the doorway and then pushed a second set against the first. Anyone attempting to break down the door would have a struggle.  Quickly and quietly he made his way back to the staircase leading to the second floor. At the top he did not even pause to glance at the back boudoir where he had lived with---and murdered---Joanne. Instead, he turned toward the front of the building, to the small corner bedroom that one of the whores---he couldn’t remember her name, only her wild blond hair---had used.

     The door creaked but was unlocked. He strode toward the window overlooking the street. He opened it slightly; the air in the room was stifling. Going to his knees, he pulled out the prototype French rifle the Consulate had provided him; it was capable of firing three shots before reloading.
Our army must get its hands on these
, he thought, idly;
if
they can be practically produced en mass, they would change the entire equation of infantry battle tactics.

     After pushing the weapon’s barrel through the window and experimenting with several potential angles, he finally was satisfied and pulled the rifle back down. He turned his back to the wall; he had several hours before his prey would most probably be riding by. Incredibly---a compliment to his iron nerves---he closed his eyes and napped.

___________

Streets of Georgetown

October 25, 1833, 3 a.m.:

     In light of the emergency, Captain Bratton and Colonel Burr had tossed protocol---and the constitution---aside. All fighting men must be utilized on this deadly manhunt…and that included the Liaison Office’s contingent of Royal Marines.

      His Majesty’s forces were now surrounding both the Russian and French consulates, making no effort to keep their presence a secret. Major Layne himself was in command, with orders to arrest anyone who interfered…and to shoot to kill, if fired upon.

     Captain Goodwin personally led the squad of USBA Marines who had broken down the front door of the Ille de France an hour ago and thoroughly searched the building. The angry French-born owner was roughly shoved aside as the Marines tore the place apart. Other Marines were busy taking up guard around The Residency and patrolling the streets.

     Larry Stubas had mobilized his USBA marshals and they were questioning---none too politely---the various denizens of the night unfortunate enough to be prowling the streets.

     This explosion of activity, like lava out of a suddenly erupting volcano, had resulted from the quiet words of Countess Caroline over barely-eaten meals at The Hungry Peddler.

     Harper had found her waiting in her carriage, the usual Cossacks shockingly absent, when he arrived at 6:45 p.m. “We must act gay, as if nothing is amiss, even though what I will tell you is very shocking,” Caroline whispered as they made their way to the dining room.  The Residency had quietly secured for them an isolated back booth.

      As Harps had been dimly aware, he had had a rival all these months since they had first met at The Residency Christmas party. As infatuated as Caroline was with him, she had also developed strong feelings elsewhere: for the USBA itself.

       “I have grown to love this place, this Dominion of your’s,” she said in starting the conversation. “I cannot, somehow, see myself going back to Russia or following my father to another post in some petty dictatorship or fossilized autocracy.”

      She took his hand across the table gently, though her eyes were blazing: “Whether or not our relationship succeeds, dear David, I will not leave America! That is why I am now betraying Russia with the information I give you.”

       It took almost two hours for the story to play out, for she began with the sudden apparition of Ignatieff the previous winter. When she finally revealed her secret information, David was aghast that so much time had been wasted.  He hurried her outside and packed her back in her carriage. Climbing in next to her, he yelled down at the outraged tavern owner, Steve, to send the bill---“with a big tip”---to The Residency. The carriage spun away, adding dusty insult to the man’s injury.

       Two minutes after jumping off at The Residency gates, he was relaying the news to Bratton and Burr…

___________

     By 5 a.m. it was obvious that Ignatieff had eluded them yet again.

     “So where will he make the attempt? Where can he hide until daybreak?” Colonel Burr banged his walking stick in the dust in front of the Ille. “Damn it, he’s a foreigner.  How many hiding spots in Georgetown can he have?”

      Harry, David and the Colonel looked at each other in growing frustration.

      “Chap’s been here a considerable while, you’ll agree. Appears he made use of his time…”

     “Damn it, Captain Bratton. This is no time to get philosophical.” Colonel Burr was as close to losing his composure as he himself could recall. “What time is the escort forming up?”

        “There’s no chance of dissuading him?”

        “Captain Bratton, he just hit me with that stare.” Burr shook his head. “Felt like a drill going through me. ‘I’m due in Alexandria for reveille,’ he says. As if the army will oversleep unless he’s there to wake them up!”

         Harps was silent. Some things the others had said were bouncing around in his brain. ‘How many hiding places…’ ‘He’s been here a considerable…’

       “My God, I think I know!”

      Bratton and Burr spun to look at him.

      “If the escort proceeds normally, it’ll pass by the War Department on the way to the Long Bridge…”

      Bratton smile of condescension was barely visible in the predawn. “Come, my dear fellow. The fiend isn’t likely to gain access to your own building…”

      “Of course not, but what’s just a block away? Right on the way, with second floor windows opening onto the street…”

       “The Eagle! Of course! And God knows, he’s familiar with its every nook-and-cranny.” Bratton was calling for his horse. “The escort in all likelihood is already in motion. There’s no time to spare. Tell Captain Goodwin to gather his men and meet me there!”

       Before Burr and Harper could react, Harry was mounted and halfway down the street.

___________

     His eyes had always been very sensitive to light. Whether there was any correlation to the telltale two-color oddity, he didn’t know nor care.

      In any event, Nicholas snapped awake as the first dim glimmerings appeared in the dark sky. He remained motionless for a moment; although confident he would have heard anyone entering or moving around in the building, his training had taught him to be cautious. Convinced he was safely alone, Nicholas rechecked his weapons: the French rifle, his pistol and the dagger he always carried in his boot. The trusty two-shot derringer remained in the coat he had carefully placed next to him, along with his hat.

     Ignatieff was counting on the inevitable commotion---shock, disorientation, aid to the victim---to ease his getaway from the building. Once in the street he would easily blend into the crowd. Just another Georgetown resident on his way to work…and yes, what
was
that noise over on Grant Street anyway?  The Americans would soon blanket the area with troops but he was betting they’d concentrate their search in a northerly direction into Maryland (after having closed the Potomac bridges to all traffic, of course).  To go south of the city would apparently trap him in a dead end peninsula…

     With luck, though, he could make his way southwest of The Residency through Foggy Bottom to the banks of the Potomac. The same French security man who had met him at the Ille had been instructed to wait there with a small boat. He’d land somewhere south of Alexandria and make his way back to the Confederate lines and safety…

     The sky was brightening. Did he chance opening the window and looking up the street? No need: from the sound of the hoofs, a considerable party of horsemen was approaching from the northeast.

___________

     Bratton started quickly but almost immediately became ensnared by the very troops he had ordered onto the streets. He was reduced to a slow trot even before he reached New York Avenue and continually forced to identify himself as he pushed on in the direction of The Eagle.  He quickly considered and discarded the idea of abandoning the horse and continuing on foot; riding gave him stature, he looked more authoritative on the horse.

    
Maybe the bloody Russki’s given up; maybe this show of force will convince him he can’t get away with this…

       No, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ignatieff is that he’ll allow nothing to stop him. Ruthless bastard! But good, very good! He’s weighed the odds and thinks he can pull this off. Just didn’t count on the Countess’s conscience. He’ll try it! Must get there in time…

___________

     Ignatieff saw the escort come down Grant Street, the point rider carrying the stanchion with the flag fluttering in the wind. Two riders in file on each side of the target, one bringing up the rear. Perfect!  The Frenchman had informed him this was the formation they had utilized all week and he had made his plans accordingly. The rifle slid under the window that he now adjusted to allow enough room to maneuver without banging the barrel. His only concern was the recoil; he regretted he’d not had time to test-fire the weapon. But he’d been firing muskets and rifles all his life; he was used to having a weapon’s butt crash back against his shoulder. He’d make the necessary allowances…

      The target grew ridiculously big as the escort came into focus; the man was the size of a Siberian bear! His finger tightened around the trigger…

        The first shot caused much of the havoc that followed: purposefully, Nicholas took out the horse of the lead rider nearest him. The animal collapsed in a heap, pinning the trooper under it as it trashed about. The second horse whined and reared, instinctively attempting to sidestep the tangle, its rider desperately struggling to maintain control.  The primary target, visible momentary confusion turning almost instantly to outrage, now was in unobstructed view.