C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Preston Diamond
in
The White House
C. C. Phillips
For everything, thank you Dusty.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by C. C. Phillips
Some Rights reserved. This work is
licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No
Derivative Works 2.5 Canada license. To view a copy of the license
visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ca/
or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 2nd Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California,
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For more information on the author and his other books, visit http://www.ccphillips.net/
Cover Design: Dusty Phillips BSc CIS,
MSc
Interior Design by Dusty Phillips, BSc CIS, MSc
Printed in the United States by Amazon
CreateSpace.
Designed in Canada.
EAN-13:
978-1461058991
ISBN-10: 1461058996
The Brannigan sisters, Lily and Amy, were, respectively, a year older and a year younger than Preston Diamond. Diamond had met the young ladies about the time of his fourteenth birthday and, through a combination of difficult events, they had become close friends. Preston had saved the life of their brother, Davy; Lily's care and willpower had kept Preston among the living when he had taken a bullet through his right thigh. The Civil War had inflicted it cruel toll upon both the Diamond and the Brannigan families. Having suffered the loss of their parents prior to the conflict, the Brannigan siblings lost one brother and nearly lost Davy when he was wounded. Preston's parents were murder victims in a heinous conspiracy of traitors. That was two long, or maybe two short years past, depending if you are living in the moment, or reliving a nightmare.
It was springtime, 1867.
Early in the morning on this clear, and mild day, Preston had left his home in Washington, DC to cross the Patowmack River and renew acquaintance with the Brannigans at their farm northwest of Alexandria. He intended to head back north from there, passing through the town of Conception en route to the farm he co-owned with his friend, a black man named Rufus Tweed.
Brannigan Farm came into view as Preston topped a tall knoll about a mile from the buildings. He paused to study the countryside. His horse, a tough five year old gelding, pranced and tossed his head; Rascal knew, but did not appreciate, the meaning of “whoa.” It had been on this hill that a couple of thieves had held up Preston Diamond and Lily Brannigan; Preston now wondered how the highwayman, who received two bullet wounds in the altercation, had fared. The small acreage below looked abandoned though Diamond could recognize a few changes.
Nearing, he knew the place had come a long way from its derelict position at the end of the war. Davy Brannigan, the oldest surviving member of the family, had a keen business mind and, after healing from a musket ball to the shoulder, had taken a contract cutting timber in the Virginia Wilderness. In a few months, Davy had hired several former slaves and soon had a thriving business. Next step: he bought the sawmill (Preston Diamond had assisted with financing) from the contractor who hired him in the first place. In another six months, Davy had paid his debt to Preston and established a steady market supplying lumber to the housing boom in Washington. To facilitate transport of his goods across the Patowmack, Brannigan bought the ferry boat at Conception Landing. Preston Diamond was given a lifetime free pass.
Davy's sisters had stayed on the farm and, for the first time in their lives, they were enjoying a lifestyle above the poverty line. In a letter to Preston, Lily had gone on at length describing the new home Davy intended to build for the family. But, at the moment, the old house still stood in the same place next to the broken corrals and weathered barn.
The first time Diamond had ridden into this yard, he had been received by a pretty lass standing at a washtub and a hidden person looking down a gun barrel. Today there was neither, but, in response to Preston's “Halloo”, Lily came round from the back of the house. She had a dirt smudge on her brow and dirt on her hands. She blushed when she saw who had come to visit. “I was just digging in the garden, Preston,” she apologized. “Please, hop down and come in. I'll make a pot of tea and fix you something to eat.”
Lily Brannigan had matured since Preston's last visit. She was a well formed young woman now and he had to force himself to keep from ogling. Lily was the first girl Preston had ever noticed from a male perspective. She had given him a kiss once and he had given her a kiss on another occasion. He would like to kiss her now.
She scrubbed the marks from her face and hands then set to work fixing lunch. “Amy has gone to town for supplies. Davy is up at the mill.” She turned to her visitor. “Life is so much better now than when you first rode in here, Preston. The war was on, Amy and I were afraid to step outside without one of us holding a rifle. Back then, I didn't think we would ever live in a civilized world again. Sometimes I didn't think we would live to see another day.”
Preston said, “Around here it seems we are headed back to normal, but I'm afraid that much of the country won't see the good years again in our lifetime. Maybe not in two lifetimes. The war ripped a big hole and there isn't enough thread to sew it up.”
Lily seemed anxious about something; Preston caught her sidelong glances and there were prolonged moments when neither of them could come up with anything to say. They ate in awkward silence, then Diamond insisted on helping with the dishes. Standing beside Lily, feeling her warmth and inhaling the scent of her hair, Preston was having difficulty concentrating. He dropped a dish and it shattered on the floor. Together they knelt to pick up the shards. Their faces came close and their eyes met. Who made the first move was hard to determine but, for the next half hour, neither of them were aware of anything but each other.
When they came to their senses, they were in the single little bedroom off the kitchen. Clothes were strewn about, blankets were askew; they lay naked and perspiring on the bed. Amy Brannigan was standing in the doorway, her entire body an expression Preston could not fathom. How long she had been there, neither Preston nor Lily could guess.
Upon seeing her sister, Lily shrieked. “Oh! Amy! I didn't… we didn't… we… I… I didn't intend that we should go this far… Please, Amy… please don't… don't tell Davy.”
Diamond, flat footed and speechless, turned his head from one girl to the other. If Lily had blossomed, Amy had ripened; she was every inch a woman, too. “What a foolish thought!” his conscience criticized, “can't you come up with something decent to say?”
Amy reached behind her back and smiled as she began to unbutton her dress. “I won't say anything if you don't, Lily.”
Rascal wanted to trot. Preston Diamond, slouching in the saddle like a wet rope, wanted to slow down. For the first ten years of his life, Preston had lived in army posts out west. One of the most vivid recollections of his youth was a trip to San Francisco with his parents. They had spent three glorious days taking in the sights, eating fantastic food and enjoying the amusements at a ginormous fair and exposition. Preston did not think he would ever in his lifetime find a more memorable experience.
He wasn't so certain about that now.
The Brannigan sisters had kept him a willing captive until evening descended, then, believing that if they were found together, they would not be able to conceal what they had been up to all afternoon, the girls shooed Preston away before their brother returned.
The freed hostage had wearily climbed on his horse and rode off perpendicular to the sunset.
Colonel Cutler Diamond, Preston's father, had been a West Point graduate and career soldier. He fought in the Mexican American War, engaged in many skirmishes and battles with Indians on the frontier and died near the end of the bloody American Civil War. Around mid century, a special assignment had led Lieutenant Diamond to Spain. In Barcelona, he met the lovely señorita, Constantina García y Ramírez. Though he nearly lost his life winning her hand, Cutler's happiness would not have been complete without the Spanish beauty. The couple were married aboard the ship in which they sailed to America and, from there, still with the army, the Diamonds travelled to the western frontier and the Pacific coast. Preston was born and a decade passed with the family living in various forts and posts. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Major Diamond moved his family back east and they settled on a small farm near the Virginia town of Conception, just a stone's throw across the Patowmack, from Washington, DC.
In the winter of '65, tragedy struck, and thirteen year old Preston was left alone.
Not long after the death of his father and mother, the young Diamond formed a partnership with the family's hired man and, for the past two years, Rufus Tweed had run the farm. Preston had moved to the city to fulfil his parents' wishes: Cutler and Constantina Diamond had wanted their son to have every opportunity for education, learning and culture; a substantial bequest ensured that Preston should not be denied in that capacity. In Washington, he lived with a retired army couple, Colonel James Unzer and his wife Rebecca. The Unzers had had no children of their own, and though they were twenty years older than Preston Diamond's parents, they treated Preston as though he were their son. Diamond grew to love the Unzers and thought of them as doting grandparents.
The braying of a mule split the darkness. Immediately, Rascal answered with a long whinny. A second mule joined in and, accompanied by a chorus of yapping dogs, announced to the world that Diamond/Tweed Farm had company. Preston saw the warm glow of lamp light through the curtained windows and soon the door burst open. A coal oil lantern preceded a thick muscled black man as he stepped out onto the porch.
Diamond shouted above the racket of the dogs. “Hello, the house, Rufus… It's me, Preston.”
In the lantern light, Rufus's toothy grin looked phosphorescent against his dark face. He hollered at the dogs to shut-up then grasped Rascal's reins as Preston swung out of the saddle. “Well now, Press, yo come on home at las'. Lordy be, lad, but yo grow'd some mo'.”
Preston shook Rufus's hand. “It's good to see you again, Rufus. I shouldn't be so long between visits. How's May-a-belle and little Constantina?”
“Dey's fine, Press, dey's fine. May-a-belle, she got some news, so firs' we put dat Rascal horse in de barn an' den yo come on in.”
As they turned toward the barn, a short black lady with a toddler clinging to her dress, appeared in the open doorway of the house. Preston could see her “news” in the form of a rounded tummy. Rufus said, “May-a-belle, it be dat Press acomin' home fin'ly.”
May-a-belle picked up the child. “Preston Diamon'! You come right on in here, I be fixin' you somethin' special.”
Rufus grinned and said, “Yo' all go on in, Press. I be taken care of yo horse.”
The Diamond home had seen a few alterations since the night Cutler and Constantina were murdered. Rufus had refused to use Colonel and Señora Diamond's bedroom when he and Preston batched, but on the day of the Tweed's wedding, both May-a-belle and Preston had talked Rufus round to moving in. The house was decorated to suit May-a-belle's taste; curtains had been changed, several pictures removed. Most of the furniture was the same. Rufus's bride kept the place as spotless as Señora Diamond had and, though May-a-belle's cooking always smelled and tasted heavenly, it was a flavour quite apart from the delicious Spanish dishes Preston's mother used to make. The cottage had a different aura now but it still had that homey atmosphere; not a house, a home.
While Preston ate supper, Rufus related news about the farm, crops, animals. Preston noted that he'd heard a second mule braying when he rode in and Rufus explained that he had bought another to work alongside Washington, the original farm mule. Tweed had purchased another cow, too. Since the war, farming conditions and sales had improved.
After the meal, Preston pushed back his chair and had begun to talk about his life in the city, when the dog and mule chorus broke out for the second time.
“My lan', we's pop'lar folks this evenin,'” May-a-belle said.
Preston saw a hint of fear in Rufus's eyes as he rose from the table. “I don' knows who's acomin' roun' dis tam de nigh'… It ain' Press, 'cause he be righ' here.”
The mules quieted but the dogs became increasingly excited. Shouts and cursing from outside could be heard in the kitchen. The Tweeds exchanged frightened glances. Preston said, “That doesn't sound like good company, Rufus. You give me time to slip out through the back window and I'll fetch up my Henry. I left it on my saddle. I'll give you the signal when I'm ready. Don't open the door before you you hear me.”
Firelight and billowing black smoke from a kerosene soaked wooden cross flared in the middle of the yard as Preston sprinted through the shadows to the barn. There were seven riders gathered near the flame and they were shouting for the black man to come out before they burned him out. To a man they were garbed in white, with tall, conical hats, hoods, masked faces, long robes and white sheets draped over their horses. Diamond had never seen the group before, but he knew who they represented: Ku Klux Klan.
The Klan had been organized in Tennessee in 1865, at the end of the war. Opposed to the Reconstruction, they had killed thousands of blacks and dozens of whites who supported black freedom. Diamond thought the highest concentration was in the more southern states and was surprised to see them this close to Washington. He didn't take much time to ponder further as he now reached the barn. Preston stepped inside, fumbled in the darkness to find the saddle, and pulled the rifle from its scabbard. He had mistakenly referred to the gun as “the Henry,” but this was a new rifle. The Winchester Model '66. It carried fifteen rounds in the .44 Henry rimfire cartridge and, tonight, the magazine was full.
The Klan members were becoming more obnoxious; three had dismounted and were hurling dirt clods at the house and singing an eerie chant. Preston yowled like a fighting tom: a cat signal Rufus had used in this yard on another occasion. Diamond didn't think the horsemen could see beyond their circle of light. He came out fast and dashed from the barn to the water trough.
On cue, the door of the house opened, then closed quickly as Rufus stepped onto the porch. He did not carry the lantern, but Preston glimpsed a revolver tucked in his belt. Not a good thing if the Klan members noticed it. Tweed disappeared in the dark shadow under the eave. “Yo' all acomin' to see me?” he called.
The chant stopped and one fellow took it upon himself to do the talking for the group. “We are the Ku Klux Klan, Mr. Tweed.” The voice sneered the “Mr. Tweed.” “We are here to remind you that we tolerate no blacks owning land. No land-owners, no voters. This farm is forfeit to the community and you will move on… or die here.”
“Dis, lan' on'y part my lan'. I got sign' paper sayin' dis my lan', too. It sign by Gen'l Grant hissel'.”
There were mutterings in the group and Preston heard Grant's name repeated. The spokesman said, “Makes no difference to us that Grant signed your emancipation. As far as we're concerned, you ain't free and never will be, in this country… Torch the barn, boys!”
Diamond did some quick figuring. Rufus had said Grant signed for the land. General Grant indeed had, because Preston had formed the partnership and Uncle Ulysses witnessed the document, but the ring leader had said emancipation. Grant had signed that too, a few years before the war, but Rufus had made no mention of it just now. Preston recalled the story Rufus told about the Conception sheriff demanding to see the black man's freedom paper. The whole town found out that Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant had once owned, and had freed, Mister Rufus Tweed.
The Klan members had paused for a moment of introspection: No one wanted Ulysses Grant bringing the Union Army down on Conception. The fiery cross flickered eerily and the unmistakable ratchet of a rifle lever sounded loud in the temporary hush. “You gentlemen want to burn something, you had best burn a retreat back to Conception. You're a bunch of fools, playing outside your league.” Preston took a chance: “Sheriff, you make a big target in that white outfit… I wouldn't miss you from here in the dark but with that fire you have set up there, why, I could notch your ear.”
Someone shouted, “Jesus! Wally, he recognized you!”
In a lower voice, another said “Maybe he knows us all.”
Others chimed in, those on the ground mounted up and they began to mill around, their sheet-clad horses growing antsy as the tension built. “Who the hell is out there, anyway? Where did that damn black go to? I don't like this… I don't…”
The left arm of the cross burned off, dropped to the ground, and rolled under a nervous horse. The wood must have received an over-zealous oiling, for droplets of fuel burst into flame on the ground. The horse's white cotton sheet was splattered and flames began to lick holes in the cloth. Fanning the fire with a fit of bucking, the frenzied horse pitched its rider. Highlighted in the flames, the acrobat described a white arc as he sailed over the animal's neck and landed head first on the ground. The horse, trailing fire, rocketed down the lane in a marvellous burst of speed.
“Jesus Christ, Leonard, are you okay?”
Leonard wasn't moving and he wasn't talking.
Contempt in Preston's voice rolled thick across the open space, “Pick up Leonard and get the hell out of here. If ever I hear of the people of Conception treating Mr. Tweed or his family with anything less than respect, I'll know who to come calling on. And you won't see me standing under a burning cross… you won't see me at all, because there is no looking back from Hell.”
The crumpled figure in the dirt had begun to stir and one of the men stepped down to assist him to his feet. Riding double they, and the others, left the yard in a sorry procession. The right arm of the cross burned through, the brace gave way and the sticks collapsed in a shower of sparks and ashes.
Preston called across the now vacant yard, “Rufus, you go on in and tell May-a-belle everything is alright. I'll be along after I've had a look around.”
After Rufus ducked inside the house, Diamond slunk along in the deeper shadows next to the corral and then stepped soundlessly into the trees. He emerged again at the lane. Listening closely, he thought he may have detected the distant drum of hooves; if he had, they were receding.
Preston knocked gently on the door before going into the house. May-a-belle had tear tracks down her cheeks and she was ringing her hands in distress. The Tweed's daughter, Constantina, was not in sight; May-a-belle must have tucked her into bed. Rufus's eyes were big as tea cups and his voice trembled. “Press, I don' know what we agwyne do, if'n dem mens comen' back. I don' know what we adone if'n yo ain't here righ' now.”
Preston leaned the Winchester in the corner near the door. He shook his head. “I don't know either, Rufus. But I think those men were not the real thing. They had some idea they were going to make a difference and at the first sign of trouble, they showed yellow. They won't be back, not that group, anyway.”
“Dey sho' nuff turn tail when yo gib dem de preachin'.”
“Cowards,” Preston spat. “Seven men against one man, his wife and a child.”
Rufus's eyes met Preston's. It wasn't the first time men had come hunting folks at Diamond/Tweed farm. When Cutler and Constantina Diamond had been murdered, Vengeance rode a long hard trail to set things right. By the time the cutting, shooting and hanging had come to an end, there were a lot of people buried; five of them in unmarked graves right on the edge of this yard. The town of Conception was backward, in a backward time, and the people were slow to catch on, but they had all heard the story of Preston Diamond's revenge.
“I'm heading back to Washington in a day or two, Rufus. I'll stop in Conception on my way through and talk to some folks. I think you and May-a-belle will be treated with respect from now on.”
Still distraught, but comforted by Preston's words, May-a-belle went to bed. Rufus and Preston stayed up and talked for awhile; however, the Klan had soured the evening and Rufus Tweed was disappointed. He looked forward to Preston's visits.
Rufus would not allow anyone to use Preston's room in the Tweed house. When the newlyweds had moved into the senior Diamond's chamber, Rufus had said of Preston's bedroom, “Dat alwus be Press's room. Now, an' ebry tam he acomin' home.” Apparently he meant it; the bedroom had not been touched except for a regular dusting and fresh linen placed on the bed. Between the sheets, Preston had haunting memories as he closed his eyes. He could hear the shots, the rasping death breaths of his father… He shuddered. When would people stop butchering each other? Diamond vowed, as he had on the pain of death of his parents, if something were to happen to the Tweeds, every last bastard responsible would pay.
The journey back to Washington passed without event; Preston had stopped in Conception and visited the sheriff. The man was taciturn, allowing only grunted replies, but Preston sifted through the gutturals and learned that the white clad rider named Leonard had suffered a not-too-serious neck injury.
Diamond, at sixteen, had reached the six foot mark and was in fine muscular form. He put a hand on the sheriff's shoulder and said, not unkindly, “You are the lawman in this town, Wally. I'm asking you to make certain no trouble befalls my friend Mr. Tweed when he is in your bailiwick. You know, I'm not suggesting any special privileges, just fair treatment… And remember, fair treatment works in two directions: If the Tweed family runs into bad treatment, I believe that fair treatment will come to the perpetrators.”
Beads of sweat were forming on the sheriff's brow and he was sagging from the reassuring hand Preston had placed on his shoulder. The sheriff, like everyone else in Conception, had heard rumour of the young Diamond's wrath. It had culminated right in this town. Wally's voice changed from a grunt to a squeak. “I'm sure there aren't anymore Klan people here in Conception, Mr. Diamond… I… we… we decided they're not welcome here….”
“I'll be speaking with Lieutenant General Grant within the next few days… Should I ask him to send out a detail to help you?”
The squeak was replaced with a hoarse whisper. “Uh… uh… no, Mr. Diamond… that won't be necessary… uh…uh.. thanks just the same.”
Though Preston Diamond had only been gone for several days, Rebecca Unzer fussed over him as though he had been away for a year. Mrs. Unzer possessed a solid personality with plenty of backbone, but she fell short when it came to doting over her 'son'. Colonel Unzer chided her for “smothering the lad” but the old war veteran loved Preston, too. Preston had taken to calling him “Colonel Jim.”
When, under the direction of his adopted uncle, Ulysses Grant, Diamond had first moved in with the Unzers, his life had been in danger. Preston held pertinent information that eventually led to the conviction of several Civil War traitors. At the time, General Grant thought Diamond should use an assumed name; the alias, Adam Forsythe, came into use. Publicly, the Grant family continued to refer to Preston as Adam. The Unzers, though both knew full well that the handsome, blue-eyed youth was Cutler and Constantina Diamond's son, had also preserved the alias.
Rebecca said, “Well, now, Adam, as soon as I get some food into you, we'll want to hear all about your adventures.”
Preston felt his face warming; he didn't think it appropriate to tell “all” in regard to his visit to the Brannigan farm. It would have been an interesting story, however.
Summer 1862
Serge and Armand Ravenelle clung to the rail, balancing themselves on the open deck of the heaving yacht as rollers tossed and dipped the forty foot craft. Wind whipped the spray of the salt water each time the bow crashed into an oncoming crest and the brothers were soaked to the skin. The night was black and the journey would be long. Tempers ran high as the two men continued an argument that had started at the dock in Portsmouth. Neither would be the first to suggest they go below. The Ravenelles were sailing back across the English Channel to France, having completed successful negotiations with several British companies regarding the loss and continued loss of certain holdings in Mexico.
Along with Britain and Spain, France had been spurned by the Mexican government, namely Benito Juárez, who refused to acknowledge debts owed to these European countries. The Ravenelles were not overly concerned with the debt, but they saw an opportunity to recoup a portion of the losses and gain substantially while doing so. Spain, Britain and France all had troops in Veracruz, but Napoleon III of France had greater ambitions than his neighbours: he didn't want the debt paid; he wanted Mexico. If Napoleon invaded, Spain and Britain would likely withdraw. The Ravenelles knew this and they prepared to skewer the British and Spaniard profiteers who stood to lose their investments in the west.
Armand and Serge operated outside the law; extortionists, thieves, assassins. As soon as they were tall enough to reach the cookie jar in their mother's pantry they began their criminal careers and a life of crime developed into an art. They became learned, polished, rich, and they mixed with people of wealth and power. Through thirty years of living tax free, neither of them had ever been taken to task, except for the missing cookies from the pantry. At times they were suspected; at times a footsore investigator disappeared; at times pockets were lined with cash; but the Ravenelles remained strangers to the judiciary and prisons.
A dozen years ago, Armand fell in love and married a beautiful French lady. He and his new bride, Gabriella, lived in luxury in Paris. Gabriella never questioned what her husband did for a living. He was a man of wealth and claimed he had been born into it. Within a year of their marriage, a lovely little daughter expanded the couple into a family; Armand named her Dominique, after his mother. Armand's brother, Serge, never married although he usually had a beautiful woman on his arm.
This stormy night on the rough seas, Serge did not have a beautiful woman on his arm and Armand's wife and daughter were safe and sound in their chateau in Paris. A sudden tilt of the deck caused Armand to lose his footing and he slipped under the rail. His right hand grasped the steel stem of the upright and his legs dangled above the water. Serge knelt and reached for his brother's flailing left hand. Armand clutched at it and Serge pulled him up. Armand loosed his hold with the right hand to grab for higher purchase on the rail; for an instant, Serge held all of Armand's weight. He relaxed his grip and, with a drowned scream of terror, Armand slipped beneath the waves.
Serge won the argument.
When the surviving brother straightened and glared through the eerie glow cast by the ship's lantern he did not see the witness. The crewman, obscured behind the main mast, ducked lower and held his tongue.
Preston Diamond's life in the capitol city had been both busy and interesting since he had settled in with Colonel and Mrs. Unzer. Rascal, Preston's gelding, had taken up residence with the Unzer's pair of matched greys in a stable nearby. Rather than wasting time in classrooms, Diamond preferred his own brand of schooling under private tutors who could fulfil his interests. Certainly, book learning was a part of his education, but he especially enjoyed trade work. From time to time, he was employed by a blacksmith, several carpenters who taught him the 'hammer and nails' of woodworking —from house construction to cabinet making— an architect, a butcher, a tailor, a locksmith. He even learned Morse Code from an Alexandria and Washington Railroad telegraph operator. Not all of the professionals actually hired him, he often worked for nothing; free education. Deliberately, Preston chose to work with immigrants so that, while he learned the trade, he could glean an insight into foreign languages. Previously having mastered Spanish and English, he soon had a basic working vocabulary in Norwegian, German, and Italian.
Diamond was learning tidbits of politics on the go as he followed Uncle Lyss's career. Rumour had taken root that Lieutenant General Ulysses Grant was a strong candidate for the next presidency of the United States, and Preston Diamond naturally had a keen interest. He passed many hours in the Grant household: Frederick and Preston were near the same age, Ulysses Jr. (Buck) was a year or so younger; Nellie and Jesse were not yet in their teens. When Fred went to school in West Point, Uncle Lyss asked Preston if he'd like to go, too. Preston was interested, but Cutler Diamond had wanted his son to have more opportunity than the military could offer.
Preston's insatiably curious nature and uncanny ability to 'see' what he was looking at, gave him a leg up on learning. He insinuated himself into situations where he might not be welcome, but he had an amazing talent for being unobtrusive, unnoticed; he practised “disappearing.” Preston had a direction in mind, but he did not know where it led. Toward that end, he honed the skills of snooping, eavesdropping and peeping-tom. He studied the ways and wiles of the streets and the behind scenes of business, law and politics. If he had possessed a shred of dishonesty, Preston Diamond could become the most notorious black-mailer the world would ever see.
A young man could be taken in by the unscrupulous, the slime and the gutter snakes. Preston learned to take in the takers but he possessed no urge to set the world right, to punish, or even to suggest that a perpetrator mend his ways. Everyone had their niche and Diamond only sought amusement in outwitting cheats, swindlers and abusers.
He did not find amusement in the actions of those who inflicted cruelty upon beasts or demonstrated indiscretion toward women. On two occasions the lad had taken a beating after interfering in the whipping of a horse and the kicking of a dog. But those hidings were a lesson for him, too. He renewed a vow from an earlier altercation: he would learn to fight.
Most of Preston's wanderings and musings were centred around, but not exclusive to, the Capitol, the White House and other federal real estate. The nation's business intrigued him and he liked to keep a pulse on events. He read newspapers, but preferred to find his own information: frequently he knew the stories better than the ink wasting journalists who couldn't separate grain from chaff and stuffed their write-ups with straw. Washington wallowed in beautiful architecture and scenery to sate hungry eyes and Preston Diamond, having an inkling of the designer and craftsman's perspective, passed hours studying beauty and detail. His travels took him into the less fortunate sections of the city, too. He followed, with an attentive eye, the general happenings in various neighbourhoods.
Life was fascinating and, for someone eager to learn, education abounded in all quarters.
Preston Diamond had his share of short-comings and woes, too. Occasionally his injuries and nightmares haunted him. Often he would wake to find Mrs. Unzer at his bedside trying to calm him from his cries of terror or moans of pain. And, though Rebecca insisted that Preston learn to cook, he only reached a level that Colonel Unzer allowed was “almost good enough for a tramp or a stray dog.” Fighting for his life and trusting no one had given Diamond a one-sided determination verging on stubborn and sometimes he ignored or over-looked the other person's point of view. He held an unwavering respect and loyalty for a very few people and often failed to conceal his contempt for those he felt did not measure up. It was General Grant who pointed out these character flaws and Preston determined to do better.
The Unzers were god-fearing folk but they seldom attended church services nor influenced Preston's beliefs in that regard. As a young boy, Diamond had gone to chapel with his parents while living in military quarters. Cutler Diamond had figured the army chaplains delivered a sufficient sermon to keep the family in touch with the Lord; however, when proximity permitted, Constantina would lead the family to a real church for services given by the Spanish padres in California. Preston learned from the Good Book and found the passages worthy of further study.
He had lived with the Unzers for half a year or so when, during one of his forays, he met a man of the cloth. On this instance, the workmanship of a recently completed cathedral had caught Diamond's attention. The glorious shrine, with towering spires, stained glass windows, relief carving and stonework, embodied the arts of architecture and craft. With a slight limp in his right leg, Preston crossed the street for a closer view.
While he marvelled at the intricacy and detail, his natural instinct for self-preservation wandered off. A light touch on his shoulder brought him back to firm ground.
“It is beautiful, isn't it?”
Preston looked into the smiling face of a priest. He wore the black robe and white collar but was a much younger man than the Spanish padres out in California.
“You appear to have an appreciative eye for beauty, my son. Would you like to see the inside?”
Preston nodded. “Yes, Father, I would like that very much.”
The preacher led Preston up the stone steps and, with a flourish, swept the double doors inward. Preston gasped. The pristine elegance of the interior eclipsed the beauty and grandeur of the outdoor presentation. The ceiling, sheeted in hammered copper, must have been thirty feet above Preston's head. Brilliant sunshine filtered and flickered through the tall stained-glass windows giving the entire room a dazzling, living glow. Rails, trim, wainscot, panels and mop boards of glistening white oak stood out in contrast against the predominantly darker floor, which was an enchanting pattern of select coloured hardwoods. Beautiful wood with intricate design and scrollwork adorned the entire hall. Preston stepped forward and rubbed his fingers on the fine grain of a polished oak pew. “It's magnificent,” he said.
The soft hand rested on his shoulder. “Here, my son, have a seat and I shall tell you all about the building. I have followed its construction from the first turning of the sod more than ten years ago.”
Diamond slid into the pew and the priest sat down beside him. The reverend really did know all about the construction and he easily answered Preston's many questions. He knew the architects, the builders and the masters who performed each task. Preston listened attentively, noting the names so he might find the artisans and learn their craft.
An uneasiness began to creep into Diamond's subconsciousness. When he had sat down on the pew, he was midway across the long bench seat and the preacher had taken a position on Preston's left. Now Preston was at the extreme right of the bench and the man of God had moved so close their legs were touching. Uneasiness turned to revulsion when the priest gently laid his hand on Preston's knee. He looked into the youth's eyes. “Come along and I'll show you the other rooms, my son.”
Preston's voice stammered as he said, “I… I would… but… but first, Father, I… Do you have time to hear my confession? I have not confessed for a long time and, in this beautiful church, I would feel better if I could tell you my sins.”
The priest flashed a benign smile. “Of course, my son. Please, follow me.”
Inside the dark confines of the confessional, Preston lost his stutter. “… and I've used swear words, even taken the Lord's name in vain. I've told a few fibs. Is it okay to tell a lie if it keeps you alive? And I've cursed the God who let my parents die, Father. I have blamed Him for all that has gone wrong… Well, I didn't blame Him entirely… I killed the bastards who murdered my mother and father. I hunted them down; I shot them when they came after me. I'm the person who blew the head off that son of a bitch in the federal courtroom last spring. But I was only defending myself, Father… Is… is it a sin to defend yourself?”
Silence.
“Father? …Are you there, Father?”
Diamond opened the door of the confessional and made his way through the church and outside. He inhaled deeply; the fresh air smelled, tasted grand. The confession had lifted a load from his chest. For a moment, he looked up at the towering spires. Then, on a separate page, in the crescive library of his mind, Preston mentally jotted down another note: Architecture and beauty of man's own creation are not, in themselves, holy.
A few weeks later, in mid October, , Preston made an early tour of the White House grounds. The flowers and greenery had lost some of their resplendence but the handiwork of the green thumbs had not disappeared. Planting, harvesting and gardening were chores Preston could not manage well. He had marvelled at Rufus Tweed's knack for bringing tiny seeds to life and nursing them along to maturity. On Capitol Hill the gardens weren't crops, they were art. Diamond had occasionally seen a Chinese gentleman labouring among the hedges and shrubs. He usually had a gardening tool, sprinkling can, a sack of dirt or box of plants in his hands and Preston had watched the man ply his trade. The fellow seemed oblivious to Diamond's interest as he puttered about tending to his green charges. On this particular day, the gardener was not involved in his work, but stood immobile at one end of a small courtyard surrounded by a thick hedge. Wearing a white smock and white pants, he posed, nearly invisible, with his back to a white marble monument. He had thin black leather shoes, like slippers, on his feet. Preston had stopped to study a bird that was hopping from limb to limb on one of the perimeter trees when he espied the gentleman. Curiosity, Diamond's short-suit, got the better of him and he stayed to see what developed.
A wispy white beard hung down from chin to breast bone; wrinkled skin, age-spots on a parchment face, attested to more years behind than ahead. The Chinese fellow's eyes were closed and his thin hands rested loosely on his stomach: an upright corpse positioned for viewing. In silence Diamond waited. The hands unclasped, the arms lifted outward in a wide circle that brought the palms together, fingertips pointing up, above his head; he brought the steepled fingers down in front of his face, chest, and stomach; just below the naval, the hands parted and hung limply at his sides. The old man's eyes opened but did not seem to focus. In slow, deliberate movements the fellow began to shift about in the small quadrangle; a solo dance that required specific positioning of digit, foot, hand, limb and body. After a time, the exercises quickened. The Chinese fellow did not shuffle, as Preston had seen him do while gardening; he floated.
Diamond became transfixed. The old man began to move in a blur; arms tucked in, arms extended, wrists, hands, fingers shifting, twisting, bending, legs out-stretched, legs doubled-up, knees tucked in, knees whipping the lower legs forward; leaping; kicking backward, sideways, forward; slipper-clad feet arcing high, sweeping low, power driving outward; spine erect, posture straight, spinning, landing. Balancing. No sound. No sound of movement; no sound of touching down; no sound of laboured breathing; only the occasional whip crack of the white trouser legs as the powerful blinding kicks snapped upon the air.
The gardener stopped, bowed, then turned to his lone audience. Preston did not realize he had been under scrutiny as the Chinese man beckoned him to come. The morning had been chill and the bullet wound in Preston's right thigh made him limp as he stepped toward the waiting figure. The dark eyes glittered as the fellow studied Preston. After a moment he pointed to Preston's lame leg and, in the fashion of an inquisitive bird, cocked his head in inquiry. Diamond rubbed the pained area. “Bullet hole.”
The gardener nodded and said, “I fix.”
Seven or eight months previous, Preston had been shot out of the saddle. The slug had passed through his right thigh without breaking the bone but after it had healed, the pain remained and a red furrow formed on the surface of the leg. Two angry scars marked the entrance and exit holes. Preston favoured the leg when he walked and if he went far, it ached in the night. He had learned to live with the grief and could hide the limp if he concentrated.
Old hands and fingers moved slowly, probing Preston's thigh. When they reached the tender area, Preston winced and inhaled sharply. Diamond felt no more discomfiture with the white clad stranger than when a Washington doctor had examined him and declared that nothing could be done; certainly the old man's ministrations were a comfort; a departure from the disturbing hands of the young priest. Sometimes “feeling” and “touching” have different connotations. Preston remained standing as the Chinese man began to massage the area, slowly at first, then faster. The wound began to feel hot, then burning, and the pain grew intense. Just when Preston thought his knees would collapse, the pain began to subside. The old man's massaging circles grew wider and then stopped. Without touching Preston's body, simultaneously, on right and left side, starting at the toes, the fellow passed his hands up Diamond's legs, hips, back, along the neck over the ears and forward to the forehead. He repeated the procedure three times. Then, with thumb and index finger together, he placed one hand on Diamond's hip, above the wound, the other just below the knee on the outside of the calf. “Hurt?” he asked. Preston shook his head and the man moved the lower hand up. He watched Preston's expression. Diamond winced. “Hurt?”
Preston nodded.
Holding position on the lower sore spot, the upper hand moved downward until Preston felt pain. Now soreness in the lower position had eased and that hand moved upward. Working from both directions, always moving toward the wound and never allowing the finger-thumb combinations to leave the surface of Preston's leg, the gardener eventually reached a point where he could span the concentration with forefinger and thumb of one hand. Now the pain was intense and Preston had beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Hurt?” the man kept repeating as he moved either one or the other of his digits, depending which was not at a point of pain. For minutes he would hold position until Preston allowed that the hurt had abated. At last the thumb and fore finger were almost touching. Burning, like a red hot branding iron, shot up the the leg. Preston felt weak and dizzy. The digits pinched together; pain disappeared like flame from a snuffed candle.
Diamond sagged.
The Chinese man smiled. “I fix?”
Diamond wiped a sleeve across his forehead and inhaled a deep breath. “You fix.”
Early morning visits to the garden became a strict discipline for Preston. The old Chinese fellow was always there. On two more occasions he performed his magic on Preston's bullet wound; after the third session, Diamond never physically suffered the pain again. But it wasn't for therapy that he came to see the gardener: Later that first day, when Preston told the Unzers the events of his meeting with the Chinese fellow, Colonel Jim had said the dance (which was the only description Preston could muster) was probably a martial art; Chinese fighting.
Preston Diamond wanted to learn that art.
Serge Ravenelle personally delivered the sad news, of brother Armand being lost at sea, to his sister-in-law and eleven year old niece. In the black of night, a terrible storm had swept Armand and several of the crew from the deck. None of those lost overboard were saved. There was nothing anyone could do. Serge was deeply saddened.
Devastated, Gabriella and her daughter went into mourning but, in time, the widow emerged from her grief with courage to face a heartless world. She and Dominique had been well provided for; Armand's estate would easily support them in the comfort they were accustomed to for the remainder of their lives. Uncle Serge could have taken everything and left them destitute but he had no inclination to do so. Serge Ravenelle was not interested in money itself, it was the art of acquiring it that thrilled him. He kept in contact with his brother's family and hired people who made certain they were cared for. Gabriella began to take an interest in her late husband's work.
As the Ravenelle brothers had predicted, Napoleon III invaded Mexico. Serge had left France and moved to Mexico just prior to the invasion and stayed for two more years during Maximilian's reign. Following the plans Armand and Serge had concocted, Serge capitalized on the losses of the British and Spanish holdings and then grew even fatter at the expense of the Mexican people. While rubbing shoulders with Maximilian in Mexico, Serge cultivated great political favour with Napoleon's government in France and gained influence with the emperor himself.
As the American Civil War drew to a close, Serge made another prediction: The American government would not allow Napoleon and Maximilian to rule Mexico any longer. The Monroe Doctrine, introduced in 1823, read, simply, that the United States would consider any attempt by a European nation to colonize the western hemisphere an act of aggression. France's invasion of Mexico contradicted the formalized document. Serge was correct in his assumption. The Americans intervened; Napoleon III withdrew support; and though history did not yet know it, Maximilian would be shot by a Mexican firing squad. Serge Ravenelle had been relocated in France months before the French knew they were in trouble with Benito Juárez and his Mexican Republicans.
Back in Paris, Ravenelle tended to his affairs of crime. His people had kept the business running smoothly though he was disappointed it had not expanded significantly. Serge personally saw to the permanent removal of his top man; the fellow had taken liberties. But Monsieur Ravenelle found it difficult to remain in Paris. His time in Mexico had taught him that there is indeed a big world out there. Serge decided to go international with the business he and brother Armand had started in the dirty ghettos of the French capitol so long ago.
In his arrogance, Ravenelle decided to abandon subtleties in this bold advancement. He was Serge Ravenelle and the world should prepare to meet him. He reasoned that political acclaim might suit as a cover and, accordingly, chose Washington DC to host his expanding empire. Along with a few well-placed francs, he used his influence to obtain a ministerial position from Napoleon III.
Having obtained the appointment, he needed a ruse for appearing in America's capitol. Ravenelle's keen and devious mind considered opportunities —not in conjunction with his business— to complement his new position: The Americans and French had long been on friendly terms; Napoleon Bonaparte's (Napoleon I) 'gift' in 1803 of the Louisiana Purchase had cemented the relationship. Now, because the Americans had rubbed raw the feelings of Napoleon III and his government, Serge believed the United States might be willing to assuage French grievances. Ravenelle considered that an astute negotiator should be able to milk the cow, dip off the cream and leave the skimmed leftovers for the dogs to scrap over.
It was a flawless scheme: he would syphon a sack of United States dollars from the government; live the pampered life of a diplomat; and establish his underground syndicate, all at the same time. Who would suspect the French politician of being the architect of organized crime?
From his rather large network, Ravenelle selected twenty tough and polished veterans who could speak fair English. These trusted individuals would do the leg work to set up the business. They were directed to discreetly arrive in America some time after the minister had established his presence in the American capitol.
Serge coerced his sister-in-law and niece to accompany him to Washington. The perfect little French family, Gabriella and Dominique would pose as Serge's wife and daughter though, at the outset of their journey, Serge did not bother to inform them of their roles.
Xi-ping Chiang had come to America an unskilled labourer. For two decades, he travelled up and down the east coast working a variety of jobs, always with short term employment. When railroad construction offered a chance for steady work, he hired on. Railroad work did not pay well, especially if you happened to be Chinese, but it was employment. Xi-Ping Chiang helped lay many miles of track before fortune smiled on him and he found more favourable labour.
At home, in Shanghai, Mr. Chiang had been a gardener during the day and, at night, one of the finest martial artists in the land. He fell in love with a government minister's daughter and she was in love with Xi-Ping but, in China, a gardener should marry a gardener's daughter, not the daughter of a man in high office. Rather than bring dishonour to the maiden, Xi-Ping broke off the relationship and broke both their hearts. Running from his own grief, Chiang took work on a ship bound for America. He never found love again but, after several decades, he found an entirely suitable gardening job.
A man of few words —even fewer if in English?— he quietly went about his business. In the gardens of the executive mansion and the Capitol, Xi-Ping Chiang, who now had seniority over everyone, ran the show. There were other men, Xi-Ping's superiors, who were in charge but they really had no say. Chiang never asked for, nor gave, advice in his work. He always agreed with every suggestion and he invariably did what he thought best. No one argued; the proof was highly visible.
Until Preston Diamond arrived in the garden that October morning, no one had taken notice of Xi-Ping Chiang's routine. He preferred it that way, and that is why he chose to practise in the early hours. But Preston wasn't one to overlook or underestimate and he was more inquisitive than a month old pup. During his gardening rounds, Mr. Chiang had previously taken notice of Preston's curious nature. The dark haired lad had stopped to watch the gardener at his work and Xi-Ping noted that he observed; he did not simply watch. It naturally followed that the youth would be interested in Chiang's exercise as well. Xi-Ping was not at all surprised to see Preston the next morning after the first pain therapy and he was not surprised that Preston returned after the therapeutic sessions were no longer necessary.
Sifu Xi-Ping Chiang adopted a disciple.
In time, Preston Diamond would learn the basics, forms, applications and, eventually, weapons techniques of Chinese self defence referred to by Xi-Ping Chiang as Tang. The master taught and demonstrated; the student listened, obeyed, learned, practised and practised more. And though Preston's adventures would lead him far from Sifu Xi-Ping, he always returned for more instruction, more skill, more knowledge. Many years later, Diamond was heard to say that, after the first decade of his training, though Master Chiang had begun to slow down, he himself could never reach Sifu's level, “I am not yet half the artist he was then.”
But Sifu Chiang would never say that. He taught with a quiet patience and praise that brought the best out of his student. Xi-Ping uttered no discouragement, no condescension. In his broken English Chiang advised Preston, “Practise does not make perfect, perfect practise makes perfect.” Absolute perfection is beyond the scope of human endeavour; striving for perfection is the least that one can do.
Sifu Xi-Ping first taught his student the art of self healing, of keeping himself in shape internally and this Sifu referred to as Ch'i Kung. Preston learned the way, the why, and the understanding. Not a sudden mental revelation, the exercise evolved a gradual body healing. Ch'i Kung became part of the training, a daily warm up before commencing the self defence training. Tang, as Sifu Xi-Ping Chiang taught it, was a deadly art and, through the teachings of Xi-Ping Chiang, Preston Diamond would become a deadly weapon.
The first two years of residing at Unzer house were full and eventful times for Preston Diamond. On the occasions when he was at home, Rebecca tried in vain to impart her culinary skills; Colonel Jim furthered the lad's knowledge on artillery, military tactics, and orienteering. They frequently went shooting together. Although ladies hadn't played a major part in Diamond's life, Rebecca believed they might someday; toward that end, she and the Colonel gave Preston dancing lessons. In return, Diamond demonstrated Ch'i Kung and soon had the Unzers limbered up. The trio enjoyed many outings; the Unzers, driving their aging pair of greys pulling the carriage and Preston, astride Rascal, riding alongside. These were good times and Preston began to sleep well. Nightmares faded. The wrongs could never be righted but those responsible had paid the ultimate price and were now beyond reach; there was no one alive left to blame. Preston Diamond had been trained to get on with his life.
Preston mentioned that he had ridden to the Brannigan farm and visited sisters Lily and Amy, but before Rebecca could pry out the details, he brought up the incident at the Diamond/Tweed farm. Colonel Jim was disappointed that the Ku Klux Klan had surfaced so close to the nation's capitol. Mrs. Unzer said nothing but wore a worried frown upon her face. She had witnessed Preston on the vengeance trail; he had been two years younger then; God help the man who crossed him now.
Rebecca informed Preston that a Union Army ball was scheduled for the upcoming Saturday evening. The Unzers planned to attend and she wondered if he would like to join them. Diamond had never been to a real shindig, but he had seen the excitement it brought to his mother's eyes when Constantina and Cutler put on their finest to attend a ball. Out west, Mrs. Diamond had had few occasions to don her lovely gowns and expensive jewellery; dances at the remote forts were more of an impromptu get-together of soldiers and the few wives living at the barracks. However, after they had moved east, the Diamonds had taken in several grand affairs in Washington. Preston had stayed with the Grants while his father and mother went out but he had always wanted to see one of these fancy gatherings. He accepted Rebecca's invitation.
Though Diamond had occasionally worked with an Italian tailor and had become familiar with fashion, Rebecca insisted on taking the lad for a fitting of new clothes. She had done this on other occasions, insisting that Preston have her opinion in choosing his wardrobe. Behind her back, Colonel Unzer would roll his eyes and Preston would grin, but neither ever considered leaving Rebecca out. Preston knew how much he meant to her and there was nothing he would do to change that opinion.
The ballroom, an extravagantly elegant display of architecture with permanent murals, paintings and tapestries adorning the walls and highlighted by two brilliantly lit, gold trimmed, crystal chandeliers, had been festively decorated for the occasion. Diamond thought it must have been a lot of work to put up streamers and adornments for the gala. He didn't quite grasp why folks would go to such pains just to have a dance; as a boy, he had never understood the attraction his parents so obviously felt. Music trilled from an orchestra seated on a large platform, at the far end of the room to the right of the entrance. Guests and attendants packed the hall. There were men and women of various ages from early twenties, through to the gray or white haired folks, older than Colonel and Mrs. Unzer.
Not everyone in the ballroom was associated with the military. Among the officers and soldiers in their fancy dress uniforms there were many dignitaries and politicians; Washington elite. Preston didn't believe he saw anyone his age, but then, many people wouldn't believe he was only sixteen. Smiling ladies resplendent in their gowns and jewels strolled arm in arm with laughing, brushed and polished gentlemen in uniform or latest fashion. Couples swirled around on the dance floor, others congregated in small groups or sat at tables around the perimeter. The idea of waltzing around the room with strange ladies on his arm did not appeal to Preston, although, he conceded, it would be nice to share company with someone like Amy or Lily Brannigan.
Diamond had not danced to music when learning the steps from Colonel and Mrs. Unzer, so his first try with Rebecca required adjustment. She led, he followed, and soon the rhythm caught up. The initiation went well and Preston gained confidence. When the orchestra picked up the tempo to polka speed, he stood aside and watched other dancers twirling around the room. There were many steps he had not learned, but Preston recognized the Virginia Reel and noted that Rebecca and Colonel Jim were comfortable with all the dances. The Unzers looked a decade younger as, smiling into each other's eyes, they glided among the other couples.
Diamond had hoped the Grant family would be at the army gala but he knew Uncle Lyss preferred a quiet social life. Had they been there, Preston would have asked either Mrs. Grant or Nellie —even though she was just a kid— for a dance. He could not imagine asking a stranger.
By his own design, no one took notice of Preston Diamond, also known as Adam Forsythe. Preston had reluctantly been in the Washington spotlight when, two years earlier, his testimony at the conspiracy trials following the assassination of President Lincoln had helped convict the traitors, four of whom went to the gallows. Also in the courtroom, by Preston's own hand, the man responsible for the deaths of Cutler and Constantina Diamond was tried, convicted, sentenced and executed in one swift instant. But DC did not stand still for long and there was always more news cropping up. In a short time, Preston had been forgotten and was all the happier for it. Many of the people present tonight would not remember Adam Forsythe by name or face. From his snooping and eavesdropping adventures, Preston recognized more people here than those who may have known him. Tonight, he did not take time to watch or study them in detail —no one needed to know or suspect Diamond had had them under surveillance. He casually surveyed the crowd.
Preston Diamond's quick eye caught sight of a black haired young lady who was now emerging from the foyer. She trailed behind a handsome, middle-aged couple he thought might be the girl's parents. She looked a youthful version of the glamorous lady on the arm of a distinguished gentleman. Preston noticed that their clothes were not of Washington style; they were a cut above anything he had ever seen. The trio caused a stir among the guests as, led by a smiling two-star general, they made their way through the crowd. Diamond tried not to stare, but his eyes involuntarily returned to the lovely maiden. Nearer now, he gave up the charade of disinterest and his heartbeat quickened as he gawked. She wore a crimson ribbon in her hair and long curly ebony locks hung down her back in tiny ringlets. Though her face was partially hidden by the curls, Preston could see a smooth, chalk-white, blemish free complexion; there was a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She had full red lips, slightly parted, and, when her smile widened in acknowledgement of a passing pair of dancers, Diamond glimpsed even, white teeth. Her pert little nose turned up daintily so as to forbid hauteur and her dark eyes shone with happiness. She wore an elegant cream coloured dress that had a pattern of leaves, in a slightly darker shade, traced throughout. Crimson lace trim on cuffs and collar matched the ribbon in her hair. Preston thought she could not be of this earth; a goddess escaped from Greek or Roman mythology.
Diamond had forgotten about the ball and everyone else in the room. He watched the entourage proceed toward a group of guests who, according to their finery, represented the elite. Someone touched Preston's elbow and he turned to face a smiling Rebecca. “Cat got your tongue, Adam?” she asked.
“Who is she?”
“They, Adam, there are three of them, with Major General Hawks. James says the gentleman is a French diplomat.”
“A French diplomat? From France?”
Rebecca gave Preston an indulgent smile. “Yes, Adam, most French diplomats are from France.”
“Do you think she might dance with me?”
Rebecca gazed at the table where the French people were now being seated, then turned back to Adam. She adjusted his collar and touched him on the cheek. “If she doesn't, whoever she is saving her dances for isn't about to appear in Washington. You are the most handsome man in the room, Adam. Mark my words, she'll notice you, I'll guarantee that much… As for her dancing with you, my dear lad, you will have to ask her.”
Preston panicked. “I can't speak French!”
“How do you know she doesn't speak English? Or one of the other languages you rattle off around home sometimes? Trust me, Adam, there will not be any language problem in asking her to dance.”
Rebecca turned back to look at the distinguished group. “Her mother must have been a stunner, too. She still looks gorgeous.”
Noting the aristocratic beauty and jet black hair of the older French lady, Preston recalled his mother; he decided that Constantina Diamond had been more beautiful. His eyes shifted to the daughter. Even Cutler Diamond may have had to concede that Señora Diamond was not the most beautiful lady at the ball.
Mrs. Unzer interrupted Preston's reverie. “We'll give them a moment to settle in, then I'll waltz you by their table. You pay attention to me and your dancing and I'll discreetly watch the young lady.”
“She walked right by a moment ago and didn't even see me,” Preston said.
“That's because you are doing that disappearing trick of yours. I had to look hard to find you, myself. And, when I finally located you, all I saw were those bright blue eyes and a drooping lower jaw, gawping at that young lady.”
The “disappearing trick” Mrs. Unzer had alluded to was a habit Diamond cultivated. His entire manner was unobtrusive, but he had a way of physically fitting into the background or foreground. As a boy, Preston had practised camouflaging himself in the woods while hunting with his father. He had become quite good at it and now he could disappear in open country on a sunny day or, as he had done just now, in a brightly lit room.
Preston grinned at Rebecca. “So this is why you've been teaching me to dance.”
She winked. “It was my James' dancing that swept me off my feet. I may have aged, but I haven't forgotten how a young lady thinks.
The orchestra had dropped the tempo again. Rebecca said, “Alright, Romeo, take me out on the floor.”
Preston's a cappella dancing lessons at the Unzer household had improved with Xi-Ping Chiang's teaching of martial arts. Sifu had demonstrated and drilled into his student: fluid, relaxed, effortless movements; never tense or taut. Now Preston and Rebecca shifted easily about the ballroom, 'light on their feet' though Preston had to make conscious effort to keep the music in his soles. Rebecca kept up a chatter, naming individuals for Preston and occasionally smiling or speaking to another dance couple.
“She's looking this way, Adam. She sees you. She has a side view. Don't look just now.”
Preston concentrated on the music and tried to keep the rhythm. “I never figured you for a matchmaker, Rebecca.”
“I'm not matchmaking, I'm just trying to line you up for a dance. James and I wanted you to enjoy the ball tonight, have fun. And the best way to do that is out here moving around… She's following your every move.”
Preston flashed the special grin he reserved for Mrs. Unzer. “I am having fun, Rebecca… and I apologize for accusing you of being a matchmaker. And, I thank you, too.”
“Thanks for what, Adam?”
The grin widened. “Thanks for inviting me along, thanks for dancing with me, and thanks for not matchmaking… What is she doing now?”
“Well, we're sort of past their table, I'll turn you for a look.”
Preston still had the grin on his face and amusement sparkled in his bright blue eyes as he twisted around for a glance toward the table where the French girl sat.
Their eyes met.
And locked.
Rebecca shifted and Preston lost sight of the French girl. “It's a good thing I've been back-leading this waltz or you would have danced us up the stairs.”
“She must be a princess, Rebecca. Do they have royalty in France?”
“I think they have an emperor who has assumed a throne. I don't know if there are any princes and princesses and I doubt that the minister is from royalty. Beauty is not restricted to blood lines, you know.”
The music stopped and Preston walked Rebecca across the floor to Colonel Unzer who stood amid a group of army officers and their ladies. Rebecca touched her husband's sleeve and said something to him. Unzer glanced across the room then looked at Preston. The Colonel's face broke into a smile. “So, Adam, you would like to meet Major-General Hawks, would you? Hawks is an old campaigner like me, I'm sure he will make us welcome among his special guests.”
Preston felt his face warming but his only response was a sheepish grin.
Unzer excused himself from his fellow officers and led the way to the table where the French people sat. The young lady's eyes followed Preston and they grew bigger as he drew near. General Hawks also noticed the Unzers and he rose to greet and welcome them. Room was made for the new arrivals and Rebecca manipulated the arrangement to seat Preston next to the French girl and her mother. After making introductions, Hawks said, “Colonel Unzer and I go back many years….”
Preston Diamond lost interest in what Hawks had to say and he turned his attention to the lady seated beside him. Hawks had stumbled over pronunciation of the French names but the smiling foreigner came to the American's rescue: they were Serge, Gabriella and Dominique Ravenelle. Preston had repeated the names as he heard them; “Dominique Ravenelle” not only sounded like a lovely name, it felt nice to repeat. Monsieur Ravenelle, though with a strong accent, spoke far better English than any of the Americans could speak French. Madame Gabriella had broken, halting English and she often turned to her husband for translation. Dominique, Preston soon found, had very limited English in her vocabulary and that was fair because Preston had very limited understanding of French. He thought it a piece of bad luck that none of the tradesman he had learned languages from had immigrated from France.
In spite of the barrier, Dominique and Preston's conversation was fun. Preston tried Spanish first, there was some comprehension; Italian met with a blank stare; however, Dominique knew a small amount of German and they were soon stumbling through a simple question and answer phase seeking common ground and, all the while, laughing at their own ineptitude. When Dominique laughed, her radiance shone like a new sunrise; an incarnation of Aphrodite. Diamond was smitten; he had never seen anyone so lovely.
The orchestra had started up again, several couples from General Hawks' table rose and went out on the floor. Colonel and Mrs. Unzer followed them but not before Rebecca held eye contact with Preston; she made a hand signal he could only interpret as, “Ask her to dance.” When Monsieur and Madame Ravenelle rose and stepped out among the dancers, only Hawks and the two young people were left. The general pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and, with a discreet wink toward Diamond, said, “Please excuse me, I must see a gentleman for a moment.” Preston watched him leave and then turned to Dominique. She wore a half quizzical, half expectant smile. Preston stood, offered his hand and said, “Would you do me the honour of sharing this dance?” Dominique did not understand the words but she understood the question. She placed her small, gloved hand in his, rose from her seat and allowed him to escort her to the dance floor.
Perhaps Mademoiselle Ravenelle was not a goddess or even of royal blood but Preston Diamond believed himself a king when he waltzed with her. He was grateful for the hours spent dancing with Rebecca in the little parlour at the Unzer house, but Rebecca's lessons had not prepared Preston for the perfection Dominique displayed as she glided through the steps. His feet seemed awkward and clumsy by comparison and, when he finally managed to translate his appreciation of her ability, he learned that she was a student of dance; taught in Paris. But Preston need not have been concerned for his novice performance. Dancing couples slowed to watch the two young people. Handsome and beautiful, they were under the spotlight.
The Ravenelles and the Unzers came together on the floor and stopped to watch their charges. The ladies beamed with pride, Colonel Unzer grinned in silent satisfaction, and Monsieur Ravenelle smiled; close observation, however, would have detected an underlying frown.
Sifu Xi-Ping Chiang recognized the symptoms of Preston's distraction the morning after the Army Ball. The Master halted the class halfway through and led Preston to a sunlit patch in the garden. They sat upon the grass and Sifu opened his heart to the student. The old man's eyes shone, in his limited English and Preston's even more limited Chinese, he told the story of his youth and the love he had left behind. Sifu's spoken teachings were seldom clear or pointed. Preston had learned to seek the deeper meaning in every parable. From this lesson he learned that love is fragile. Sifu picked a small blossom and removed half of the petals to demonstrate love lost; each petal floated down to settle in a different spot upon the lawn: so many ways for love to fall and hearts to break. Sifu Chiang plucked two more flowers, twisted the stems together and held the pair so that the petals caught the brilliant sunlight: love once known, for an instant or an eternity, is the fulfilment of the soul. Xi-Ping faced his student, placed a firm hand on Preston's shoulder and said in his broken English, “I have lost much, but I am never sorry for what I had.”
Preston Diamond thought of the loss of his parents. He would always love them. If love blossomed between himself and a woman, a woman like Dominique, would he lose it all again? Preston knew that Sifu Chiang was encouraging his student to allow love to happen. But in Xi-Ping's mysterious way he was foretelling something that Diamond could not fathom.
Petals from the flower of love will fall where they will.
Colonel and Mrs. Unzer were waiting breakfast when Preston arrived home. Rebecca was bursting with pride over “Our Adam's” dancing debut and his showing an interest in ladies. Preston's tanned features turned darker and the colonel came to his rescue. “Mother, the lad has probably had more young gals tripping over each other to get near him than he cares to remember. Now give him some peace.”
“But she is so beautiful and Adam so handsome, James. I've never seen a more perfect match.”
Unzer puffed his cheeks and exploded a breath. “Becky!”
The colonel could be stern and when he said, “Becky!” it was time to switch topics. Preston reached for a plate of side pork. “Er… I only had half an hour of teaching today. Sifu Chiang decided it was time for discussion….”
The conversation continued in that vein until the end of the meal and then it was Diamond who asked about the French attaché. “What do you know of Mr. Ravenelle, Colonel Jim?”
Unzer took a sip of coffee, set the cup on the table and reached for a toothpick before replying. Then all he said was, “Not much.”
Seeing the blank stares on Preston and Rebecca's faces, he added, “Well, General Hawks told me he had been asked to invite the Frenchman and his wife to the Army Ball. Hawks wasn't certain why he had been given the orders.” Unzer removed the toothpick, stared at it a moment, then, seeing the expectant looks of his audience, popped it back in his mouth and continued. “Ravenelle is a government minister or ambassador or something like that, just arrived here in Washington. Someone in our government must have wanted to make the Ravenelles welcome but was too busy to do it himself. For my part, until last night, I hadn't heard of the man.”
Rebecca said, “There's lots goes on in Washington that we don't know about. Now that James is retired, even the doings of the army are kept from us.”
Colonel Jim rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and said, “But I do have a piece of news for you, Adam, on another subject. While you and that young gal were dancin' up a storm, there were people wondering who you were. It seems no one recalled your moment of glory two years ago or at least they didn't blab about it last night. Anyway, a fellow who made the connection between you, Rebecca and I came over to ask me about you. He wasn't nosey, just interested, so I listened to him.”
Rebecca interrupted, “You listened to him? How could he be getting answers to his questions if you were doing the listening?”
“Well, I fed him a tidbit here and there. Just general stuff… but I bragged a little about Adam learning all those trades.” Unzer removed the toothpick and pointed it at Preston. “The fellow is a well-to-do contractor here in DC and he has a handle on most everything that is built, repaired or maintained in regard to the government buildings.” The colonel fished a scrap of paper from his pocket, read a moment, then said, “His name is Hugh Bagnold and he gave me the name of a foreman who works for him,” Unzer referred to the paper. “Robert Tessier. If you want to go to work and learn from a jack-of-all-trades, this Tessier chap is the fellow to see.”
Preston was interested. It would be an opportunity to keep an eye on the ins and outs of the Capitol, pick up more skills and earn a wage, all at the same time. He may even learn something of Monsieur Ravenelle which, in essence, translated into knowing more about Dominique.
Everyone in the Building and Maintenance Department knew Robert Tessier but few could tell Preston where Hugh Bagnold's foreman was at any given moment. Preston eventually tracked him down.
Tessier was the handyman in charge of the handymen. He was a tall, spare man gone to gray. At forty-something, he was remarkably agile and spry. Less than handsome, with a large and crooked nose, his bright eyes and ready smile made up for his homeliness. Preston found that the man talked fast, worked fast and even slept fast (he told Preston he never really went to sleep but survived on short naps). Tessier had been a sailor but had jumped ship on his first voyage across the Atlantic. America was the land of opportunity and Robert Tessier decided to give up the sea for a firm foothold on land. In a short time, accelerated by a shortage of workers during the Civil War, Tessier had gained the foreman position. When Preston asked how a sailor came to be so entirely capable and schooled in every occupation from carpentry to masonry, Tessier explained that he had worked with his father who had been a jack of all trades; but there wasn't enough work. The family lived hand to mouth and, occasionally, there were long stretches between full stomachs. At a tender age, the young Tessier had gone to sea. Coincidently, Tessier was a Frenchman and he was happy to give free lessons in his native language (lesson number one being the French pronunciation of his first and last names). The student would be wise to screen the words since not all of Tessier's foreign phrases were repeatable to a general audience. Preston Diamond —introduced as Adam Forsythe— would soon demonstrate that he was a fast and eager learner of both language and work.
While working around the White House and the Capitol, Diamond did not actively search for Dominique Ravenelle but the young lady haunted his thoughts and dreams. Believing that she must be in residence nearby, he hoped to see her and kept half an eye on the people passing by. He had done some sleuthing outside working hours and asked a few questions but, several days after he commenced his apprenticeship with Robert Tessier, it was Dominique who found Preston.
Diamond was hand mixing a batch of cement in a wheel barrow along a damaged stretch of sidewalk near the east face of the Capitol when Madame Ravenelle and her daughter strolled past. Dominique gave a cry of delight when she recognized him. Both ladies looked stunning in spring dresses and bonnets; Preston was momentarily embarrassed to be seen in his work clothes. Mother and daughter did not mind at all. Conversation was limited until Robert Tessier arrived. Preston continued his work while the handyman translated and kept up a colourful colloquy with the ladies. As the Ravenelles departed, Madame asked Preston to join them for a picnic and Tessier was invited along. Tessier, chattering in rapid French, helped Preston finish the job. Diamond caught little of what the man said but it was apparent that Robert was excited. So was Preston and both were impatient for the lunch break.
The ladies had a blanket spread and the picnic basket open when Preston and Robert arrived. Through Tessier, Diamond learned that Monsieur Ravenelle was in meetings all day so the ladies were out to enjoy the sunshine and see the sights around the Capitol. They were especially impressed with the greenery and Preston told them of his gardener friend, Xi-Ping Chiang. The food was delicious and there was even a bottle of French wine. Twice Diamond tried to find out more about Dominique's father but the ladies were vague and Preston thought he detected an air of irritation when Serge Ravenelle was mentioned. When Preston asked a third question, Tessier flashed him a glance that said more than words so he abandoned the topic. But Diamond resolved to find answers on his own.
Seated on the grass, Dominique shifted so near to Preston their legs touched. He could smell her perfume and, when she gazed up at him, he became lost in the pools of her dark eyes. He reached out and touched her white hand; it was so dainty, so smooth and warm. Madame Ravenelle and Tessier were chatting animatedly in French. Tessier must have been telling an amusing story and, Preston noted, the lady's laughter sounded genuine. The young people could find nothing to say in any language. After a time, Diamond asked where she stayed and Dominique pointed at a distant building, its roof showing above the trees, on the far side of the grounds. Gabriella overheard and she told Robert who then informed Preston. “Monsieur Ravenelle's offices and apartments are in the east wing of that building. France does not have an embassy so, when a French diplomat comes to visit, he is given temporary accommodations provided for by the American government. Many other countries do the same.”
The meal and his lunch break ended too soon for Preston's liking but, to his surprise, the ladies asked them to meet again tomorrow. Diamond and Tessier quickly agreed; Robert Tessier insisted on supplying the food, “…and the wine,” he said, in French.
After the Ravenelles had gone, Tessier spent the afternoon working alongside Preston instead of dashing off to oversee a half dozen other jobs. They went back to the freshly cemented sidewalk and trowelled the surface —someone had saw fit to scratch their initials in the cement— cleaned up the wheelbarrow and tools, then carried on to repair a sash and broken pane in a window at the White House. Sometimes Robert whistled a tuneless tune, sometimes he chattered in a broken mixture of French and English, more often than not, he was uncharacteristically quiet. When the workday ended, he turned to Preston. “Adam, I know of this Ravenelle. It is best if you do not speak of him to our new lady friends.”
“But, Monsieur Ravenelle is Dominique's father, Madame's husband,” Preston protested.
In French, Tessier said something that Diamond interpreted as, “all may not be as it seems.”
Darkness had long been a friend to Preston Diamond. He had learned that nighttime held many mysteries and he longed to unravel them all. He moved with cat stealth and saw with owl eyes. Sometimes he and Sifu Chiang trained in the black of the moon so Preston would learn to 'hear' his opponent.
Darkness enclosed Preston now as he clung to a balcony railing three stories above the ground on the east side of the French Minister's residence in Washington. Curtains were partially drawn and dim lamplight from within the room cast a half circle of light on the floor of the enclosed area near Preston's perch. Moments ago, a man had stepped out onto the balcony and flicked a glowing cigarette or cigar into the night. Preston had watched the ember twirl end over end and sparks flew as the dog end struck the sidewalk below. To Diamond's chagrin, the fellow had gone back inside and closed the French doors behind him. Prior to that one of the doors had been ajar, allowing Preston to eavesdrop.
Curiosity and a burgeoning interest in Dominique Ravenelle had led Diamond to find more information about the three recent arrivals from France. No one seemed disposed to give him answers and that further piqued Preston's inquisitiveness. At the Army Ball, Major-General Hawks had accompanied the French attaché, so Diamond had gone to Lieutenant General Grant to see if there was a connection between the foreign contingent and the US Army. Uncle Lyss had heard rumours about a French minister having arrived in DC but he knew of no link between Ravenelle and the army. Preston did not feel comfortable approaching General Hawks on the matter so he donned his dark duds and went to see for himself.
Listening at the open door had given Diamond a point to ponder: Monsieur Serge Ravenelle, the beaming minister at the ballroom, was not the same friendly fellow at home or, at least, out of the public eye. Preston had heard the elder Ravenelles squabbling but the words came fast and he could not translate. Diamond was not accustomed to couples quarrelling; his parents never had and, except for the colonel occasionally saying “Becky” in a firm tone, the Unzers had had no set-to during Preston's time in their home. There was something odd about the tempo of the fight, too. The French couple did not sound like husband and wife, it was more like a business argument. Preston considered Robert Tessier's words in regard to the Ravenelles: All may not be as it seems.
The door was closed now and the hour late. Preston decided there could be no more gained by hanging off the side of the Ravenelle's balcony. He dropped down and his feet found the railing of the next floor. Just as he was about to swing to the last rail on ground level, a match flared in the room beside him and he halted his descent. A lace curtain covered the window but it was transparent and Preston looked to see who was in the chamber: Dominique Ravenelle.
She carried the kerosene lamp across the room and placed it on a small table. Preston could see that Dominique was in her bedroom and had been in bed, for the covers were turned back and rumpled. She dabbed at her eyes with a dainty handkerchief. Seeing her sadness, Diamond's heart went out to her. She wore a frilly white nightdress which, along with her pale and perfect skin, shone stark contrast against her long black hair hanging loosely down her back. The yellow luminescence from the lamp cast a halo glow around her dark head; she could have been an angel. Diamond's foot slipped and he scrabbled for purchase. He caught the rail and swung himself onto the balcony. The room inside the French doors at this level was dark. Preston held his breath but no sound came. He looked toward Dominique's window. He had a forty-five degree angle to look in from here and could only see her shoulder. Dominique had not heard him.
Preston waited another moment, then continued down. He dropped the last eight feet and landed softly in a rhododendron bush. He straightened up and looked out from the bush before proceeding. Sifu Chiang would not be pleased to have his student stomping on the shrubbery.
Keeping to the shadows Diamond angled across the grounds and emerged on the avenue. It was a short stroll to the Unzer's house; Preston walked slowly, mulling over what secrets the Ravenelles may have in their background. No one seemed to know what the French trio were doing in Washington.
Tessier and Diamond found the mother and daughter in the same place next day at lunch time but threat of rain clouded the picnic. Robert led everyone to a small gazebo in a garden on the west face. A shower came just as they all ducked under the low roofed enclosure. Diamond noted that both ladies were as cheerful and lovely as they had been the day before. Neither allowed any indication of fatigue, stress or sadness. The situation was peculiar. When did they find time to sleep?
With a flourish and “Voila”, Robert Tessier opened the wine and poured for Madame Ravenelle. She smiled her appreciation of the choice and the picnic followed much the same pattern as the day before. Preston and Dominique found their voices today and, with the occasional translation from Tessier, were able to converse. Preston thought he detected a red mark on Madame Ravenelle's cheek; there was an excess of rouge and the colour was darker than the previous day. Had someone struck her?
The patter of rain eased on the roof of the gazebo. Preston offered his arm to Dominique and they went for a stroll along the wet pavement. They stopped by a flower bed where muted, dew dampened bees were crawling about on rain spattered blossoms. Preston turned to face the girl and she suddenly stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. As he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, a beam of sunlight split the gray cloud above and shone down upon the lovers. The only mortal witness was an elderly Chinese gardener who smiled and nodded to himself.
As the young people made their way back to the gazebo, Preston asked if he could visit Dominique at her apartment. When she was able to understand what he had said, a glaze of fear crossed her features. She said, in fragments of two languages, “I would like to see you, Adam, but it is not safe.”
“No one will know, I will come tonight to your room.”
She did not ask how he knew where her room was. Maybe she thought that Preston and Robert were familiar with all the government buildings and chambers.
Preston Diamond led the girl into a small garden, much the same as the one he and Xi-Ping Chiang trained in on the other side of the Capitol. Again he kissed her lips and she clung to him almost desperately. As the pair neared the gazebo, Preston's extra height enabled him to see Robert and Gabriella still seated inside. To Diamond's astonishment, their heads came together and they shared a lingering kiss. Preston decided, “When it comes to love, French people do not waste time.”
Diamond's French language lessons did not progress far that afternoon. Each lost in his own reflections, neither Robert nor Preston were communicative.
Dominique had the lamp burning and was seated by the window when Preston scaled her balcony that night. She raised the glass and he quickly squeezed through the opening and jumped lightly to the floor inside the apartment. She rushed to his embrace. Blood ran hot but they were not swept away and out of control like Preston and Lily Brannigan had been. Dominique was afraid of something and Diamond could not ease her tension nor bring her round to talking of her troubles. He knew he should not stay long but, as he turned to the window to make his exit, she said something he translated as, “There is someone….”
Diamond did not give her time to complete the sentence and errantly assumed she had a sweetheart. He said bluntly, “Here, in Washington, or is he in France?”
“He is in Washington… but…” Her eyes widened as she recognized the anxiety on Preston's face. “Non! Non! Il n'est pas mon chéri.” She stopped and began again. “Non. He is not my… chéri… but, Monsieur Ravenelle…”
Again Preston interrupted, his impatience clouding the truth the girl was trying to communicate. “Monsieur Ravenelle? Isn't Serge Ravenelle your father?”
She shook her head. “Non, il n'est pas mon père… Non, he is not my… father… And… he is not de 'usband?”
Preston nodded. “Husband.”
“He is not de 'usband de ma mère.”
“Serge is not your father and he is not your mother's husband? But why are you travelling together? Why are you posing as a family?”
“Affaires du gouvernement. Il est mon oncle.”
“Government business? Your uncle? Why does a man involved in government need a fake wife and daughter?”
Dominique shrugged, then went into a spiel of rapid French that Preston could not grasp. He said, “We must have Monsieur Tessier translate for us. This is America. You and your mother are under no foreign power here.”
She smiled and nodded, but Preston knew she had not grasped all that he had said. He tried to give her a quick good-night kiss but brimming passion held them for several minutes longer and Preston had trouble negotiating the balcony railings on his descent. That problem abated as he landed in the rhododendron: someone was waiting for him at ground level.
Actually, two people were waiting for Preston. One, a short fellow with broad shoulders, carried a stout branch which, Diamond surmised, had been recently broken from one of Xi-Ping Chiang's charges. The other was a larger chap with long arms and hunched shoulders. His knuckles were not far from the sidewalk and Preston assumed his family had not been walking upright for many generations. Not far away, in a flickering shadow of movement, Diamond detected a third person. That fellow appeared content to stand back and watch. If he was armed, Preston would have no chance. The darkness beside the building did not allow for identification of facial features but intentions were clear. Cornered between the ground level patio railing and the wall of the building, Preston did not have many options.
Gripping the broken limb with both hands, the thug with the club waded in. He swung low, aiming for Preston's knees. The stroke missed and the lumber rattled loud against the wrought iron railing. As the swing had come in, Diamond jumped above the sweeping branch and, while rising upward, lashed out a vicious forward kick to the man's chest but the fellow, over eager with his swing, had lost balance and stumbled forward, stooping as he did so. Diamond's foot, toes turned upward in his soft leather shoes, caught the assailant on the point of the chin. He quickly went from falling face first to tumbling heels over head backward. Still a novice, Preston did not have proper control; Sifu taught balance, power, aim, speed and timing, but two years of hard training were insufficient to master any of the moves. On this particular kick, Preston lacked accuracy and underestimated power. The injured fighter came to rest on the lawn. During his reverse somersault, the now inert player had bowled over his Neanderthal cohort. Hoping that the third man, still waiting in the shadows, would not shoot him, Preston allowed the nearer man time to regain his feet. He even gave him the option of quitting. There are slow-learners and no-learners; apparently, this fellow was of the latter persuasion.
Diamond manoeuvred the hulking caveman between himself and the shadow figure. He intended to edge closer so as to have a chance of disarming the hidden man, if indeed the fellow had a weapon. Neanderthal put up a good scrap but he hadn't landed any blows and he couldn't get his hands on the shifting demon. Preston heard him wheezing from lack of breath and he had started to totter. The fighters had not made much noise, except for the clang of wood on iron at the onset, but now lamps were being lit in the apartments on the main floor and balcony doors were opening above. Preston kept his opponent on the move, pushing him backward. The hidden fellow had not shifted and, as Diamond made one last thrust to keep his attacker in line, he noted something familiar in the mystery man's posture. In that instant, Diamond lost concentration and received a glancing clout to the ear. The shadow person's head moved just enough for Preston to be sure who stood there.
Realizing he need fear nothing from the man in the darkness, Preston, in a flurry of wicked punches and vicious jabs, whittled his opponent down and then dropped him with a backhand fist to the temple. Folding onto his knuckles on the grass, Neanderthal went down. Behind Preston, the first attacker groaned and sat up. People watching from the building were talking in low tones.
Preston turned to the man in the darkness and said softly, “Sifu… I had no choice… they were waiting for me, they came at me first.”
Sifu Xi-Ping Chiang did not answer but beckoned to Preston, then disappeared among the trees bordering a large open park. Diamond, head low, followed. He was in trouble and he knew it.
Chiang, padding noiselessly across the park, led Preston to the garden where Diamond had first witnessed the master in meditation. Xi-Ping did not ask; he did not lecture; he waved Preston to silence, then motioned his student to commence training. For two hours Preston was not allowed a moment's rest. He was wringing wet with perspiration, his chest heaving, and the light of dawn was creeping up the eastern horizon when Master Chiang faced his student. Diamond, though near collapsing from exhaustion, maintained an erect posture. Sifu said gruffly, “Tang, defence. You no fight yet. Someone get hurt, bad.”
An hour and a half later, Preston was back in the garden and Sifu Chiang began teaching the regular lesson.
Two days passed without Diamond and Tessier seeing the ladies. Fearing he would bring grief to Dominique, Preston did not prowl around the apartments at night. During those same two days, Preston screwed up courage to ask Xi-Ping Chiang how he happened to be waiting beside the residence when the two thugs showed up. Xi-Ping offered a faint smile. “I see you. I see them. They wait for you. I wait, too.”
Preston did not ask why Master Chiang was out in the grounds past midnight; Sifu was old and he slept little. Diamond also knew that his teacher preferred the quietude of darkness. “But… why, Sifu? Why were they following me?”
Sifu shrugged. “They look for you. They know where you go. I do not know why.”
Preston decided to confide in his foreman and, that afternoon, while he and Tessier made their way from one job to another, Diamond stated the question. “Robert, you told me you knew of Serge Ravenelle?”
A frown creased Tessier's face. He slowed pace then stopped and turned to his apprentice. “What do you want to know, Adam?”
Diamond told his boss about the night fight and that Sifu Chiang had said the men had waited for him outside the building.
Fidgeting with the hammer tucked into his tool belt, Tessier listened in growing consternation. When Diamond had finished the story, Robert looked around furtively then led Preston to a nearby bench. Removing the hammer so he could sit comfortably, Tessier drew a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled. “That will explain why we have not seen Gabriella and Dominique again.”
Then, using the tool for emphasis, he began. “Adam, back home, in France, I knew of the Ravenelles. There were two brothers about my age. I knew them from when we were young boys but I never associated with them though they lived not far from my father's house.” Tessier's focus drifted back in time. He paused before continuing. “You know, we were all poor then, but Ravenelles had more money than my family. They were mean kids and grew up brutal and unscrupulous; they were thieves and,” he lowered his voice, “I think, murderers. In a short time, they became quite powerful and wealthy.”
A deep frown momentarily darkened the Frenchman's features, then lightened as he returned his gaze to Preston. “Most everyone who had known them in their younger years learned to forget the brothers' past. It wasn't healthy to speak of them in public… or even in private. When I left France, they had outlived their roots —at least, one had— the other was dead.
“Adam, I have not seen Monsieur Ravenelle here in Washington, but I am guessing he is the surviving brother.”
Preston asked, “But why were those men after me?”
Holding the hammer by the head, Tessier waved the handle at Preston. “Serge would have people watching the ladies. He would know about you and Dominique.” Tessier touched the handle to his temple. “He would know about Gabriella and I.”
“Dominique said Serge is here on government business. Colonel Unzer says Ravenelle is a diplomat or ambassador. If he isn't the father or the husband, why should he care what the ladies do?
Tessier shrugged, then studied the face of the hammer. “He is a Ravenelle. He knows what everyone is doing. To him, the ladies are a possession and he doesn't want anyone touching his property. And, if it is the Serge Ravenelle I knew, he may be here on government business… but there will be another reason behind it.”
Serge Ravenelle paced the room, swirling wisps of cigar smoke trailing behind him. “Gabriella, you are my brother's wife. Why are you seen kissing this American?”
“Serge, your brother —my husband— is dead. He drowned at sea. You told me that yourself. I have grieved everyday for four years, but must I go through the rest of my life a widow?”
Serge turned on her, his eyes narrowed as he drew in the thick smoke for the cigar. “You will always be the wife of Armand. You must not change that. Do you not wonder why no man has come into your life before now? It is because I have kept them away. I know what a loose woman will do. I have protected the proud Ravenelle name, and I have protected you from yourself.”
Gabriella rose to her feet and swung a vicious slap at Ravenelle's face. He caught her wrist and, bending her arm back so that she was forced to her knees, laughed in her face. He touched the glowing cigar to the back of her hand and, as she screamed in pain, said, “You are fortunate you did not hit me. Men and women have died for less.”
Dominique grabbed a glass of water from the table and threw it on the cigar. “Leave my mother alone!” she screamed.
Serge Ravenelle dropped the lady's hand and turned on the girl. “Pretty Dominique,” he cooed. “You are no less a slut than your mother.”
Dominique's hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, yes, my virgin niece. I know of the boy… the boy from the Americans' Army Ball. He comes to see you at night, I think. Be very careful you do not,” Serge laughed again, “insult the Ravenelle name, either.”
Gabriella, clutching at her wrist to stop the burning pain in her hand, rose to her feet. Her eyes were hard as she stared at her tormentor. “Get out of this room. Get out now.”
Ravenelle fumbled in his jacket for another cigar. He lit it, tossed the burning match at Gabriella and said, “We have work to do here in Washington. It is important to me that you do not make a mess of it. You and your daughter shall abide by my rules until it is finished. If all goes well, you may return to Paris, to your money and mansion —I owe that to my brother— but if all does not go well, you both will be in Hell with Armand.”
Serge put the cigar in his mouth, yanked open the door of the apartment and strode out of the room.
Dominique rushed to her mother's side. In a faltering voice she asked, “Has Uncle Serge gone loco, Mother? Why is he so mean? He has never been like this before we came to America.”
Gabriella moved to the sofa, sat down and covered her face with her hands. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes. “Since you were just a baby, I have tried to protect you from the truth but I can hide it no longer. The side you have just seen of Monsieur Ravenelle is the dark side of the family… Your father had it, too.
“Dominique… I loved your father with all my heart and I know that he loved me. But… he was a very bad man. He and Uncle Serge were criminals of the highest order. They have never made an honest living. They were murderers and thieves.” Madame Ravenelle shook her head and more tears came. “It was their own mother who warned me before Armand and I were married but I would not believe her. And…” she reached up and softly brushed her daughter's cheek, “and there is more than I can tell you, now.”
“But Father is dead. He was never in trouble with the law at home, was he, Mother?”
“Madame Ravenelle, your grandmother, told me her boys were above the law. She was not proud of them but she loved her sons no matter what they had become… I suppose all mothers are the same in that regard.”
“Do you… do you think Uncle Serge will kill us?”
“He would have no compunction about murdering us if we become a burden. I… I don't know what to do. I have no idea how long he plans to stay in America or how long he needs a wife and daughter at his side for presentation at social affairs.”
“Uncle said you were kissing a man. Is it true? Did you kiss Monsieur Tessier?”
Gabriella smiled wistfully. “”Robert and I shared a small embrace. I haven't been kissed in over four years. I… I would like to kiss him again.”
“I kissed Adam Forsythe, too, Mother.” Dominique's face reddened. “I kissed him in one of the gardens and, two nights ago, he came to my room… I kissed him then, too.”
“Two nights ago? He was in your bedroom? There was a fight on the grass below our apartment that night!”
Dominique's dark eyes grew wide. “Adam, Mother? Was it Adam?”
“I do not know. It was dark. One man, I suppose he could have been Adam's build, beat up on two other men. I don't know how it started. I heard a crash and looked out our balcony door to see one man laying in the grass and another two men fighting. The man, who could have been Adam, handed the other a sound thrashing.”
“Maybe they knew Adam was visiting me, Mother. Maybe Uncle Serge paid them to beat up Adam?”
Gabriella stood and held her daughter close. “I think we must alert our gentlemen friends and warn them away. If he feels they are interfering, Monsieur Ravenelle will have them killed.”
Preston Diamond's screams rent the stillness of Unzer cottage. He thrashed the blankets across the room and became tangled in the sweaty sheets. “No!” he cried. “Noooo!” He sat up as a soft hand touched his shoulder. “Adam, I am here, you are safe,” Rebecca soothed. “You were having a nightmare.”
Diamond's eyes flew open and he clutched at the gentle hand. Shuddering and gasping for breath, he tried to calm himself. Rebecca sat down on the edge of the bed and reached with her other hand to touch his cheek. In the pale light of dawn Preston's face was white as a spirit.
Colonel Unzer, in pyjamas, stood at the doorway, saying nothing.
Recovering, Preston apologized. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, Colonel Jim… It was so real…”
Rebecca said, “You have lived a nightmare, Adam. No wonder they seem so lifelike. You can't separate the dreams from real life.”
“But… I thought that was over…”
Now the colonel spoke, “I've lived and dreamed my share of nightmares, too, Adam. They don't come as often, but they never go away entirely. Was it your parents?”
“No. No, it wasn't them this time. Someone was about to murder Dominique —that pretty girl I was dancing with last week at the ball— a man was trying to shoot her and I couldn't stop him… I had no gun… I tried to throw something… he…” Preston stopped. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have woken you up.”
“Well,” the Colonel said dryly, “maybe if you spent more time in your own bed you would sleep better.”
Colour returned to Diamond's face.
Rebecca smiled and said, “You don't make much noise when you come in, Adam, but we don't sleep so soundly anymore. You have been burning the midnight oil lately. James is right. You need to get to bed —your own bed— at a decent hour.”
Preston decided not to explain that it was Sifu Chiang who had kept him up until dawn a couple of nights ago.
Diamond slept fitfully, with no further somniloquence, for the short remainder of the night and the Unzers were still asleep when he slipped out to join Sifu Chiang in the garden at the Capitol. Sifu wore a mask of concern on his parchment face and Preston asked what troubled his master. As usual, Xi-Ping did not give a direct answer. Instead, he said simply, “Today, weapon.”
A gunnysack lay at the base of the white marble pedestal. Sifu opened the bag and extracted an assortment of individually wrapped items, placing them carefully on the raised platform. Preston watched, but did not interfere, as Sifu opened each polished weapon and laid it on its own doeskin wrapping. There were two matching long and thin bladed swords in decorative sheaths; blue silk tassels hung from delicate gold inlaid hilts. Two fancy bundles of sticks attracted Diamond's attention and he was surprised when, with a “crack” like a bull whip, Chiang simultaneously snapped them both open to reveal a pair of beautiful Chinese fans. Preston appreciated the Chinese artistry on the stiff paper but he wondered what practical use a pretty fan would have as a weapon. Sifu Chiang may have read his thoughts; the master folded the left hand fan, shifted forward and snapped it open less than an inch from the student's face. Preston involuntarily stepped back when he saw the deadly, razor-sharp tips of the individual spines holding the fan together. The master proceeded to demonstrate a short form with the two fans opening and closing so rapidly Diamond had trouble following. The fan, Diamond decided, held a place in the weaponry.
Sifu lay the fans on their wrappings and proceeded to extract various other tools of his alter-trade. There were two pairs of matching knives —one short and the other long— a pair of round dowels made of a hardwood Preston did not recognize, a couple of soft and flexible ropes and several sharp and pointed, star-shaped pieces of flat metal. Beside the bag lay a much pitted width of board which Diamond realized must be a target for the knives. There was also a pole, carved and etched with fancy patterns and designs; it was about five feet long and made of the same wood as the dowels.
Sifu Chiang briefly demonstrated a form with each weapon. Then, under his mentor's rigid instruction, Diamond tried them in turn. He had no idea there were so many ways to die. The knives were perfectly balanced, designed for throwing with deadly accuracy. The pretty tassels on the swords, he learned, were for balance, too. Sifu propped the target board against a tree and Preston practised from a short distance. As a boy, living in military posts out west, he had honed his knife throwing skill while playing with his young Indian comrades; now Sifu modified and corrected his technique.
Diamond was curious about the star shaped weaponry and watched closely as Sifu demonstrated. Holding the flat piece in the palm of his hand, the master suddenly shifted the little weapon and threw it across the garden. The star whizzed through the air and struck the centre of the target with a dull “thud.” It would take many, many hours of practise to duplicate Sifu's accuracy. Xi-Ping explained that the stars were called shuriken, a Japanese weapon he had been introduced to here, in America. More of a distraction than lethal, an improvising fighter would find them useful.
Laying the swords aside, Sifu carefully restored the remainder of the weapons to their respective sheaths and put them in the burlap sack. He picked up one of the swords and passed it to Preston. “You learn sword,” he said.
The class passed quickly and Preston knew it would be a long time before he saw any of the other weapons again. “You learn sword,” meant that he would not be working with all the weapons at once. A step at a time, always going back to the first and working through to something new; Sifu did not allow his student to forget one facet of the art while learning the next. But Preston vowed to practise with balanced knives and throwing stars whenever he could.
At the end of the lesson, Xi-Ping Chiang collected his sack of weapons and shuffled off. Preston wondered why Sifu had abruptly changed strategy and begun to teach the art of weapons. He had believed that particular part of his training would not come for several more years.
Diamond and Robert Tessier watched in vain for the ladies they had twice picnicked with but the mother and daughter did not come by. At lunch break, Preston begged extra time to visit his blacksmithing preceptor. He found the Norwegian sitting by his glowing forge, huge, soot blackened hands engulfing a smudged sandwich. They greeted each other in Lars's native tongue and Preston, sometimes reverting to English, explained to Lars that he wanted to make throwing stars. Lars didn't understand the purpose but invited Preston to help himself to the forge anytime it was hot. Preston agreed to come back the next afternoon, provided he could take more time away from his White House chores.
Next day, Tessier gave Diamond the entire afternoon off, saying, “Adam, you do more and better work than my two best men combined. You've earned the spare time.”
Preston sweated out the hottest hours of the day in the broiling heat of the blacksmith shop. With Lars's help, he manufactured a dozen throwing stars. The weapons were chiseled out of thin iron, two rectangular holes were punched in the centres of each, then they were balanced and sharpened. Preston provided a demonstration for the curious smithy. Though his aim went slightly off target, the deadly wheels sizzling through the air impressed the Norwegian. To compensate for the material used, Diamond remained to help Lars with several farrier chores.
After supper that evening, in the Unzer's back yard, Preston practised throwing the stars until darkness forced him to quit. He then carried a lantern to the stable and, after fussing with Rascal and the greys for a few minutes, pulled his saddle off the rack. He unfastened the silver conchos from the rig and replaced them with the new throwing stars. He installed two more on the headstall. Preston had decided a time may come when he would have need of them. Someday, to dress them up, he might have them nickel plated.
Returning to the house, Diamond obtained several pieces of leather lacing from the colonel and installed stars on the tops of his boots. The stars, though not of polished silver, looked decorative on the boots and saddle; not many observers would suspect their true purpose. He kept the remaining four for practise.
A boy, three or four years younger than Preston, delivered a message addressed to Adam Forsythe. The note arrived while Preston was removing a lattice partition in preparation for a new construction that Xi-Ping Chiang had requested for one of the gardens. The job had come down to Tessier who then passed the work on to Diamond. Both Xi-Ping and Tessier were nearby when the note arrived. Preston paused from his labour and, as he opened the unsealed letter, wondered how the messenger had located him on the job. He scanned the page: It was from Dominique Ravenelle; the handwriting was elegant but written in French and he could not translate. Preston handed the message to Tessier who simultaneously translated and read aloud:
My dear Adam,
Please forgive me, I am not able to come to you and you mustn't find me. Uncle Serge has forbidden that Mother and I see you and Monsieur Tessier. My uncle is an evil man and will bring great harm to us and you if we do not heed his demands. I am sorry and I miss you so.
Yours truly,
Dominique Ravenelle
Tessier folded the letter and passed it back to Preston. “Well,” he said, “that note eliminates any doubt as to whether this is the same Serge Ravenelle I knew in Paris.”
Preston spat, “Bastard!”
“Yes, he is that and a lot more,” said Tessier.
Xi-Ping, who had paused in his work to hear the reading, moved close to Preston and placed a hand on his shoulder. The Chinese fellow understood more English than most people believed; he seldom offered a reason for them to think otherwise. Even as Chiang read the hurt in Preston's eyes, Diamond read the anguish in the eyes of the older man. Xi-Ping Chiang had spent a lifetime ruing the loss of his only love. Sifu stepped back and crossed his arms. “Not good, lose lady to powerful man. We fight.”
Serge Ravenelle's petition was not being met with enthusiasm in Washington. President Andrew Johnson didn't have time to commiserate with the Frenchman seeking retribution for the bruised ego of his country. The President had bigger problems on his hands, namely the reconstruction of a torn and ravaged nation struggling with the chaos of post civil war. Johnson, having been abruptly and unpreparedly sworn into the presidency following the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, had shaky support in his own office. In addition to this, France's Maximilian, though no longer enjoying the blessing and financial backing of Emperor Napoleon, had not yet given up the fight in Mexico. Serge Ravenelle was premature in his assumptions; the Americans were still drifting away as far as diplomatic relations with France were concerned. Ravenelle, not wishing to abandon his ministerial facade, established an alternative agenda to turn to when the original plan was exhausted.
Secretary of State, William Seward, had recently signed the Treaty of Cessation of Russian America to the United States: the purchase of Alaska. Without consulting his Emperor or French parliament, Serge Ravenelle also planned to propose a real estate deal between France and the United States. Ravenelle would sell the French islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, situated just off the coast of the British colony of Newfoundland. The proposition, whether it came to fruition or not, would keep Serge in the Washington limelight long enough to secure his underground network. By that time, he would be ready to disappear and return to France.
On two ships, less than a week apart, Serge Ravenelle's twenty man army arrived in America. The French unit had been handpicked from Ravenelle's Parisian brigade of goons. In Paris, these men were known as Les Apaches, the French underworld. Tenured and hardened, Les Apaches knew their work, asked no questions, and were loyal to their wages. Ravenelle made no appointments; he preferred initiative and he was delighted when a leader of the pack emerged. The top dog was Henri L'Heureux. Happy only in name, L'Heureux was a solemn huge bear of a man entirely devoid of mercy or fear. He handled the gang and served as liaison for the boss: only Commandant L'Heureux would report directly to Ravenelle; subordinates were accountable to L'Heureux. Serge swiftly dismissed the two local ne'er-do-wells he had hired for the interim (the pair Preston Diamond had met below Dominique Ravenelle's balcony) and put his French lads to work against the criminal element of Washington. The intended operation involved a full scale takeover of disorganized crime in DC and the subsequent establishment of a syndicate identical to the Ravenelle operation in Paris.
Les Apaches began to gather information; they found the who's who in the underworld and amassed the data for Serge to sort through. The infiltrators were efficient, far more efficient than police or military investigators. The French team, armed and dangerous, had no restrictions when it came to prying answers from sealed lips. Broken heads, knees, legs and arms were common; the Patowmack River saw an increase in human waste —bodies with feet tied to cement— anchored or bobbing along the bottom in the sluggish current. Crime was on an upswing but the number of criminals was plunging.
Missy Du Bois had worked her way up from the bottom. She had blossomed early and grew to be a gorgeous young woman. Smiling, energetic, her effervescence was infectious and people naturally gravitated toward her. Missy had ambition, too. She liked her job and worked harder than anyone else in the whorehouse. Never frivolous, she did not waste those hard earned dollars (back-pay) and, by the tender age of twenty-eight, she had eleven girls working for her. She had earned the eponym Madam Du Bois, though close friends and old clients still referred to her as Missy.
That was back in New Orleans a decade and a half ago. Missy now ran a successful operation in Washington. When dolled up —as she usually was— she looked lovely, even glamorous, and no one dared guess her age at forty-two. She still enjoyed tricks and, though she could afford to be choosy, showed no timidity when it came to hopping in the sack if business was brisk. When Madam Du Bois left Orleans, she sailed round the coast of Florida on a chartered ship, temporarily rechristened, The Missy. She had her girls with her; the weather was beautiful, clothes were an option and a new batch of clients were brought on board at every port. All in all, the adventure turned out to be a tremendous success. By the end of the voyage, Madam Du Bois had recovered her expenses and pocketed a handsome wad of cash. She had left a wake of sex-on-the-ocean addicted customers yearning for another trip; the Missy's boisterous crew were having trouble finding either their land or sea legs; Missy and the girls were happy, but tuckered out.
Along with her working girls, Madam Du Bois had brought her slave from New Orleans. A huge black African from the Ivory Coast, Condi held down many positions within Missy's organization. He served as personal bodyguard, servant, butler, custodian and bouncer for Madam and her establishment. After settling in Washington, Missy emancipated her slave but Condi stayed on and worked for a wage, along with certain fringe benefits. Sometimes, when the brothel hosted group parties for politicians, dignitaries, business magnates, foreign officials, or any combination of each, Missy would bring Condi round during a lull in the action. The African was guaranteed his choice of the whores (occasionally, for laughs and sheer devilment, he chose Madam Du Bois herself) and then he and the lady of choice would put on a performance which inevitably stoked the fires of the orgy members. A boon to retail sales.
Condi stood in the luxurious office of his employer and listened to his instructions for the day. It was mid-morning, all but two of last night's customers had found their clothes and skulked off home; most of the girls were in bed catching up on their beauty rest, dreaming whatever ladies of the night may dream. Madam's dictation was interrupted by a scream from the girl on reception duty out in the foyer. Missy leaped out of her chair and rushed round the corner of the desk. Condi was reaching for the knob when the door burst open and two strangers pushed into the office. Before the African realized the danger, a six inch blade had been shoved between his ribs. The razor-sharp steel missed the bones and slid to the hilt through his black skin, ripping a fatal hole through the left lung. Condi's giant left hand snaked out and grasped the assailant by the scruff of the neck. With his free hand, the black reached over and pulled the knife from his side. A torrent of blood spilled down his chest but the giant ignored it. For a second, he stared in wonder at the bloodied knife in his hand then plunged it full length into the eye socket of his attacker. Condi's iron grip held the dead man up for a moment then both dropped to the floor. Behind Condi, Missy's scream ended in a bloody gurgle as the second intruder reached out and slashed her throat.
The killer did not bother to watch his victim's last throes; he stooped down, hoisted his dead comrade onto his shoulder and carried him out into the parlour. Scantily clad girls were gathering on the landing at the top of the stairs, two others appeared on the main floor. The receptionist was not in sight. In broken English, the man growled, “Get back to work. This business is under new ownership.” Still carrying the body, the knife protruding grotesquely from the eye socket, he strode across the room, through the foyer and stepped out onto the street.
Dominique was fraught with worry as to whether her note had found its way to Adam Forsythe. And, though she feared what might happen should he dare to come, her heart was breaking to see him. Gabriella recognized the signs of first love and tried to comfort her daughter. “The sun has hidden behind a cloud for now. It will shine upon you again soon.”
Uncle Serge had become preoccupied. He paid little attention to his sister-in-law and niece. There were no more balls but 'the family' attended several formal banquets and were dinner guests at smaller gatherings. For the public image, Monsieur Ravenelle was always the smiling, affable diplomat; fearing reprisal, his pseudo-wife and pseudo-daughter endeavoured to act their part.
Lindsay Skelton, Washington's head of Foreign Affairs, invited the French diplomat to a performance at Ford's Theatre; Ravenelle gratefully accepted. Preston Diamond and the Unzers were at the show as well and Preston espied Dominique as her group was ushered to one of the reserved boxes. He missed most of the program because he had his neck craned round to watch the beautiful girl in the gallery above and behind him. During a stretch between acts, Preston excused himself from the Unzer's company and hurried to intercept Gabriella and Dominique as they, accompanied by Mrs. Skelton, came down from the balcony.
Madame Ravenelle saw Preston coming and she whispered something to Dominique. The girl's face broke into a wide smile as she rushed to Preston and grasped both of his hands in hers. Gabriella made a French introduction to the baffled Mrs. Skelton, then the two older ladies proceeded to the powder room leaving Dominique and Preston alone. Preston wanted to take her in his arms and hold her forever. Memory sometimes serves better than the truth, but the French girl was even more lovely than Preston recalled. He read the light of love in her eyes and sensed her burning passion. “Meet me, tomorrow,” he whispered urgently.
The language barrier delayed the strangled conversation as they tried to make each other understood.
“I must not. Monsieur Ravenelle, he will be angry to know that I have disobeyed him.”
“I have a friend,” Preston said. “He will see that no harm comes to us. Please, Dominique, meet me in the garden as early as you can.”
The ladies returned as Diamond repeated directions to the little garden where Sifu Chiang taught his lessons. Over-hearing, Gabriella smiled. “Rendezvous?”
Mrs. Skelton looked from mother to daughter then to Preston but she asked no questions.
Next morning, Diamond was at the garden before Sifu arrived. Instead of immediately entering the small enclosure, Preston studied the near grounds hoping to see Dominique. No one was about at this early hour. He resisted the temptation to go to the foreign housing complex where the Ravenelles stayed. After stepping inside the garden, Preston began a stretching and warm up exercise. As he limbered up, he had a moment to reflect upon the day the note had arrived from Dominique. Robert Tessier had read it aloud, then Sifu Chiang had said “We fight.” Sifu's statement had been a blatant contradiction to his earlier admonishment, “You no fight, yet,” following Preston's battle below Dominique's balcony. In response to Chiang's announcement to oppose Ravenelle, Robert Tessier had stated that, in Paris, he would not advise this but admitted that Washington may be different. Tessier had added, “I am not a fighting man, but I will do what I can to hold on to the hope that there may be a future for Gabriella and I.”
Preston considered Tessier's words. Tessier had only seen Madame Ravenelle on two occasions, yet he was as smitten with Gabriella as Diamond was with Dominique. 'Love at first sight' has no age limitations.
The morning was clear and calm, a good day for training; however, the elements did not affect the schedule. Diamond had never missed a class due to inclement weather. On two occasions, Sifu had drilled his student in snowstorms and once during the inland gales of an Atlantic hurricane. In his broken English, Chiang had pointed out that you cannot choose the conditions or the days you will have to protect yourself.
Xi-Ping Chiang appeared. Preston seldom saw or heard him approach; the master was not there and then he was. On this day Sifu worked Preston hard, going back to the basics, insisting that each and every stance and form were perfect. During the last half they practised the basic sword form and began a double sword routine. Dominique arrived as Preston was receiving extra tutelage on throwing the stars he had manufactured.
Sifu Chiang's smile split his parchment face and he bowed twice to the lovely lady when Preston completed the introductions. Dominique reached out to touch the ancient hand of the master. In French she said, “Monsieur Chiang, I am happy to meet you.”
Preston made an attempt to translate but Sifu Chiang held up a hand and, in halting Chinese/French said, “ Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer, aussi.” I am pleased to meet you, too.
Diamond's jaw dropped as he stared in disbelief. He was reminded again of how little he knew or understood of the master. A twinkle flashed in Xi-Ping's eye as he turned to his student. “I work many years with French man on railroad… Same you, he no learn Mandarin Chinese.”
Dominique had exciting news and she asked Sifu to translate for Preston. After the show at Ford's Theatre the previous evening, Mrs. Skelton, the Foreign Affairs executive's wife, had offered to teach Gabriella and Dominique written and spoken English. It would have been out of character for a diplomat to refuse such an offer so Serge Ravenelle made a flowery show of accepting on behalf of his 'wife and daughter.' The lessons would be held in Skelton's apartments, a short walk from the rooms of the Ravenelles. Dominique had blushed, but Xi-Ping kept a straight face as he translated that Madame Skelton told Dominique in confidence that she could meet with her young man at the Skelton residence. Miss Ravenelle finished in her disjointed English. She said, “Mother intends to explain our situation…” She paused, uncertain of how much to say in Mr. Chiang's presence, but Preston urged her to continue, “…she will explain to Laura, that's Madame Skelton, the whole business. Mother hopes to meet Monsieur Tessier there someday, too.”
Diamond pulled Dominique into his arms and held her for a moment. Xi-Ping bowed and, with a wide smile, said, “You no need translate now. I go.”
Alone in the garden, Preston held tightly to Dominique and she clung to him. Words were not necessary. They sat at the foot of the white marble pillar and kissed until their lips were blue but they could not tear themselves apart until, at last, they were interrupted by voices approaching. Preston and Dominique slipped out the far end of the garden. Fearing to be seen together, they parted after Preston had procured the schedule for the English classes.
Diamond was already late for his breakfast with the Unzers but he spent another few minutes rushing to Robert Tessier's house to inform his boss of the new developments. Robert knew which building housed the Foreign Affairs apartments and offices. “Ah, Adam,” he said, “this is a stroke of luck for us. Mr. Bagnold has a project planned for renovations in that building. We will appear to be there on official business in case Monsieur Ravenelle has his men watching the ladies.”
Ravenelle did have a man checking on the ladies. Preston saw him casually strolling around the grounds near the Foreign Affairs building. The spy, mingling with tourists and visitors, was quite unobtrusive; he carried a small notebook and a pair of field glasses. Occasionally he used the glasses to peer into the treetops or among the shrubbery and would then make a note or two in his book. A casual observer would have marked him an ornithologist but Preston's suspicion caused him to look more closely than most, and he could not see any birds where the chap so diligently searched. Diamond and Tessier were among a dozen workers hustling about outside the building. Contractor Hugh Bagnold's crew began setting up scaffolding and stacking materials for the renovation project. In passing, Preston mentioned the mysterious fellow to Robert. Surreptitiously they watched the stranger and Diamond managed to be near enough to hear the fellow's strong French accent when a passerby stopped to ask directions. After an hour or so, the man moved off. Preston did not think he had given up but neither Preston nor Robert believed they were under scrutiny. Serge's man was watching the building, waiting for the Ravenelle ladies to emerge from their English class.
Robert picked up an arm load of lumber and carried it inside. A few minutes later, after checking for the bird man one more time, Diamond collected a bundle of boards and followed him. Tessier was waiting and he led Preston down a stair to the basement and then wound through a maze under the huge edifice and emerged, Preston judged by the position of the sun, somewhere on the opposite side. From here they ascended several flights of stairs and came out in a richly tapestried hallway. Thick carpets covered the floors and beautiful arras hung from the walls. Preston followed Robert down the hall a short distance and stopped at a heavy oak door. After a moment, the woman Preston had seen at the theatre last evening answered Tessier's knock. A brief chat ensued and then the lady called to Gabriella and Dominique. The ladies arrived and formal introductions were made between the men and Laura Skelton. Leaving a smiling Mrs. Skelton, the quartet moved off down the hall with Robert Tessier in the lead. Diamond marvelled at Tessier's familiarity with the building. Had he memorized the blueprints for every edifice on Capitol Hill? At a different landing from the one he and Preston had come up on, Tessier descended to the next level. He extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked another door identical to the one at the Skelton's apartment.
Preston's jaw dropped as he stepped inside. The room was what he imagined a palace would be like. The elegantly decorated hallway had not prepared him for the stunning beauty within. The domed ceiling, arching high above, obviously precluded the floor on the next level. It was covered in curved white tiles with intricate sketching of an ancient battle scene. More tapestries, rugs, and priceless paintings hung from the walls. Two giant white pillars braced an archway that opened into an adjoining room. Half-columns, split beams of solid wood, painted a softly textured white, ran up the walls at, Preston estimated, twelve foot intervals. Large windows, with a score of heavy translucent panes in each, framed the exterior wall. Two luxurious sofas of burgundy velvet with polished oak and studded black leather trim shared opposite sides of a massive stone fireplace. The fireplace covered an entire wall, its chimney neatly disappearing through the tile work of the roof. A settee and chaise lounge to match the sofas were positioned in front of the windows. Several matching beautifully carved and etched pieces of wooden furniture: a davenport, two tables with six chairs each, and a roll-top desk were placed about the room.
“Kings, queens, princes and princesses have stayed in this room,” Tessier said simply.
He led the others across the plush carpet and through the archway into another large room. Here, the ceiling was lower, only slightly higher than the arch itself. This room was beautifully finished but less extravagant. Three times as long as it was wide, Preston thought the chamber was an expanded hallway. Robert called it the corridor. Portraits of presidents, kings and queens, and heads of exotic animals stared down at the intruders. The wall on the opposite side had ornate shelves of leather-bound volumes on either side of two sturdy walnut doors with another shelf of books dividing them. A set of double doors were at the left end wall and another group of tiny paned windows formed the exterior wall on the right. Near to, and facing toward the window, was a brilliantly polished pianoforte.
Tessier walked across the room and opened each of the two doors opposite. Inside were bed chambers as elegantly finished and furnished as the main rooms. Each had a large canopied bed with ornately carved head and foot boards. Robert left the bedroom doors ajar. Pointing to the set of double doors at the end of the room, first in English, then repeating in French, he said, “The kitchens, bathrooms and servant quarters are through there. No one will be using these rooms for the next few months until we complete the renovations contract Mr. Bagnold has given us.”
The quartet returned to the main parlour where they took seats upon the plush and comfortable sofas. Dominique snuggled close to Preston and he put his arm across her shoulders. Gabriella sat next to Tessier. Robert reached over and gently touched Madame's soft white hand with his rough and calloused fingers. She smiled and looked into his eyes. He lifted the hand and bent to kiss it, murmured something in French, then pulled back as he noticed the angry sear on her wrist. “This is a recent burn,” he exclaimed. “How did you burn yourself?”
Fear flashed in Gabriella's eyes as she met her daughter's look. “I… it was…”
In rapid French, Dominique broke in, “Uncle Serge burned her with a cigar. He did it deliberately. That is why I sent the letter warning you to stay away. He is a beast.”
Tessier translated. Diamond, his face pale, rose from his seat and walked over to Madame Ravenelle. Still holding Gabriella's hand, Robert lifted the wrist bearing the ugly scar. Preston winced when he saw the blackened flesh. Having lost his mother in a brutal murder, mistreatment of women was high on the list of things Preston Diamond would not tolerate. “Serge Ravenelle will regret this,” he said simply.
“Non! Non!” Dominique cried. “You must not! Monsieur Ravenelle has many men. They fight for him. They will kill you. They will kill us all.”
Robert Tessier released Gabriella's hand and stood up. He began to pace the room, wringing his hands in an expression of pent up nervousness. The others followed him with their eyes, until, after a few circuits back and forth, he stopped before the big fireplace, turned to face his comrades, and opened his arms in a mute appeal. Nervously shifting from one foot to the other, Tessier spoke slowly in French, translating the necessary words so that Preston could follow. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this sooner but I was not completely convinced and, besides, I did not know what to say. Now I give you my story.
“Before coming to America, I was a sailor. From France, I had many voyages and sailed on merchant vessels to Africa, India, China, Japan… I loved the sea and I planned to see the world.” He looked at Preston as if seeking assurance, then plunged into his narrative. “About four or five years ago, my ship was docked in Le Havre and I had a few weeks leave. In a small tavern there, I met a sea-faring man, a stranger. He was the captain of a forty foot privately owned yacht and he asked if I might sail with him. When I asked his destination, he told me he was bound to England. It would only be for a few days. His orders had come on short notice and several of his crew were absent. He just needed a capable sailor to fill in.” Robert Tessier smiled thinly at the recollection. “I agreed to go, as it was a short sail across the Channel and I would be home in time to set sail with my own company. If I had known then what I would know before I got back to France, I would have never left that tavern with him.”
No one interrupted as Tessier paused for breath and shifted his weight to the other foot. “The trip was quite routine. I had crossed the English Channel many times and this was no different. Unfortunately, we were late setting out on our return and a sudden gale caught us in the blackest of nights. I was on the deck, my new captain at the helm and the rest of the crew below.” The Frenchman chewed his bottom lip a moment, then continued; his words coming rapidly as he neared the end of his tale. “On the edge of the light from the ship's lantern, two gentlemen, the owners of the ship, were having an animated and fierce discussion. They were at the rail and I do not know why they did not go below, for the weather was turning worse. All at once, the ship heaved over on a swell and one of the men lost his footing. He slid under the rail and over the side. I thought he was gone but somehow he grasped the rail and hung on while his partner knelt down to pull him up. I rushed across to assist but, sailor or not, it was a difficult task to move quickly on that wet deck. The second man pulled up the first; I saw the over-side fellow's head come up; but then, the man on board released his grip.” Tessier spread his hands as if in apology. “The man fell into the sea with a scream louder than the storm.”
In silence, Gabriella and Dominique stared wide-eyed and horror stricken. Preston searched their faces trying to understand the reason for their discomfiture. He went to Dominique and sat beside her.
Tessier continued, “I crouched down behind the mainmast and kept out of sight until the murderer went aft to find the captain.
“The two men were brothers. Serge and Armand Ravenelle.”
Robert crossed to Gabriella and took both her hands in his. “I am sorry to tell you this. Serge Ravenelle murdered your husband and,” he turned to Dominique, “your father.”
Gabriella began to cry softly. Dominique hid her face in her hands and Preston, arm around her shoulders, drew her close.
Tessier said, “I have told no soul this story. Only, this much, I have already said to Adam: I knew the Ravenelles from when I was a boy in Paris.
“I knew them on the yacht, too, but I do not think they recognized me. The Ravenelles were powerful men. Les Apaches, the Paris underground, work for them. I would have been killed in an instant if Serge suspected I knew.
“A week later, my ship sailed to America and, to escape the fear I had of being found out, I abandoned the sea and came to live in Washington.”
In the silence that followed, Diamond's mind raced. Why was Serge here, in DC? The political ruse did not ring true; no one, not even General Grant, who was in line for the presidency, knew of Ravenelle's purpose. Why were the ladies posing as wife and daughter?
He had to learn more.
Addressing both Gabriella and Dominique he said, “Please don't think me forward or nosey. I have questions that you may be able to answer. Would it be alright, at this time, to talk about this?”
At first, the stricken Madame Ravenelle was evasive and reluctant to supply anything more than yeses and noes, but Preston's persistence slowly coerced her to talk. Robert gave Gabriella his handkerchief; she dabbed at her eyes and then, with Tessier translating for Preston, began her story.
“Before Armand and I were married, after we had become engaged, my future mother-in-law begged me to reconsider marrying her son. She said both of her boys were evil men and lived a criminal life. She loved them and she loved me, too, I think, but she feared that my life would end in ruin, for Armand led a precarious existence.
“Convincing myself Madame Ravenelle had a different motive for steering me away from the marriage, I foolishly chose to ignore her. Armand and I were soon married and in a year's time Dominique arrived. We were a happy family though Armand was often away on business. My husband was a wealthy man and we lacked for nothing and I loved Armand with all my heart. I tried to forget the words of his mother and she never mentioned it again. But, deep inside, I feared that it was true.”
Gabriella turned to Robert Tessier, “I have wondered if I had been told the truth about Armand's death. Serge gave me no reason to be suspicious and he never treated us, Dominique and I, with anything less than respect. He wasn't kind, more aloof than anything, but he was never rough or ungentlemanly. For much of the time since my husband's death, Serge has been away from France. Several months ago, he came to our house and asked that we accompany him on a trip to America. Neither Dominique nor I had been far from home since we lost Armand, so we agreed. The adventure would be fun.
“Just before we landed in America, Serge insisted that we must pretend to be his wife and daughter. Only then, did I begin to suspect something was wrong.”
Dominique interrupted, “The nearer we came to Washington, the more tense Uncle Serge became. He lost his temper and punched a sailor on-board the ship. He has since had two disagreements with other men.”
Gabriella said, “I think he would have caused more trouble but here, in Washington, he is trying to uphold this charade of being on assignment from Emperor Napoleon.”
Tessier murmured a low translation. Preston had been listening attentively, his chin resting on his chest. He glanced up. “A charade as foreign minister? You are saying he is not here in a political capacity?”
“No, no, he has a legitimate purpose. I am not certain what he is doing for the Emperor, but I believe Serge has another, a personal reason, for being in America.”
“And what is that?” Preston probed.
Gabriella's eyes flashed a hint of something Preston thought may be anger and her jaw tightened. She took her time responding and Tessier asked, “What is it, Madame? Do not fear to tell us about this beast.”
With a resigned sigh, she said, “One night, less than a week ago, I heard Monsieur Ravenelle talking to a big Parisian whom I have seen several times…” She paused, then added, “In company with my late husband in Paris. His name is Henri L'Heureux. They did not know the door was open into my room as they discussed their plans. Monsieur Ravenelle has a grand scheme, I think, but he and Henri did not go into the details of the entire operation.” Gabriella looked at Tessier. “There were several references to Les Apaches, just as you have said, Robert, and I heard Serge ask, 'Our little twenty man army may not be enough?' They said things like 'taking over', 'making them pay'. There was much swearing and violent talk. At the end of the conversation, Serge swore again and said, 'Commandant, steal the stuff, kill everyone in the building, then burn it.' His words sounded like orders”
Since commencing his work with Robert Tessier, and meeting Dominique, Preston had not been keenly attentive to DC news and events. He couldn't remember the exact date, but recently —?within the past few days— during the usual after supper conversation, Colonel Unzer had spoke of a big fire on the riverfront; several buildings were destroyed, people had lost their lives. Possibly this was the fire Gabriella now referred to. When Colonel Unzer told the story, Diamond had not known that arson and murder were involved.
Now he did.
Preston removed his arm from Dominique's shoulders and rose to his feet. He stepped away from the sofa then turned to face Tessier. He said nothing and, except for the blue eyes, his face was unreadable.
But the eyes said enough.
While Robert had been translating, he had watched Preston's flickering expressions. Though it was not Diamond who told him, Robert had learned of Adam Forsythe's history, his revenge. Now, he knew why the lad insisted on knowing this information and he knew where it was headed. Fear had gathered in Tessier's heart as he watched the younger man's bright blue eyes: at first they had been cool and fathomless, then, as the drama rose, they began to smolder; now they were identical sapphire flames burning from the depths of Hell. Tessier felt his face go pale. He had openly admitted he was not a fighting man but now he read Adam Forsythe's mind: Adam was already preparing for war. To protect Gabriella, Robert would have to test his own mettle. He could not let Forsythe fight Serge Ravenelle and Les Apaches alone.
Tessier's face, previously drained of colour, now turned a sickly ashen gray.
Mrs. Ravenelle stood and, in French, announced, “We must be going before Serge sends his men. Dominique and I have another English lesson tomorrow… will we see you then?”
Diamond and Tessier pleaded that the ladies should not to return to the hell Serge Ravenelle had built for them, but Madame said it was no use. If they ran away, Serge and Les Apaches would find where they went and crush them all.
Robert led his friends a different route again and when they reached a door at the bottom of a stairwell, he stopped. “This door will let you into the hallway where you first entered. Turn left toward the exit. Adam and I must not be seen with you, so we shall go back to where we came in. If you wait a few minutes before stepping outside, we will be in position to see if your chaperon is still waiting for you.”
The ladies kissed their gentlemen and, though the kiss was brief, Preston could taste the passion on Dominique's sweet lips.
Serge's spy was waiting patiently when Gabriella and Dominique headed off across the green to their apartments. Through a small basement window, Preston and Robert watched the bird man; he did not look directly at the ladies but his eyes followed them. Soon he folded his notebook and sauntered along in the direction the Ravenelle women had gone.
Next morning, Preston Diamond confided in Xi-Ping Chiang. According to Madame Ravenelle, Serge had some twenty or more veteran hoodlums and body guards imported from France. The leader of the gang was, in Ravenelle's words, Commandant Henri L'Heureux. Preston had reached the correct conclusion that the French brigade intended to set up an organized crime machine in Washington. Sifu listened attentively but said nothing.
Again, the master worked him hard and by the end of the session Preston was ringing wet with perspiration. Chiang said, “You eat. Tell Monsieur Tessier, no work today. Come back,” he pointed at the marble slab, “here.”
Preston rushed through his breakfast and caught up with Robert Tessier at the job site. He explained that he would be absent for the day and asked his boss to make an apology to Dominique for his missing the tryst.
Sifu Chiang, holding a coarse woven satchel in his hand, was waiting in the garden when Diamond arrived. When the master and student bowed acknowledgement, Preston noted a softened look on the wrinkled face; a faint glow with a trace of kindness, akin to parental love. Xi-Ping's dark glittering eyes met the blues of his pupil and they held the stare for a long moment. They were not merely looking into each other's eyes, they were opening their minds; the student saw into the master's thoughts and the master read farther into the mind of his student. Sifu Chiang bowed again. In a husky voice, he said, “I had no son. Now, you my son. I teach; you learn. Sifu no hide from you, same, you no hide from Sifu… Now, what Sifu show, you not tell.”
Chiang scanned the garden. Satisfied no one was near, he passed the satchel to Preston, knelt down beside the white pillar and poked his fingers into a seam in the marble. With minimal effort, the heavy slab slid sideways and a dark gaping hole was exposed. Sifu looked around the perimeter again. Motioning with one hand, and reaching for the satchel with the other, he said, “In.”
Diamond stepped into the narrow opening and prepared for a drop as he lowered himself down. His feet found a ledge and he ducked his torso and head into the hole. He moved his foot ahead and found that he was on a set of steps. He felt his way down the stair far enough to allow Sifu Chiang to follow. The master quickly slipped into the pit, reached up and slid the marble doorway into position. It locked in place with a solid “thunk.” All light disappeared and the narrow room or stairway —Preston could not tell which— became tomb black. The air was dank, cool and musty. Sifu spoke, his voice a dull echo. “Do not use eyes, see better soon.”
Preston felt the light touch of Sifu's hand on his shoulder, then the master passed by him on the stairway. Straining his ears, Diamond could 'hear' the silence of Sifu Chiang moving away. He was going downward. Preston followed.
The student was six inches taller than his master and at every tentative step Preston expected to receive a knock on the forehead. He reached the bottom of the stair and felt around for a wall or something to give him direction. Hollow emptiness. Maybe the next step would drop him into a black abyss. He listened for Sifu but heard nothing. Scraping the floor with his shoe he tested the surface: dry gritty sand on an otherwise smooth and level landing. This was wrong, he wasn't seeing without his eyes; he wasn't seeing anything. Quelling the momentary rise of frustration, Preston closed his lids and concentrated. Soon, a dim form materialized; he saw Master Chiang, just across the way. They were in a room. Preston could make out no details in the gray vision but he could 'see' Sifu, an expectant look on his face, watching his student. Diamond walked toward him and Xi-Ping smiled.“Good,” Sifu grunted. “Now, we use light.”
A match flared, searing Preston's eyeballs with its brightness. Sifu Chiang reached up to a ledge above his head and his fingers located a small kerosene lamp. He touched match to wick and the room grew brighter. Black smoke curled off the burning wick and the yellow light flickered in the stillness. Sifu adjusted the flame and Preston saw that they were facing a short but sturdy wooden door. The door swung open at Xi-Ping's touch. He motioned Preston to follow and, carrying the lamp, led off down a low and narrow hallway, more like a square tunnel. The walls were made of brick and mortar, the roof of heavy beams.
Preston sniffed. He smelled creosote. He looked again at the beams: they were half length railway ties. Diamond knew that Chinese people made up the bulk of the work gangs on railroad construction. Referred to as coolies, they were not treated well and received insultingly poor wages. Railroad engineers must have been baffled by the persistent errors in their arithmetic when calculating the numbers of ties required. Preston grinned at Sifu's retreating back; the coolies had been paid better than the railroad magnates believed.
Xi-Ping led the way past several more closed doors and Preston wondered where each would end up. He had no sense of direction, didn't know how to find his way back, couldn't even guess as to whether they travelled a level path or if they were going up or down; probably down, he decided: everywhere was down from Capitol Hill. At times the hallway curved, sometimes it ended in a T and Sifu would turn right or left; Preston could not keep track. Passing another side door, he could hear shrill voices and the dull sound of machinery in the background. Sifu maintained the same steady pace. They came to a wider tunnel and, judging by the thick layer of lampblack on the ceiling, Diamond thought this area had seen more traffic. He also had the impression it had been more recently travelled.
How far had they come, Preston wondered. One mile, two, three? Time seemed warped down here in the darkness, too. Diamond believed they had been moving for close to half an hour, but it could have been fifteen minutes or a full hour. He wasn't at all tired in spite of the severe workout Sifu had demanded before breakfast. Preston thought about breakfast; he wasn't hungry so the clock had not yet ticked up to the noon hour (a hard working, growing boy makes few mistakes regarding the approach of lunch time).
Sifu Chiang came to another T, this one had a door opening straight ahead. Xi-Ping stopped and turned to Preston. “No white people here. Stay close me.”
Beyond the door, Diamond could hear busyness. People were talking, though he could not make out individual voices, dishes —pots and pans perhaps— were rattling and there was a steady hiss of steam.
Sifu extinguished the lamp, pushed the panel open and, with Preston at his heels, stepped inside. Except for the hissing of steam, which was much louder on this side of the door, the noise stopped. They were in a kitchen; a large kitchen. Smoke and steam hung in a cloud at ceiling level, several pale lamps were trying to cut through the mist to shed their light on the room below. A dozen or more black haired, yellow skinned people with blank faces and wearing flat round straw hats that came to a point on top, stared at Preston as though he were an alien being. Xi-Ping Chiang bowed to an older lady and said something in Chinese. The lady's face, a parchment match to Sifu's, broke into a wide smile. She bowed to Preston and he bowed back. Soon everyone had acknowledged the stranger. Xi-Ping stowed the lamp in the satchel and, with Preston in tow, threaded a path through myriad crates and supplies, past several food laden counters and the workers themselves, toward a single door on the far side of the kitchen. They emerged in sunlight in an alley. The door closed and Preston turned to look back. From this side, it did not look like a doorway; someone had painted a Chinese mural of a dragon on the wall of the building and the entrance was hidden in the artistry.
“What did you say to them, Sifu?”
Xi-Ping shrugged. “I say, you my son.”
Preston and Master Chiang came out of the ally and emerged on a broad avenue. The Patowmack River was just a stone's throw away. Preston recognized the area immediately. They were near the Washington Channel. Workers, with drays and horses, were cleaning up the charred and blackened ruins of what must have been a huge fire; half a block of waterfront property had been razed. Xi-Ping pointed. “Fire. Many Chinese die.”
Diamond stared at the carnage and then turned to his friend. “This fire was deliberately set. Your people were murdered.”
Xi-Ping nodded. “Chinese have opium den.” He raised a hand and pointed to a spot near the centre of the rubble. “Many bad men come, shoot Chinese, burn all. My friend go in tunnel, only one saved, he say bad men not English.”
“They were speaking French, weren't they, Sifu?”
Master Chiang nodded solemnly.
Whether Xi-Ping Chiang had known of the French invasion that day in the garden when he had said “We fight” Preston could not be sure; but it made no difference now. Sifu would go to the death for Preston and the reverse was also true. The odds had now come closer to even: Serge Ravenelle, Commandant L'Heureux and a well armed, twenty man unit against Sifu Chiang, Robert Tessier, Preston Diamond and only God knew how many underground Chinese. Preston now understood why Sifu had taken him into confidence and bared the secret of the Chinese network. Ravenelle's slaughter of innocent people must be stopped.
Diamond stared into the master's eyes and said, “We fight.”
Chiang led Preston along the avenue away from the river. They went into a tailor's shop and Sifu introduced his companion to the proprietor, a Chinese gentleman named Ricky Mah. Mr. Mah was younger than Xi-Ping —Preston guessed, by half— and he spoke better English. The three held a brief discussion then Ricky Mah ushered his visitors into the rear of his shop. From a can of kerosene Mr. Mah had, Sifu topped up the fuel in the little lamp while the tailor knelt down to roll up a sandal-worn rug laid out at the foot of a workbench. Under the piece of carpet lay a two foot square trap door with a flush handle sunken into the frame. Mah pulled on the ring, the door lifted, and Preston gazed into a black cellar hole. Sifu turned, bowed to the proprietor, Preston followed suit, then the two of them descended into darkness. Xi-Ping lit the lamp and, above them, the tailor gently dropped the trap door in place.
The oubliette was a small, brick lined excavation with barely enough room for Preston and Sifu to stand side by side. Chiang reached forward and touched the wall. The brick work swung away to open into another tunnel. Once again, Preston followed the master through a maze that passed by doorways, T's and bends to right and left. After an indeterminate passage of time, they stopped in front of a single door midway along a straight and lengthy stretch of hallway. The sound of voices and machinery emanated from the other side. It was the same sound Preston had heard shortly after they had started out from the passageway in the garden but he did not think it was the same door. Sifu slid back the bolt and they stepped into a hot cloud of steam, the rattle and clank of noisy apparatus and the strong smell of lye soap. As their eyes adjusted, Preston realized they were in a commercial laundry. As before, Chinese workers stopped, mid purpose, and stared at the white intruder. Most faces were a blank mask, dark eyes staring fixedly; a few smiled and acknowledged with a slight nod. Sifu did not make introductions. He explained to Preston that, by now, the entire community would know of Diamond's initiation into the Chinese underground.
They threaded their way through a maze of wash tubs, presses and clouds of steam to the far corner of the room. A young man stepped forward and opened a passage; Preston and Sifu entered into another tunnel and the door closed behind them. The noise, heat and dampness of the laundry room dropped away and Diamond shivered, feeling the abrupt change in temperature. Sifu raised the still burning lantern and Preston realized they were back in the passage near the garden.
After a few more turns and bends, the student was disoriented again. They came to a narrow set of stone steps and Sifu climbed up a short distance to the ceiling. He passed the lamp to Preston then, craning his head to one side, he heaved with his left shoulder and a trap door popped upward. Xi-Ping peered through the gap for a moment, then raised the lid sufficiently to climb out. Preston surfaced and handed over the lamp.
As the master readjusted a gray sheet to cover the cellar door, Diamond studied the room. They were in a basement. A large boiler system obscured Preston's view from this side and, conversely, from anyone who may be on the other side. They dusted off their clothes, Sifu secured the lamp in his bag, and the two of them stepped round the boiler. There were no people or peculiar identifying marks but Diamond had a feeling he had been here recently and before they had made their way the length of the room, he realized where he was. Preston had been in this basement with Robert Tessier; it was the building that housed the head of Foreign Affairs and the palatial apartments where Robert and Preston had visited with Gabriella and Dominique.
Exiting the basement, Sifu and Preston encountered a hive of activity. Renovations were in full swing and Hugh Bagnold's crew of carpenters and apprentices were busy. Diamond watched for, but did not see, Tessier among them. Maybe Robert had taken a moment to visit with Gabriella. Preston would have liked to see Dominique, too, but Master Chiang angled off across the lawns and Diamond had to take long strides to keep up.
Soon they were back in the garden where the underground excursion had begun. By the sun and his stomach Diamond thought it must be lunch time. Apparently, Sifu did, too, for he opened his satchel and extracted two paper wrapped packages and passed one to his student. “Eat now,” said he. Preston realized that it was the first time he and Xi-Ping Chiang had 'broke bread' together. The food was delicious; different from anything Preston had ever had before.
While they sat on the marble platform, nearly on top of the secret entrance he had unknowingly trained beside for almost two years, Diamond quizzed Xi-Ping about the tunnels: How many miles were there? Where did they all go? Why were they built? The old man's eyes twinkled when he said the Chinese are still making more. He said there were several on the Capitol grounds and named more buildings where tunnels terminated; the Capitol and the White House were among them. In the city were many more tunnels. Sifu himself did not know them all and no one dared keep a map or written description for fear it would be found out. There were an estimated twenty-five thousand Chinese in DC —far more than any census would reveal— and most of them had been involved in building the network of underground passages. Chiang explained that originally the tunnels were built to provide escape for the maltreated coolies. To a certain extent this continued to be the case but for the most part the subterranean maze was for freedom of movement for illegal immigrants, and, he admitted with a sly smile, the Chinese like to be informed.
Preston recalled words his father had expressed concerning the Chinese; Cutler Diamond had said, “We are making a big mistake, underestimating these people. Because they do not speak up, we consider them of lower intellect. We will one day be surprised to find that we haven't learned even half so much as they know.”
Diamond glanced at Chiang: A simple gardener with a long wispy beard, who spoke at least three languages, had more healing powers than a top physician, was one of the most deadly empty hand fighters in America and held more wisdom in his round, balding head than all the great philosophers. Preston grinned inwardly. “Yes, Papa, I suspect half to be an exaggeration.”
When the lunch was finished, Sifu and Preston again slipped back the marble cover and disappeared underground. Sifu had a determined step this time and Preston followed closely as the trail of smoke from the guttering light traced more sooty sketches on the confiscated railway tie beams of the ceiling. Preston realized they could have been travelling above ground but Xi-Ping obviously preferred to remain below; probably with more intent than to familiarize Preston with the tunnels. When they reached it, Diamond recognized the hallway that had seen more and recent traffic but he was soon lost again. Sifu brought them through a narrow door, up a short stairwell and slid open an upright panel. The master reached up and parted clothes hanging on a rod and Preston saw that they had emerged inside a closet. The door slid open and they stepped out into a small bedroom. A beaded curtain hung across a doorway and Preston trailed along behind Xi-Ping through that opening and found himself in the back of a clothing store. Two Chinese ladies bowed to Sifu and solemnly acknowledged Preston's courteous flection. They stepped out into the sunlit street and immediately slipped into a hotel lobby next door.
It was not one of Washington's posh establishments but clean and, on the surface, respectable. The first person Preston saw, just across the foyer, was Serge Ravenelle. He was in animated conversation with a huge fellow who towered over the Frenchman. Neither looked pleased. Xi-Ping must have recognized or surmised who Ravenelle was, for he grasped Diamond's sleeve and led him out of sight.
“Monsieur Ravenelle own hotel. Killers, here.” Xi-Ping said. “We find room, take back property.”
Serge Ravenelle and —Preston assumed, the giant Gabriella had spoken of and referred to as Henri L'Heureux— finished their palaver. Xi-Ping and Preston watched covertly while, first Ravenelle, then a minute later Commandant L'Heureux walked out onto the street. Each disappeared in a different direction.
Chiang and Preston went up a staircase that may have been quite elegant in the distant past; now the painted finish on the railing was scraped and chipped and a threadbare carpet covered the steps. On the second floor, the thin veneer of elegance stopped and the accommodation became utilitarian. A Chinese fellow, sweeping the hardwood floor, did not look up as Xi-Ping and Preston walked by. Sifu chose a dimly lit hallway to the right and scanned the numbers until arriving at room #24. No response came to his knock. He opened the satchel, extracted a twelve inch piece of steel with a point on one end and a flattened curve at the other, then proceeded to wedge the bar between door and jamb. To Sifu's surprise, Preston lay a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. In answer to Chiang's quizzical stare, the student reached in a pocket of his trousers and extracted a small rolled up leather pouch. He opened the pouch, selected a small tool and inserted it in the lock. In a slow heartbeat, the door swung inward. “I sometimes work with a locksmith,” Diamond explained as he strode into the room.
They closed and locked the door behind them and Sifu commenced searching the place. Preston didn't know what the Master sought so he stayed out of the way and surveyed the surroundings. There were two uncomfortable looking iron beds with coarse feather ticks, a washbasin and stand, a broken commode, a cracked mirror and, on the wall above the beds, two garish paintings. Luggage and clothes were strewn about. On a low table under the single window two derringers, knuckle dusters, and several evil looking blades lay amidst a small keg of gunpowder, caps and fusing material. Preston swept the the lot into Xi-Ping's satchel.
Sifu Chiang emerged from under the bed with two paper wrapped and string tied packets in his hands. He grunted, “I find.”
The half grin on Sifu's face vanished as he was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a sharp, double rap followed by a single, lighter, tap; a code. “The sweeper!” Xi-Ping said, “Les Apaches come!”
Preston twisted the lock and yanked the door open. The Chinese janitor, white with fright, broom held loosely in his hands, stood several doors down the hallway. He dropped the broom to catch the packages Sifu tossed him, then vanished through the doorway into the nearest chamber. Preston pulled the door to Room 24 closed and, making an abysmal attempt at nonchalance, started down the hall toward the staircase. Cap covered heads, soon followed by the torsos and legs of two men, appeared at the landing and entered the dim and narrow hallway. The approach of the strangers effectively blocked Preston and Xi-Ping's escape. Whether they suspected anything Preston did not know, but one of them drew a gun and pointed it at Sifu. In French, he ordered, “Turn around.” Sifu cocked his head to one side and looked blankly at the speaker. With a suitable quaver in his voice, Preston said, “We don't speak that language. What do you want?”
Continuing to advance, the second Frenchman spoke English with a heavy accent, “What are you doing here? This floor is closed.” He glanced down at the satchel in Preston's hand. “What have you in the bag?”
Diamond and Chiang retreated several steps until they were past Number 24. To Preston's chagrin, the door had not closed properly. Through a gap, he could see the mess Sifu had made inside.
The stubby barrelled gun suddenly looked much more menacing. Diamond felt a twinge in the old bullet wound in his leg. He did not wish to go through that pain again.
“I asked you a question.”
“It's my luggage. We… we must be on the wrong floor. Isn't this the third level?”
Sifu stopped half a step beyond the door and waited as the strangers approached. The men were dressed better than most of the hoodlums he had seen in Washington and Diamond decided Les Apaches were affluent thugs. He wished he had kept one of their derringers to hand.
The pistol wavered uncertainly between the tall dark haired youth and the slumping ancient Chinese. “You aren't on the wrong floor, you are in the wrong hotel,” the gunman snarled. His finger tightened on the trigger. At that moment the fellow who had not drawn a gun discovered the open door. A streak of expletives to rival Robert Tessier's lingo spewed from his lips. For a split instant, the gunman diverted his attention to look for the cause of his partner's outburst.
Diamond knew it was coming. He watched for it. But he didn't see it.
The sharp crack of a breaking forearm preceded the dull thud of the gun hitting the floor. A wail of anguish rent the air and echoed down the empty hallway. Before the echo died, the wailer did, too. Preston saw the flash of the second kick as Sifu's foot swung round and broke the gunman's neck. Diamond leaped into action as the second Apache's hand dove inside his coat.
Preston was too slow.
Living lightning, Sifu, using only one hand, finished the remaining Apache. Diamond had been taught the moves; he knew what was happening; but his eyes could not follow the blur as sounds of deadly impact collided: Sifu's extended fingers slashed across the Frenchman's eyes; forefinger tucked inside thumb, the upright fist in a gentle upward stroke, struck the upper lip smashing the nose and driving cartilage splinters into the skull; fingers closed, locked into a fist, a backhand rattled the temple; palm upward, hand arched back, a jarring, straight arm to the chin snapped the assailant backward in a somersault. He landed stretched out, then, involuntarily, rolled up into a fetal ball. Dead.
In the silence that followed, Preston stood in awe, humbled and embarrassed by his own inaction; not that he hadn't been willing to participate; he just wasn't quick enough. Preston realized, too, had he been alone, he would now be the person laying dead in the hallway. As inert muscles relaxed, the limp hand of the second gunman slid to the floor with a soft thump. Diamond turned his attention from the bodies to Xi-Ping. Sifu's slow steady breathing had not changed; the Master did not waste energy. Sifu Chiang bent down, picked up the gun and handed it to Preston. He said, “Bullet very fast. You be faster.”
Preston dragged the late Apaches inside Room 24 and left them on the floor. He stepped back into the hallway and drew the door firmly closed behind him. Xi-Ping had gone to the room marked by the abandoned broom. Preston heard the code knock and came to join the Master as the sweeper opened the door. He still held the packages in his hands and the dark eyes reflected terror. In Mandarin Xi-Ping Chiang passed instructions. The young Chinese, clutching tightly to his bundles of opium, turned and hurried down the hall in the opposite direction of the big staircase.
Preston and Xi-Ping were not watched or followed as they left the hotel and escaped into the clothing store. Travelling by tunnel network, they resurfaced at the marble monument in the little garden near the Capitol. Xi-Ping shuffled away to tend to his gardening duties, Diamond found Robert Tessier, was given a job, and worked late to make up for time he had missed.
Serge Ravenelle paced the floor in his main office. The Americans had been generous in providing the diplomat with sufficient space and luxury for staff and personal accommodations. The foreign family was shown utmost courtesy, treated to North America's brand of hospitality and given freedom to move about as they chose (excepting those necessarily restricted areas) on Capitol Hill. However, no one seemed duly concerned with the Frenchman's purpose. Serge found it difficult to actually hold audience with political officers of any import. President Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward were never available for even the briefest of meetings. Ravenelle would have been frustrated had he actually been in Washington on a mission from the Emperor of France. As it stood, the lack of enthusiasm shown by the Americans suited the minister's design quite satisfactorily. The original plan could die on the vine, the alternate would not have to be made public. Serge could live in comfort while Les Apaches set up the Washington connection. However, on the other side of the coin, Serge's personal ambitions had suffered a setback. He paced because sitting down impaired his thinking. Now the soles of his shoes and the carpet were wearing each other thin.
Commandant L'Heureux stood silent and unmoving. In Ravenelle's organization, the big brute was a good bad man. He had worked for the Ravenelles for over a decade. Henri asked no questions, carried out his assignments to the letter and balked at nothing. And he was well paid for his loyalty. But L'Heureux could not satisfactorily explain to Serge Ravenelle how two of his top Apaches could have been murdered in their hotel room without anyone hearing, seeing or knowing anything about it. The loss of the men was an inconvenience but the killer(s) had also trotted off with two big bags of opium. Ravenelle slowed his steps, cursed and turned to his commander, “Could it have been the Chinese? They were the ones your men took the opium from in the first place.”
L'Heureux shrugged. “I doubt it. Maurice said there were no survivors after the shooting at the opium den. Even if there had been, they could not have escaped through the fire.”
“Well, somebody knew where to find the stash and they killed two of your men in the process. And that is another question: Just how did those men die? No holes, no weapons, one bloody nose, two dead Apaches. I thought you guys were invincible. It looks like somebody eliminated those two with their bare hands.”
L'Heureux inflated his barrel chest and grunted, “I will find out. Monsieur Ravenelle, they won't kill me with their bare hands.”
Ravenelle dismissed his commander. “See that they don't.”
No word of the deceased Frenchmen reached the city's official news agencies. Preston read a few of the papers and listened attentively to Colonel Unzer's reports during the family's supper hours but there was nothing announcing two men had been found dead in a hotel room downtown. Diamond surmised that Les Apaches had disposed of the bodies and kept their mouths shut. A back-page report on the riverfront fire stated that the people caught in the blaze may have been murdered. Possibly, because the victims were Chinese and the property of questionable repute, the investigation lacked initiative.
Almost a week had passed before Preston was able to meet with Dominique. The English lessons had been suspended while Mrs. Skelton recovered from a head and chest cold. On two occasions during the convalescence, Robert had seen the Ravenelle ladies strolling about the Capitol grounds. They had seen him, too, but did not make contact; Uncle Serge's bird man was never far away. The lessons resumed and Laura Skelton let her students out early when Robert Tessier and Preston arrived at her door.
The suitors tried again to convince the ladies to escape the clutches of their evil benefactor but mother and daughter were afraid; afraid for their own lives and even more afraid for Preston and Robert. Ravenelle, they believed, was all powerful; if he did not have them killed, he would ruin them; take them back to France and turn them out in the slums of Paris. They could not hide, he would find them anywhere in the world.
Giving up the futile argument, Preston switched to catechization but Dominique and Gabriella had scant news of Serge's exploits. The counterfeit minister had been in a sour mood though he had not been particularly abusive nor laid a hand on his 'wife and daughter'. Henri L'Heureux had made several visits to the apartments; however, Gabriella had not caught more than snatches of conversation. She had gleaned from one explosive report that two of their men had been killed. Diamond pressed her for more information but Gabriella could only remember that Serge had gone uncharacteristically silent when the commandant could not explain the cause of death; Henri had said there were no bullet holes or knife wounds, just broken bones and broken necks.
Dominique had found a telegraph message to someone in Paris and, with it, a response dated two days later. She had made handwritten copies of the notes and brought them to Preston. The notes were in French; Ravenelle had not used his own name or possibly the messages had been sent by one of L'Heureux's fighters.
The Transatlantic Telegraph had been in operation less than a year and transmissions were prohibitively expensive —that wouldn't slow Ravenelle?— but certainly he would know that US authorities read every piece of foreign correspondence coming into the country. Robert read and translated the message. Ravenelle had not used his own name and a casual observer would not be alerted to the implications of the notes. Serge's alias had written:
Need Apaches
The response:
20 Apaches ride west
No one in the room needed help to decipher the code: Les Apaches were coming. Unless more of the original twenty were to die, or had died by other than Sifu Chiang's hand, within a few weeks there would be thirty-eight Parisian underground thugs walking the streets of Washington.
Diamond lit a match, burned the copied cablegrams in the stone fire place, then swept the ashes into a tiny pile. Robert and Gabriella had left the room; the soft murmuring of their voices and, occasionally, Gabriella's low throaty laugh drifted through the quietude. Preston drew Dominique into his arms and kissed her. The pilot lamp of passion, flickering since the night in Dominique's apartment, quickly rose to a flame. Breathless, Dominique broke away. She glanced in the direction her mother and Robert had gone. In broken English she said, “The day you did not come with Monsieur Tessier, my mother left me with Madame Skelton and came here alone with Robert… Maman is in love with Monsieur Tessier. She told me, so… Adam, I think, I am in love with you.”
Diamond gazed into the dark pools of her eyes, then kissed her softly. He did not understand how this lovely lady could be in love with him, but his heart swelled to bursting; surely nothing in all the universe could compare to her beauty. He swallowed twice, trying to clear the dryness in his throat then said hoarsely, “I am in love with you, Dominique. I know it.”
They kissed again; a gentle kiss of love at first, but young blood runs hot and neither wanted to slow down. It was Preston who pulled away and looked around guiltily like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. No one was there. They could no longer hear Robert and Gabriella. Dominique whispered, “Take me to the bedroom.”
Holding tight to her hand, Diamond led Dominique through the archway into the corridor. Monsieur Tessier and Madame Gabriella were not there, the door to the right hand bedchamber had been drawn closed; the left remained ajar. Preston looked at the closed door, the open door and then at Dominique. She smiled shyly. “C'est bien.”
They stepped into the bedchamber. Dominique pushed the door with her foot; it swung on silent hinges then latched with a solid thud. The room was huge, the ceiling high and Preston felt intimidated, over-whelmed. He felt as though they were under scrutiny. Were ghosts of lovers past haunting the chamber? Dominique turned, slipped her arms around his neck and drew him close. She kissed away his disquiet. Preston bent slightly, lifted her up and carried her to the giant canopied bed. Placing her gently on the red and gold satin cover, he moved onto the quilt and lay beside her. The velvet canopy and overhang made their world infinitely smaller. Two beings, Adam and Eve, in a tiny universe. Her fingers lightly brushed his cheek. “It is my first time,” she murmured.
Rebecca Unzer handed Preston a letter when he arrived home that evening. She wore that quizzical smile, reserved for those times when curiosity was gnawing at her but she didn't want to openly pry. With a hand on her hip and her head cocked to one side she watched him expectantly. Preston ignored her, carried the envelope into his room and left it on the dresser. After washing up and changing clothes he still hadn't read the message but he knew where it came from: Lily Brannigan. Enjoying Mrs. Unzer's frustration, Preston still hadn't read the letter when he and his adopted family sat down to supper.
Rebecca held off until serving dessert. She placed a steaming dish of baked apples on the table and said, “Adam got a letter today.”
Colonel Unzer, scooping up a bowl of apple, grunted, “That's nice.”
Half a minute passed.
“It's a lady's handwriting.”
The Colonel poured a thick coating of cream over the dessert. “That's interesting.”
Rebecca eyed Preston. He said, “Pass the cream please, Colonel Jim.”
Rebecca sighed. “It's addressed to Preston Diamond, not Adam Forsythe.”
“Mmm.” Unzer passed the pitcher to Preston, took another bite of the dessert and said, “Good baked apples, Mother.”
Rebecca huffed. “Thank-you.”
Unzer looked up from his bowl. “Becky, if the lad has a letter from a lady, it's his business. He's a smart lookin' young man. Girls are agoin' to be interested in him.”
Mrs. Unzer laid her spoon down and began to drum her fingers on the table. Preston capitulated. “I haven't read it yet, Rebecca. I think it is from Davy Brannigan's sister.”
Rebecca leaned forward, a gleam in her eye. “Oh, yes, Davy Brannigan. The young fellow you helped to buy the sawmill.”
The Colonel stopped a spoonful en route to his mouth. “How is that young feller making out with his mill? He paid back your investment, didn't he?”
“Yes. He's doing good. Bought the Conception Ferry a few months back.”
Rebecca asked, “He had two sisters?” She shuddered. “One of them looked after you when you had that bullet hole in your leg, didn't she?”
Preston felt his face growing warm. “Amy and Lily. It was Lily who kept me alive, but Amy did her share of nursemaid, too.”
“Well, aren't you curious what she has to say?”
“Becky! Let the boy alone. If you want a love letter, I'll write you one.”
Preston stood up from the table. “I'll wash up the dishes for you, Becky”
“Now, don't you start calling me, Becky, or I'll have you over my knee,” she challenged.
Preston washed up the cooking and supper dishes, retired to his bedroom and opened the letter.
Dear Preston:
Davy has started up a construction company. His men are building our new house. It's going to be huge: three bedrooms, we will each have our own room. It has a porch, big parlour, big kitchen and Davy says we will have a cistern and pump right inside the house. Imagine! We won't have to go to the well for a pail of water to do the dishes or wash clothes. Amy and I are so excited, we can't wait to move in. The roof is up and the men are putting the cedar shingles on today. Davy says we may go right to Washington to buy new furniture (he says we'll have a new kitchen stove, too. I hope it's one with a reservoir and warming oven). If we do go to the city, maybe we will see you.
Davy is so busy, even with his crew working here, he is away most of the time.
Amy and I look forward to your next visit. We talk about you often.
Last week I went to Conception for the mail and supplies. At Hoffer's General Store, I met up with Rufus Tweed and his family. May-a-belle is big as a barrel. She's due in another month or so. Rufus said everything is going well at the farm. I told him I planned to write to you and he asked me to say hello from the Tweeds.
Preston, I have to tell you something and I hope it doesn't spoil our friendship. With you being so far away, and not knowing when you might come back, I wonder if we will ever be more than friends. We went through so much together during the war, I mean you, me, Davy and Amy, that it's hard to put that grief and pain behind us. I think I love you, Preston, but Amy thinks she's in love with you, too. If ever we were to be married or something, how would it all work out? I don't want trouble in the family, and we can't both have you. So I am writing this letter (in hopes that I do not hurt you) to ask if it is alright that I see someone else. There is a young carpenter here who seems quite interested in me. He is handsome and I like him. But he isn't you, Preston. Please tell me how you feel and what I should do.
Love,
Lily
PS: You will always be my first love, nothing can ever change that.
Preston reread the letter. When he was thirteen or fourteen, he thought he loved Lily, too. Maybe he did but it wasn't the same as his love for Dominique. Of course, now he was sixteen, grown up, and feelings change. He could never love anyone as much as Mademoiselle Ravenelle.
Rebecca eyed Preston and Colonel Unzer eyed Rebecca as Diamond crossed the parlour, opened the lower cabinet of the etagere and extracted writing paper, ink and pen. He went to the kitchen, sat at the table and began to write. He wrote industriously for fifteen minutes, signed off, then added a postscript: You will always be my first love, too, Lily.
Then, while he had the utensils to hand, he composed a letter of love to Mrs. Unzer. It began: Dearest Mother Rebecca….
Preston Diamond awoke in the night. A hand was on his shoulder and a finger was pressed against his lips. In the pale moon light through his window, he recognized the ghost figure of Xi-Ping Chiang. Sifu whispered, “Trouble. Come now. Bring weapon.”
Preston rolled out of bed, found his trousers and dressed quickly. He lifted his .45 Colt and holster from the peg behind the bedroom door and strapped it on. “How many weapons do we need?”
Sifu shrugged in the dark. “No weight. Fight empty hand.”
Preston pocketed a derringer he had swiped from the hotel room of Les Apaches; in separate pockets, so they would not jingle, he stowed two throwing stars.
Silently, they exited the cottage's back door and followed the path through Rebecca's garden to the alley. “How far, Sifu? Shall I saddle my horse? We could use Colonel Unzer's carriage and pair if you want.”
Sifu said, “No. Not far. We walk.”
Xi-Ping's idea of walking was a ground eating dog trot and Preston, who had not worn a jacket, soon warmed from the chill of night. In the residential areas, the streets were empty and houses dark at this hour. Chiang held the pace and kept them to the unlit alleys when possible. Crossing major avenues, the pair drifted silently, unnoticed under the waning light of the moon and the pale glow of gas lanterns. They reached the city's downtown area and, though intermittent, there was an increase in traffic heading both toward city centre and leaving. Preston, keeping alert, paid attention to the movements: four riders on saddle horses —two singles and one pair— one light carriage with a snorting and feisty team; two heavily loaded drays; a cab drawn by plodding, spiritless horses. Occasional revellers, in various states of inebriation, narcotic somnambulists and wobbling winos occupied the streets. The boardwalks were beds for the misplaced and those too sated to find their way home. Sifu slowed to a walk. At an empty intersection, he rounded a corner, strode past two store fronts and stopped when someone materialized in the shadow of the third. The stranger must have been awaiting Xi-Ping's arrival; he bowed slightly and waved Chiang and his student in through an open door. Diamond noted that the person was a young Chinese. Once, the fellow glanced up and Preston read a mixture of grief and fear on his face before he quickly looked down again.
With Diamond and the Chinese boy following, Sifu walked through to the rear of the darkened building. Preston saw rows of seats, tables and booths; he could smell strange food: it was a Chinese restaurant. A swinging door opened into a kitchen where a dim lamp burned at the back. Below the circle of lamplight a cellar door yawned; a body lay near the hole. Sifu knelt and turned the face toward the light. She was an elderly woman. Preston heard a sob escape the lad standing behind him. Sifu shook his head sadly, then gently touched the ashen cheek of the murder victim. Chiang stood, grasped the lamp and said, “Come.” Leaving the dead woman and the grief stricken youth in the dark, Preston followed the master into the cellar.
Smoke and the rank odour of gunpowder were faint in the tunnel and, as they moved ahead, the smell and haze thickened. Soon the tunnel made an abrupt ninety degree bend. Diamond could see evidence of recent work; the ell was becoming a T. Sifu pushed the wall, it opened and he stepped into a small open room. There was a pool of blood on the floor. “Les Apaches find tunnel.” He indicated the blood. “One dead, three,” he pointed across the room, “hide there.”
Preston sorted through that brief piece of information. “Your people have them holed up. But Les Apaches are still armed. We are here to find them, to flush them out?”
Chiang nodded and made a slashing sign across his throat. “Les Apaches no tell of tunnel.”
Diamond considered for a moment. Three heavily armed men, waiting in ambush and thirsting to kill, against he and Sifu Chiang. Again, he sensed the burning, searing pain of a rifle slug tearing through his thigh. “Will they be waiting for us?”
Xi-Ping shrugged. “Only know Chinese hold them.”
Preston assumed that the exterior, probably roof and windows as well as the exits of the building, were guarded to ensure the French killers did not escape. The Chinese fighters could hold Les Apaches hostage but they had called on Sifu Chiang to go in after them. Time could be running short for the Asian guards; sooner or later, before dawn, Ravenelle or L'Heureux would suspect trouble and send reinforcements. Preston wondered what kind of an edifice it was. He didn't know which direction or how far the tunnel from the restaurant had led: it could have crossed an alley; not likely a full street or avenue. How many floors would there be? At least two, maybe more. He wanted to ask where the dead Apache's body had gone; how and why the old woman had been murdered, but Sifu was looking at him expectantly and Preston decided it was no time for conversation. “Well, shall we go find them?”
Sifu smiled grimly. “We go.”
Diamond had assumed the cellar he and Sifu were now in would have a trap door or steps leading upward but it appeared to be a dead-end, a rounded cave with no other exit than the tunnel. Xi-Ping stepped to the far side and placed his face to the wall where there was a slight crack or seam in the brickwork. After a moment, he moved to one side and motioned his student to have a look. Through the fissure, Preston saw a long narrow room; a large storage area filled with merchandise. Containers, crates, boxes and shelves lined the walls, there were two more rows of shelves up the middle and separated by aisles wide enough to carry freight along. Kerosene lanterns glowed at either end, only partly illuminating the room with their pale yellow light. Diamond concluded it was a basement warehouse, most likely under a drygoods or hardware store. A man in dark sweater and trousers, holding a sawed-off double-barrelled shotgun, patrolled the aisles. Intermittently, he glanced furtively toward the wall concealing the two spies.
Sifu touched Preston's shoulder and motioned him aside. Chiang peered again through the crack. After a long minute, he whispered, “Apache not know where tunnel is.”
“How come one of them, the dead one, knew there was a tunnel but that guy doesn't? Where is the dead Apache?”
“Apache find tunnel, shoot old woman, Chinese chase and kill him,” Sifu pointed again at the blood, “there.”
As best he could, Diamond interpreted Xi-Ping's revelation basing more on conjecture than fact: (Maybe) only one of the French thugs stumbled onto the tunnel entrance; followed it until he encountered the Chinese; had a shootout (which would explain the smoke and burned gunpowder in the tunnel); the old woman was fatally wounded; the Chinese pursued the Apache and he was killed in this room. Maybe the dead man's comrades were not sure of what happened to him. Maybe they tried to leave the building and then found themselves held hostage. Preston looked again through the seam. Yes, the man bore a look of apprehension. Where was the body? Where were the other Frenchmen?
Preston looked at Sifu, “Why are Ravenelle's Apaches in a drygoods store in the middle of the night? There is nothing illegal about a store… is there?”
Sifu shrugged.
Chiang blew out the portable lamp. Through the crack in the wall the room beyond now appeared brighter. Sifu cupped an ear with his hand and Preston, too, strained to hear. Voices were audible from the other side. Two men, speaking French, were in low conversation. Sifu pried on the seam and the brickwork slid apart sufficient to allow him to squeeze through. He motioned Preston to wait, then closed up the gap.
Nose pressed against the wall, Preston watched and listened. Sifu stepped behind a low counter and stood motionless. Soon, the voices stopped. The man holding the short double-barrel reappeared and resumed his patrol of the aisles. The second Apache was not in sight.
As the Frenchman neared Xi-Ping Chiang's position, Preston inhaled and held his breath. Sifu moved like a ghost as he stepped in front of the thug. One hand grasped the shotgun barrel, the other, fingers extended, made a snake-quick knife-hand jab to the throat. Preston heard the crunch of windpipe cartilage and a harsh gasping cough. Xi-Ping pulled the gun from nerveless hands to keep it from clattering as the Frenchman dropped soundlessly to the floor.
The master stood listening for a moment, then, apparently assured the second man was not about to return, bent down and filched the dead man's tweed chapeau and placed it on his own head. He then returned to the false wall and opened the slot allowing Preston in.
Diamond loosened the Colt in its holster. He moved up one aisle while Sifu followed another. They reached the far end where a wide set of stairs led up to the next level. There were no doors opening onto the main level; there were no lights either. The yellow glow of gas lamps from the street partially illuminated the store front. Diamond could see the double entrance doors. Shards of glass glittered on the floor: either a door pane or one of the large front windows had been shattered. Where were the police?
Before their heads cleared the landing, Sifu stopped Preston on the stairs and motioned him to keep low. Chiang, wearing the Frenchman's hat, glided up onto the landing. Nothing indicated that he had been seen. As he faded into shadows, he motioned Preston to follow. Outside, through the broken window, the sound of running feet announced that someone was coming. A figure trotted by the entrance, feet slapping on the boardwalk. Preston guessed, from the patter of the steps, that the person was wearing loose shoes: sandals; he was Chinese. The passerby drew no attention from within the store and Diamond wondered if that had been the runner's purpose: hoping to draw out the French hostages while Preston and Sifu slipped into position.
In the dark, once again beside Sifu, Diamond strained his ears to pick up any sound. On the cusp of hearing, voices murmured from the the back of the building. Suddenly a steady thud of feet erupted. At first Diamond thought it was someone running toward him, but then he decided it was the sound of a person rapidly descending a stair. There must be another level above the main.
Sifu grasped Diamond's wrist and tugged him along toward the voices. When the thud of feet stopped, Chiang paused, moved ahead more stealthily, then held up again. They were between two rows of stocked shelves, an intersection; the main, wider run, led to the back of the store, the other went to the right and to the left. Preston noticed the merchandise on the shelves: dishes, pots and pans. Across the aisle were heaps of clothes or bedding. He assumed it must be a sort of variety store. The voices raised in pitch; Xi-Ping listened attentively. Preston could hear but the talk was too rapid to understand. The master turned to his student and held up three fingers then shook his head; he put up a fourth finger. Sources had been errant in their counting; including the man killed earlier, there had been at least five Apaches in the building or perhaps more French troops had recently arrived. At any rate, two of them were out of the skirmish.
In a hoarse whisper Sifu repeated what he had heard. Les Apaches knew they were hemmed in. They couldn't escape the building but they could not locate their adversaries either.
The voices rose in argument and then a louder voice cut in. Instant quiet fell like a thunderclap. Sifu, holding up a finger to represent each speaker, interpreted, “One say find tunnel. One say wait for Commandant L'Heureux. One say shut mouths.”
Preston let this information sink in. These people knew there was a tunnel but did not know where. The Apache that had been killed by the Chinese must have told someone he had found a secret entrance but had gone exploring without first showing his cohorts where the tunnel was. Whatever the situation, the Chinese did not want the information to leak out onto the streets of Washington.
The voice of authority spoke and Sifu translated, “Go down, bring Rochelle. Load all guns, break for street,” Xi-Ping pointed to the entrance, “through front door.”
Les Apaches intended to shoot their way out. Preston visualized them charging out into the avenue, guns ablaze. Though most of the city slept, innocent people, dray men or hansom and cab drivers could be shot to pieces in the fracas. The Chinese fighters would suffer, too.
Sifu shook his head. “We stop them. Here.”
Diamond drew the Colt and rolled the cylinder. The master, still wearing his stolen chapeau, reached inside his smock and extracted two of the long thin throwing knives Preston had seen the first day of his weapons training. Sifu bowed a solemn nod to his companion then returned his attention to the work at hand.
The Frenchmen emerged from the rear of the store. They must have been standing near the light for Preston could see them peering into the darkness as they moved forward. He noticed something else: there were four of them.
Sifu Chiang tucked one knife in the front of his belt and palmed the other.
Seeing the killers approach through the eerie dimness, Preston Diamond weighed the implications of the intended ambush: Was it justified or right? Was it murder? Cutler Diamond had once said: Nothing is fair in love and war. Was this war? Ravenelle's warriors had no compunction about killing anyone; Preston thought of the grieving Chinese lad and the elderly lady lying dead by the cellar hole. She had done nothing to deserve such an end; but still, this kind of attack grated against an unwritten code.
Now it was too late to consider ethics.
Just over the top of a shelf in front of him, Preston studied Les Apaches. When the foursome was about twenty feet away, the master faded into the centre of the aisle, threw the first knife and continued across to the other side. There was a loud grunt and one of the men put his hands to the haft of the dagger protruding from his chest. He looked up in perplexity then sank to his knees.
The remaining trio opened fire in surprisingly short order. Deadly, screaming bullets ripped into the pile of textile, shredding the cloth to ribbons and rags; a feather tick exploded into a dense cloud of goose down that immediately obliterated shelf and surrounding aisle. Spattering lead ricocheted and whined through the store. The big guns, belching streaks of orange flame, turned the suppressed silence into a deafening roar. Smoke and burning powder reeked upon the air. Eyes began to sting, nostrils burned and ear drums bled.
Preston's Colt spoke once from the opposite side of the aisle. Half a head vanished and the corpse took two more involuntary steps before realizing there was nowhere left to go. The muzzle flash drew fire from the onrushing pair and the din grew to cacophony as slugs tore into the stacks of pans and dishes. Tin pots rattled and banged, glass and china evaporated; Preston's temporary fortress disintegrated. He snapped two quick shots at the remaining attackers then ducked into the next aisle. One of the .45 slugs may have scored a hit for a string of French profanity erupted and renewed assault concentrated where Diamond had been. The duo drew even with the intersecting aisle and held their fire as they searched in either direction for enemies, alive or dead.
Preston grudgingly admired Les Apaches' show of guts. They were fighters akin to the famous French Foreign Legionnaires who battled in 1863: sixty-two soldiers and three officers fought against two thousand revolutionaries (1200 infantry; 800 cavalry) in Mexico. The Legionnaires, out of bullets and down to six men, fixed bayonets and charged.
Assuming Sifu had escaped the fusillade, the odds, once in Les Apaches favour, were now even. The store had fallen silent as the last tin lid stopped spinning; gently wafting feathers made no sound. A repeated dull click of metal on metal reached Diamond's ears: one, or both, of the Frenchmen were reloading. Diamond had three shots left in the Colt but he dared not drop his guard long enough to stuff more cartridges in the cylinder. He slunk deeper into the shadows listening for movement. Not far away —he couldn't pinpoint the exact location— there was a low swish or hiss followed by a sickening crunch like the amplification of someone severely stubbing their toe. Before Preston could dwell on that particular sound sequence, the roar of a gun and whizz of a bullet past his ear dropped him to his knees. He reached over a shelf and fired in the direction of the shot. Two more slugs whacked into the counter above him; Preston retaliated with another two of his own.
He had to load now.
Hugging the feather littered floor, Preston drew and cocked the little derringer, placed it in front of him and quickly shucked the empty cartridges from the Colt. Too late, he realized the sound of brass hitting the floor would alert the attackers that he was reloading. To his right, low down, a hand holding a gun appeared round the corner of the aisle. Without an eye to aim it, the weapon searched the near area and, like a blind serpent, eerily homed in on its prey. Dropping the Colt, Diamond fetched up the derringer and squeezed the trigger. He fired through the lower shelf of the counter. The slug ripped wood and buried itself in something that groaned in pain. The barrel of the gun dipped; three shots hammered into the floor and the facing of the shelf beside Diamond. Splinters stung Preston's cheek and powder burned his eyes. He fired the second and last barrel of the derringer. The gun fell from lax fingers and Preston scrabbled to reload his Colt. In his haste, he dropped another cartridge and, as he reached for it, saw a face at floor level where formerly there had only been a limp hand with a gun laying near by. Now there was a face, a hand and a gun; the gun was in the hand and all three were fixated on Preston Diamond.
Time stopped.
Frozen, immobile, Preston stared at the shadow darkened face. Clear vision arrived with concentration; nearby objects came into perfect focus. The Apache's features, though distorted with pain, were vaguely familiar; recognition dawned: it was the bird man who spied on Gabriella and Dominique. The birder wasn't in ornithological guise now, but Diamond was a sitting duck.
Preston sensed, more than saw, the finger tighten on the trigger. Inwardly, he braced himself for that burning, ripping impact. Maybe this one would be fatal. He preferred death over the agony he had gone through with the hole in his leg.
Time started.
Silent as a wish, a whispered breeze, accompanied by a faint flash of metal, sliced through the air scant inches from Preston's nose. The missile struck the dying gunman's hand, spoiling his aim just as an orange streak of fire lit the aisle. Energy from the muzzle blast rolled empty brass across the floor and stirred up goose down; the bullet buried itself in the base of the cabinet a hair's breadth from Diamond's knee. The burning eyes that had been glaring at Preston, glazed over; the lids closed; the bird man's head sagged to the floor, gently raising another tiny cloud of feathers which drifted upward then settled on his hat.
Diamond slipped the rest of the cartridges into the revolver and closed the cylinder. He eared back the hammer and looked around for the single remaining Apache. A shadow in the shadows, Sifu reached down and lifted the Colt from Preston's hand then stepped forward to retrieve his throwing knife from near the dead man. He tucked the blade in his belt and, releasing the hammer, handed the revolver back to his student.
Preston whispered, “There's one more, Sifu.”
Xi-Ping shook his head. “All dead,” he said. “We go. Hurry.”
Feathers swirled around their shoes and glass crunched as Preston followed Sifu down the aisle to the head of the stairs. Through the broken window, they could hear shouts and many feet pounding on the sidewalk. Sifu took the stairs three at a time and Preston landed at the bottom beside him. They paused an instant to blow out the near lamp then rushed to the rear of the basement. Diamond extinguished the second light plunging the room into pitch darkness. Sifu grasped Preston's sleeve and led him to the wall. In seconds they were through the hidden seam and into the little cellar hole on the other side. Sifu Chiang found the lamp in the opaqueness and then they were out of the room and into the tunnel. Diamond heard the scrape of a match and blinked against the flare as Sifu touched fire to the wick. Turning to Preston, chapeau at a jaunty angle on his round head, thin beard hanging down his chest, Xi-Ping said, “Les Apaches, fight good.”
Serge Ravenelle emerged from the Presidential Hotel, the property he had purchased/taken over to house his army; his now drastically reduced army. The French ambassador's diplomatic mask had been ripped away and raw, seething anger etched his grim features. He stepped into a waiting cab and the driver whipped the horses away in a clatter of hooves. Henri L'Heureux watched him go.
The commandant had been part of the Ravenelle organization for many years. He knew the brothers, Serge and Armand (up to the time of his death) well, but he had never known either of them to be so utterly incensed. Serge would have killed anyone who crossed his path. L'Heureux was quite vexed, too: Five more of his Apaches had been killed, a sixth was missing and he had no explanation as to why the men had been attacked. Commandant L'Heureux had had to move quickly to cover the tracks that could have led to Serge Ravenelle.
Washington police department was mystified. An early morning alarm had summoned the force to a store on East Seventh Street. One of the large plate glass front windows had been shattered and upon entering the building, the first officer on the scene saw that the situation had turned ugly. The inside of the establishment was a bullet riddled, blood soaked, powder burned, reeking disaster. Four corpses, an arsenal of guns, bullets and spent cartridges, were scattered among the broken, tangled aisles of destroyed merchandise. Two of the dead had been shot, one knifed, and a fourth had had his neck broken. A fifth body, having a crushed larynx, was discovered in the basement warehouse of the same building. No identification could be found on any of the dead men; they were dressed similarly and investigators believed them to be members of a gang. Not surprisingly, the police were able to extract no information from the known criminal element. Local night people, drawn to the skirmish, vanished upon the arrival of police. Next morning, mudslinging media raked the department with scandalous reports of rampant lawlessness and unsolved crime in the nation's capitol.
The hulking commander of Ravenelle's army was not concerned with media reports nor an effete police force. Since the arrival of the French underground, the Washington constabulary had been ineffective, even reluctant, in investigating (much less curbing) the sudden rise in criminal activity; the element under siege, in the opinion of the department, were not worthy of police protection. This attitude gave L'Heureux & Co. free rein. In just a few short weeks, his men had lied, cheated, swindled, bullied, murdered and assassinated their way into the heart of the disjointed DC underground. Gambling, narcotics and prostitution had been the main targets. Les Apaches had struck swiftly and efficiently; weak defences had crumbled (the Patowmack flowed sluggish with the pieces) and Ravenelle's organization was already showing profit. A few Chinese had put up weak resistance against eviction from a riverfront opium den; Serge's people had not suffered a scratch in the subsequent raid. But two Apaches were murdered several days later in the Presidential Hotel, the home of the Parisian force. The men were killed, not on their doorstep, but right inside their rooms. The rich booty of narcotic was stolen in broad daylight; no one saw or heard anything. For a moment, L'Heureux had wondered if the silent and innocuous Chinese had retaliated for the murders, the fire and the theft of their opium. However, he dismissed that notion because he did not believe there were sufficient Orientals in Washington to make a stand. Furthermore, no ordinary thief, certainly not a Chinaman, could walk in on two armed Apaches and kill them without using a knife or gun. The possibility existed that the thieves could have been his own men; they were true and trusted soldiers in France but, maybe over here, in America, they had been tempted, saw an opportunity and grabbed it. In any case, Henri decided, the poppy powder was irretrievable; it was probably up in New York City by now. Besides, he had to trust his own people; what was left of them.
Assuming the double murder and opium theft were not related to this last attack, Commandant L'Heureux contemplated what grim and unseen agency from hell had now turned against the French invasion. This second slaughter had brought the death tally near to half the available men and, though more recruits were sailing to Washington, he might not have anyone left alive to greet them. The six man team, led by Maurice Vincent, had been dispatched to invade Kalmattii's Mercantile. False fronted stores were occasionally false fronts for businesses involved in criminal activities. Warren Kalmattii, proprietor, had come under scrutiny of the French network; there was something suspicious about his operation and L'Heureux had wanted the building ransacked. If Les Apaches found nothing in the store to satisfy their curiosity, the men were to invade Kalmattii's residence. Maurice Vincent never made it to Kalmattii's home and Henri L'Heureux could hardly believe that the storekeeper had interceded. The commandant had no inkling as to whom was responsible, but Serge Ravenelle may have Henri's head if he did not soon find out.
After he returned home from the attack on Les Apaches, Diamond found no opportunity to resume his rudely interrupted dreams of Dominique Ravenelle. Seated on the sofa, he massaged a non existent pain in his old wound and collected his thoughts. In the predawn dimness, Rebecca, in her night dress, came to the parlour and sat beside her adopted charge. After enquiring as to his health and if the leg was bothering, she asked, “Adam, where do you go in the middle of the night? Often, lately, James or I will get up and find you gone. You disappear without a sound and, in the morning, you have returned without a sound. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Rebecca, as she was wont to say, was 'not a spring chicken anymore'. Preston took her age-wrinkled hand. “No, I'm not in trouble. Tonight I was with Sifu Chiang. He asked for my help and I couldn't refuse.”
“We don't mean to pry, Adam, or have you report everything you intend to do but, during our supper, you made no mention of having to leave in the middle of the night.”
“Sifu woke me up… It was an emergency.”
Rebecca sat back on the sofa. Incredulity rang in her voice, “Mr. Chiang came into our house in the middle of the night and got you out of bed? What kind of emergency does a gardener encounter at two AM? There wasn't any danger of frost, I checked the temperature last thing before I went to bed.”
In the pale light, Preston grinned ruefully. “No, we weren't rescuing plants, Rebecca… I'd rather not say what we were doing, at least not for now.”
He patted her hand and rose. “Now, I have to meet Sifu again for my lesson. Neither of us will have had much rest by the time we start work tomorrow.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I'll be back for breakfast.”
Xi-Ping Chiang looked none the worse for his lack of sleep and Preston wondered how the man could subsist with no rest. It seemed unlikely the master had found time for bed after they had returned. Possibly he had gone back downtown. During their flight last night, in an effort to avoid being seen, Sifu had kept to the tunnels all the way back to Capitol Hill. The underground network remained a confusion to Preston but several of the hallways were becoming familiar. He had noted that kerosene-filled lamps or tallow candles were now placed at every doorway. The Chinese were gearing up for trouble.
“Sifu, did you know the lady who was killed by Les Apaches last night?”
“Long time. Old friend.”
“I'm sorry, Sifu.”
Xi-Ping bowed and the lesson, double sword form, began.
An hour later, Diamond was exhausted from the work out. Sifu had smiled and offered a rare “velly good” instead of the customary “good, good.”
The pair took time for a brief chat after the exercise. Sifu, in his broken sentences, explained that the Chinese people had made a tunnel into Kalmattii's Mercantile because they owned the property. Warren Kalmattii himself was a false front. The western hemisphere's Chinese had connections in trade, shipping and import and they brought manufactured goods from their homeland to sell through retail outlets in America without tariffs, pacts, and trade agreements to constipate logistics; for them, it was a borderless world. Warren Kalmattii was one of many well-paid white managers posing as an entrepreneur. Chiang did not know the reason Ravenelle's Army had invaded the store. It had been a piece of bad luck (Sifu did not stipulate for whom) that the Apaches had discovered the tunnel.
Now Preston knew why it had been so important to seal the lips of the French intruders.
Rebecca, hoping to substitute nourishment for sleep, had a hot breakfast waiting for Preston when he returned from Sifu Xi-Ping's class. The Unzer's asked no questions. They were probably reassured to hear that Adam had been with the Tang master rather than some of the alternative adventures young men get into.
On the job site, Robert Tessier noticed the darkening around Diamond's eyes and quizzed him about the apparent lack of sleep. Preston didn't lie when he said, “Sifu Chiang and I had some night training.” Thoughts of the shootout kept Diamond preoccupied most of the morning and he had trouble concentrating on his work.
Tessier and Diamond happened to be in the vicinity of the Foreign Affairs apartments when the Ravenelle ladies passed by for their daily English lesson. The deceased bird man's replacement, if he had one, was nowhere to be seen; perhaps Ravenelle's army had been sufficiently reduced in numbers they could no longer afford time for bird watching. Madame and Mademoiselle Ravenelle did not acknowledge their lovers though Preston detected a slight smile in response to his half wink toward Dominique. The quartet had decided against a tryst today. Gabriella did not wish to compromise Mrs. Skelton's empathy and Tessier had admitted that he and Preston had been delinquent in their work duties of late. Seeing Dominique effectively shifted Diamond's thoughts from last night's battle but did not significantly increase his productivity.
An hour after the ladies had passed by, Serge Ravenelle, trying unsuccessfully to hide a black scowl, walked through the construction site and entered the Foreign Affairs building. He had not even glanced at the crew; maybe he did not know where Diamond and Tessier were employed; maybe he did not care. Preston commented that it was a lucky break they had not met with the ladies this afternoon. Robert Tessier held up his claw hammer and growled in French, “If Monsieur Ravenelle harms Gabriella again, I will kill him with my hammer.”
That evening, a tired Adam Forsythe/Preston Diamond washed up the dishes while Colonel Unzer read aloud from a Washington newspaper. Front page headlines announced the story of five slayings in Kalmattii's Mercantile. Colonel Jim read the gruesome specifics of how the men died. The police and proprietor Warren Kalmattii were baffled as to why the (apparent) gang war had taken place in the building. Investigators admitted that the victims could have been part of an organized group but there had been no evidence as to who, or how many opponents they had faced. No other bodies or signs of injury were present. The interior of the store and thousands of dollars of merchandise were destroyed. The story went on at length with the usual addition of horse manure to stretch out the tobacco.
Preston kept his attention on the dish washing though he could see from the corner of his eye that Mrs. Unzer was staring at him. When the colonel had finished and reached for a second toothpick, Rebecca said, “It's a wonder the other side had no injuries. Five armed men is a lot to face without someone on both sides getting hurt.”
Colonel Unzer grunted, “I've seen the odds stacked up pretty high in more than a few battles and it's amazing how the weak side can sometimes come out on top in a skirmish. It usually follows good planning, a surprise attack or a hell of a lot of luck.”
Rebecca turned to her husband. “We don't know if the other side had fewer numbers though. Maybe there were twelve lucky fellows against five unlucky ones.”
Unzer focused on the dish washer. “I got me a good suspicion there wasn't more than a couple of men fighting against that mob. We've been in Kalmattii's Mercantile, Rebecca. How many men could you fit in a long narrow store like that one?” He shook the rag. “If bullets were flying like this here report says, somebody would have been hit, good luck, bad luck or no luck about it.”
Mrs. Unzer followed her husband's gaze. Preston's face turned red in the silence that followed. He didn't look up; he knew the question was coming but didn't know how to respond.
Rebecca asked, “Cat got your tongue, Adam?”
“Er… no… Mr. Tessier had read that article during our lunch break today so I knew about the shootout earlier.”
“How do you suppose those fellers with no bullet wounds or knife holes in 'em got killed?” asked Colonel Jim.
Preston shrugged. “Well, Robert read that one was found in the basement… maybe he fell down the stairs?”
Unzer groaned. “Yes, and maybe he sprouted wings and flew into the wall. Or maybe he tripped over someone's foot… with his head? This is serious stuff, Adam, that Colt of yours reeks of burned powder. I could smell it from the parlour this afternoon.”
Rebecca's gasp filled the pause that followed.
“Son, I think you best tell us what's going on. We don't doubt you're on the side of the right, but we'd appreciate to know what the hell you've been dragged into this time. Maybe Rebecca and I can help… Maybe we need to dig out the guns again and park them somewhere close to hand… Like we done two years ago.”
Preston dried his hands on the tea towel, let the water drain into the catch basin and turned to his guardians. “I can't tell you everything. I have been sworn to secrecy. But I owe you an explanation and an apology.
“I'm sorry for keeping you awake wondering where I am and for waking you up when I come and go. Sifu was directly responsible for my disappearance last night and, a while back, he kept me out until near daylight but that was more my fault.”
“Adam, we don't mean to have an account of your whereabouts every minute. It's just that we are concerned for your safety. We almost lost you last time and there could still be people out there who want you dead,” said Rebecca.
“Well, if they knew who I was, there are people out there now who would kill me for sure.
“The whole thing started with my meeting Dominique Ravenelle, the supposed French Minister's daughter.”
Colonel Unzer interrupted, “Supposed? Who is supposed? The minister or the daughter?”
“Monsieur Ravenelle is an appointed minister but he's obtained the appointment under false pretense. What he's really here for is to establish a criminal network in Washington. He is one of the head people in the Paris underground. You probably haven't heard of Les Apaches but they are the army of the underworld in Paris.” Preston pointed at the newspaper now laying folded across Unzer's knee. “All five of those men were Apaches. They had been brought here from France to take over the Washington based gangs and crime syndicates. It was them who lit the big fire down at the docks a week or so ago.”
Rebecca caught her breath. “Where do you fit in, Adam? Why is Mr. Chiang involved?”
Adam drew up a chair and sat down at the table. “Well, that is where I have been sworn to secrecy. But, in addition to Serge Ravenelle masquerading as a politician, Dominique and Madame Ravenelle are not really his wife and daughter. They are his niece and sister-in-law; brought here to pose as his own family. “
“God, the whole outfit is a bunch of charlatans,” said the colonel.
“Well, actually… no. Gabriella and Dominique were tricked by Serge. They are not safe in his company. He has struck Gabriella at least once and deliberately burned her arm with a hot cigar. He has threatened both of them. Serge Ravenelle is a powerful and, merciless man.”
“He may be powerful in his own country but he isn't in his own country now,” said Rebecca.
“These Apaches… his thugs and hoodlums, how many of them are there?” Colonel Jim asked.
“Originally he had brought in twenty, now he has twenty more en route from France.”
Unzer picked up the paper. “But five of the first batch are dead.”
Preston didn't say anything and Colonel Jim studied him a moment. “Well then, how many are left?”
Diamond dug himself in deeper, but the hole he made was still too shallow to crawl into and hide. He had not intended to be drawn out, but he would not lie to the Unzers. “I believe eight of Ravenelle's men have been killed.”
Rebecca rose from her chair and left the room. Colonel Unzer said, “Boy, you can't just go around killing people like that. We got laws and police to handle that kind of grief.”
Preston shook his head. “You read the papers, Colonel Jim, the police aren't doing anything about it. Les Apaches killed eleven innocent people in that fire. They were murdered and their bodies burned. A sixth man involved in that raid last night shot and killed a harmless old lady. The law will not stop Les Apaches and no one is going to stop Serge Ravenelle.”
Pale of face, Rebecca came back into the room. She had a handkerchief in her hand and her eyes held tears. Apparently she had not gone so far that she could not hear the conversation. “Why does it have to be a sixteen year old boy who takes it upon himself to right the wrongs of Washington DC?”
“I'm not trying to set the world straight,” Preston argued. “I… I'm in love with Dominique Ravenelle. I have to get her away from her uncle before she is hurt or… or killed. I'm not fighting the French Underground or protecting the people of Washington… I am obligated though, to help Sifu when he asks me. If we had not gone to Kalmattii's Mercantile, there would have been a dozen more killings last night and, by now, a full scale underground war would be started.”
“So it was you, your Colt and Mr. Chiang who faced the men in Kalmattii's Mercantile.” It wasn't a question; Colonel Unzer spoke with a dull finality.
“Yes.”
Rebecca shifted to stand beside her husband. She put a hand on Unzer's shoulder. “Adam is fighting for the girl he loves, James. Not so long ago, if it weren't for Adam and that Colt of his, you and I would both be dead.”
In less than three months, Ravenelle's Apaches had subdued the petty crime bosses of DC. Most of them were dead or had fled. Several sycophantic survivors succumbed to the new lord and were content to pay the extortionate fees that allowed them to stay in the field. Serge believed a small amount of competition was good for his brand of criminal enterprise. Organized crime, like the city had never seen before, ruled Washington. It ran so smoothly, council and the police force were dutifully oblivious. Commandant L'Heureux initiated a maintenance program that kept the machinery well oiled. The occasional squeaky wheel was immediately greased and tossed in the Patowmack River.
There had been no further resistance since the Kalmattii Mercantile Massacre. Nor had there been any explanation for the slaughter. Warren Kalmattii cleaned up the mess, brought in new stock and continued to run the store. Les Apaches left him to it. L'Heureux had convinced his boss that whatever it was that Kalmattii had up his sleeve, it wasn't worth risking another half a dozen men to find out. The proprietor was given a wide birth though he, personally, had no understanding as to why his store had been turned into a one night battlefield. The Chinese were quiet, biding their time. The profitable opium den was a temporary loss. When the moment was opportune, a new den would be opened. Les Apaches would not stand in the way nor would their boss receive an operating tithe.
So the situation could have been well in hand except for that one vice which governs men who govern men: power. Serge Ravenelle wanted more. The fake French Minister still had his secret army at his disposal and he had read sufficient history to realize the wisdom imparted by Emperor Napoleon: an idle force will grow restless and turn upon its own commander. Ravenelle's men needed to be kept busy.
Washington was a nice city and the syndicate turned a fair profit; nothing like Paris, mind you, but it did well for a tiny satellite endeavour. Ravenelle and L'Heureux held a conference and decided the time was ripe to share in the profits heretofore assigned to the Washington elite. There was scads of cash in Washington, many businesses had profited during the Civil War and the magnates who owned the enterprises continued to grow fat. An aggressive man with a strong work force should be able to help himself to some of that revenue, maybe win or buy out a few contracts.
L'Heureux moved his army a notch laterally.
Ravenelle treated his brother's wife and daughter with indifference. He only occasionally had them watched. Once, during the day, he had personally gone to the Foreign Affairs executive's apartments to check on the ladies; they were busily involved in their English lessons with Mrs. Skelton. He had not seen the young man who had expressed an interest in Dominique and the cigar burn on Gabriella's wrist must have been hot enough to cool her lust for whomever it was Serge's spy had witnessed her kissing. The ladies accompanied the minister when he needed them for public engagements, other than that they were nothing to Serge Ravenelle.
On the opposite side of the coin, Gabriella and Dominique were everything to Preston Diamond and Robert Tessier. They had spent the last half of spring and the first half of summer rendezvousing with the beautiful French mother-daughter team. Robert had proposed to Gabriella and she had accepted. But they had no freedom to wed. The trysts continued in the palatial suites of the Foreign Affairs edifice but the construction project which had permitted the use of the suites was nearing completion; the apartments would soon be returned to their intended use. Preston and Dominique ached for each other when they were apart and passion ran rampant as they held desperately to one another during those brief periods when they could be together. Monsieur Tessier determined to approach Serge Ravenelle and express his undying love for Gabriella, but Preston convinced the hot blooded French immigrant that Les Apaches, who knew no love, would murder Robert within hours of his confession.
In the end, it was Ravenelle who made the first move, in a very unexpected way.
Robert Tessier and Adam Forsythe's boss, Hugh Bagnold —the building contractor who capitalized on most of the government contracts through two separate companies in the DC area— was found dead in the foyer of his Washington mansion. The butler, having heard a disturbance in the night, had come down from his rooms to investigate and was devastated to find his employer lying in a spreading pool of blood. The main entrance door stood open, there was no sight or sound of an escaping killer. The murdered man was dressed in business clothes, but whether he had just returned home or, in the butler's absence, had responded to a late knock at the door, could not be determined. His throat had been cut but there were no further signs of a struggle. Police investigators were mystified. Bagnold had been very well connected among the federal elite and had close ties with the military as well. Not much happened in the construction industry that Mr. Bagnold was not aware of and few tenders were not awarded to one or the other of his companies. Hugh knew well upon which side his bread was buttered and was never shy about showing his appreciation. There may have been those who were envious of his success in a cutthroat profession but none of the competitors (it seemed) would literally cut the contractor's throat in order to obtain a slice of Bagnold's pie.
Serge Ravenelle moved swiftly. Using an American from Philadelphia, Sawyer Thompson, as his front man, the minister bought up Bagnold's companies. They retained the original banners and Commandant L'Heureux and his army shifted round to ensuring that tenders and contracts continued to be handed out to the late Bagnold's businesses. Washington saw an increase in homicide similar to three months previous when Les Apaches arrived in the Capitol to take over the underground. Now, however, instead of felons disappearing or being found dead, news and rumour vibrated with scandalous reports of innocent, sometimes prominent, citizens falling victim to mysterious dealings. Gossip held that a grieved Mrs. Hugh Bagnold had, under the misdirection of her husband's lawyers, sold the companies for a tenth of their value. The lawyers, though momentarily brought into the public eye, were never challenged: one was murdered, the other hanged himself.
Foreman and apprentice had attended Hugh Bagnold's funeral service. Tessier had been very fond of his employer and, though Preston hadn't known Hugh as well as Robert, he also had a high regard for the entrepreneur.
News of Mrs. Bagnold selling her husband's construction businesses reached Preston Diamond and Robert Tessier the same day they and their colleagues received a cut in wages (Diamond actually received his severance notice).
The new owner, Sawyer Thompson, paid a brief visit to the various project sites, introduced himself and brought the news of a salary roll-back. What he presented to the world differed enormously from what Thompson must have envisioned of himself. He was a short stocky man with a polished bullet head that, when he removed his brown derby hat, positively glowed in the sunlight. Bloated gut, pigeon chest and rooster strut gave fair warning before he began to speak that his endearing qualities, if he had any, had been left outside the rope fence enclosing the construction area where Tessier, Diamond and a half dozen others were working. In French, just loud enough for Preston to hear, Robert accurately tagged Thompson “the runt of the litter.” The runt had a man with him, a tough looking chap wearing a hat similar to the one Sifu Chiang had absconded during the fight in Kalmattii's Mercantile. An Apache. The presence of the French underground soldier gave Preston cause for consideration: If Les Apaches were accompanying Bagnold's successor, there could be little doubt as to who had killed Hugh Bagnold. Diamond cautioned Tessier against saying anything that would provoke a fight but it was Sawyer Thompson's guard who flexed his muscles first. Unfortunately, the French bodyguard chose the wrong employee to provide example.
Thompson couldn't pass up the opportunity to grandstand. “There are thousands of men out of work these days. You boys have been privileged to be hired for top wages while most lads were off to war. Now we don't need many soldiers so we have more people to do the work. If you don't want to put out, you can quit right now and I'll have ten men to replace each of you within the hour. So get used to pitching in, working harder, working longer. You there,” he waved toward Preston, “quit leaning on that shovel and throw your back into some honest labour.”
Startled at being singled out, Preston inadvertently allowed the tool to slip from his hands. As the long wooden handle dipped down, the scoop tipped up, flipping a spray of fine sand over Mr. Thompson. The pigeon chest spluttered his anger as he hastily brushed grit from his clothes. Immediately the body guard stepped in front of Thompson and advanced toward Diamond. Though his face showed no emotion, a low growl rumbled in the Apache's throat. Preston shifted, then held his ground. Timing his movement, he toed the end of the shovel, tipping the handle up and catching the attacker in the groin. His eyes rolled and he grunted in pain but the Apache stayed upright. Shaking his head like a bull, he gave a bellow of rage and charged.
“Guy, Guy!” Sawyer Thompson shouted. “Not here, Guy!”
But Guy was beyond taking orders from a Philadelphia counterfeit. Diamond read murder in the French thug's eyes and a fleeting urge to run crossed his mind. When the Apache closed in, Preston danced aside, clobbering him on the ear as he rushed past. Tessier made a move forward but Preston waved him back saying, “Stay out of it, Robert.”
A crowd began to gather and co-workers were offering Preston advice and cheering him on. Mid summer was a busy time for visitors and tourists at the Capitol and soon a horde of spectators clustered around for the free entertainment.
Sifu's tenacious teaching rose to the surface and Preston fought automatically. Blocking, punching, he maintained a distance from his opponent that allowed him to attack or retreat with a half step in any direction. Stay close, but not too close. The Frenchman rained blows that fell short, missed the elusive target or were turned aside. He could not manage to catch Diamond in a rib-crushing bear hug. The fellow was in fine fighting trim but, after ten heated minutes, his breath grew laboured and sweat, mingling with blood, trickled down his bruised and anger-swollen features. Preston had no breathing difficulties and he bore no obvious cuts or abrasions. Onlookers were awed by the youth's obvious supremacy.
The game grew deadly and the gallery more subdued.
Guy faked a forward rush, ducked low and seized the long handle of the shovel. Without slowing stride, he swung the implement in a horizontal arc designed to cut the retreating Diamond's legs out from under him. Preston leaped into the air above the scything scoop and lashed out a booted foot that caught the incoming thug full in the face. It was a deliberate, calculated blow. Bone crunched, blood spurted and the victim roared in pain. Dropping the shovel, his right hand snaked inside the front of his torn shirt to instantly reappear with a deadly snub nosed revolver in its grasp.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as on-lookers struggled to escape the line of fire. Sawyer Thompson screamed, “Nooo!” but his cry went unheeded.
Preston, on the down side of his leap, landed close enough to whip a second forward kick that caught the gun hand and sent the weapon spinning into a stack of foundation forms. Without pause, he shifted on his left foot, brought the right knee up and drove a side-edge kick into the forward exposed knee of the Frenchman. The blow struck on the outside of the leg, just beside the kneecap. A sickening crack rent the air and terminated in a long drawn out scream of agony and terror as Guy toppled over to lie writhing on the ground, hands clutching the broken limb.
Onlookers stood in mute silence; Thompson's jaw worked but no words came out of his mouth. Robert Tessier's eyes were huge and his lips were parted in a great wide “O.” From the perimeter of the circle of bystanders, Diamond caught a brief wave. A summons.
Sifu Chiang.
Preston stepped forward and the reverent crowd parted, allowing plenty of space for the victor. Sawyer Thompson found his voice. “You… you're fired.” Preston chose the best option for dealing with Thompson's kind: he ignored him.
Instead of seeking Sifu, Preston went directly to the garden, bracing himself for a verbal hiding and preparing for another gruelling session of training.
Xi-Ping, mysteriously, had reached the garden first. “You fight good.”
Student looked at Master.
“Defence,” said Chiang.
Preston couldn't understand the difference between this altercation and the fight he had had with the two American thugs outside Dominique's apartments a few months ago. Apparently Sifu did, though.
“Now Monsieur Ravenelle know who kill his men,” Sifu said. “All see you fight. They know you no fight same other men fight.” He pointed a finger at Preston. “Only you,” he turned the finger toward himself, “Sifu… fight same, in America. Les Apaches come for you now.”
Immediately upon hearing of the battle, Commandant L'Heureux went to visit his wounded soldier in the federal hospital near Capitol Hill. Guy was sedated and had been since medics carried him in on a stretcher. He had not talked to anyone and Henri L'Heureux made certain that he would never do so. Les Apaches medical benefits: if you were no longer of value in the syndicate, you were strongly encouraged not to turn evidence against your former employer. The French commander caught up with Sawyer Thompson and the two of them then sought Monsieur Ravenelle in his apartments. The minister had not been informed of the fight. Henri L'Heureux allowed the Pennsylvanian to deliver the news.
On well-oiled hinges, Thompson, runt of the litter, swung from domineering construction tycoon to lubricious boot-licker. The change was not lost on Serge Ravenelle and he made a mental note to have Sawyer removed; not just now though, he still needed the American frontman for a while yet.
“…I've never seen anyone fight like that in my life!” Sawyer blurted. “He's just a kid, barely shaving, but he beat Guy Stringer…” Thompson glanced at the impassive L'Heureux, “beat him to death —Henri says he died in the hospital— and never broke a bead of sweat nor received a single scratch. Stringer couldn't touch him. It was like a cat playing with a mouse and when he tired of the game, his feet went to work faster than I could follow. Guy pulled his pistol, but that black haired devil kicked him apart.”
Ravenelle led the men into his ornate office. On Serge's signal, Henri L'Heureux went to the sideboard, collected three tall crystal glasses and poured straight bourbon whiskey. He handed two of the drinks to Thompson and Ravenelle then took the third for himself.
Showing no emotion, Serge sipped the bourbon. “Please, Mr. Thompson, I'd like to hear this from the beginning.”
Serge listened intently to the details then asked what had provoked the fight. Thompson's chest swelled. “Guy thought I had been insulted by a careless slip the kid made when he dropped a shovel and, I am assuming, Guy decided to teach the workers a lesson. I tried to stop him but his —pardon me for saying— his French blood was up and he didn't listen.”
“Were you being confrontational? Why did the kid drop the shovel? You know I don't need that kind of publicity. A fight in broad daylight on Capitol Hill grounds is not good for our cover, Mr. Thompson.”
“Yes, yes, I know Mr. Ravenelle. We were meeting with the employees as you had advised me to do. I was merely explaining, as per your instructions, that the wages would necessarily be rolled back. I tried to call Mr. Stringer back and, later, I begged him not to use his gun. But he had lost the fight and his temper….”
Holding the crystal with both hands, Sawyer Thompson put the glass to his lips and took a large drink. Two audible gulps sounded loud in the silence as he swallowed. His eyes shifted nervously from L'Heureux to Ravenelle.
With an intense penetrating gaze, Ravenelle studied the smaller man. “In the future, I suggest you be more discreet, Mr. Thompson. It would be unfortunate for us all if we were to lose business through foolishness.”
Serge turned his focus to L'Heureux and Thompson noted that something passed between them.
Thompson set the unfinished drink down and, realizing he had been dismissed, made his way out of the office, relieved to escape from the suddenly foreboding confines of the apartment. He wondered if he had gotten off lucky or if he had been granted a brief reprieve. Philadelphia was starting to look greener than Washington but Serge's money was greener than any he had ever encountered.
L'Heureux's pale eyes didn't bother to follow Thompson's exit. He sipped his bourbon and awaited his boss's instructions.
“Bloody stupid American.” Serge said. “He is the best I could find.”
L'Heureux shrugged his big shoulders.
“The kid didn't kill Guy Stringer, did he, Commander?”
The big Frenchman shrugged again. “I went to see him in hospital… He was dead when I left.”
“What about this dark haired kid Monsieur Thompson spoke of? Do you know him? Could he have been the one who killed our men in the Presidential Hotel and in Kalmattii's store? I'd appreciate something more definite than a shrug, Henri.”
L'Heureux suppressed the shrug. “I do not know this youth. Obviously he was employed with Bagnold's people. Sawyer Thompson fired him after the fight. After seeing what he did to Guy, I would not doubt that the kid could have killed our soldiers in the hotel but, whoever fashioned that attack in the Mercantile, was not alone. I think there were at least two, probably three, men involved there… And Monsieur, they are very good at what they do because my… your men are the best in all of Europe.”
“Find out what the kid's name is. Who is he? Where does he live? If he gives any trouble, toss his body in that stinking river.”
Sifu's warning left Preston ill at ease. On his way home that evening, he kept to the alleys and secluded areas, continually watching behind and scanning ahead. Were Les Apaches already seeking him? He had outmanoeuvred a desperate conspiracy of assassins during the Civil War, but those killers were inept fools compared to these trained and seasoned veterans from France. If Serge Ravenelle put out the order to hunt down Adam Forsythe, it would take more than luck and miracles to keep Preston alive. Would Robert Tessier be hunted, too? What about Dominique and Gabriella? Diamond had been informed that the man he had fought this afternoon had died in hospital. He knew for certain the Apache named Guy had not died from the injuries he inflicted: a broken leg and smashed nose wouldn't kill anyone so tough as the French thugs. Apparently Ravenelle had no cause to maintain a surplus; what would happen when he found that the mother and daughter were no longer of any use to him?
As he approached Unzer's cottage from the rear, he noticed something he had not seen before: There were Chinese people working in the garden at the rear of the house directly across the alley from the Unzers. It was rare to see these people living in a home; usually they occupied rooms above or below their business establishments. They did not appear to notice Preston as he drifted past and slipped through the gate into Rebecca's back yard.
The Unzers did not question Preston's announcement that he had given up his job with the late Hugh Bagnold's firm. Diamond had worked so many trades and occupations that his constant movement was more probable than a long term employment. Colonel Jim glanced up from the ever-present newspaper and grunted, “So what are you figuring to try now, whale hunting?”
Preston grinned. “You've told me my father wasn't much of a sea-faring man. I don't suppose I'd be any different.”
Rebecca said, “Maybe Adam will take some time off. He's been working pretty steady for poor Mr. Bagnold and he's tended to every stitch of carpentering that needed doing around here —even nailed new shingles on the stable— so I guess he is entitled to a rest or a change.”
“Maybe I'll saddle Rascal tomorrow and ride out to the farm. I haven't heard from Rufus since Lily Brannigan included a 'Hello' from him in her letter. I bet there is another Tweed on the farm now. Maybe Rufus has a son.
“By the way, when did the new neighbours move in across the alley?”
Colonel Jim lowered his newspaper and Rebecca gave Preston an inquisitive look. “What do you mean, 'new neighbours'?”
“There is a Chinese family,” Preston jerked a thumb toward the back of the house, “across the alley. I saw them working in their garden when I came home.”
Rebecca rose, walked into the bedroom and, after a moment, said, “You're right. I can see a Chinese lady on the back stoop over there right now.”
“They must have moved in awful sudden,” Colonel Unzer said, “the Evenson's hadn't planned on leaving for another month. In fact, I was talking to Wally just yesterday.”
Preston didn't say anything. He knew how the Chinese had arrived so suddenly and he knew why they were there. They wouldn't be an ordinary family either. Sifu had put them there to cover Preston Diamond's back. Day and night.
A sore and beaten Robert Tessier intercepted Preston while crossing the green on his way home from training next morning. The foreman's face was a mess: fat lips, puffed up nose more askew than usual, black eyes and dark blue bruises on both cheeks faded to yellow around his temples; one ear was swollen and red. He walked hunched over like an old man. His right arm cradled the left against his ribs. “They found us, Adam,” he croaked.
Preston gently grasped his friend's elbow and steered him to a nearby bench under a tree at the edge of the lawn. Seated, he asked, “Who found you, Robert? Who did this?”
Tessier broke into a train of French profanity and continued on in his native language. Preston had learned enough to follow with relative ease and now he spoke in French, “Slow down, Robert. Tell me who did this.”
“Les Apaches, it was Les Apaches, Adam. Two of them came to my room at the boarding house and they forced me to go with them outside.” He touched his hands to his face and tears squeezed out between swollen eyelids. “They beat me, but it was you they wanted. They only knew that I was foreman on that job. They didn't know we were friends. They wanted to know about the black haired kid who had killed their fellow named Guy Stringer.
“At first, I didn't say but then they beat me and I think would have killed me. I told them your name was Adam but I didn't know your last name and I didn't know where you lived. I was down on the ground and they were kicking me and I think some men came. I passed out and I woke up back at my room. I don't know who the men were, maybe Mrs. Guenther, my landlady, sent them out to find me. I doubt the two Apaches would have let me go. Adam, they are going to kill you. You've got to run.”
Preston scanned the grounds. The fire, always smoldering just below the surface, began to glow in the keen blue eyes. In English he said, “I don't run.”
Robert moaned something unintelligible. His face was a distorted mask of agony.
Through gritted teeth, Preston said, “You could have told them where I live. It would save me having to hunt them down.”
“No! No! Adam, you must go. They will come… They will kill us… you, me, Gabriella and Dominique. Serge will want his revenge.”
“Revenge for what, Robert? I only beat up one of their soldiers, it wasn't me who killed him. And… why should Serge want to harm you or his sister-in-law and niece?”
Robert hung his head. “He knows. He knows about our meetings with Gabriella and Dominique.”
“How can he know, Robert? Did you say something when they were thrashing you?”
“No! No! I would die first! But nothing is hidden from Serge Ravenelle. He knows.”
Diamond made a decision. Even if Tessier was being paranoid, it would be a short time before the French diplomat did find out about the affairs of his ladies. Better to move beforehand than to regret doing nothing. “Can you walk, Robert? Come with me. I'll make you safe and then I'll go see Gabriella and Dominique.”
Rebecca Unzer assisted in placing Robert Tessier on Preston's bed and immediately began tending to the Frenchman's wounds. “That Guenther woman!” Rebecca shook her head. “Why didn't she see to this man's injuries or get him a doctor? He could have died during the night!”
Preston thought, though Tessier may have put in a rough few hours, he was in better hands now than at the boarding house; probably better than in the hospital, too.
Colonel Unzer was out with the horses but he returned before Rebecca was finished. Standing in the bedroom doorway, he listened attentively as Preston retold Tessier's story. Diamond withheld nothing and told the Unzers the entire business. He ended by saying, “I've got to take the ladies away from Serge Ravenelle. He would murder them as fast as he'd swat a fly.”
“Maybe it is time to bring in the cavalry, Adam,” said Colonel Unzer. “If this man has such a hold on Washington and he is behind the murder of Hugh Bagnold, the city has authorities to handle these kinds of people.”
“The French Minister has more political connections in DC than I do,” Preston argued. “Who would take my word?”
“They took your word in court two years ago and four people swung for it. Someone will listen to you now.”
“Uncle Lyss was behind that. It was war time and the army had plenty of clout. This is a civil matter, Colonel Jim. I think the mayor and most of the police force is eating out of the same trough as Les Apaches.”
“Well, maybe so but, by your leave, I'm going to visit General Grant. He is army, but, unless I miss my guess, he will be the next president of the United States. He will know what to do with foreign trouble here in DC.”
Preston turned to Mrs. Unzer who continued to fuss with her patient. “Rebecca, if it is alright, I'll bring Gabriella and Dominique here first. We'll pick up Robert and move out together. Colonel Jim, I'd appreciate the use of your team and it would help if you could find a two seat rig to use.”
Rebecca stopped swabbing Tessier's face and looked up. “Where will you take them, Adam? Where do you think will be safe?”
Preston glanced out the bedroom window. It had a screen in place to let the summer air flow through and he wondered if anyone had been listening outside but, looking across the alley, he could see the Chinese couple puttering in their garden; two serious looking young Asian men, arms folded across their midsections, stood on the stoop, one studying Unzer's house, the other surveying the alley; no one would be hiding in the Unzers back yard. “Conception. I'll take them to Conception. Rufus Tweed will help them there.”
Colonel Unzer broke in. “They'll find out you are from Conception. Someone will know that about you.”
Checking to see if Tessier was still asleep or unconscious, Preston turned his gaze to meet Colonel Jim's. He said softly, “I never knew why Uncle Lyss insisted my name become Adam Forsythe but, out in Conception, the people only know Preston Diamond. And they don't talk about him much.”
Rebecca insisted that Preston eat his breakfast and promised to have food for the travellers to take along. The colonel went back to the stable to see to the horses. Preston had no idea when he could return with the French ladies; first he had to convince them to run, and then steal them out from under Ravenelle's nose. Before leaving, he went to his room; Tessier was sleeping. Preston riffled through his wardrobe, extracted the two derringers taken from Les Apaches and stuffed them, along with four throwing stars, into his trouser pockets. He would have liked to strap on the Colt but it wasn't good etiquette to walk around the Capitol with weapons openly exposed.
The grounds were already bustling with people when Preston Diamond returned to Capitol Hill. He had a general idea where Xi-Ping Chiang was working these days, but it took him an hour to find the master. Sifu listened and nodded his head as Preston explained his plans. Sifu said simply, “I help.”
The pair went to the French minister's apartments and, under Chiang's instruction, Preston made a show of busily pruning the rhododendron just below the balcony that opened into Dominique's room, while the Chinese gardener worked on a hedge farther out from the building. After about half an hour, when Preston had become intimate with every leaf on the plant, Sifu, shears in hand, edged closer to where Diamond fussed with the bush. “Dominique and one lady… there.” He discretely pointed toward the balcony where Preston had first heard the Ravenelles arguing, the night he fought the two American thugs.
“Is the lady Dominique's mother?”
Chiang shrugged. “Older, look same, Dominique.”
“Any men there? A dark fellow, quite large in the chest?”
“See,” Xi-Ping held up two fingers, “two ladies.”
“I've got to get their attention, Sifu. How can I let them know I'm here? I can't climb the balcony without someone raising a fuss. Do you know a way inside?”
“Door?” Xi-Ping asked.
Preston grinned. “That's a cinch. Let's try it.”
It was a huge building, but each wing had separate entrance doors; the east wing was not locked. Preston and Sifu slipped inside and tried to sort out the hallways and chambers which led to the French quarters. They passed by a host of offices and Preston caught a varied flavour of foreign languages. Smiling faces and ready greetings met them in the hallways and Preston kept a close watch for Serge Ravenelle or the big man named Henri L'Heureux, the fellow with Ravenelle at the Presidential Hotel the day Sifu recovered the stolen opium.
The inside of the edifice did not follow the pattern of the outside and Preston was soon turned around in his directions. At last, from a window at the end of a hallway, Sifu was able to determine just where they were with respect to the gardens outside. They retreated down the main hall, turned right and followed another hallway which stopped at a set of double doors with large panes of translucent glass in them. The name, MONSIEUR SERGE RAVENELLE, posted to the left of the entry announced that Preston and Sifu were nearing their destination. If Ravenelle or any of his Apaches were within, it wouldn't take them long to piece together the puzzle that had kept them wondering since the Kalmattii Massacre. They had a description of Diamond; Mr. Chiang's appearance with 'the black haired youth' would erase any element of conjecture and would bring war to the Chinese network.
Preston opened the door and walked in.
The room, a large foyer, was empty; it included a reception area without a receptionist. A brown folder with several loose sheets was laying on a sturdy oak desk and a small filing cabinet stood on the right hand side. A wooden coat rack, slightly atilt, had a gray tweed hat and gray summer jacket hanging from it. There were several chairs lined up opposite the front of the desk: a waiting area but there was no one waiting.
Sifu touched Preston's elbow and led him across the floor to another set of doors. “Ravenelle home, here,” he said.
Again Preston didn't bother to knock. He tried the door; it was locked. Xi-Ping motioned to an adjacent door. Preston turned the knob and the door swung open into a spacious apartment. A delicious scent of recent cooking assaulted Diamond's nostrils. Gabriella and Dominique, wearing matching dresses and bright pink ribbons in their black hair, were standing near a glass-topped table in the middle of the brilliantly sunlit room. They looked up in shocked surprise at Diamond's unannounced entry. Dominique's eyes were swollen and red from crying. Gabriella could not mask her own distress.
Diamond concluded that he had arrived just in time. Dominique rushed to Preston and he held her close while speaking in French to Madame Ravenelle. “Robert Tessier has been beaten half to death. Les Apaches are after me… They will be coming for you. I have come to take you away before Serge has you murdered.”
Gabriella gasped, “Monsieur Tessier has been hurt? Where is he? I must go to him.”
“Mr. Chiang,” Preston indicated Xi-Ping, “and I will take you to Robert, then we will move him with us. Please, gather only what you need, a small load that we can carry. You must leave this place now.”
“But, where will you take us? Monsieur Ravenelle or his men will follow, they will find us no matter where we go,” Gabriella insisted.
Diamond felt it wise not to disclose his destination just yet; maybe the walls were listening. “We will go to a town called Alexandria. No one will look for you there. Isn't it most probable that your brother-in-law will expect you to sail back to France? Won't he be watching the port and then cable across the Atlantic Ocean to have his men ready for you when you arrive? Where is Serge now, Madame Ravenelle?”
Preston thought he detected a hint of animosity in her voice as Gabriella said, “We have not seen him this morning. He may not have come back last night, sometimes he stays away. I do not ask where he goes or what he does.”
“Hurry then, and let's hope he does not return before we are away.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the apartment entrance. Xi-Ping and Preston stayed out of sight as Gabriella answered the door. Following a brief talk, she closed the door and, with a folded paper in her hands, walked across the room to the glass topped table. As Preston came forward, she said, “It is from Serge. He wishes Dominique and I meet him at a place called the Presidential Hotel.”
“You must not go there,” Preston warned. “It is the home of Les Apaches.”
Madame Ravenelle glanced up sharply, “How do you know? I have not heard of this place.”
Preston avoided looking toward Sifu Chiang and, offering no further explanation, he simply said, “I know.”
While the ladies quickly gathered their most necessary belongings, Preston paced the room. Sifu had left the apartment and, a few minutes later, materialized in the form of a shadow through the French doors of the balcony. Recognizing Sifu's form, Diamond opened the door and Xi-Ping stepped into the apartment. He pointed down, “I have cart.” Then he indicated the balcony, “We take bags down here.”
Diamond weighed the consequences of being discovered lowering baggage over the railing two stories up, against being caught in the maze of hallways inside the east wing. Sifu's plan was the quickest and they could use the gardener's cart to tote the gear to Unzer's house.
Instead of trying to be discreet about lowering the boxes to the ground, Preston encouraged the ladies to make the task appear fun. Passersby on the walkway below glanced up, a few stopped to watch the comical procedure, but no one suspected anything extraordinary about hoisting or lowering gear from a balcony. Preston and Sifu scrambled down the outside, Gabriella and Dominique took the more dignified and normal route through the east wing to the main entrance. Preston made one last trip up and stepped inside the apartment to make certain everything the women had packed had been passed down. The folded message still lay on the table and he cast a quick glance at it.
By the time Diamond had reached the ground, the Ravenelle ladies appeared at the far end of the wing. Xi-Ping and Preston handled the cart as the foursome made their way to the quiet street where the Unzers lived and then proceeded up the alley to Unzer's stable. Preston led Dominique and Gabriella through the garden and Rebecca Unzer met them at the back door. Diamond made hasty introductions and Rebecca showed Gabriella through to the room where Robert Tessier lay resting. When Preston and Dominique returned to the stable, they saw that Sifu was in conversation with the new Chinese neighbours.
While Diamond was throwing the saddle on his gelding, Colonel Unzer arrived, driving the grays hitched to a rented, open two seat carriage. Diamond noted that the colonel had his army revolver belted on his side. Rascal and the team exchanged whinnies of greeting though they couldn't have been separated for more than an hour. Rebecca brought out a basket of food for the trip; Gabriella, aiding the injured and sore Robert Tessier, followed behind. Preston stepped close to Colonel Jim and said something in a low voice. The colonel nodded gravely, then held Rascal's reins while Preston dashed to the house to fetch his Winchester, Henry and Colt. In due course, people, grub and the Henry rifle were loaded in the carriage. Though he protested, Tessier was made to lie on several heavy quilts spread on the floor under the seats. Colonel Unzer took the lines and Rebecca handed up their double-barrelled shotgun. Something unsaid passed between them and Unzer announced, “Rebecca, we're heading straight to Alexandria.” He glanced at the sun. “It's getting round to noon, I doubt I'll be back until tomorrow. We're loaded heavy and our team isn't as young as they used to be.”
Xi-Ping Chiang appeared beside Mrs. Unzer. He looked up at Colonel Unzer in the carriage and then nodded toward the two Chinese people watching from the rear of their new house. “Chinese take care your home and wife.”
The colonel nodded and grunted his appreciation. He slapped the lines across the rumps of the grays. Eager to follow the team, Rascal pranced sideways as Preston swung into the saddle. He said good-bye to Rebecca and Sifu.
The ladies had their bonnets tied tight so that little of their faces were visible. Believing a busy thoroughfare would make their passage less conspicuous, Colonel Unzer drove the grays through morning traffic. Preston held back, keeping the carriage in sight, but trying to determine if they were being followed. He saw no one.
Once out of the city and on the wagon road, on-coming vehicular traffic lessened. Preston Diamond took the lead, watching for a group of riders, but he only saw wagons, carts and carriages interspersed with several pairs of saddled horses and the occasional lone mounted rider. He reined in and waited for Colonel Unzer's group to catch up at a fork in the trail where a crude sign post indicated Citadel Crossing; Alexandria straight ahead. Conception Landing; Conception on the fork to the right.
Unzer took the right hand fork.
Gabriella, who had been tending to Tessier, studied the sign post and then said to the colonel, “We go to Alexandria, non?”
Unzer grunted, “Change of plans.”
Diamond was near enough to overhear. He gave Dominique a reassuring smile and said to Gabriella, “I know some people down this way. They will help us.”
Madame Ravenelle accepted this without comment.
To Unzer, Preston said, “Colonel Jim, I'm going to ride along the Citadel trail for a way and then come back to see if we are being followed. I'll try to catch up with you at the Landing. If I'm late, take the ferry to the other side and wait there.”
Unzer nodded. “Don't go courtin' more trouble than you can handle… Don't court any at all.”
As the carriage moved off, Diamond guided Rascal into the brush and trees parallel to the wagon road. The bush was a dense tangle but he soon broke through onto a game trail and proceeded along it until he rode clear of the brush on a pine slope. He made better time now and cut an angle back toward the road hoping to connect somewhere near the ferry and Citadel Crossing, then he would backtrack to the forks. If anyone had come this way hoping to lay in ambush, they would not expect their quarry to appear from the opposite direction.
It was a fairly sound plan, but Diamond rode up on the ambuscade before reaching the wagon road.
Rascal sensed or saw them first and Preston pulled hard on the reins turning the gelding's head while, at the same instant, jabbing heels into the horse's flanks to prevent the inevitable whinny he felt the gelding swelling up for. The slight breeze filtering through the trees must have been in Diamond's favour because whoever Rascal had detected did not yet know they had company. Preston wheeled the surprised mount and put him up the soft sand ridge they had just come down. About a quarter of a mile back through the pines, Preston dismounted and tied the gelding to a stout limb. After extracting the Winchester (a gift from Ulysses Grant) from its scabbard, he made his way on foot to the spot where Rascal had almost given away their presence.
Diamond heard something rustle summer-dry leaves on the forest floor. He caught a glimpse of movement.
Les Apaches.
There were four of them, all heavily armed. They wore their French chapeaus and, to a man, concentrated on the trail in front of them. In a small clearing, to the left and farther from the road, Preston now made out two saddled horses standing hipshot to one side and a pair hitched to a two seat carriage almost identical to the one Colonel Unzer had rented or borrowed. The animals glistened with sweat but their sides weren't heaving. They had been here long enough to catch their wind but not sufficient to dry off. They must have been pushed at a good pace.
How did Les Apaches know so soon that the Ravenelle ladies had fled? Were they followed? If so, how did they now come to be ahead of the colonel's carriage? And, on the wrong trail?
Diamond studied the outfits: The horses were not top quality mounts; probably livery rentals. The animals were not picketed high or short enough to keep them from becoming tangled in their own reins or halter shanks. One of the saddle blankets was slipping. These men were used to the streets of Paris —riding in hansoms and coaches— not trailing saddle horses along wagon roads and through thick brush.
But there was nothing novice in their choice and use of weapons. Today, they were set up to ambush, to kill; each man held a rifle in his hands and wore a sidearm on his hip.
Panic seized Preston. What if Serge Ravenelle had only guessed Diamond would lead the women this way? What if he had posted a second ambush on the trail to Conception Landing? The trail Colonel Unzer now travelled! Preston paused to reconsider; Ravenelle had to have known ahead of time; he had to have found out somehow in order to have the ambush set up in front of Colonel Unzer and his carriage. A runner had delivered a note from Serge Ravenelle to Gabriella, requesting that she and Dominique meet him at the Presidential Hotel. Had the messenger detected something suspicious? Was he an Apache? Preston hadn't heard or seen him and he had not asked Madame Ravenelle. Or, did Serge unexpectedly return to the east wing, his apartment, and see his own note sent to Gabriella? This didn't seem likely as the message had been an order or request for the ladies to connect down town. But… When Diamond had gone back to the apartment for a final check, the folded paper, with a pencil beside it, laying on the glass table top, had a single word written across the blank side of the page: Alexandria.
Gabriella Ravenelle left the word for Serge so he would know where she could be found. And, in Preston's opinion, that made no sense at all.
Something caught the attention of Les Apaches; someone must be coming. Preston watched as the men ducked lower in their screened positions staring intently at the open trail a few yards beyond the trees. Soon Diamond heard a horse, running a good pace, on the wagon road coming from the direction of Washington. Les Apaches began to shout and one stepped out of concealment. The rider, now visible to Preston, raced by sawing on the reins. He managed to slow the animal and turned back to where the four ambushers now congregated on the wagon road. Diamond noted that the newcomer wore the tweed hat and clothes similar to his fellows on the ground.
Excitement escalating the pitch in his tone, the rider spoke in French; rapid flow and distance cut Diamond's ability to interpret. The men seemed to be confused by the news the newcomer delivered but Preston caught the words, “Conception Landing.” All at once, having made a decision, the four on the ground ran to their horses. Preston guessed they would take the trail to Conception. Perhaps the late arrival had tailed the colonel's entourage and lost him at the fork. Now, they all realized the refugees had taken the other road.
Diamond rose from his position and raced back to Rascal. He couldn't hope to hold this many men but he knew, if they reached the river before Colonel Unzer crossed over, or if they got there in time to attack the indefensible ferry, he could not stop them. They may even cut the moorings and send the boat down the Patowmack; such an act had been performed in the past. Diamond decided he had to draw them off; mount a counter attack from cover of the trees. Though outnumbered, he had two advantages: superior horsemanship and a far superior mount.
Rascal sensed the rider's excitement as Preston landed in the saddle. On hind legs, the horse turned, then plunged down the slope and, without urging, cut into the unyielding brush along a dry creek bed. They pressed through a wide band of dense willows, the harsh branches scratching and tearing at Preston's face and arms. His head was tucked low beside Rascal's neck, he closed his eyes and hung on. The gelding soon brought them through to the pines beyond the water run. Rascal made the top of the ridge in three bounds and Preston checked the sun to be sure he still had his angle right. Trotting as fast as the terrain allowed, he followed a game path on trampled brown pine needles across a forest floor of yellow moss. He searched for sign of the Conception road and tried to calculate how far he had come into the trees before finding the ambushers. He remembered a clearing or log cut beside the Conception trail about a mile from the forks. He hoped to beat the slower moving Apaches to that point then draw the mounted ones into the trees, but he must not let the carriage and pair catch up with Colonel Unzer.
Diamond missed the opening at its deepest point but caught sight of the gap in the trees off to his left. At the far end he could see the rutted line where the Conception road intersected. Flipping Rascal's reins around a pine branch, he pulled the Winchester from its scabbard and moved ahead on foot. He needed to stay close enough to reach his horse in a hurry if he had to make a hasty retreat. Preston barely had time to set up behind a rotting log before he heard the galloping horses. The distance across the open space was about two hundred yards, the same as the firing range where he and Colonel Jim sometimes practised in DC. However, Les Apaches would not be still targets; they'd be running. Even so, men were much bigger than the twelve inch metal disks Preston had shot apart in practise.
Three saddled horses and their riders swept into view; sounds of a racing, wheeled vehicle were not far behind. Desperation superseded fair play. Diamond recognized the hats, drew a bead on the lead Apache and fired. The man flung up his arms leaning backward in the saddle as the horse ran out from under him. He dropped to the trail and rolled to a stop. Diamond ratcheted another round into the chamber and threw a slug in the direction of a rearing horse. The rider came off but Diamond couldn't tell if he was hit or just a poor hand at managing a troubled mount. The third man sighted his attacker, pulled his sidearm and, bending forward in effort to stay low, bore down on Preston. The weapon wasn't a sixgun; it seemed to have an endless supply of ammunition. Bullets screamed through the trees overhead and thumped into the log Preston had used for a shooting rest. If the rider had been a western Apache, Preston Diamond would be dead, but this man lacked control on his mount and he was not familiar enough to hang over the off side and shoot under the horse's neck. The frenzied animal obviously had not taken part in the Civil War either; gunfire was not to its liking. Diamond held his ground, but he could not find the target. At the last second, the horse, instead of going over the log, veered sharply to avoid it. Unwillingly, the rider left the saddle, diving head first, his smoking pistol continuing to spew hot lead. Rolling to the side, Preston shifted position while working the Winchester's action from the hip. The repeater spitting deadly slugs pointblank, Diamond fired, levered, fired, levered, fired, levered, and watched the airborne Apache disintegrate before his eyes. The bullet riddled body threw blood all over Preston as it crashed to a limp and lifeless halt beside him.
The grotesque form held Diamond's attention for a split-instant; an instant long enough for a sniper to throw lead across the clearing. The bullet caught Preston just below the armpit on his left side, throwing him to the ground. He scrambled up and, keeping his head low, crawl-scampered into the trees. Blood was running down his arm and he could feel another wound oozing inside his shirt. He slipped the loop on Rascal's reins, shoved the Winchester into the boot, then pulled himself into the saddle. Rascal had them away in a second, though more lead whistled through the branches beside and above, scattering a rain of twigs and pine needles over them.
Once far enough into the forest, Preston reined in, filled the magazine on the rifle, and assessed his wounds. It was a freak hit; his body must have been at such an angle that the slug tore through the tender flesh on the inside of his upper arm and grazed a furrow along his ribs. It was smarting like hell now. Blood had soaked his shirt down to the top of his trousers on the left side; his fingers were dripping red. He ripped off the sleeve, wincing at the pain and, using his teeth and his good hand, bound up the arm then made a bulky bandage from the remainder of the shirt and tied it around his chest stuffing a folded handkerchief in tight against the wound. Rebecca would have done better but if he used up any more time, Rebecca may have no one left to doctor.
Temporarily patched up, burning with pain in his arm, aching in agony from the furrow on his ribs, Diamond contemplated his situation: For a fact, two Apaches were already dead. He was not sure if the second one he had shot at in the clearing had been hit or if the man merely lost his seat when the horse reared. Maybe it was he who shot Preston, or maybe the shooter was one of the two in the carriage. In their boots, Diamond would have gone after the wounded man in the bush. They probably realized he was hit but, not knowing how severe the wound was, could not afford to have him emerge farther down the trail and ambush them again. If they did come hunting him, the Frenchmen would need to recover the frightened saddle mounts before they would venture into the forest and Diamond considered it probable that the two men in the carriage must have been the least familiar with horseback riding.
It was not later than mid afternoon, not a cloud in the summer sky, but, oddly, the light was fading… it… the sun was gone akilter… the world was spinning….
Colonel Unzer heard shots.
They were coming from a long way off, but in heavy cover, sound can be muffled. Unzer had seen enough conflict in his lifetime to judge fairly accurately in any terrain. The firing was back along the Conception trail; somewhere between his present position and the Alexandria forks but nearer the forks.
Preston was in trouble.
Unzer drew back on the lines. “Whoa up there,” he said to the grays. “Ladies, I'm going back. You'll have to wait here for me. We'll unload Mr. Tessier and you can tend to him.”
Fear shone in Gabriella's eyes as she glanced about the wilderness of deserted forest and empty trail. “Leave us here? Why, Monsieur Unzer?”
“Didn't you hear those shots? Adam is in trouble. I suspect,” the colonel's eyes levelled on the French lady, “I suspect your people have found out about this attempted escape and they are coming after us all.”
Tessier groaned from his position in the wagon bed, fear rang hollow in his voice, “They know everything, sir. Serge Ravenelle knows everything about everybody, especially those he needs to know about.”
Unzer grunted.
Forgetting her English, Dominique gasped, “Adam is in trouble? Shooting? What if he is hurt? I must go back and help him.”
Tessier translated, then added, “Colonel, we will help you. Let me out of this damn bed and up on the seat. I'm no fighter but I can do something more than lying here.”
Unzer considered a moment. The fact of the matter was, he trusted none of these people. “Tessier, you stay here with Mrs. Ravenelle.” He turned to Dominique, “I'll take you with me. Maybe with one of you in the carriage, they won't be so eager to blow me off the seat.”
Colonel Unzer, his hand on his holster, stood by while a stiff and sore Tessier was extracted from the vehicle. The Frenchman remained on his feet though he tottered and it was obvious he had more than a little pain. Unzer motioned Dominique onto the front seat, climbed up beside her and pulled out the shotgun. He gave an abbreviated lesson on its operation and said, “Mr. Tessier, you keep this to hand and only use it at close range. I'll keep the Henry rifle as it wouldn't be much good to you. You two slip back into the woods and don't come out until you hear me or Adam calling. Go back far enough to be out of sight but still able to hear… And don't forget where this trail is. We don't, none of us, need to go searching for lost folks.”
At a widening of the road, a short distance down the trail, Unzer was able to turn the team back toward the forks. Just as he had the pair straightened out, a carriage arrived from the direction of Conception Landing. A young man and two pretty young ladies were in the fancy rig drawn by a beautifully caparisoned and matched pair of bays. The colonel held his team and waved the approaching outfit to pass. The trio smiled and called greetings; Unzer nodded acknowledgement then rapped the lines on the grays as the dressy carriage rolled past. Following at a distance, Colonel Unzer held the grays at a faster pace. He hoped to use the strangers' vehicle to screen his approach if they should encounter the French army.
A distorted looking Rascal was standing a few yards off when Preston regained consciousness. He felt woozy and the trees were reeling in a blurred circle around him. He didn't remember falling out of the saddle or landing on the pine needles of the forest floor. The sun, spinning above, had not travelled far so he couldn't have been out for long. The wounds were hot and sticky, the pain had set in in earnest and, just as a reminder, the old wound in his leg pulsed a dull ache. The days of agony; the walk at death's door; it all came back to him and Preston turned on his good side, retching his lunch. Self pity would have had its way but a nightmarish thought of Dominique flashed across his mind. He could see her lying dead on the trail, her blood soaked bonnet and dress fluttering in the summer breeze. “Nooo!” He screamed inside his head and lurched to his feet. Rascal came to Preston's outstretched hand and stood while the injured lad struggled into the saddle. They headed toward the wagon trail.
Moving warily, Preston heard a horse whicker somewhere off to the left. Rascal turned his head but did not answer. Diamond pulled the .45 Colt from its holster and pointed the gelding toward the sound. Using a heavily branched pine for a screen, he reined in and listened. A crashing in the brush followed by a low French curse left no guess as to who was approaching. Preston doubted the man could have trailed him; he was probably wandering aimlessly in the forest but… Diamond shook his head trying to think clearly, was it Sifu or Cutler Diamond who had warned him to never underestimate the strength of an opponent?
Quiet descended.
Pain throbbed and dampness spread under the bandages.
A bluebottle buzzed past then zeroed in to the scent of Preston's blood. It landed on his bare shoulder.
Rascal's right ear twitched then both ears turned forward.
Very near, Preston calculated, just on the other side of the pine, a horse grunted. A black muzzle attached to a brown nose, a dark eye and the leather cheek strap of a bridle edged into view. The horse stopped, turned its head and blew a shrill whinny almost in Rascal's face. Preston ducked down and peered through the branches: A flash of colour; the glint of steel; it was hard to make out a definite form in the green needled tangle. The steel that had glinted in the filtered sunlight became a black widening hole; it was bearing down on Preston. The Colt bucked in Diamond's hand. He cocked and fired two more times. The strange horse, squealing in alarm, wheeled and plunged out of sight. Below the pine, on the ground but beyond view, there came a soft thrashing noise and a low gasping cough. Preston had heard that sound only too often. He knew what lay on the far side of the tree and, without bothering to investigate, pulled Rascal round and trotted away hoping to be clear before the remaining Apaches, drawn by the gunshots, arrived to find their dead comrade.
Nausea and dizziness overwhelmed Diamond again as Rascal picked their route through the forest. The constant, slow seeping of life's blood began to dull Preston's wits. He lost track of time and direction, though Rascal seemed to be pointed in a relatively straight line. If he encountered the French team now, he wouldn't have a chance. He hadn't even replaced the spent cartridges in his revolver. He hadn't even replaced the spent cartridges in his revolver. Hadn't replaced… spent cartridges….
The wagon road… he was at the wagon road… Rascal was stopped looking down the trail. A loud whinny…. more whinnies… Rascal inhaled and blew a long wicker in answer… A carriage… Someone was coming…Was it the Frenchmen? It seemed wrong; they shouldn't be coming from that way….
Should have put more bullets in the Colt….
“It's Preston Diamond! That's Rascal!” Davy and Lily Brannigan chimed together.
Amy stood up in the back seat so she could see past her siblings. “He's hurt! Preston is hurt! Hurry, Davy.”
Brannigan tapped the bays with the buggy whip and they lifted into a gallop for the hundred and fifty yards that separated them from the man on the road. Behind them, Colonel Unzer's grays stepped up the pace as well.
Lily leaped from the moving carriage; a second later, Amy landed on the road behind her. Rascal snorted as they ran up to him but he did not pull back. Diamond, naked above his trousers, appeared as though he had caught the wash from a swill bucket full of beet juice. “My God!” Lily cried. “Preston, you're covered in blood! What's happened?”
“Whoa! Whoa!” Colonel Unzer spoke to the grays as the second carriage rolled to a stop. “It's trouble!” Unzer announced authoritatively. “Get him and yourselves into the trees. Leave the horses here. We've got to take cover.”
Davy had reached Diamond's horse and put his arms up to help his friend down. “Easy, Preston, old chum. Every second time I run into you, you've got a new bullet hole in you somewhere.
“God, is all this his blood? He can't have any left.”
Amy helped her brother lift the stricken man to the ground. “He has two bandages, I don't think all this splattered blood on his trousers is his own.”
Unzer, Henry rifle in hand, joined the group. A ghostly white Dominique Ravenelle stepped up beside the barely conscious Preston. “Adam! Adam, my love,” she sobbed in French. “Please, please, you must not die.”
Hearing her voice, Preston tried to focus. The few splotches of his face not splattered with dried blood were the colour of washed chalk as he looked at the unlikely group who were anxiously staring at him. “I… I have to reload my revolver,” he said stupidly. His knees buckled and Davy took his weight.
“Get him and the rest of you into the trees. Now!” Colonel Unzer barked the order again.
Davy Brannigan had taken orders during the war but he wasn't in the war now; he was his own boss and the older man giving the orders was not even in uniform. Besides, Brannigan decided, if he were in uniform, it would most likely be a Union dress and Davy had fought for the Confederate side. “Hold on there, old timer. What's the reason for getting into the trees?”
“Because whoever shot Adam to doll rags is not likely out of bullets and if you are seen in his presence you will be considered an enemy. Now, we may not have time for a lengthy chat here. Please, just do as I say.” Colonel Unzer stepped up beside Davy, who was supporting Preston, and the two of them dragged him into the bush on the opposite side of the trail.
Lily grabbed Dominique Ravenelle as the pale faced French girl's eyes rolled up into her head, her body made a half turn and she fainted away. “Amy, help me get this girl off the road. I don't know what the heck is going on here, but we best not be standing around in the open if there are more killers on the loose.”
Brannigan and Unzer laid Diamond on a sparse patch of grass about twenty-five yards inside the forest from the edge of the wagon road. Lily and Amy, less than ceremoniously, propped Dominique against a scrub tree, then the sisters rushed to Preston's side.
Unzer asked gruffly, “You know anything about bullet wounds? We got to stop the bleeding… if there's any blood left in him.”
Lily flashed the colonel a dark look. “I kept Preston alive when he was a hell of a lot worse off than this. Davy, fetch me the canteen from the buggy. Amy, start making some bandages out of your petticoat. Mister, you best see to your granddaughter.”
Colonel Unzer harrumphed a few times then said, “She's not my granddaughter… She'll be alright in a few minutes.”
Unzer left the group and went out to the edge of the road. Rifle across his shoulder, he studied the trail in both directions: they were on a bit of a knoll and, fortunately, the underbrush here was less dense. They had been able to locate a relatively open area, free of pine needles and leaves, offering sufficient room to tend to Adam's wounds. Nearby, Rascal, reins trailing on the ground, cropped short yellow grass near the rented vehicle. The grays dozed and swatted blue-tailed flies; a little further along, Davy Brannigan rummaged in his carriage, presumably, for the canteen. A bend in the road two hundred yards in one direction and a dip about twice that length in the other prevented a long look down the wagon road, but in the far distance, about two miles, another stretch of open trail could be seen where it passed through cleared farm land. The old warhorse considered the high ground gave him enough of an advantage if riders should come up from either way. If they approached through the trees from either side on horseback, he might hear them at a distance. If they came stealthily, and on foot, he had best be ready to shoot in a hurry.
Returning to the injured Adam and the ladies, Unzer said, “You called him Preston….”
Amy spoke up, “Yes, but you and that foreign girl called him Adam. His name is Preston Diamond.”
Davy returned with the canteen and everyone held their breath as Lily used the clean water to soak the bandages off. A collective murmur of relief escaped as the extent of the damage became obvious. Preston had two new wounds but neither should be life-threatening.
Feigning insouciance, Colonel Unzer was the first to speak. “You must be the Brannigan family. Adam… Adam Forsythe —?that's his name on this side of the Patowmack— talks about you often.”
“Really? What does he say?” Amy asked dryly.
Lily, a tinge of colour creeping up her neck line, interrupted, “And you are Colonel Unzer, aren't you?”
“That's right.”
Davy said, “Colonel James Unzer? I almost shot you during the war. But, instead, I shot one of your own men who was aiming to pot you for himself.”
“Adam had told me you had done that… Much obliged,” Unzer grunted. “But we really don't have a lot of time for a reunion right now. Adam's… er… Preston's attackers are still out there, at least what's left of them. I doubt he got shot up without dishing some out, too. He was riding with us. We were on our way to Conception trying to get,” he nodded toward Dominique who was showing signs of recovery, “this gal, her mother and another gentleman out of Washington and away from an army of French mercenaries. When we hit the forks, Adam rode on toward Citadel Crossing. I don't know what happened to him between then and now, but I heard several volleys of shooting… Apparently they caught up to Adam, or he caught up with them.”
Brannigan asked, “Where did you leave the other two people?”
“Down the road a piece. In fact, right where we pulled over and let your outfit past. We had turned around there after hearing the first shots.” While he talked, Unzer had picked up the canteen and went to Dominique who was fully conscious now but had not moved. Helping her lean forward he held the canteen while she took a dainty sip. “Take a good drink, it'll bring you around,” he advised.
Lily was wrapping white petticoat strips on Preston's upper arm when he opened his eyes. Recognition came slowly. “Nurse Lily,” he murmured. “Am I going to live this time?”
Amy piped up, “I ought to finish you off either way. I had to ruin a new petticoat so 'Nurse Lily' could bind you up and keep the last of your blood in.”
The effect of his pained grin was marred by the red stains on his face and Lily admonished, “Preston, you look absolutely hideous.”
“Sorry, if I had known I would be seeing you, I would have dressed for the occasion.”
Unzer snorted and walked back to the edge of the road. Davy Brannigan caught up with him. “We'll have to move these teams soon. My pair aren't much for standing still and the flies are swarming out here in the open.”
“Okay, I'll load Adam in our unit and head on to Conception. If we turn back to Washington, we'll be slaughtered from the trees as we ride past. Besides, there's a whole mob of those French bastards in DC and they're out to kill the lad. Dammit… he's had no grief since the assassination trials but this time he may be in even deeper than before.”
Davy shrugged. “Well, he isn't hit near half so hard as the last bullet that went through him.”
Unzer stiffened then nodded to the east. “Riders coming. Lots of them.”
Brannigan's younger eyes studied the far strip of road. “Soldiers. Must be a dozen blue-bellies headed this way at a trot.”
Unzer acknowledged the out-dated term. “The cavalry. They are on our —both yours and my— side now.” To himself he muttered, “Becky.”
This morning, when Preston had brought Tessier to their house, Colonel Unzer had volunteered to report Ravenelle and his assassins to Ulysses Grant. Circumstances had not allowed Unzer to do that but he would bet his retired epaulets that Rebecca had gone in his stead. He was not surprised when, fifteen minutes later, Lieutenant General Grant, leading a small regiment, rode into view at the near opening in the trees along the trail.
Davy Brannigan held firmly to his team as they had grown excited watching the soldiers' approach. Colonel Unzer stood beside his grays as Grant rode up and called a halt. By way of greeting, Unzer asked, “Rebecca?”
General Grant grinned. “I was looking for an excuse to get out of Washington anyway. Haven't been along this trail since we passed through Conception following a rumour that the Ku Klux Klan was in operation in these parts.”
“Well, it's a good job you came. Adam's been shot —not hit too seriously— but we may have all been in trouble before we reach one end of this road or the other.” Noting the question in Grant's expression, Unzer said with a jerk of his thumb over the left shoulder, “He's back here in the trees. He's got more nurses than DC Hospital.
“This young feller here is Davy Brannigan. He's the boy who saved my hide by shooting that damn traitor in my camp toward the end of the war.”
Davy saluted, “General Grant, Sir.”
Returning the salute, Grant swung out of the saddle. To Brannigan he said, “Nice pair you have on that rig.” Then, passing his reins to a soldier, he ordered, “Couple of you men mind these horses while I talk to these gentlemen.”
Dominique Ravenelle made a fuss around Preston Diamond while Amy and Lily stood back in mute surprise. Preston was on his feet; some colour had returned to his bloodied face. After studying him for a moment, General Grant said, “You look like bloody hell. What happened to the men you were scrapping with?”
“There are, or were, five of them. Uncle Lyss, they are a trained fighting unit from Paris, France, called Les Apaches. They are part of an underground crime organization and in the last four months, have expanded to Washington, DC.”
Grant asked, “There were five? How many are there now?”
“There were five of them out here on our trail; there's a whole mess of them working in Washington.”
“Okay, tell me about the five that are out here somewhere.”
While Colonel Unzer, Davy Brannigan and the three ladies followed the conversation, alternately swivelling their heads back and forth from Grant to Diamond, Preston, with Grant's occasional interruptions, recounted the attack on Tessier the previous evening and the Ravenelle ladies' hurried escape from their apartment this morning. He told of encountering Les Apaches and the subsequent fight in which two were killed, a third possibly injured, and a fourth shot dead in the forest. One, probably two, were still out there hunting. He finished by saying in a vague tone, “I've encountered them before, they do not quit while they are alive.”
Grant was silent a moment, his face hard and inscrutable as cold stone. “If you opened fire on these foreigners, Preston, you are guilty of murder. No matter that they shot you after the fact, in a court of law, they would be exonerated and you would swing.”
Diamond hung his head; his wounds were on fire and he felt light headed. He knew he had been wrong to start the shooting, but Les Apaches were on his trail; waiting in deadly ambush. They were coming to wipe out Dominique, Colonel Jim, everyone he was travelling with. But, as General Grant had said, Preston was guilty and any prosecution lawyer's pet pup could blow any argument to the contrary out of a courtroom. Testimony would show that, unprovoked, Preston Diamond had opened fire on a group of foreign tourists out for a pleasure jaunt in the country. Colonel Unzer was shaking his head; Davy's lips were moving but he was not speaking; the girls, especially Dominique, were stricken by the gory details of the fight. No one believed Adam Forsythe or Preston Diamond could possibly have been the aggressor.
Shifting position so as to temporarily ease the ache in his left arm, Preston said, “Uncle Lyss, did you ride by a clearing about a mile in from the forks where there was a carriage and pair? The carriage is identical to Colonel Jim's rented one.”
“We saw no one on the Conception road and only two farm wagons between Washington and the forks. There were no riders or other vehicles parked or moving”
“They must have hidden the bodies and the carriage. They do not want our law or military taking an interest in their affairs. From what I've seen here, and what Robert Tessier tells me of their activities in France, Les Apaches are a law unto themselves.” Preston used the formal address, “General Grant, if I don't keep my head down and my gun loaded, it won't be a Washington judge who passes sentence on me.”
Having said as much, Preston extracted cartridges from his belt, held them in his teeth, drew the Colt and, singlehanded, reloaded the weapon. No one offered to help.
Grant said, “Well, I don't know about using the army to hunt down these men. I came out here to see if you were in trouble… You are, but I don't know who's trouble it may be.”
Unzer broke in, “Begging your pardon, General, but unless I miss my guess by a long shot, you are a few months away from being President of this country. May I submit, most respectfully, that this is an international decision? We can't hang Adam out to dry because, technically, he opened the ball. If those men had caught up with us, my old grays wouldn't have been able to outrun them. We may have all been slaughtered like those peons down in Mexico twenty years ago. These bastards have less mercy than our regulars did back then.”
Grant's mouth opened in protest but, just at that moment, a volley of rapid firing broke out. Heads turned and ears tuned for further action. A short time later, a distant but loud “boom,” less crisp than the first shots, followed. Colonel Unzer swore, “Goddamn it! That's coming from about two mile west, right where I dropped off Tessier and Mrs. Ravenelle. That second blast was the shotgun. Tessier only has two shells. I hope he didn't let go both barrels at once.”
Pain forgotten, Preston was off through the trees and running for his horse. General Grant reached the wagon road two steps behind, bellowing orders to his men. “Mount up! Ride toward the shooting.”
Diamond was in the saddle and had Rascal running as General Grant found the stirrup and hit leather an instant later. Grant's horse was marginally faster at the outset and soon caught up to Diamond; distance between them and the soldiers widened. Hooves thundered on the wagon road, wind rushed by and Preston buried his face in the long mane to keep his eyes from streaming tears. Head low, he glanced down at his shirtless torso: the new bandage on his arm was dripping blood. He must have torn the wound open as he scrambled into the saddle; the furrow along his ribs had not yet soaked through its bandage. Waves of pain pulsed through his body but he ignored them and concentrated on what he might find at the end of this wild ride.
Robert Tessier was not a man to be immobilized willingly. Though he hurt considerably from head to foot, when Colonel Unzer abandoned him and Gabriella, Tessier would not lay down and rest any longer. Madame Ravenelle tried to make the man at least sit but he was on the move, watching through the trees, listening for any anomaly in the low but constant forest chatter.
They were positioned about forty yards from the wagon road, along a pine ridge. The lower trunks of the trees were devoid of branches and, by kneeling down and peering between the trees, Robert could see the trail. A man on horseback, or even standing, could not see in. Flies buzzed and insects hummed. Having grown accustomed to the human invasion, birds soon resumed their chirping; squirrels and other small forest dwellers went back to their respective occupations.
Gabriella watched Tessier. A dark frown of indignation, and something else, maybe fear, shadowed her pretty countenance. Robert, shotgun in the crook of his arm, came to her and she rose from her seated position on the pine needles. “Something is amiss, my sweet Gabriella,” he said. “I can tell that the colonel is not at all pleased with something. He does not trust us and I believe he would kill anyone who threatened Adam. I saw the thunder on his face when he dumped you and I out of the carriage to go and find out what those gunshots were about. I have met the man only briefly, I know little about him, but he can have nothing against me. Since the day we met, I have been a friend and teacher to Adam. Colonel Unzer must know that.”
Madame Ravenelle slipped her arms around Robert's neck, his hold on the shotgun kept them from drawing too close but she softly kissed him on his swollen lips. “It is me they do not trust.”
“They? Who do you mean when you say they do not trust you?”
“I think that Adam has informed Colonel and Mrs. Unzer that I am evil.”
Tessier snorted, “You? Evil? Gabriella, that is absurd. How could Adam believe such a thing of you?”
Gabriella dropped her arms to her sides and turned away. “My fear of Monsieur Ravenelle is more than I can resist. I am not strong enough to fight back. He has a power over me, over us, Dominique and I, that we can never be free from. Even though we know the man murdered my husband —his own brother— and Dominique's father, even though we know that, we stay in his control…” She suppressed a sob and continued, “Robert, I left a note saying we would be in Alexandria. I think Adam went back into the apartment after we had our belongings removed… I think Adam found that note and he no longer trusts us.”
Tessier remained silent for a long time. Gabriella turned to face him. His bruised features were inscrutable. Finally he said, “I have known the Ravenelles all my life. I know of their power, their control. Is it so strong that you would turn on your friends? People who love you?”
When she did not answer, he said, “But how could someone have found that message, reported to Serge and had time to organize an attack out here? Especially, when midway through, Colonel Unzer changed destinations? There just wasn't enough time.”
“Perhaps Monsieur Ravenelle was anticipating such action?”
“No, Gabriella. If he was suspicious he would have moved against us before we left the city.”
“Maybe he felt that this would be the perfect spot to be rid of us all. If our bodies were disposed of, people would think Dominique and I had sailed back to France.”
“What about, Adam, Colonel Unzer and… and me, Gabriella? What about us? Don't you think Mrs. Unzer would be looking for Adam and her husband?”
Madame Ravenelle's face flashed her vexation. “I don't know! I don't know how Monsieur knows what he knows…” Her eyes softened and a light of realization dawned. “Just after Adam came to our apartment this morning, a messenger arrived with a note from Serge, requesting that Dominique and I meet him at a hotel. I can not remember the name now, it was a hotel downtown. Maybe the messenger saw our luggage and went directly to Serge to report what he had seen. That would have given them at least a two hour advantage over us.”
“There are many roads leading out of Washington. Do you believe Serge sent his army to cover every trail?”
Gabriella's shoulders sagged. “Robert, please don't blame me… I may have said… I may have said something…”
Tessier placed a finger to his lips; the sign of silence. He knelt down and squinted through the trees, then reached for Gabriella and pulled her down beside him. “Someone is out there,” he whispered. “The animals are quiet.”
Suddenly atremble, Gabriella shifted closer to Tessier. “They'll find us, they always know.”
“But how could they possibly see us here? We must be five or six miles from the junction that leads to the other crossing. We could be hidden anywhere or we could have gone on and crossed the river. They can't know. Unless… unless they saw us from a long way off. Could they have seen Colonel Unzer turn his rig around? Could they have watched us slip into the forest?”
“If they came this way along the road, they would see tracks of the carriage having turned. I don't know if Les Apaches are schooled in tracking in the wilderness but very little escapes them in the city.” Her voice trembled with despair, “No one ever escapes them in France.”
Tessier considered that statement. Gabriella seemed far more familiar with the underground thugs than when he had first met her. In DC, she had had three months to listen in on Serge Ravenelle's conversations with gang members; maybe she had learned more than a little. Only… maybe she knew more in the beginning and did not want to admit any association with a band of assassins. Robert's thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of movement near the trail. Close scrutiny revealed a pair of horse's legs, the front ones. These moved forward out of sight and, through the gap, a second pair, the hind legs, materialized. The animal hesitantly stepped out of the frame but, now just beyond that position, three more legs came into view. Tessier could only assume there were eight legs in total. Two horses, barely moving. The second animal stopped and a human leg dropped into the frame as someone swung down from the saddle; the other leg followed. The rider bent down, intent on something that was on the ground. Tessier recognized the clothes; he even thought he recognized the features: It was one of the Apaches who had beat him last evening. Robert's knuckles were white as he gripped Unzers double-barrel. The Apache picked up something that had been lying on the trail and Robert saw a brief flash of pink just before the man stepped out of the narrow line. Tessier strained to hear their voices on the stillness. They spoke French —so did Tessier— he heard bits of the conversation and realized that the men had found something they recognized as belonging to a Ravenelle. He chanced a glance at Gabriella but she apparently could not hear as well with her sun bonnet tied over her ears.
A squeak of saddle leather announced the second rider dismounting. All legs of horses and men disappeared. The voices had dropped and only a faint murmur reached Tessier now. He could guess what was taking place: Les Apaches were about to make a search of the area. More than a little uneasy, he whispered to Gabriella, “They know we are here. They plan to hunt us down.” He moved one hand from the shotgun and firmly grasped her wrist. “Gabriella, I have to know. Do you really love me? Do you really intend to become my wife?”
She looked into his eyes, past the swollen discolouration and into the honest depths between the puffy lids. Her heart went out to him and her dark eyes showed that she had reached a decision. “I do not deserve a man such as you Robert but, if we survive and if you will still have me when all this is over, I will love you forever.”
Tessier believed her.
The voices and sounds of the intruders had faded entirely. Watching, listening for further movement, anything that may indicate where the assassins had gone, Robert reflected upon his situation: He had never been a fighter. Undernourished, he was slow to sprout and had often been a victim of bullying from older, bigger kids. The Ravenelles were the worst, though they soon learned that, unless there was profit in it, they couldn't be bothered with childlike differences. If they were crossed, however, the instigator and his cronies paid heavily. Last night, when Les Apaches were beating him, Tessier was reminded of those difficult years of his youth in Paris. Over-powered, his last conscious thought was a wish that he could fight like Adam Forsythe had fought against Sawyer Thompson's bodyguard. Now, he looked at the gun in his hands; tools were his living. Perhaps this piece was just another tool to be put to a specific use? But… he had never hurt anyone in his life; never even cared to retaliate. Would he be able to defend himself now? Would he use this deadly tool?
The answers to those questions were not long in coming.
From behind them, Robert heard a twig snap. The chapeau and head of an Apache appeared over the crest of the pine ridge. He was looking in the other direction but, when he turned this way, he would not miss seeing the two people sitting huddled beneath a pine tree; Gabriella's light coloured dress would show up like a white sail on a blue pond. Robert supposed that the man had sneaked along the embankment on the opposite side and had surfaced for a peer over the top. Tessier shifted the shotgun. He did not know how far shot carried, he was not familiar with guns at all. He knew how to shoot this one; Colonel Unzer had said, “Pull back these hammers, aim and squeeze the trigger.” The military man hadn't explained how to load or unload the weapon. And, he hadn't left any extra cartridges. Tessier held his fire, he didn't know how to aim but he knew this shot must count so the target had to be quite close.
When he located his prey, the hunter's face showed no surprise; it showed no emotion at all. Ignoring the shotgun pointed in his direction, he stepped up to the top of the ridge and strolled toward Tessier and Gabriella. Calmly raising the evil pistol in his left hand, he pointed it skyward, fired two rounds, then nonchalantly trained it again on Robert who sat cringing from the blasts.
“Madame Ravenelle, Monsieur is not pleased with you and your daughter. He says you will both be put to work in the whorehouse of the late Missy Du Bois… I do not think he is quite that upset, but he is angry. Now, please, Madame, move away from that silly carpenter so you do not get your nice, clean dress bloody.”
Tessier wondered at the killer's obvious familiarity with Gabriella. He wondered where the second gunman had disappeared to; no doubt, hearing the shots, he would soon show up. He wondered how the thug could be so certain he would not use the shotgun. Then Robert wondered at his own impotency; why could he not shoot this vicious murderer? He looked down, his palsied hands were shaking; suddenly the weapon felt very heavy, the barrel sagged. He felt light-headed, sick.
The Apache smiled a taunting smile. “You do not want this man, Madame. Look, he does not have the balls to defend you or himself.”
The carpenter's face grew warm and he hung his head. He was going to die and he was powerless to save himself. The Frenchman came forward and, reaching down to grasp the shotgun barrel, grunted, “We should have finished you last night.”
Colonel Unzer had not mentioned recoil.
The discharged weapon leaped out of Tessier's hands, its stock kicking him in the already cracked and bruised ribs driving the wind out of his lungs and leaving him writhing, gasping for breath, on the floor of pine needles. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to scream in agony, but his empty chest would not allow any more than wicked, rasping, hollow coughs.
Even at that, Robert fared considerably better than the Apache. The double charge of both barrels caught the assassin belt buckle high. It sawed him in two, throwing a widening spray of blood, vapourized innards and bone fragments for twenty feet behind him. By-passing Death's door, he was hurled into the fires of Hell before he realized he had passed on.
Swift as a striking snake, Gabriella snatched up the Apache's fallen pistol and touched the muzzle to Robert's head. As the second French soldier scrambled into view from the opposite side of the ridge, she rose and, her voice dripping scorn, said in a loud voice, “Get to your feet, you worthless cur.”
Confused and terror struck, Tessier tried to comply but his knees would not work. His legs tangled and he fell back to the ground. Wildly, he gaped at the lady who, just a few moments ago, promised to love him forever. Sickened by the grotesque sight of the dead man, unhinged by the fickle actions of this crazed woman, convulsing with pain, he would gladly have shot himself had he any ammunition left.
With the toe of her shoe Madame Ravenelle nudged Tessier in the ribs. “Get up!” she snarled again.
As Robert struggled to stand, the assassin trotted over and stopped beside Gabriella. He said, “Shoot him now, Madame. We must hurry, I saw riders coming up the trail….”
Gabriella's hand tightened on the grip. She shifted her aim, squeezed the trigger and punched a neat little hole in the centre of the Apache's forehead.
“Bastard!” she spat.
Whinnies from Les Apaches' horses, tethered in the trees, announced to Preston Diamond and General Grant that they were nearing the spot from where the gun shots had originated. Cautiously, they reined in and waited as the string of soldiers streamed up behind. Still astride Rascal, Diamond, revolver in hand, searched the nearby brush while the general addressed his troops. A shaky voice hailed them from somewhere back in the trees. “Adam Forsythe, Colonel Unzer, are you out there? It's Robert Tessier. I… we are alright. There are two dead men here. I don't know if there are any others.”
Grant nodded to Preston who then called back, “I can only see two horses, Robert. Are you able to move? Come out to the road if you can.”
Tessier replied in French; in English Diamond reported, “They're coming out, Uncle Lyss.”
Grant saw the blood trickling down Preston's arm and summoned a soldier in charge of the medical kit. Then the general took two officers and went into the forest to inspect the bodies.
The Unzer and Brannigan carriages arrived as the private was installing a new bandage. Once the wound was dressed properly, Colonel Unzer insisted that Diamond be tucked in the bed of his carriage. “You'll be falling off that horse and get trampled to death,” he growled. Preston put up feeble resistance but felt grateful for the opportunity to lie down.
Grant and the two officers, one of them helping Robert Tessier, returned to the trail. At Grant's bidding, Tessier, clinging to Gabriella for support, told their story. He did not mention the bright pink ribbon he had plucked from the shirt pocket of the second assassin, nor did he say who shot him. Colonel Unzer turned a questioning gaze upon the Lieutenant General. “Well,” Ulysses 'Unconditional Surrender' Grant conceded, “I do not fully understand the whys and hows of this excursion. However, it seems obvious these foreign gentlemen were up to no good. I'll have my men tend to these two bodies, find the others, then bring them and their horses in to Washington. I must make a full report, but I don't know who to pass it on to. This is still not Army business.”
Unzer said dryly, “If you don't file for a few months, you can leave the report on your own desk.”
While General Grant spoke to his soldiers, the civilians held a discussion of their own. The Brannigans, Lily reported, had been on their way to Washington to pick out furniture for their almost completed home. When Preston heard that the siblings had moved into the new abode, he asked if Robert and Gabriella could take temporary refuge in the old house. Tessier's brows rose when he heard that construction work was in progress at Brannigan Farm and offered his services as a carpenter. Davy quickly accepted. Amy discreetly made a face at Preston when he asked that Dominique might stay with her mother.
“What about you, Adam?” Colonel Unzer asked. “Do you want me to take you to your farm?”
Preston, sitting up in the back of the buggy, shook his head. “No, Colonel Jim, I want you to take me back to Washington.” Noting the questioning looks from all quarters he shrugged then winced at the pain in his side, “Well, 'Nurse Lily' has her hands full, Rufus will be in the field, I best have Rebecca fix me up.”
It was a lame ruse but Diamond could hardly have admitted he was going back to reckon with Serge Ravenelle.
Dominique, trying to follow the English conversation, broke in and, in her strong accent, said, “If Adam is returning to Washington, I will go with him.”
Amy made another face.
Rebecca Unzer had finished washing Preston's wounds but had not begun to bandage them when Xi-Ping Chiang appeared at the back door. The Chinese neighbours, ever watchful, had hurried to inform the master of Diamond's return upon the instant of his arrival. Sifu had obviously been informed his student was wounded for the old Chinese healer had brought along a small medical kit. Obtaining Mrs. Unzer's consent, Sifu examined the damage then applied a balm to both wounds. Preston felt instant relief from the burning aggravation of the injury to his upper arm; the ribs continued a dull throbbing ache. Sifu applied his touch of hand magic and Preston's pain vanished. The imagined tenderness in his old leg wound disappeared as well.
Darkness had fully descended on this warm summer's evening when Dominique, who had been assisting Colonel Unzer with the horses, followed the colonel into the parlour where the medical team were bandaging the wounds. With a friendly nod, Unzer acknowledged Chiang, then said, “It's been a long day for the grays, Mother. Our horses are like us, they're gettin' old.”
Rebecca offered tea to Sifu and he accepted. Seated in the parlour, the group sipped their tea and conversed in low tones. Everyone, except for Sifu who never seemed to tire, felt the same as the Unzer's horses. Dominique, her chin resting on her cupped hand, elbow on the arm of the settee, was having trouble keeping her eyes open and Rebecca led her off to bed saying, “You can have Adam's room, he will sleep on the couch.”
Preston attempted an apology for the extra burden he had thrust upon the Unzers. He said to Colonel Unzer, “I have tried to avoid all this trouble and I didn't want you to become involved… again. But you, Rebecca and Master Chiang are the only people I could turn to here in Washington. Uncle Lyss just doesn't have time.” He shook his head. “Now I've even spread grief to my friends out in… my friends across the river.”
“Weeell,” Unzer said slowly, “I've only been away from active duty for a few years now, I'm not dead. If ever I cannot help you out, Adam, they may as well bury me.”
“But, Colonel Jim, trouble seems to find me. And when I'm in trouble, you and Rebecca are dragged into it. I don't want more problems on this household. We… you already went through a rough time over my grief. It isn't right.”
“I'm no stranger to conflict, Adam. Neither is Rebecca. I've seen a lot of battles in my time. I was there when your father almost died in Spain… I know what a great man he was and would have been. I know that same blood runs in you. I've fought for people I don't even know, I'd go to the grave fightin' for you, boy. It's that simple.”
Sifu nodded his silent agreement.
The pain did not return in the night but Preston Diamond could not sleep. He reviewed the day. So much had happened since his training session with Sifu that morning. Wherever the soldiers had deposited their bullet riddled bodies, five more men lay cold and stiff. Preston had sent three of them over. As Ulysses Grant had pointed out, Diamond had outright murdered one of them; sniper-shot the man from cover. What if the victim had been a passer-by, just some fellow out for a jaunt?
Though the room was warm, not cooled by the faint night breeze filtering through the screened window, Diamond shivered under the light quilt. Was he a cold-blooded killer? Did he lust for blood? Was it rubbing off on those he associated with? Robert Tessier had never been in a fight in his life; today, according to the account, he had shot dead two men.
Diamond's thoughts drifted farther back in time. So many men had died now; the fight in Kalmattii's Mercantile haunted him. Those men had done nothing to Preston Diamond. That was Sifu Chiang and his Chinese peoples' fight. But Preston had gone along and five more men had died. Two more had been killed by Sifu in the Presidential Hotel; granted, Sifu Chiang had accounted for them, but Preston would have participated if he had been quick enough. The silly fight on the grounds of the Capitol: Sawyer Thompson's man. Preston knew he had not killed that Apache, the thug had only received a broken leg; someone else had finished him off in the hospital, but he was no less dead.
Diamond turned from his back onto his right side; he would have liked to lay on the left but didn't want to disturb the wounds. Sometimes flipping over changes the train of thought, but tonight the ghosts followed from one side of Preston's brain to the other. He argued in his mind that Les Apaches had accounted for so many innocent deaths, possibly hundreds in their homeland, dozens here in DC. What about those dead men and women? Were they not to be avenged? How many more would find their way to the bottom of the Patowmack before Serge Ravenelle and his henchmen were through? Surely it was them who had killed Hugh Bagnold, then bribed and murdered his lawyers so that the man's assets were sold to Ravenelle's frontman, Sawyer Thompson, leaving Hugh's widow an impecunious existence.? Diamond eventually convinced himself he had done the right thing. He whispered to the ghosts, “Don't blame me because you are in Hell, it's where you have always been bound. I only opened the door… that door won't be closed until Serge Ravenelle joins you.”
Preston rolled the other way again, the blanket slid to the floor. He let it lay and finally fell asleep.
Before training next morning, Sifu Chiang ministered to Preston's wounds. He had brought the salve and bandages to the garden. He massaged the tender areas and Diamond felt no pain. Already, the bullet marks were beginning to itch: a sign that healing had begun. Movement in Preston's left arm was sluggish so Sifu's teaching, for this lesson, concentrated on stance and kicks. After the exercise, Sifu detained his student.
Xi-Ping told Preston that trained fighters had arrived by boat from Shanghai, China. He explained that, though they kept a low profile, the Chinese had many organizations and business connections in America. They could not allow Serge Ravenelle and his thugs to expand into other cities, into their domains. If Washington were to succumb to French underground influence, more metropolises would fall prey to the same. The Chinese were not especially tuned to crime; their opium dens were common and not considered criminal, but some of the other businesses they held were not particularly legitimate —Kalmattii's Mercantile, for example— and these would eventually suffer pressure from Ravenelle's army of racketeers. Sifu said his people had reopened a den in Washington and they would fight to keep it under their control. A dozen Chinese soldiers, all extreme martial artists under the command of Xi-Ping Chiang, were ensconced in Washington's Asian network. Preston realized he had seen two of them in the back yard of Unzer's new neighbours.
Sifu concluded that the time had come for Monsieur Ravenelle to go home to France.
Returning to Unzer's house for breakfast, Preston met Rebecca in her garden as he came through the back entrance. She had a small bucket in her hand and her face held an odd expression he could not interpret as she studied him for a long moment. At length, she said, “Dominique, your girlfriend, is not feeling well this morning, Adam. Has she mentioned… anything to you?”
“No, Rebecca, she was sleeping in my room when I left for training. Has she a fever or something?”
Mrs. Unzer flashed a thin smile. “No, I don't think she's running a fever, Adam.”
“Maybe she's overtired or hungry. She didn't eat much last night.”
“Yes, I suspect her stomach is empty,” Rebecca said, then added, “I've almost got our breakfast ready. I just came out to the garden for some strawberries.”
Together they went inside. Colonel Unzer, seated at the table with a steaming cup of coffee held in his right hand, was asking a smiling Dominique about life in Paris. She did not appear unhealthy to Preston; she looked like an angel. The French girl had gleaned more than a basic understanding of English from Mrs. Skelton's teaching and, when given sufficient time to hear and respond, she did quite well, though her accent was strong and she cocked her head in silent query when uncertain of a word or pronunciation. Unzer helped her along. He had no comprehension of the French lingo but possessed a West Point graduate's grasp of his own language and only occasionally strayed into layman's vernacular.
Diamond and Dominique cleaned up after the meal. Rebecca apologized ahead of time that the house would be hot this morning for she had baking to tend to. She welcomed Dominique's offer of assistance and they were soon planning a French bread recipe. Unzer went out to check the horses though Preston had looked in on them before meeting Sifu earlier. No one seemed concerned that Les Apaches may be preparing to shell or bomb the house at any moment. Wounded and short on blood, Preston had not been especially diligent since his return last evening; instead, he had trusted his life to the vigilance of the Chinese neighbours. Now, he announced to no one in particular, that he was going out for a look about.
Preston had decided to return to his habit of snooping and eavesdropping. For two years, this occupation had been an entertaining pastime; now it had direction and focus. Instead of hiding, waiting for Serge and Les Apaches to ferret him out, burn the Unzer's cottage or abduct Dominique, Diamond would beard the lion in his lair and learn all he could about the movements of Ravenelle and his army. Preston surmised that the loyal French hoods could not be forced or coerced to squeal, but he could watch and listen to them. He may be able to determine or anticipate their next move before Ravenelle or L'Heureux were able to issue orders.
An additional advantage Preston hoped he would soon have was that the French contingent might be preoccupied with the Shanghai warriors. Les Apaches were fierce fighters but, if the Asians all fought like Sifu Chiang, at close quarters, twelve unarmed martial artists would soon over-power twice that number of armed thugs.
Diamond tucked the Colt into his waist band and concealed it under his shirt.
Those areas of the French Ministry Preston and Xi-Ping had visited previously appeared the same today as when they had absconded with the French ladies. The entrance and reception remained vacant. The room emitted the hollow echo of an unused and empty space. Though no dust lay on lintels, sills or the scant furnishings, it should have. Swiftly and quietly, Diamond completed a search of the single desk and a small two-drawer filing cabinet. The pseudo ambassador had not locked either of these and Preston translated the few files found in the drawers as best he could, but found nothing of interest. Diamond presumed any confidential material would be stored in the inner offices, the suites or, most likely, downtown in the Presidential Hotel. Using his set of lock picks, he opened doors nearly as quickly as someone with the proper key.
He spent an hour in the apartment where he and Sifu had found Gabriella and Dominique; Madame Ravenelle's suite. It was a spacious living accommodation with large kitchen area, fancy parlour and single bedroom. The apartment had been cleaned: unwashed dishes that had been left on the counter yesterday were not in sight; while Gabriella had collected her belongings, Preston noted the bed was unmade; now it was tidied; a fresh bowl of roses —red today, yesterday they were yellow— sat on the glass topped table where the folded note brought by the messenger had been left.
The note was gone and it didn't seem likely to Preston that a maid would throw out correspondence. Someone, probably Serge Ravenelle, had been here, too. Preston wondered about Gabriella writing the word Alexandria on the back of the page. Now it seemed even more obvious she intended to alert Serge Ravenelle of their destination. Why hadn't she simply refused to go along? If her concern for Robert Tessier had been real, passing the information on to Les Apaches was not conducive to the carpenter's wellbeing. Had the four Frenchmen waiting in ambush yesterday planned to wipe out Preston, Colonel Unzer, Tessier and the ladies? Maybe they only intended to kidnap Gabriella and Dominique to return them to Serge. Preston thought of the artillery Les Apaches were carrying when he found them near the trail. Those men were armed and ready. The ladies may have been returned to Ravenelle, but anyone travelling with them would now be dead in the forest covered with bluebottle flies or feeding the fishes in the Patowmack. Hindsight told Preston he should have pocketed that note yesterday.
Diamond felt a twinge in his rib wound as he knelt to open the lock of a passage door to an adjoining apartment. The suite, having scrolled wood work and plush carpets, was more elegant than Gabriella's rooms though more sparingly furnished. Serge Ravenelle's private quarters. It contained two offices and his bed chamber. A large oak door, Preston assumed to be the outer entrance, stood down a hall and to the right from the passageway to Madame Ravenelle's apartment. There were no dining nor kitchen facilities so Preston presumed Serge, when staying here, took his meals with his sister-in-law and niece. Whether the Ravenelles assumed all, some, or none of the cooking duties, Preston could not say. Likely they had a chef available and the ladies cooked if they felt the urge. Apparently Dominique knew something of the skill for, at this moment, she was helping Rebecca Unzer bake bread. Preston opened the doors to the offices and methodically riffled through every piece of information available. There were documents in both French and English. The French translation took longer and he sometimes only gleaned the gist. Emperor Napoleon's signature was on two of the French papers concerning France's invasion (and intended withdrawal) of Mexico. Serge had a thick folder of information about two small islands belonging to France and, from what Diamond could determine, the proposed sale of these territories to the United States. He found correspondence from Secretary Seward and a short missive from President Johnson. Nowhere did he locate any information pertaining to the French underground or Les Apaches. Ravenelle was a cautious man; he kept a loaded, three barrelled pepper-box stashed in a desk drawer in each of the two offices and a third pistol near to hand in the night table beside the bed. The Frenchman didn't have the knives, knuckle dusters and derringers Preston had found among the accoutrements of the Apaches rooming in the Presidential Hotel.
Both Gabriella's and Serge's suites were quiet apartments toward the end of the wing. Dominique's bedroom, Preston recalled, was one floor down, directly below Madame Ravenelle. He and Sifu had not gone in there yesterday; Dominique had collected her necessities and brought them up to her mother's suite. Now Diamond saw no reason to further intrude upon her privacy. Perhaps, later, he'd ask her if she required anything to be brought to the Unzer's house.
Preston presumed that the oak door, down the hallway, would be the one in the reception area adjacent to the entrance to Gabriella's rooms. He had taken half a step toward the door when he heard the scrape of a key in a lock. In a bound, he was back at the passage door, pulled it open and stepped into Madame Ravenelle's suite. He closed the door soundlessly but the latch did not catch and the panel swung inward a fraction of an inch. Diamond could not see into the other room but he could hear voices. Two men, probably Serge Ravenelle and his big commander, Henri L'Heureux, were talking in rapid French. Though the tone indicated that it was not a celebratory occasion, the clink of a decanter and slosh of liquid could be heard as someone poured liquor in glasses. Twice Preston made out angry reference to five men being killed. As he eavesdropped, Diamond ascertained that American soldiers, approaching the city via the Citadel Crossing/Alexandria trail, had brought in five dead men shot to pieces. Preston, Colonel Unzer and Dominique had not travelled with the detail who brought in the dead Apaches; they had been escorted by General Grant and the other half of the company. Diamond strained to hear, but there was no mention of he or Dominique being back in Washington.
Serge seemed confused as to where his women had disappeared to. “She left the note on the table in her apartment,” Preston heard him say. “Alexandria is what she wrote. I don't know why they did not follow my orders on the other side of that page. If Gabriella wanted to run away, why did she leave directions where to find her? Besides, whether she likes it or not, she is in this, too. She is only a Ravenelle by marriage to my brother but Gabriella was no damned angel in Paris. What in hell has changed here?”
Preston heard L'Heureux's deep voice, “The runner who delivered that message… he came back to me saying that Madame and Mademoiselle were being taken away. He also said that they were going to Alexandria.”
Diamond now knew for certain how the French foursome had been able to get ahead and set up an ambush. They would have been much more prepared and mobile than Preston and Colonel Unzer with their sluggish entourage. The fifth rider, who had followed later, was a stroke of genius on behalf of whoever organized the assault. When Colonel Unzer had turned toward Conception at the forks, instinct and tactical sense had cautioned Preston to ride on toward the Alexandria ferry crossing where he discovered the waiting assassins. Had he not noticed that Gabriella had written their destination on the note, he would not have been suspicious; consequently, the corpses, brought in by the soldiers, would not have been foreigners.
But why did she reveal Preston and Sifu Chiang's intentions? Perhaps Gabriella Ravenelle was, as Serge intimated, no less cold blooded than her late husband and brother-in-law.
Serge said, “Have one of the Apaches —one with the least trace of an accent— or one of the American recruits, find those soldiers and get some information about what the hell went on out there. Tell him to get them drunk or whatever it takes. God! Five more of our men shot down! That damn kid, Forsythe? Is that what you said his name was?”
“Yes, sir. Adam Forsythe is the name of the kid who beat up Guy Stringer.”
“Okay, Commandant, you know, or at least suspect something else. What is it?”
Preston held his breath and pressed his ear to the crack. He heard a long sigh before L'Heureux began to speak.
“I think that that hammer man, Tessier, and the kid are the two who were seen with your sister-in-law and your niece last spring. I think that they have been meeting secretly all summer.”
“Why in hell didn't you tell me this sooner? And don't give me that damn shrug, Henri.”
“I don't know anything for certain, Monsieur Ravenelle. I have only had my suspicions. The men went again this morning to see Robert Tessier, to make him talk, but he has either died or left town. Four strangers, who probably just happened along, prevented my men from convincing Tessier to talk the night before. I believe, sir, that he went with Madame Ravenelle and her daughter.”
“Did the kid go, too?”
Diamond heard no answer and assumed L'Heureux had given a shrug. A sudden, loud “clunk” of a glass being slammed down onto a table or counter caused Preston to jerk back and bump his head against the door jamb. He heard Serge bellow, “Someone has been in this room! They have been looking for something!”
Preston frantically sought an escape; any second now, the minister and his commandant may come into this suite. Diamond guessed that the fastest route would be the balcony, but when he slipped through the French doors, a fresh breeze swept up the lace curtains and, behind him, the passageway door, still slightly ajar, shuddered a solid “thunk” as it closed and latched. There was no time left for speculation; Ravenelle and L'Heureux would be in Gabriella's room as fast as they could unlock the latch.
Preston went over the railing, dangled an instant, and dropped to the balcony below. In a few seconds he forced the lock on the double doors and stepped into Dominique's chamber. Overhead, he heard the thump of heavy boots as someone crossed the room. He turned to close the French doors but hesitated an instant, hearing a voice call up from below. “He went in the room below you, mister. Is he a robber or something?”
A passerby had witnessed Preston's escape and must have felt compelled to inform Serge or L'Heureux.
The glorious scent of her perfume assailed his nostrils as Diamond dashed across Dominique's outer room. He squeezed through the entrance door and sprinted down the hall where a set of fire stairs gave him access to the main floor. He confused his directions on the double set of steps and emerged in a long hallway with rows of offset doors down either side. Which way to run? A janitor, corn broom in hand, was at the far end, sweeping so slowly Preston wondered if it were his very last job. As Diamond approached, the custodian glanced up. His round face bore a big smile that reminded Preston of Sifu which, in this case, was quite appropriate for the sweeper was Xi-Ping Chiang. He leaned the broom in a corner, then opened and held a nearby door for Preston. “I see you, I see Ravenelle. I come find you,” he announced.
Not much escaped Master Chiang.
Xi-Ping led Diamond down another flight of stairs to a basement and they wound through a maze of pipes for heating distribution then came to a locked metal door. Sifu motioned Preston to pick the lock and they stepped through to a small cemented area at the foot of a wide set of service steps leading up to ground level. Blue sky and sunshine greeted Preston as his head cleared the sides of the stairwell. Sifu hurried Diamond into a small grove of trees and then threaded a passage out onto a well manicured lawn. “They no see you, walk same me.”
Preston interpreted walk same me to mean walk casually. If he tried to stroll in that shuffling gait of Sifu's, he would attract more attention than simply bolting across the common. Together they sauntered through the open and then slipped into the little garden where Preston trained every morning. Xi-Ping slid back the slab and they disappeared through the opening into the tunnels below.
Sifu found and lit the lamp, then sat down on the bottom step. He and Preston exchanged information: Chiang's people were doing double time watching Preston's home because it followed that, if Serge's men knew Adam Forsythe's name, they would soon learn his address and, when they did, Unzer house need brace itself for a rail-car load of hell. The Chinese were expecting a clash with Ravenelle's army at the new opium establishment. Xi-Ping had not been able to fix a tally on Apaches still operating in Washington. Having lost an additional five in the forest skirmish, would Serge bring in more people? Had he already added to his two score regiment? Preston had heard Serge say American recruits; he must have hired locally. Violence had levelled off in Washington over the past couple of months; perhaps Serge believed he had ample troops to maintain his underground supremacy. But Preston would have given odds that, with the recent unexpected loss, more trained fighters would be called in. Sifu did not know what the soldiers had done with the dead men. Preston had not heard Ravenelle and L'Heureux mention anything about recovering the bodies; it would be folly to claim them and the underground French army was neither sentimental nor foolish. It was presumed General Grant would have given them over to local enforcement people. Diamond repeated his discovery that Gabriella had passed information to Serge about the intended flight from Washington. Though he offered no comment, Xi-Ping did not appear surprised to hear this and when Preston expressed concerns for Robert Tessier's wellbeing, Sifu smiled. He said, “Madame Ravenelle no hurt Monsieur Tessier.”
The discussion concluded. Chiang, holding the tiny kerosene lamp in his hand, threaded a route that Preston was only partially familiar with. It seemed the Chinese had burrows under the entire city including the Capitol, the executive mansion and numerous buildings and gardens all over the grounds. The path they followed now ought to be a downgrade though, as far as Preston's eye could determine in the dim light, the floor underfoot ran level. Sounds of machinery, voices, clangs and thuds of above ground or out of tunnel activity came and went as they moved along. At times the air was still and a deep silence hung thick between the brick and mortar passages. Diamond felt they were headed to the centre of the earth. Sifu halted at a T intersection. The smell of fresh earth collided with the dank scent of musty old dirt. Xi-Ping forced a brick to move and the dead end opened into a new excavation. Picks and shovels were leaned against the wall, bushel baskets were stacked to one side. Sifu pointed ahead. “Chinese build new door to President Hotel.”
“Ravenelle's hotel?” Preston asked.
Sifu nodded then held up his closed hand opening first one finger then a second as he said, “One, two days.”
“The tunnel will be completed in one or two days?”
Chiang nodded. “Soon, we go back way.”
They turned around and, after a short walk, Sifu brought them out into the big laundry Preston had visited before. This time among the workers there were several lithe and muscular men that stood out from the regulars. As one, they came forward and bowed to Sifu. He bowed to them and then introduced Preston. The men's expressions showed no emotion and, though he detected no animosity, Diamond could see from their eyes they were appraising him. Either Sifu Chiang or the Chinese people Preston had met earlier must have informed the fighters of the white lad's ability. Preston believed he was no match for these older, seasoned veterans and hoped he would never be tested.
Behind Sifu and Preston, the tunnel door flew open and a Chinese lady scurried into the room. Preston recognized her as Rebecca's new neighbour. Wringing her hands nervously, she spoke to Xi-Ping in Mandarin. Sifu turned to Preston. “Les Apaches. They come Colonel Unzer house.”
Colonel Unzer stood in the stall between his two grays, calmly working a knot out of the near horse's mane when, through the opened door of the stable, he saw three men sauntering down the alley in the direction of his house. He ducked his head and watched closely. The men wore odd shaped gray caps similar to the ones he had seen on the ground near the two dead Frenchmen Robert Tessier had shot yesterday. James Unzer did not believe it a coincidence the men were in his neighbourhood; they were here to avenge their lost comrades or to take Dominique Ravenelle away with them.
Since Preston had brought the injured Tessier to Unzer's house, the colonel wore, or kept near to hand, his army revolver and, as an extra precaution, this morning, the double barrelled shot-gun had been left loaded in the kitchen. He was wearing the six-gun now and his fingers reached down to silently unfasten the flap and loosen the weapon in its sheath. Though one of them cast a curious glance inside the stable door, the strangers passed by without noticing him. Unzer stepped out of the stall and, through a knot hole in the barn wall, followed the progress of the trio. They paused beside the biffy and had a short animated conference that Unzer could not translate. At the distance, his peep hole offered a fairly wide view and across the pickets on the opposite side of the alley, Unzer watched as the pair of Chinese sentries lowered their heads and moved toward the fence. On the street side of the Chinese residence, a door banged closed and the slap-slap of running feet reached Colonel Unzer's ears. The Frenchmen heard the runner too, for they all cocked their heads toward the sound. After a moment they resumed their quiet discussion. Unzer had now lost sight of the Shanghai fighters, they had slipped out of view as they neared the picket fence at the rear of their yard. Unzer wondered why the Frenchmen had not noticed the two Chinese, perhaps, from this angle, they could not see into the yard from the lane as its grade was somewhat lower than Unzer's vantage point.
The thugs were cautious; they moved slowly, deliberately and they appeared to be studying everything within sight and sound. Twenty minutes, half an hour passed, but still they remained in the alley. Maybe they were unsure of the address and needed to confirm that whoever they sought was within. Behind Unzer, the horses dozed in their stall; a black spider eyed him suspiciously from its perch on the edge of a hay dust laden web.
A decision must have been reached for two of the men rounded the side of the Unzer's outhouse and disappeared up the path. Colonel Unzer didn't have much time to take care of the man waiting in the alley and then get to the house to alert Rebecca and Dominique. Wishing Adam was here, he drew the revolver and stepped out of the barn.
The retired colonel was not as spry as he once was but he still moved pretty well. The Frenchman, though watching the progress of his comrades, caught sight or sound of movement behind him and his hand flashed inside his shirt. Before Unzer could aim the gun and squeeze the trigger, two panthers of death cleared the fence, landed silently in the alley beside the killer and immediately disarmed him. More accurately, they broke his arms with a simultaneous pair of roundhouse kicks. Two more blows, blocked from Unzer's view, silenced the man for eternity. One of the Asian sentries turned and signalled to Unzer. Tracing an exaggerated horizontal circle with his finger followed by a couple more strokes of sign language, he indicated that the colonel should go round to the front of the house while they came in from the rear.
Unzer retreated to the far side of the barn, crossed through a neighbour's back yard and emerged one house over from his own. Instead of walking out to the street, he hugged close to the neighbouring residence and drifted past the front of the house to the edge of his own yard. He crept up to his house and paused below the opened kitchen window. Inside he could hear his wife and Dominique Ravenelle chatting. The redolence of fresh baking would have made his mouth water if the circumstances hadn't been so desperate. The window sill was a few inches too high for him to see over so Unzer reached up and lightly tapped the glass with the gun barrel. Rebecca was speaking and though she did not pause, the pitch of her voice changed ever so slightly. The colonel could tell she was moving; the talk faded a fraction of a decibel. Unzer knew his wife had been alerted; now, he did not know what to do next. He wanted to reach the stoop and slip in through the front door but he might walk right into the guns of Les Apaches. He hoped to avoid shooting; too often, stray bullets cause more damage than well aimed shots.
Unzer's deliberation was interrupted by Dominique crying out an unintelligible exclamation in French, then the roar of a gun drowned out all else. The colonel lurched up onto the veranda, grasped the door knob and burst into the room. Smoke filled the kitchen, sounds of a struggle emanated from the parlour. Unzer saw Dominique's prostrate form stretched out on the kitchen floor. As the black powder haze drifted out the window, a bloody pair of boots attached to a bloody pair of legs came into focus half in, half out of the doorway between kitchen and parlour. Standing just beside the fallen Miss Ravenelle, Rebecca fumbled with the breaking action on the smoking double barrelled shotgun. An agonized groan, followed by a disturbing crunch, preceded a prolonged silence in the next room.
Unzer trained the Army Colt on the parlour doorway and inched toward it. One of the Chinese, his hands raised, palms forward, stepped into the opening. Outside, a boot thudded on the veranda and Preston, Colt drawn, eased into the kitchen. The Colonel motioned for the Chinese to lower his hands as Xi-Ping Chiang and the second Chinese knight appeared behind the first.
Rebecca was the first to speak. “Poor child, she's fainted right dead away.”
Xi-Ping snapped something in Mandarin and the Shanghai warriors, heads bowed, slunk out of the house through the back entrance. Preston had not seen Sifu so upset since the night he had fought the thugs below Dominique's window. He knew how the master would view the dilatory arrival of his fighters. Mrs. Unzer should not have had to defend her household; that is why the Chinese had moved in next door.
Rebecca placed the shotgun on the only available space on the flour and bread pan cluttered cupboard then knelt beside Dominique. “Adam, fetch a damp cloth.”
Colonel Unzer's bushy brows were raised as Preston looked at him. “Well, boy, looks like they have found us all.”
Preston studied the shotgun blasted corpse then glanced in the parlour where a second Apache lay dead, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. “These two won't be hunting anyone on this side anymore.”
“Three.” Unzer corrected, “There's another dead one out back.” He nodded toward the door where the Chinese had gone out. “Those two accounted for one out in the alley behind the privy.” To Xi-Ping he said, “If your lads hadn't been here, Mr. Chiang, it'd be our blood and bodies spread around here. We're beholden to you.”
Xi-Ping nodded and smiled faintly but Preston knew he was not to be mollified so easily.
Rebecca soon had Dominique off the floor and seated in one of the kitchen chairs. The Chinese fighters returned with the lady who had been sent to fetch Diamond and Chiang. She went away while the men wiped up the mess and dragged the bodies out, but returned with a scrub pail and began washing the floor and wall that had been in line with the shotgun blast. Rebecca, leaving Dominique in Preston's care, grabbed a second wash cloth and assisted her new neighbour. Sifu had disappeared. Colonel Unzer stood on his veranda and faced a small crowd drawn by the shooting.
How do you explain to a curious group of neighbours and onlookers the sudden appearance of three corpses in your house and garden? The colonel offered a weak explanation for the blast, hoping no one had seen the bodies in the back yard. A news reporter clattered up to the scene in a dogcart drawn by a hard-pushed horse. Unzer was just about out of words when General Grant and a handful of soldiers trotted their mounts down the street and reined in at the front of the colonel and Rebecca's house. Grant's eyes met Unzer's and the absence of words spoke volumes. The Lieutenant General calmly dispersed the crowd and had one of his men escort the more persistent newsman to a safer location. After listening in semi-private to Rebecca and Colonel Unzer's brief account, Ulysses said, “Here I am again, James, interfering in a civil matter. One of the men who rode with us yesterday found out you people were involved in another fracas and he came to me on the double. He didn't tell me there had been another three foreigners killed. James, if you need me and the army to keep you out of trouble, you had best sign up again.” He sighed, “Then I could transfer you to Fort Oregon or somewhere else a long walk from DC.”
In a furor of whistles and shouts, Washington city police, aboard two coaches, rounded a corner a block or two up the street. The teams were straining in the harness, coming at a gallop but, seeing the presence of the bluecoats, the drivers quickly hauled in on the lines and rolled up at a more respectful rate. The belated arrival annoyed Unzer and amused Grant. “I'll leave this in your hands, Colonel Unzer. Keep Adam out of the limelight. Sounds like he missed today's action anyway.”
Unzer had wondered why the police had not been round asking questions about the forest shootings. Now he realized Grant must have withheld names and other pertinent information. Perhaps the bluecoats had only given local constabulary the bodies and a scant accounting of how they were found. People weren't in the habit of pestering Ulysses Grant.
Preston Diamond did not wait to be interviewed by the police. Sifu Chiang had reappeared and now he led Preston and a very pale Dominique out the back, across the alley and into the Chinese house. An older Chinese gentleman and the same lady who had helped clean up the bloody mess in Rebecca's kitchen served tea and a selection of sweet crunchy biscuits while they waited for the investigation to clear at the Unzer's home. Sifu stated that Ravenelle may come back with more men in the night. It would be best to move everyone out of the house for it would likely be a less subtle attack next time.
Colonel Unzer was in a foul mood when Preston returned home. The police had been quite obnoxious in their persistence though, due to the interference by General Grant, they were not comfortable with how to handle the case. Unzer tried to divert them by saying, because the assassins were foreign, this was a United States Army affair. Unzer himself was a colonel in the United States Army (he did not mention that he was retired). General Grant, as they had all witnessed, was here to do his own investigation. Everyone knew that now, two years after the American Civil War, the former Union Army with Ulysses Grant still at the helm, carried more clout in most jurisdictions than any police organization. Unzer had chosen a persuasive tactic that, in the end, at least partially appeased the constabulary. For the time being, they carried away the bodies and left Unzer in a stew.
Returning to his apartment, Serge Ravenelle fumed, simmered and stewed in his own kettle of chaos. The United States government had turned a deaf ear to the French minister. The Americans had provided him with an elegant and lavishly furnished home and offices; they had been quite hospitable in every way but, and this was the part that gnawed, they had failed to take him seriously on the political stage. On the other hand, in the underground arena —Serge's true area of expertise— he had suffered losses he was not accustomed to. More than twenty of his men had died on this side of the Atlantic; his sister-in-law and niece had turned against him, then disappeared; his organization was ripping apart at the seams and Commandant Henri L'Heureux, who now stood silently staring out the window, could come up with no better explanation than that confounded shrug he used for an answer to everything.
Initially, the Washington infiltration had been as easy as taking gold fillings from an old woman's teeth. There had been no resistance. Now, everyone wanted back into the action. Even the Chinese were planning to open another opium den, though the first one had been burned to the cellar and eleven or twelve of the slipper flopping bastards had baked in the ashes. Wasn't that a sufficient education for them? Sawyer Thompson, frontman for the late Bagnold's construction firms, had a yellow streak wide enough to paint Pennsylvania Avenue. He had no guts, no gumption and gall enough to gag a maggot. But the longest and most irritating thorn in Serge's side was this elusive black haired kid who single-handedly beat Guy Stringer —one of L'Heureux's toughest Apaches— to death, or beat him so badly that the commandant had to finish him.
After many hours of trying to place this American from the verbal sketch Sawyer Thompson had given, Serge recalled the army dance he had attended not long after the Ravenelles' arrival in Washington. A lad, a good-looking young devil, had danced with Dominique. Serge remembered the American had been named Adam, Adam something. L'Heureux had discovered that Adam Forsythe was the name of the kid who fought Guy Stringer. Thompson's description of the fighting Adam matched that of the dancing Adam.
Neither Serge nor Commandant L'Heureux had caught a glimpse of the intruder who, less than an hour ago, had escaped from Madame Ravenelle's apartment. There was evidence of snooping, but nothing had been stolen from Serge's rooms and he assumed nothing had been taken from Gabriella's apartment. The thief must have been searching for information and he must have known the suites were empty. Though it rankled a little —because they just didn't care enough to do so— Serge could not believe the invasion had been ordered by an American government agency. But… someone was interested in his operations and he believed it could be the Forsythe kid. Why would a youth, smitten by a pretty young lady, be so determined to infiltrate the French underground in Washington DC? Serge recalled another instance of an intruder: Before the arrival of L'Heureux and his men, Ravenelle had hired two local goons to maintain a guard on the apartments. One night, they had caught a young man climbing down the balcony from one of the suites. The man had escaped but perhaps that thief or spy had been the young Romeo seeking Dominique's company? If Forsythe was the snoop, then and now, how much did he know? Conceivably, Adam Forsythe may be the root of all Serge Ravenelle's troubles.
With a muttered curse, Serge tossed off his whiskey and vowed to have a feed of Forsythe Ragout with Dominique thrown in for added flavour.
L'Heureux, hearing Serge Ravenelle swearing under his breath, turned from the window and studied his employer. Following orders, Henri had found out what he could about the late Guy Stringer's opponent. A couple of the Apaches had tried the tough way by beating the job foreman, Robert Tessier, and then Henri had Sawyer Thompson search the business's employment records. Now the commander could not tell his boss that, had he done the reading in the first place, none of the events of yesterday, especially the forest massacre, would have taken place. Nonetheless, Sawyer had come up with the answers this morning and, at this very minute, three more Apaches should be investigating the home of the young Forsythe.
Leaving Ravenelle to his muttering, the commandant turned again toward the window. A man was running across the common. L'Heureux's keen vision descried the familiar chapeau worn by his men. He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. As the runner neared, Henri read terror in his paled features. In French, L'Heureux hailed him. The man skidded to a halt on the slippery grass, tore off his hat and, clutching it in both hands, blurted, “Micheal, Pierre and Denis have been killed.”
Robert Tessier couldn't lift heavy lumber and he was too sore to swing a hammer but he had more know-how than Davy Brannigan's three carpenters combined. Work on the new house proceeded faster on the first morning of Tessier's employment than it had since turning the first shovel of sod. Brannigan appraised the Frenchman and knew he had to have this fellow running at least one of his crews. He mentioned this to his eldest sister.
The Brannigans had postponed their proposed shopping expedition to Washington. It seemed to Lily that the appearance of Preston Diamond often had a way of altering the best laid plans. On their arrival back home, Amy and Lily had made the new people, Robert and Gabriella, as comfortable as possible in the old house. Not many months ago, the girls would have been embarrassed to have a glamorous lady like Madame Ravenelle visit their humble home but times had changed and prosperity was now in sight. The visitors, exhausted from the challenges of the long day, were grateful to have each other and a sturdy roof over their heads.
In spite of being whipped and frayed like a knot on the end of a trailing rope, exhausted from strain, pain and exertion, sleep eluded Tessier. A host of overwhelming thoughts were at opposite poles and their constant rivalry hurt his brain. Until today, he had been a man who nursed and cared for wounded animals and birds, but a few hours ago, he had blasted a human being to oblivion. Was he now a killer? When he opened his eyes in the still darkness of the cabin, the moon and star light outlined the lovely lady lying beside him. Gabriella Ravenelle had beauty to rival angels and she would soon be his wife. How could this be? What had he ever done in his life to be awarded so fair a prize?
Protesting doubts surged to the fore: In a tender moment, Gabriella had promised she would love him forever; a few seconds later, he had been convinced she was going to kill him; then, as calmly as he would set a nail, she blasted the brains out of an Apache assassin. Robert couldn't decide whether to worship this hotblooded French woman or burn her at the stake. Gabriella's soft, steady breathing told him she was asleep. He wondered what her dreams were. Most women he had known would have had nightmares if they had shot a man to death. He thought again of the stranger slain by his hand.
Madame Ravenelle, aware of Robert's restlessness, had no nightmares but she had worries and regrets. Writing Alexandria on the reverse side of Serge's note and verbally passing on Adam Forsythe's intentions to the messenger who delivered it had been an egregious error. She should have realized the consequences; maybe she had. At the time Adam and the Chinese man burst into her apartment, Gabriella was in a state of pained shock. She wanted to lash out at someone; Adam was the first and most deserving target. Madame also worried about her tender daughter. She should not have let Dominique go away from her. The girl's uncle was a merciless man, Gabriella shuddered, he had drowned his brother; he would have no compunction about murdering his niece. She wondered how much Serge knew about Tessier and Forsythe. Did he know about the summer-long tryst?
Gabriella turned over and saw that Robert was awake. His arm traced an arc across the bed sheet and his hand came to rest on her thigh. She snuggled close and her lips met his. For both, aches, fears, doubts and worries faded.
The second day after arriving at Brannigan farm, Robert Tessier was able to actively participate in the finishing of the new house. Davy soon gave over any pretense of being the boss and became a willing student. He marvelled at the Frenchman's insight and knowhow. It seemed that Robert never paused to think of what to do next; he just went about his work as methodically as breathing. His ideas and innovations were far superior to Davy's straight forward ninety-degree construction. By midmorning, Davy informed his original carpenters to pack their tools and move to a job his main crew had started in Conception. “Mr. Tessier and I will finish up the house and, if it's alright with Robert, we'll come and help with that project in a few days.”
Lily and Amy were getting along fine with Gabriella and, from time to time, the three of them, cooking or baking in the old house, could be heard laughing and talking in high spirits.
After the carpenters had said their good-byes —?Lily and the younger carpenter taking their time in parting— Tessier said to Davy, “Gabriella is missing her daughter. She fears for what Monsieur Ravenelle may do. I know the man is capable of anything, even murdering his own family. So, Davy, we'd like to go with you to Washington when you and your sisters set out again to buy your stove and furniture for the new house.”
Davy laughed. “Sure, Robert. I'll ride my saddle horse, it is a tight squeeze for us all in the two-seater.”
Tessier told Brannigan of his previous employment under the late Hugh Bagnold and of the glorious opportunities for a young man with ambition in the construction industry around Capitol Hill. Davy had completed several small projects in the city and his lumber shipments had given him a few connections but Robert Tessier's contacts, inside knowledge, and understanding of the dynamics of successfully bidding contracts and tenders could give Davy the leg up he needed. From then on, Brannigan's conversations seldom ranged far from that topic.
Colonel Unzer was a tough old soldier but his Achilles Heel had always been his loving wife and that is the lever Preston pried on to convince the colonel to move out of his home for a few days. Night had fallen. The curtains were drawn. Sifu Chiang, Dominique and Preston sat in the parlour with Colonel and Mrs. Unzer. Rebecca and Xi-Ping had just finished replacing the dressings on Diamond's wounds. Outside the house, as many as a half dozen Chinese knights patrolled the front and back streets.
Preston said, “They will blast or burn the house next time, Colonel Jim. You don't want to lose Rebecca in this cursed mix up. She was just seconds away from being hurt today. Please, sir, it's all my fault and I can't let you or Rebecca die for my mistakes.”
“This is our home, Adam,” Unzer said, “We have to defend it.”
Rebecca rose from her chair, walked across the room and rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. She was reluctant to be forced out of her house, too, but she said, “I think Adam is right, James. I can't go on defending my kitchen with a shotgun. These people aren't going to give up, but they are losing ground. Maybe it will only be a short while before we can move back home.”
Unzer's stern face softened; his hand moved up to cover hers. “Where would we go, Rebecca? I don't want to move into some hotel. Hell, they may find us there and we would be in worse shape than here, at home.”
Preston had his arm around Dominique's waist. He shifted and winced from a twinge in his side. “I don't think they are after you, Colonel Jim. It's me… me and Dominique. But this house is not safe. We have no idea what arsenal they command; I know Les Apaches have strange weapons, stuff that I have never seen before and they have a supply of powder and caps. They may even launch artillery from a distance and Sifu's men could not prevent it. The sooner we all move, the safer we will be.”
Rebecca squeezed her husband's hand and answered for him, “Alright, Adam, we'll go. Where do you suggest we bunk in?”
Relief shone in Preston's blue eyes as he met Colonel Jim's gaze. “Uncle Lyss and his family are expecting you any minute. As a precaution, I've already moved Rascal and your grays to the Grants' stable.”
Unzer growled, “This young bugger had this all set up. He has us wrapped around his finger, Becky.”
Preston protested, “General Grant's house has a twenty-four hour guard and I'm guessing he has increased the man power for this occasion. The entire French army couldn't reach you there.”
Commander L'Heureux helped the breathless runner over the balcony rail, brought him into the apartment and poured a stiff shot of Ravenelle's good whiskey. Even after the Apache's breathing slowed enough for him to talk, he continued to sit in numb silence. An ominous quiet permeated the room. The walls closed in. Henri gruffly urged him to tell his story.
The French fighter's name was Andre Lassard and he had been sent as an observer to the Unzer's residence where one Adam Forsythe was reputed to be living. L'Heureux had wanted an extra man because, so far, when a plan went sour, there had been no witnesses, no survivors, to tell the tale; just plenty of dead Apaches. Lassard had followed his orders to the letter. He had stayed out of the fracas; he had witnessed all that went on outside the house; he had an audio description of what happened inside and saw the end result of the indoor fight. From his view point in a tree several houses down the lane from Unzer's house, he watched two of his colleagues cautiously approach the home from the alley. He saw an old man, with a pistol in his hand, emerge from a stable and attempt to apprehend Denis; at that moment, two Chinese people vaulted the neighbouring fence and kicked Denis to death in a split second.
Lassard went on to describe every movement in minute detail. He saw the Chinese men go inside the house a short while after Micheal and Pierre had gone in. The old man went round to the front. Another man, an ancient Chinaman, came trotting down the alley and passed right under Andre's perch. Seconds earlier, Andre had heard someone running out on the front street. The old Chinaman went in the back of the house, too. Just as he disappeared, there was a blast of a heavy gun, not a pistol, from inside the residence. Shouts erupted and then there was a murmuring of voices, too distant to make out, but what Lassard could hear was not in French. After a few minutes, the two younger Chinese, the fighters, dragged Micheal and Pierre's bodies into the back yard; then they pulled Denis in from the alley. Lassard had tears in his eyes and he wiped a sleeve across his nose. “They were all dead, Commandant,” he said.
Ravenelle's face showed no emotion but Commander L'Heureux, who knew him better than anyone, realized that the boss was primed for an explosion.
L'Heureux poured three fingers into Lassard's glass then refilled Ravenelle's and his own.
No one spoke.
Lassard took two large gulps, watched his leaders for a few minutes, then drained the remainder of his tumbler. L'Heureux nodded to him as he turned to leave. “Lassard, I know it must have been hard for you to stay out of the fight… watching your comrades killed. But we had to have the information you have given us. Go to the whorehouse and choose any one or two ladies you want. Tell them Commander L'Heureux said to treat you right.”
Lassard was out of sight across the common before Serge Ravenelle managed to speak. It wasn't the blast L'Heureux had anticipated. Serge's words were slow and deliberate. “Henri, we have underestimated the Chinese. They were the first people we attacked right at the start. We slaughtered a dozen of them in that opium den. It's been them who have fought us all the way. Chinese fighters killed our men in the Presidential, they wiped them out at Kalmattii's Mercantile.”
Ravenelle took a tentative sip of whiskey. “Henri, you were right to suggest I have more fighters brought in. They'll be here in a few days, a week at the most. The syndicate has been recruiting in Paris but, with our men being beaten at every turn here, we may run out of soldiers on both sides of that cursed ocean.” He tipped the glass to his mouth and, before drinking, his dark eyes studied L'Heureux over the lip of the crystal. “We can't stop now, Commandant; Washington has already proven to be a lucrative enterprise. There are big dollars ripening on the American money tree and we are the chosen ones to harvest them.”
L'Heureux stifled a shrug and nodded his agreement. “Monsieur, there is one other thing about the Chinese….”
“What, Henri? The new opium den? Take some powder down there and blow that place into the water. Then you can hunt down those little rice eaters and wipe them out. If they want war, we'll give them war.”
The big commander shrugged, slopping a few drops of whiskey on the carpet. He ignored Serge's scowl. “Only… I don't think the Chinese fought our Apaches in the forest. None of our men came back alive to say what did happen and I haven't sent a man to interrogate the soldiers. I can't believe Madame and Mademoiselle Ravenelle would have fled with the Chinese. It seems more likely that Forsythe and the carpenter have something to do with the ladies' disappearance and with the fight out in the trees.”
Ravenelle stood thoughtful for a minute then, with exaggerated gentleness, placed his tumbler on the table. In a voice laced with venom, he said, “Commander, I have to talk to Gabriella and Dominique. They know all about this damn Forsythe kid and that nail-hammering bastard, too. Find the women and we'll find the answers. We will make those pretty whores give us the truth and I shall enjoy prying every word out of them.”
International war broke out on American soil that night.
The new opium den was attacked and lit on fire. Three Chinese knights were shot; two died instantly, one was seriously wounded. Sifu's men killed one of the French Apaches and crippled another. The fire was extinguished before it burned out of control. Shortly after midnight, Preston Diamond heard an explosion and, from his bedroom window on the upper floor of Ulysses Grant's house, saw a ball of flames mushrooming skyward. It was in the direction of the Unzer's cottage. Strapping on his Colt, he padded down the stairs, out the main door and past two cigarette smoking soldiers staring toward the fire. He raced the several blocks to his home. Colonel Unzer's house was not on fire but the Chinese residence across the alley was a roaring inferno of exploded kindling. Later, Diamond learned that the older Chinese man, his wife, and one more of Chiang's warriors were killed in the blast.
After briefly watching the fire and the timely arrival of the fire crew, Preston thoroughly checked over the Colonel's house. It appeared to be unscathed so he trotted down the alley to inspect the stable. At first he was alarmed that the grays and Rascal were gone and then remembered having transferred them to the Grants' horse barn. He checked the building for fire or smoke lest a stray piece of flaming debris had landed on the roof or in the hay nearby.
As Diamond emerged into the alley, Sifu, standing in shadows a good distance back from the flames, stepped forward, touched Preston's arm, and led him away. Similar to the time they went to Kalmattii's Mercantile, Xi-Ping again weaved through the night blackened streets at a dogtrot heading downtown. In a dark but vaguely familiar alley, Chiang opened the door concealed inside the dragon mural and Preston followed him through to a candle lit room. It was the kitchen area where Diamond had first encountered the Chinese people. Three Shanghai fighters wearing swords and daggers stood side by side near the opposite wall. They bowed a silent acknowledgement. Several grief stricken older people shuffled around the room, their sandals whispering on the concrete floor. A pair of almond eyed children, a boy and girl sitting on a low wooden bench, squinted at Preston through the candle smoke. A faint scent of incense hung upon the air. No one spoke. Preston took up a position in front of the dragon door and maintained the silence.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed; Diamond was beginning to wonder about the purpose of this silentious assembly when a door opened admitting two mud caked and grimy Chinese. In Mandarin, they spoke to Xi-Ping who turned and translated for Preston. “Tunnel under President Hotel, open,” he said. “We go now.” With a subtle wave to the trio of Shanghai soldiers, he stepped through the low doorway and into the tunnel he and Preston had used the first day Preston learned of the underground network. Diamond followed behind Sifu; he heard a faint rustle as the three Chinese filed in.
The passageway had not been shored up; damp earth clung to the walls; tools and baskets were removed. Small feet had tramped a solid path through the forty foot tunnel which ended at a short ladder positioned below a trap door in the ceiling. Chiang knocked lightly on the wooden cover and Preston heard a whispered shuffle of sandals above his head. The lid lifted silently to reveal a large pair of buckteeth in a round face. No words were spoken as the men climbed up and regrouped in the enormous cellar hole of Serge Ravenelle's hotel. The attendant flipped a crate upside down over the door and, when Sifu spoke to him, he pointed to a pile of sacking in a near corner. Preston guessed the man had been hiding under the burlap. The Chinese had not had time to make a concealed entrance.
Chiang explained his simple plan in both Mandarin and English: Hunt for Serge Ravenelle. Sound no alarms. Take no hostages. He pointed to Diamond's Colt. “No shoot first.” Preston interpreted this to mean “Don't announce your presence by opening up with the revolver unless Les Apaches have already started the shooting.” Preston knelt down and removed the throwing stars he had laced in his boots and stashed them in his shirt pocket.
Two sets of stairs, one at either end of the rectangular basement hole, led up to the ground floor. The Shanghai soldiers took the near flight, Sifu and Preston went to the far end and surfaced there. They followed along a dark hall that had several doors staggered along its length. Chiang paused at each and listened for sounds of habitation. Cooking odours lingered at an open but unlit room; Preston guessed it was the hotel kitchen. At the end of the passage, they came to a narrow shaft of light pouring through a slightly opened door. Sifu bent forward for a scan of the room beyond and Diamond did the same a foot or so above him. Several oil lamps sufficiently lit the room for Preston to recognize the decadent staircase: they were viewing the lobby of the Presidential Hotel. No one occupied the steps or landing above but a man dozed in a chair near the entrance doors. Low voices murmured somewhere nearby. Two signs hanging above a scarred and pitted oak counter read “GUEST REGISTRATION” and “NO VACANCY.” Ravenelle's hotel was not serving the general public.
Out of Diamond's line of sight, perhaps somewhere above, a door opened and closed. The hollow rhythm of quick footsteps echoed an eerie emptiness; a painted lady appeared at the top of the stair. She made her way to the bottom and paused beside the now alert doorman. She said something and made a gesture with her hands; lewd laughter reached Diamond's ears. The guard, an Apache, rose from his chair and unlocked the paned glass doors allowing the whore out into the night. The temporarily stalled conversation in another part of the lobby resumed. Apparently, the speakers could see out into the common area for they had paused during the exchange between the lady and the guard at the entrance.
The sentry had not yet resumed his seat when a second door opened and closed. No footfalls followed and the guard stared in the direction of the sound. Preston could almost hear his thinking as the man felt inside his coat for the reassurance that was stored there. With a glance in the direction of the talkers, he ambled toward the door. Unfortunately, Diamond and Sifu had a limited view which did not allow sufficient angle to see what door had opened. The guard stepped out of sight and Preston strained his hearing to discover what happened next: A faint cough; a dull thud; silence.
The muted conversation halted again and the tread of two pairs of feet could be heard striding across the lobby. Preston narrowly avoided a noggin knock to the chin as Xi-Ping straightened and stepped back. He eased the crack open wider and Diamond was able to see the backs of the two men who had been chatting; their guns were in their hands and they were headed in the direction the doorman had gone. The doorway where the guard must have entered was now visible. It was closed.
The pair were one step away from the door, one of them reaching for the knob, when Sifu moved backward and pushed his door shut with a solid thud. He paused a moment then opened it wide enough to look across the lobby. Preston, able to see out again, had to fill in the blank moment. The gunmen, gawping slack-jawed, were now turned toward him and Sifu. In that half-second of their paralysis, the door behind them opened wide and two of the Chinese knights, swords in hand, stepped forward to skewer the two Apaches. The third member grabbed the dead men by their collars and dragged them into the darkened hall behind him.
Sifu Chiang gripped a throwing knife in his teeth, palmed a second one, and stepped out into the lobby. After surveying the area, he motioned Preston to snuff the lights on the main floor. Diamond did as he was bid while Sifu had a whispered conference with the swordsmen. Preston joined them under the staircase. Xi-Ping thought that no more Apaches occupied the main level. He pointed to the ceiling. “We go there.”
Halfway up the stair, the landing light glistened on Chiang's balding head; Preston thought he should have borrowed a chapeau from one of the dead men. On the landing, at a ninety degree angle, two hallways split to right and left; directly opposite another flight led up to the third floor. Preston recalled that he and Xi-Ping had found the opium in the right branch, Room #24. It was along this arm that Sifu directed his search again. The passage had a single lamp burning at the far end and the landing light at the near end completed the illumination. The Chinese extinguished the lights. There were six rooms per side. Sifu spaced his fighters at intervals along the hall and had them, as silently as possible, test the locks on the doors. Those that weren't locked were searched. The left hand row had no occupancy, perhaps it was uncomfortably hot on that side during the Washington summer. All of the empty rooms had been left open and Chiang stood to one side while Preston quickly picked the simple skeleton locks of those that were locked. Three of the rooms on the right hand side were in use but vacant: possibly the recent occupants were stacked and stiffening in the narrow hall one floor below. At the second locked room, Diamond had just knelt to work the mechanism when the door swung open and a man, half asleep, tried to step out into the hall. He tripped over Preston but his outcry was stifled by a crushed larynx as Sifu aborted the fellow's visit to the washroom and put him back to sleep.
Though Preston Diamond and the Chinese contingent had worked quietly, the occupant of the second-last room had been alerted. The moment Preston poked his pick into the key hole, three rapid blasts coincided with a splintering of door frame and a spray of shattered lock fragments as a trio of randomly placed bullets ripped through the panel and slammed into the wall across the hall. Diamond felt the searing sting of wood splinters and metal slivers in his right cheek but the lethal slugs passed harmlessly over his head. He threw himself to one side, drew the Colt and pointed it into the room as the door, no longer secured by a latch, swung inward.
The hotel room was dark but Diamond made out the dim shape of a fellow, clad in white underwear, standing on the bed. Though he could not see it, Preston could feel the man's pistol sweeping the blackened doorway, seeking a target. The Colt barked once. An answering explosion and streak of orange flame erupted in front of the long-johns but it was a shot in the dark, without aim, fired from the nerveless twitching fingers of a dead man. Flimsy bedsprings protested as the Apache fell heavily onto the thin mattress.
Preston had subconsciously registered pandemonium breaking loose behind him. Now, he wriggled around on the floor and peered down the second hallway. Doors were bursting open, shouts filled the air. Sifu and the Shanghai knights were advancing toward the left branch. Overhead on the third floor, the sound of bare or stockinged feet running announced to Preston that more Apaches were billeted on that level. Someone who must have had extreme night vision opened fire down the hall and two of Sifu's soldiers spun round and sank to the floor. Diamond called, “Down the stair, Sifu, more men are up above!”
Chiang and the remaining fighter each grabbed a comrade and made for the darkened patch that marked the stairway. More lead was zipping and ricocheting down the hall; Preston saw the body of a wounded Chinese jerk from the impact as more slugs poured into him.
Near Diamond's elbow, the last door of the right hallway swung inward. A hand holding a gun appeared an instant before a head was poked cautiously round the door jamb. The shooter did not see Diamond on the floor at his feet and he calmly took aim at the retreating forms of Sifu and the Shanghai fighters. Preston twisted half a turn to snap a quick shot upwards. The bullet made an undignified entry in the man's groin and plowed its way through pelvis and several organs before coming to rest on the inside wall of the rib cage. The unfired pistol clattered to the floor near Diamond's leg and the dead man, tipping backward, disappeared into his room.
Someone (quite unwisely) fired a lantern at the far end of the left hall. Pale yellow light pushed the shadows forward between the rows of doors. Hoarse cries of anger and fear ordered the lamp extinguished but not before Preston chose two targets and fired two quick shots. One Apache spun and fell into his doorway, the second sprawled across the aisle.
The light went out.
Diamond felt for the dropped pistol, stuck it in his belt and slithered along the floor on his elbows past the opening to the left hallway and safely reached the top of the stair. Replacing the spent cartridges in his own gun, he called softly to Sifu, announcing his intentions to come down the steps. Les Apaches must have assumed the hall was now empty for another light flickered in the left branch and a lantern, hanging on a horizontal coat stand, was tentatively pushed out toward the landing.
Centre stage in the spotlight, Preston lay on the carpet as obvious as a raven on a snowdrift. A silent whisper passed over his head and one of Xi-Ping's throwing knives struck the kerosene lamp, shattering the globe and knocking the lantern from its temporary hanger. Coal oil seeped out on the threadbare rug and flames from the burning wick lapped up the fuel. Keeping the Colt trained on the hallway, Preston rolled away from the fire, felt his boots reach the stair, then pushed himself down and backward until he had sunk below the level of the landing. Sifu appeared beside him; together they backed down the staircase until near enough to the next level to jump. They leaped over the railing and disappeared into the opaqueness of the main floor.
Diamond risked a peek from his cover of darkness. Above, on the third floor and the second flight of stairs, as well as on the landing and down the left hallway, he could see or hear men running and shouting. Several alert Apaches fought the blaze with blankets but the dry painted wood and bed clothes were catching fire. Smoke billowed upward and soon both levels were bathed in a greasy, smothering glow. Preston might have emptied his guns into the French soldiers as they struggled to control the flames but he could not force himself to do so. He turned to Chiang who simply pointed to one of the dead Chinese and said, “We go now.”
Preston holstered his gun and, while Sifu kept watch on the action from the upper floor, grasped the dead man under the armpits and lugged him toward the doorway where the Chinese had left the three Apaches earlier. Though the third Shanghai fighter had suffered a bullet wound, he was not incapacitated and was able to drag the other dead comrade. In this hallway, the coal oil night lamps illuminated the way. They reached the basement step, then Sifu motioned his students to go back and make a check of each room along that hall. They did not expect to find any Apaches but Xi-Ping thought there could be hostages or Ravenelle's victims imprisoned here. Preston didn't bother picking locks; with powerful side kicks, he and the Shanghai fighter booted the doors open. At the lobby end of the aisle, Diamond peered through the partially opened door: the fire was out of control now and growing bigger with each gulping, fire-spewing breath. They found no bodies, living or dead, though one of the rooms had been used for some sort of interrogation centre: there were implements of torture; blood was splattered on the walls and a dark coagulated pool was on the floor. Sifu led the way to the basement. The Chinese passage guard grew wide eyed when he saw the bullet riddled bodies of the two dead soldiers but he was able to help pass the dead men through the trap door into the tunnel and then climbed down to join the others.
Diamond was the last to go into the hole but first he went back up the basement step for one more look. Flames were now galloping down the hall he had just evacuated. Dense smoke and searing heat clung to the ceiling but a thermo inversion kept the lower third clear. At the opposite end, the dead Frenchmen were engulfed. The fire was now a roaring, red-hot tornado twisting through hell. Beams from the upper floors were creaking and crashing. For a moment Preston thought he heard cries of someone trapped. He listened closely. No, he couldn't hear anything but the fury of the fire. He hoped the men above would escape. Inevitably, they would burn in Hell, but live cremation is a terrible way to get there.
Dominique, laying awake in the predawn darkness, heard someone pad down the hall past her door. She thought she recognized Adam's soft tread. It must be Adam, for his room was at the end of the hall with one unoccupied room separating them on this floor of the Grants' home. She fought the urge to dash to the door and call after him. It seemed a long while since they had had time alone together and she ached to be in his arms, to tell him she loved him, to tell him… everything.
As the light of day began to creep in around the blinds, Dominique dressed, slipped down the stairs and went out into the garden. She could hear a murmur of voices, probably the temporary sentries posted at General Grant's house. Though she had only met him briefly, Dominique liked Adam's Uncle Ulysses. How incredible that the man may soon become president of the United States! Dominique walked to the garden gate, looked around for the soldiers, then stepped out into the alley. She hurried along the quiet street, turned up Pennsylvania Avenue, crossed the grounds and arrived unseen (except for Sifu Chiang) at her former residence. Having lived in the building for three months, she was a friend to the French custodian at the entrance and he did not pry as to where Mademoiselle had been. Dominique fought a sudden wave of nausea as she climbed the stair and rushed down the hall to her apartment. She fumbled with the key, pushed the door open and spent the next few minutes heaving over the sink in her tiny kitchen. Exhausted from that effort and a lack of sleep, she lay down on her bed waiting for the room to stop spinning.
She fell asleep.
Lisa Downs, the chambermaid, woke Dominique a couple of hours later when she came to make up the room. The French girl was distraught that she had slept so long but tried to hide her distress from the maid. While Lisa stripped the bed and set out fresh flowers, Dominique rummaged through her jewelry case and found the dainty gold locket she had come for. She flipped open the cover: the picture was still there.
Dominique glanced up to see Lisa, wearing a questioning smile, at the bedroom doorway. Before either could speak, the face and hat of a strange man appeared over Lisa's shoulder. Espying Dominique, he roughly slapped his open hand to the side of the maid's head and slammed her forehead against the door frame. Dominique screamed as her friend slumped to the floor. A second man stepped past the first, grabbed Dominique's wrist and, pulling her close, clapped a hand over her mouth. In French he growled, “Don't scream again.” As he dragged her out of the bedroom she kicked a chair which jarred the glass topped table upsetting the vase of flowers Lisa had placed there. The man who had belted Lisa Downs scooped up the unconscious girl and carelessly tossed her on the bed. Dominique bit the hand covering her mouth. The assailant released his hold but the scream was halted in her throat as the man viciously clouted her on the side of the neck and all went black.
Some time later, Dominique, her neck and shoulder aching fearfully, regained her senses. She was in a musty smelling hay shed. One of the men was leering at her, the other was not in sight. In her clenched fist she could feel the little locket taken from her jewelry box.
Full sunlight was squeezing around the edges of the blinds when a loud knock on Preston's door brought him awake. “Come in,” he said.
Mrs. Unzer entered, looked furtively round the room, then focused on the lone occupant of the bed. “Thank God, you're alone in here,” she said.
“Uncle Lyss has enough rooms for half of Washington, Rebecca. Why shouldn't I be alone?”
Rebecca placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I thought maybe you had secreted Dominique in here with you. I wouldn't mind so much in our house but Mrs. Grant would not approve of that kind of goings-on here, her having two young daughters and all.”
Preston blushed. “You know I wouldn't do anything like that.”
“I know more than you think I know,” she said. “Maybe… maybe I even know more than you about some things. Anyway, do you know where Miss Ravenelle is? She was going to teach Julia and I about French cooking.”
Diamond sat up. “Dominique is gone? She wouldn't leave with all the trouble that's going on.”
“I haven't searched the house. She's not in her room… she's not in here with you.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his trousers. Rebecca stepped closer and studied his face.“What happened to you?” she asked. “It looks like you've been in a scrap with that big tom cat that's been hanging around our stable.”
Preston felt his cheek. He had removed the slivers driven in from the bullet shattered door but he could not wash away the red scratches nor all of the fine gray metal and lead dust. He shrugged. “There was a fire last night. Our Chinese neighbours lost their house.”
“The new neighbours? Are they alright? How is our house, is it okay?”
“The fire crews were there, I think it was an explosion. Three of the Chinese were killed. I don't think our house was harmed.”
“We had better tell James, I think he was reading about it in the newspaper. Maybe you could give him the facts.”
A grimace of pain swept his features as Preston thought of the cries he had imagined in the Presidential Hotel fire last night. “I have to find Dominique, Rebecca. If she isn't in this house, she may have been caught by Ravenelle.”
“But why would she leave the house? When and where would she go?”
Preston searched his pocket for his time piece. “I've slept in! I've missed Sifu's training.”
“He'll understand,” Rebecca said, then nodded gravely to Preston's bandages. “You've done something to make that rib injury bleed again. No wonder you've overslept, the amount of blood you've lost in the last few days.”
Uninhibited by Mrs. Unzer's presence, Preston dressed quickly, then followed her down the stairs to the kitchen. General Grant had already gone to the Capitol; Colonel Unzer, the newspaper opened in front of him, held his familiar pose at the Grants' table. Mrs. Grant was stirring a steaming pot on the stove. Through the opened parlour door, a maid could be seen busily whisking a feather duster over the furniture. None of the children were in evidence. Preston apologized for being late but Julia Grant waved him to a chair, saying, “Lyss tells me you were out fighting fire last night.”
Diamond assumed the sentry had informed the general of his absence.
Colonel Unzer looked up. “Which one? There was a house fire out in our neighbourhood, the old Presidential Hotel burned to the ground and another building on the riverfront had damage.”
Preston accepted a bowl of oatmeal from Mrs. Grant, thanked her and said, “Well, I heard an explosion and looked out the bedroom window. There was a big orange ball of fire and it looked to be coming from our house, Colonel Jim. I ran over there to see.”
Rebecca said, “It was our new neighbours, James. Adam says three of them died in the fire.”
Julia Grant said, “My heavens. What is this city coming to? It's as bad as when the war was on.”
Diverting the topic, Preston asked, “Colonel Jim, have you seen Dominique this morning? Rebecca says she isn't in her room…”
Rebecca interrupted, “I hadn't gone looking for her, I thought… I thought maybe you knew where she was.”
Colonel Unzer shook his head. “No. I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since last night.”
Diamond wolfed down his breakfast and, as Rebecca picked up the bowl, he said, “I'll check the garden and talk with the soldiers, maybe she just went out for some sunshine.”
After half an hour, it was evident that Dominique was not in the Grants' house. Her bed had been slept in but she had taken no breakfast. No one, including the guard out front, had seen her.
No one except Sifu Chiang.
Xi-Ping intercepted Preston on his way to the foreign dignitaries' complex. Before Diamond could apologize for missing the practise session, Sifu pointed to the upper balcony and said, “Dominique go early.”
“Did she come back out, Sifu?”
“No… Maybe L'Heureux or Ravenelle go in?”
Preston paled. If those two had been in the Presidential Hotel last night, they must have escaped the fire. He wished he had read, or had Colonel Unzer read, the news report about the blaze. How many men got out? How many bodies were found? “We have to find her, Sifu. If she falls into Serge Ravenelle's hands now, she will be murdered… or worse.”
Sifu and Preston were now more familiar with the foreign building, specifically the east wing. They went the normal route instead of drawing unnecessary attention by scaling the outside of the complex. Diamond believed that Ravenelle was now a desperate man, though the Washington authorities were not yet aware of his connection to the gang wars and street fighting that was going on in DC. If Ravenelle or his commander were inside, and Preston was caught, he would be shot dead in broad daylight. So would Dominique.
Preston exercised more caution than he had before but little time had elapsed before he gained entry to Gabriella's suite. Flowers in the jar on the glass table had not been replaced today. Apparently the maid had not been predisposed to wasting beautiful bouquets on empty apartments. The room was untouched. Sifu Chiang listened at the passage door into Ravenelle's side. He turned to Preston and shook his head. While the master stood guard at Gabriella's entrance, Preston picked the passage lock and slipped into Serge's rooms. The liquor glasses Diamond had heard clinking when he eavesdropped the day before were not in evidence. Preston presumed a chamber maid had been in this suite and washed the crystal. The level in the whiskey decanter had dropped by a third; someone had been drinking more than the few sloshes Preston had heard. After a brief inspection, he determined nothing else had changed; the room had not been occupied during the night. Neither Gabriella's nor Serge's suites held that tantalizing perfume scent Diamond associated with Dominique.
He went back to Gabriella's side, locking the passage door behind him. To Sifu he said, “We'll find our way down to Dominique's apartment. Maybe she needed more clothes or something; the ladies didn't take much with them when they left this place.”
Mademoiselle Ravenelle's apartment was not difficult to find though the system of hallways did not necessarily correspond with the one above it. All rooms on this floor appeared to be suites and apartments and there were three sets of stairs down to ground level. The door to the room that Preston and Sifu thought to be Dominique's was ajar. Preston listened, knocked and then poked his head inside the room. The scent of Dominique's tantalizing French perfume assailed his nostrils and Diamond knew for certain he had the right suite; she was within or had very recently departed.
“Dominique?” he called, “Are you here?”
Though he heard no response, the chamber did not echo that hollow empty sound of a vacant room. Preston stepped inside; Sifu followed and closed the door behind him. They were in a tiny entry that opened into a small kitchen and dining area. Preston had raced through this room during his escape from Henri L'Heureux and Serge Ravenelle but he had not taken time to admire the decor. It was a half-scale version of Gabriella's suite. On the table —glass topped, slightly smaller than Gabriella's— a vase of fresh flowers had been recently tipped over and water, still dripping on the floor, was forming a puddle. There were cleaning utensils, soaps and detergent, fresh bedding, towels and another vase of flowers on a small cart. Preston stepped across the room, took a cautious look, then entered the bed chamber. Dominique was not in there but, stretched out diagonally on the sheet stripped bed, lay a very pale faced maid; an ugly darkening bruise on her forehead. Sifu stepped past Preston and felt the lady's wrist. A low groan escaped her lips and Preston glanced the question at Xi-Ping. “Bad knock on head,” Chiang said. “She okay soon.”
She might have information which would help find his girlfriend so, while he waited for the chambermaid to regain consciousness, Preston busied himself searching the apartment for an indication as to what had happened. He was convinced Dominique had been here for the scent of her perfume was strong. Unless she had helped herself to a sample, it was unlikely the maid could afford such foreign luxury. Diamond found that one of the drawers on the bedside table had been left partially open. It had not been ransacked. An engraved teak jewelry box, its lid flipped up, stood on an ornate commode. The intrusion did not appear to be the work of a thief for an expensively jewelled brooch lay obvious among the dainty pieces in the box.
Sifu asked Preston to fetch a cup of water and soon the dazed maid was trying to focus through eyes that held a mixture of fear and confusion. She touched fingers to the dark swelling and winced in pain. Looking from Preston to Xi-Ping, she groaned, “My head… Who are youse? What are youse doing with me?”
Preston sat on the edge of the bed and grasped the lady's hand. “Someone has assaulted you. You've taken a clout on the forehead. Did you see anyone here? Do you know who did this?”
The girl leaned forward and Sifu placed a pillow behind her for support. Directing the question to Preston, she asked again, “Who are you?”
“We're friends of the French lady who lives here. We've come to find her because she may be in trouble.”
With an effort, the maid straightened up. “Dominique wouldn't be in no trouble. I know her. I've cleaned her room every day since she come here last spring.”
“My name is Adam Forsythe. Did Dominique ever mention me?”
“Adam?” The girl relaxed visibly. “Oh, Adam. Yes, she talks about you all the time.”
“What's your name?”
“Lisa Downs.”
“Miss Downs, please, tell me, did you see Dominique this morning?”
“You can call me Lisa. Yes. I come to clean her apartment. She let me in when I knocked. We was talking… it takes us a while to say things 'cause she don't talk good English.”
Preston nodded.
“And then she gets this scared kind of look on her face and… and… I can't remember nothing else.”
“Maybe that's when someone hit you?” Preston asked.
“I don't know… I think… I thought maybe Dominique, she screamed or something but it all went black and the next thing I seen was youse two.”
Preston thought for a moment while Chiang gave the lady another sip of water. “Lisa, can you recall where you were standing? Where you were when you and Dominique were having this talk?”
Taking the drink from Sifu's hand, she finished the water, handed him the empty glass and said, “Dominique was in this room by that chest of drawers. I was standing at the doorway. I had just took the sheets off the bed and was fetching the clean ones. Dominique was looking for something in her jewelry box. She must've found what she was looking for 'cause she smiled for a second then she got this scared look….”
“But you didn't see or hear anything that may have caused her fear?”
Lisa reached up to her forehead, groaned again, and said, “No, I didn't hear anything. They must've come up behind me but somehow I got the clout on the front of my head.”
Sifu leaned forward for a closer look at the wound. “Head hit side of door.”
Preston nodded agreement. The assailant had slammed Lisa's head into the door jamb then dropped her unconscious form on the bed. There may have been more than one attacker because Dominique would have tried to escape while the man was occupied carrying the maid.
“If you let this gentleman touch you, he will make your pain go away,” Preston said.
Miss Downs wanted to resist but, noting Sifu's calm assurance, she acquiesced.
While the Master performed his magic, Preston went into the main room for a closer examination. The French doors opening onto the balcony were locked. Other than the tipped vase, there was no evidence of a struggle. Preston put his hands over his face trying to still the waves of gripping grief and wretched fear that tore at his heart.
Dominique was gone.
Preston Diamond held no doubts as to who had kidnapped Dominique: she had fallen into the hands of her malicious uncle. But where would he have taken her? His operations base, the Presidential Hotel, was reduced to ashes in last night's blaze. Apparently, in light of Dominique's abduction this morning, if he had been at his hotel when the fire broke out, the French diplomat had escaped the inferno. Diamond's brief search had told him the crime boss had not slept at his apartments in the east wing of the foreign housing complex. Where had he gone? Where could he go? Did he have a lady friend in Washington? Maybe Ravenelle had dignitary duties on behalf of the French government. Maybe he had conveniently been out of town, or out of view of the public eye, while L'Heureux and Les Apaches torched the opium den and fire-bombed the Chinese house across the alley from Colonel Unzer's residence. Maybe Serge did not yet have her in his clutches; maybe he was still away and it was the big commander who had found Dominique Ravenelle. But the heinous L'Heureux holding Dominique hostage, instead of Ravenelle, was not much by way of consolation.
Fear fought its way up from the pit of Diamond's stomach; he tried to keep it at bay. Fear is never an ally were words his father had instilled in a younger Preston Diamond. But Fear is a formidable foe and Preston's resistance was already weakened by an overwhelming sense of guilt: he blamed himself for Dominique's disappearance; Ravenelle was hunting Diamond and he knew he would find him by making Preston's girlfriend tell all she knew. Tears of fear, tears of rage, threatened to spill through Diamond's squinched eye lids.
It was the Master who restored Preston's tortured mind and prevented his brain from exploding in utter breakdown. When Miss Downs, the chambermaid, emerged from the bedroom, her colour had returned and she appeared quite composed. The welt on her forehead looked gruesome but she told Preston the pain was gone. She announced that she must report the incident to her manager and Chiang let her out of the room. Preston was in a state of near shock but, in a few minutes, Sifu had him calmed, steadied and thinking with a clear head. “No good fight inside you,” Xi-Ping said. “We find Mademoiselle Ravenelle.”
Sifu Chiang's underground network of Chinese immigrants and refugees were alerted that Dominique Ravenelle must be located. The Asian contingent were quite aware of Serge Ravenelle and his giant right hand man, Henri L'Heureux; if either of those men could be found, they would eventually lead to Dominique.
If she was still alive.
Instead of searching the streets, alleys and buildings of Washington, Sifu led Preston down into the tunnels; there, they maintained a contact with dozens of Chinese runners above and below the city. Preston wished he could have grasped a basic understanding of Mandarin for the news and messages came so steadily that Chiang did not always translate.
Ravenelle may pry information from his niece. If she was not able to resist, the last place Dominique knew Preston to have been was Ulysses Grant's house. Diamond mentioned this to Sifu, adding that Les Apaches would not likely force an entry, though they could be watching the general's residence. Sifu passed the information on to a runner.
Below ground there was no notion of direction or time. By the dim light of of the small kerosene lamps, Diamond followed the passage of the hours on his pocket watch. Each minute gone was another stitch torn from the fraying fabric of fate that bound him and Dominique.
Throughout the course of the day, Preston had interpreted Sifu's terse translations. There weren't many Apaches left alive following the early morning massacre in the Presidential Hotel. There weren't many Chinese knights left alive either. Sifu intended to finish the war now. He would exterminate the crime boss and his gang before another boatload of fighting recruits from France arrived. If the kingpins, L'Heureux and Ravenelle, were gone, the newcomers would have no direction. Of no concern to either Diamond or Chiang, the Parisian connection, having lost its leader, would fall into the hands of greedy subordinates; necessarily, a civil war within the crime element would erupt across the Atlantic but the Washington underworld would no longer be under siege.
It was shortly after eight o'clock in the evening when a solemn, black-eyed Chinese man appeared. He spoke softly to Sifu then turned and, sandals flapping, shuffled away. Xi-Ping said, “We go. Monsieur Ravenelle hiding. I show you.”
Serge Ravenelle's orders were carried out with marginal success. The bombing of the Chinese residence a few blocks away from the White House went according to plan. L'Heureux's people were stopped before they could completely destroy the new opium den. One of the Apaches had found out that Adam Forsythe and Dominique Ravenelle were now housed at Lieutenant General Ulysses Grant's mansion though no one knew the whereabouts of Madame Ravenelle or her carpenter friend. Henri L'Heureux's men had not yet been able to dig up any information from the soldiers who had brought in the dead Apaches from the forest.
It had been past midnight when Henri again met with his boss in the recently refurbished and spacious elegance of his rooms on the third floor of the Presidential Hotel. Ravenelle had one of the lovelies from the whorehouse attending to him when the commandant knocked on the door. Serge's sour temper had been mellowed with a steady flow of whiskey and, L'Heureux assumed, the stunningly beautiful lady must have performed admirably, too. Upon hearing the report, the minister was almost congenial; he personally poured a drink for his top man. After passing the glass to L'Heureux, he raised his own in a toast, “We'll finish that opium den another time, Henri….”
Three shots in rapid succession interrupted Ravenelle's speech and the liquor, destined for his mouth, missed entirely as it sloshed across his cheek and down the lapels of his velvet dressing gown.
Right hand snaking inside his jacket for his pistol, L'Heureux spun on a heel and dashed to the entrance. Heads cautiously poked out as several doors opened along the hallway. A riot of racket ricocheted up the stair case from either the floor below or the ground level. The big commander leaped to the head of the stair and stared down into a black abyss. The lower landing lights had been extinguished and, from Henri's position, there was nothing to see. But he knew trouble when he heard it and the thought instantly registered that the hotel was under siege. He ordered the men, now grouping behind him, to load up with arsenal and prepare to defend the building.
Serge Ravenelle, slippered feet showing under the hem of his robe, stepped into the hallway, a polished nickel revolver in his hand. Henri turned him back to the executive suite saying, “Let me check out the situation, Monsieur. I think we are being attacked.”
The Ravenelle brothers had not met with resistance since the early years of their reign in Paris. No one had openly challenged them; they quashed insurrection before it blossomed and high profile authorities were either dead or on the payroll. However, while in Mexico, Serge Ravenelle had seen the folly of fighting a losing cause; he had fled back to France but his Austrian friend, Emperor Maximilian, had foolishly fought long enough to be shot dead by a Mexican firing squad.
There could be no profit, no glory, in that.
Now, in Washington DC, Fate had taken a hand and the odds were no longer in Serge Ravenelle's favour. A few hours ago, his hotel had burned to a blackened pit of ashes; more of his men were killed; and, because bullies are the first to flee, Serge had run off in the dark of night to save his own hide. All at once, the grass was growing far greener on the other side of the ocean. It was time to return to Paris and chalk up this American excursion as a bad investment. Maybe he would take that pretty whore with him and retire in French luxury.
Concede, Serge Ravenelle must do, but he could never leave the issue unfinished in regards to the people he now held responsible for his defeat. The Chinese had supplied the biggest resistance and Serge had already admitted to grossly underestimating them. He had taken the Asian network for granted and now, because it was his own mistake, placed no blame for their superior numbers, skills and tactics. No, the Chinese had fought back and they had won. However, other people who must be brought to task to pay for Serge's embarrassment were still alive and he would not leave them behind to gloat.
Monsieur Ravenelle took store of his assets: his army now consisted of eight or ten Apaches and a few worthy American recruits; he still had his faithful commander, Henri L'Heureux; many of the prizes his people had accounted for were still in operation and paying well. His great mind churned through the alternatives and a course of action soon developed. He would abort the racketeering of legitimate businesses, drop Hugh Bagnold's construction companies (in the same breath, have the blandishing Sawyer Thompson dumped in the Patowmack with a brick tied to his stubby legs) and abandon the political charade as French Foreign Minister. He would assume a very low profile; find a place of comfort in which to hide and, as quickly as possible, terminate the living loose ends. He could be drinking red wine under the billowing tricolour and a blue Paris sky in less than two months.
Serge summoned Henri L'Heureux.
The French Commandant brought interesting news to his deflated superior. One of L'Heureux's American recruits, absent from the Presidential Hotel during last night's fire, had been out carousing with a couple of young soldiers. Not coincidentally, these men had ridden with General Grant on the patrol that had brought in the dead Apaches found on the Conception Landing trail. Though the spy could extract no names from the soldiers, he had learned that there had been a rather large gathering on the forest road: an older man ?a former colonel; a middle aged fellow with a big crooked nose, who bore the marks of a recent beating; a young black haired man suffering from at least one fresh bullet wound; another young man who seemed detached from the fighting; four beautiful women, three young ones and an older black-haired beauty. The semi drunken military men had grown suspicious when Henri's man pressed for information regarding rigs and horses so he had quickly shifted the topic back to the four ladies. The American soldiers, like young men everywhere, had been eager to expound upon that issue.
Ravenelle's face had clouded during the recital but the black thunder L'Heureux braced himself for was strangely absent. Serge placed a hand on the commandant's shoulder. “Henri, we are going home. We will quit this Washington mess and sail as soon as possible. Before we do that though, I have a few small chores for you and your men to concentrate on.”
He recited the plan that he had formulated then, holding out an open hand, palm upward, closed a finger with each name as he said, “Find and destroy these people: Sawyer Thompson; Gabriella; Dominique; that Forsythe kid; and that nail-pounding bastard who's been sniffing around after my dead brother's wife.” With his hand now closed in a tight fist he continued, “That carpenter will be the bruised up one your American spoke of. If there are others, I don't care about them. Only, if they get in the way, shoot them.” Ravenelle paused then said, “I still want to question Gabriella and Dominique so, if you can avoid it, Henri, don't kill them before we've had a chance to talk.” He allowed a sneering smile. “After our chat, you and the boys may want to amuse yourselves with them before they go in the river.”
Sawyer Thompson should have been easy to find. The man had allowed his arrogance to run amok and he was spending too much time rubbing shoulders with men who did not like to rub shoulders: business men who had earned the privileges of financial success. However, when L'Heureux went hunting in the lounges and bars, the frontman for Bagnold's construction companies was not to be found. Nor was he in the lavish suite at the downtown hotel rented at Ravenelle's expense. When the Apache accompanying the commandant kicked in the door of Thompson's room, he and Henri were not surprised to find the place cleaned out. Sawyer Thompson was already on the run.
He didn't run far, or fast, enough.
L'Heureux unearthed the little pigeon chest several minutes before his train departed for Philadelphia. Instead of riding the rails to Pennsylvania, Sawyer Thompson rowed the river, face down, to Chesapeake Bay.
The commandant left his Apache to deal with Thompson's body and set off to report to Serge Ravenelle. The former minister and his men had taken refuge in another hotel about a half mile from the ruins of the Presidential and nearer to the Capitol.
As L'Heureux stepped out of the hansom and reached to pay the driver he noticed a Chinese lady standing beneath an awning across the street on the boardwalk. Her face, darkened under a straw hat, was turned at a right angle to L'Heureux but he felt certain she had been watching him. Distracted, Henri allowed the two-bits to slip from his hand; by the time he had retrieved the coin and passed it to the driver, the Chinese woman had vanished.
When Henri L'Heureux caught up with Ravenelle, the crime boss was in a much better frame of mind than expected. In addition to the commander's report concerning the late Sawyer Thompson, Serge had just received word that two of the French soldiers had found his niece at the Ravenelles' former quarters on Capitol Hill. The men were holding the girl in an abandoned shed and awaiting instructions on whether to transport Mademoiselle Ravenelle now or continue to keep her where they were until nightfall. Henri suggested, if she could be moved inconspicuously, Dominique should be taken to a more secure place but not to Monsieur Ravenelle's new accommodation. She could be used as bait for Adam Forsythe.
Sifu Chiang and Preston Diamond emerged from the underground to find that night had fallen on Washington. For Preston, most of this day had passed down in the tunnels where, in the dim yellow light of kerosene lanterns, he and the master had awaited news of Ravenelle and his Apaches; now the darkness continued for the city was wrapped in an eerie glow as pale street lamps half-heartedly fought encroaching fog. The dull and deadened plodding of draft horses hooves, low mutterings of drivers, squeaks and rumbles of carriages, cabs and freight wagons travelling along the avenues issued from the heavy stillness as ghostly vehicles moved in the mist. Pedestrians were few.
A Chinese man stepped into line as Sifu led Preston into an alley. Diamond recognized the fellow, armed with sword and dagger, as one of Chiang's Shanghai fighters; soon two more joined the procession; after feeling their way through the fog for several more blocks, Sifu and Preston had seven men following in their wake.
Nine silent fighters marching to battle.
The Master held up a hand; his men slowed, then halted. Rapid footsteps slapped on the boardwalk and soon another Chinese materialized in the mist. A lady. She spoke in hurried Mandarin to Sifu who paused a moment before replying. When he spoke, his tone indicated to Preston that he was passing along instructions. The lady, accompanied by one knight, stepped off the walk and disappeared into the gloom. Sifu turned to Preston. “Dominique lives. Two Apaches move her now.”
All this frustrating day, Preston had held his temper in check as he shared his lady's terror, sometimes wondering if she was even alive. Torturing himself, he had agonized over the myriad possibilities. Had she been beaten as had the chambermaid named Lisa Downs? Had she suffered… even more? Now, relieved to hear she had not been murdered, he no longer struggled to control his seething rage; he encouraged it; relished the surging, swelling burst of anger growing within him. He saw, again, his slain mother lying white and still on the frosty ground of the Diamond farm yard. A primeval lust to fight, to kill, to wreak murderous revenge on the evil bastards who would mistreat women overwhelmed him. A bestial cry for blood rose in his throat but he throttled it to a silent gasp that terminated in whispered deadly menace. “Let's find them, Sifu. Let's find them now.”
At the next corner, Xi-Ping cut diagonally across the intersection, turned down the perpendicular avenue and halted the group in an unlit alley. Fog saturated blackness swallowed light like liquid tar. Preston strained to see his comrades; he concentrated as Sifu had taught him. Gradually, gray images of the stoic Chinese and the near surroundings filtered through the inky night. Sifu spoke, first in Mandarin, then in English. The fighters had arrived at the building where Les Apaches planned to take Dominique Ravenelle. According to what the Chinese lady had reported, Serge Ravenelle, Henri L'Heureux and the remainder of his army planned to rendezvous here. Sifu believed they had arrived between the first and second groups.
Preston edged toward the building. It seemed an enormous edifice; however, the fog and night belied all images. “Is Dominique in there now, Sifu?” he asked.
In the esoteric light, Chiang's face looked old and grim. Preston saw the curt nod of his head. “We wait. Too many fight, lady get hurt.”
Diamond paused a moment to interpret Xi-Ping's broken sentences. He guessed that Sifu intended to intercept the second group of Ravenelle's men; settle the final account right here in this back lane; then rescue Dominique from the two Apaches who were on the inside. Sifu did not dare to risk breaking the girl out and then meeting up with the French army. Preston's preference would be to slip inside, deal with the captors and escape with his girlfriend but he would not second guess Sifu Chiang.
However, he had no time to ponder alternatives for, at that moment, a unit of heavily armed men, dimly illuminated by a pair of coal oil lanterns, turned into the alley. Diamond recognized the giant Henri L'Heureux, striding at the head of a loose phalanx. The French regiment were not necessarily expecting trouble but they were always in a state of readiness; the unusual pattern of their assembly attested to that. Preston could not identify Serge Ravenelle among the dozen or so men in the group. He must be there; the remainder of the entire French force, including several American recruits, were in this unit.
Sifu's men spread out. Sword steel hissed silently as Shanghai soldiers filled their hands. Preston's right hand went to his Colt but Sifu Chiang leaned close and whispered, “No shoot.”
For the second time, Preston interpreted this command as holding fire until the enemy had resorted to guns. If no shots were fired, so much the better. Having no desire to invite the DC constabulary and have them asking questions of the Chinese, Sifu preferred a silent battle. He and his men would vanish, taking their dead and wounded with them as soon as the battle ended. Preston hoped they could maintain the silence long enough to free Dominique.
As the commandant led his French fighters deeper into the lane, Sifu's warriors backed up on either side against the walls of the adjacent buildings and stood motionless in the thick fog. Ravenelle's soldiers were at a disadvantage because they were depending on the lanterns to guide them; this action limited their vision to a small circle of light penetrating no further than a few feet. Preston and Sifu stood side by side directly in their path. The phalanx marched past the first, then the second pair of Shanghai fighters. The Chinese held their swords at the ready but did not move. As the column moved past, the knights drifted into position behind them. Unaware of the Asian net that now encircled his company, Henri L'Heureux, still several yards from Chiang and Diamond, stopped his men and peered into the impenetrable gloom. In his native language, he spoke in a low voice, “Monsieur Ravenelle, we are near enough. I do not think anyone has reached here ahead of us. Perhaps you and I shall go in while the men wait out here? We can bring your niece out this way and take her with us.”
There was movement within the pack and Serge Ravenelle emerged at the head. He stood beside his henchman. Turning the suggestion into an order, he said, “Wait here; there is no need for all of us to go in. Commandant L'Heureux and I shall bring out the girl and our men who are holding her. I'm not expecting any trouble but be ready to come inside if we sound an alarm.”
Diamond tried to relax, to loosen tense muscles in the damp cold of the night. How long he had anticipated sending Serge Ravenelle into the hereafter. His trigger finger twitched. It would be so easy now….
Sifu Chiang clutched at Preston's sleeve and pulled him to the far side of the alley. Diamond watched in bitter dismay as the crime boss and his right hand man strode past carrying one of the lanterns. The pair stopped as the dull glow of the lamp partially illuminated a large doorway; probably a freight entrance. Diamond still had no idea what manner of building it was. L'Heureux stepped ahead of Serge and rapped what must have been a code knock on the solid door. After a few seconds, the panel swung open and lantern light spilled out into the mist. Preston saw only one Apache; he glimpsed no sign of Dominique in the brief moment the door stood open to admit Ravenelle and his commandant.
Instant darkness closed in around the frame and now the only light in the alley issued faintly from the second lantern which the waiting Apaches had placed on the ground. Beyond the circle, Diamond could make out shadow forms of Shanghai fighters. They were not looking toward the master for instructions but, as one, without announcement, they stepped into the crowd of French soldiers. At the same instant, Sifu released Preston's sleeve and hissed. “We fight!”
At first, the combat in the gloom seemed painfully unreal; slowed and slurred, like the slumberous nightmare of a drug induced sleep; a sleep from which many would not awake. Preston's head filled with sounds of battle: Steel, so sharp it sang, thrust through unresisting ribs and flesh; grunts, coughs, moans of wounded and dying men were absorbed without echo in the soupy fog; the silent shiver of stabbing, spearing swords graduated to a ringing, clanging, slicing fury as the attacking Shanghai knights shifted from attack to slashing, hacking defence.
In comparison to the audible impact, the visual effect was delayed and laboured: Diamond witnessed himself stepping ahead; lashing out with a forward kick to an Apache's hand as the thug extracted a pistol from inside his coat; he saw the weapon, ripped from broken fingers, slowly arcing upward to vanish in the mist; his next kick seemed blurred and sluggish, though it could not have been a shaved second behind the first; the soft leather boot caught the Frenchman under the chin snapping his head back so hard, he was lifted off his feet. Gently, the airborne body curved, floated backward colliding with another falling Apache, then settled in an grotesque crumpled heap on the bloodied grit and cinders of the alley.
In the muffled scuffle, the roar of a revolver rent the mist and wrenched Diamond back to reality. Even as Preston watched one Shanghai warrior fall dead, the gun spoke again and a second Chinese defender collapsed to the ground. Preston's Colt filled his hand. Twice the .45 barked and the Apache pistoleer was hurled backward as the hot slugs ripped through his chest. The blast of a third gun filled the closed space. Preston shifted to see a pistol falling and the slack-jawed shootist dropping to his knees, clutching at the hilt of Sifu's throwing knife buried in his brisket. Diamond sought more targets but only Sifu's fighters remained standing. He swept the fallen men —they were beyond moving— then shifted round, training the Colt on the doorway where Ravenelle had disappeared.
No light showed and nothing moved in that direction.
Diamond inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. He extracted fresh bullets from his cartridge belt and thumbed them into the cylinder. In less time than it was taking to reload his revolver, the battle had played itself out. A dozen dead —three of them Chinese— littered the blood-soaked alley.
The master hissed urgent orders; Shanghai soldiers quickly collected comrades who had fought their last fight and, lugging them away, were instantly swallowed up in the oily blackness. In half a minute, the back lane was deserted except for the dead soldiers of the French underground.
Sifu Chiang led Preston Diamond out of the alley and down the street. The muted sounds of police whistles, shouts and running feet pushed sluggishly through the mist. If possible, the fog seemed even thicker now; the pale street lights spluttered like dampened Lucifers. Preston halted and called to Xi-Ping. “Sifu, we have to find Dominique. We must take her away. Wasn't she in that big building where Ravenelle and L'Heureux went?”
“Come.”
Diamond followed the master down the street to the next intersection. Here, Sifu stepped into an alcove at the front of a store. A light burned inside and, when Sifu knocked, an older Chinese woman arrived at the entrance to let them in. She acknowledged Preston and spoke to Xi-Ping Chiang. The master offered no translation but followed the woman as she threaded a path through the aisles of merchandise to the rear of the building. The lady found a small lamp, lit it and passed it to Sifu. She then pulled back a corner of a drugget to reveal a trap door. Sifu raised the lid, then stepped down through the hole with Preston Diamond close behind. Once on the level, Preston glanced around: they were in a narrow tunnel. With a soft thud, the door closed above and the tiny space grew tighter.
Chiang lit the way as he and Preston wound along the underground passage. Several branches led off but Sifu kept to the main run and soon came to a door at a right angle turn. He cautiously opened the panel, motioned for Diamond to follow and they stepped into a small, brick lined chamber. A set of steps led up to another trap door. Sifu crossed the room, listened attentively, then extinguished the lamp. In the darkness, Preston heard him raising the lid. A dim light glowed from far away as master and student emerged in a small dark room. A faint smell of moth balls teased his nostrils. Both Sifu and Preston strained their ears for sound. On the very edge, just once, Diamond thought or imagined he heard a sob. Sifu must have concluded someone was in the building for he motioned Preston forward.
As he passed through, Diamond realized that the confined area was a cloak room. He followed Sifu through an opened door leading into a broad hallway. He recognized a sense of familiarity though he did not immediately place his whereabouts. To his right, a wide flight of stairs led down to a pair of locked double doors: the main street entrance. To his left, and farther away, the hall opened onto another wide but shallow flight that swept down several steps to a vast open area. Keeping to the deeper shadow, Sifu and Preston glided along the hall to the landing. In the luminescence cast through the open door of a room across the floor, Diamond could discern two massive, gold trimmed, crystal chandeliers hanging dark and mute. Now he knew what building they had come to.
They were in the ballroom where Preston had first met, and danced with, Dominique Ravenelle.
Someone shifted among the deeper shadows at the far end of the floor. A light flared and an Apache held a wooden match to one of a series of wall lamps spaced along the opposite side of the room. Diamond thought the man appeared quite relaxed and unconcerned. Had he not heard the shooting in the back alley? Did he not wonder what had become of his comrades? The giant ballroom must have been insulated from outside sound. But… if Ravenelle and L'Heureux had not heard the sounds of battle, why were they still holed up here?
A cry of anguish echoed through the empty hall. Preston knew the answer: Serge Ravenelle was interrogating Dominique before he moved her to another location. Diamond reached for the .45 but Sifu stilled his hand. If he shot this Apache now, Ravenelle may kill Dominique before Preston and Xi-Ping could get to her.
Covering shadows thinned more as the thug lit another lamp. Fortunately for Chiang and Diamond, proximity to the light source restricted the thug's view as well. He casually drifted along the wall moving closer and firing lights as he went. Diamond gritted his teeth; why the need for lighting? Maybe Ravenelle planned to invite his entire gang into ballroom so they could all watch him torture his niece.
Sifu and Preston now stood in plain sight. They implemented Diamond's vanishing trick: don't move; don't be seen. But there was nothing to hide behind and little background to relieve their outline. Xi-Ping held a knife; Preston, a shuriken. If he had to, Diamond would swap the star for the Colt but he did not want to alert Ravenelle and L'Heureux… if they were still here.
Less than ten paces from them, the French fighter stiffened; his sixth sense must have detected something. Reaching for the gun in his belt, he turned; simultaneously, Diamond and Chiang launched their weapons. The thin, flat blade of the perfectly balanced knife sliced through breast bone and sunk in the man's chest. Preston's needle sharp star struck just below the ear. It sliced through the carotid artery and buried itself in the Apache's neck. With a sharp gasp that ended in a relaxed sigh, the soldier sank to the floor. His half-drawn pistol slipped from lax fingers and, in the quiet hall, made an exaggerated clatter on the hardwood floor.
Preston palmed his revolver and covered the opening to the far room. No one emerged and there was no echo of footsteps. Diamond held his .45 ready while Sifu soundlessly stepped down the stair, swept up the fallen gun, grasped the collar of the dead man and lugged him across the room out of immediate view from the doorway. A thin trickle of blood marked the trail of the corpse. Retrieving their weapons, master and student eased along the wall, snuffing lamps as they neared the lit opening. One faint light continued to burn beyond the doorway but Preston and Sifu did not care to risk crossing the gap to extinguish it. Hugging the plaster, Diamond and Chiang fine-tuned their hearing.
At first there was total quiet, then a distant but distinct sob. After a moment, voices, a pair of French speaking, male voices, grew audible. Footsteps echoed on the hardwood.
The footsteps were coming nearer.
Henri L'Heureux, a living colossus, ducked and shouldered his way through the door. Preston had known the fellow was huge but, close up, he was a giant. Upon entering the quiet ballroom L'Heureux halted and surveyed the dimly lit area. In his wake, a second man, wearing the ubiquitous French chapeau, followed. L'Heureux said, “Andre? Andre, where did you get to?”
Sifu Chiang calmly stepped out of the shadow and faced the commandant.
How incongruous the match! Xi-Ping Chiang, his long white wisp of beard hanging to his chest, stood more than a foot shorter than the big Frenchman. There were two hundred pounds and thirty years separating them. Disbelief spread across L'Heureux's face as he stared at the intruder.
Less than calmly, Diamond turned his attention to the second man.
Preston shifted ahead on his leading foot, leapt high in the air and lashed out with a vicious front kick. The Parisian, surprisingly agile, stepped back, blocking the foot with a raised elbow. Preston lost balance but flipped round mid air and landed in fighting stance. He moved inside the oncoming attack and, twisting at the hips, rapped two brutal backhand fists to the temples. The thug, shaking his head to clear his vision, stepped back from the onslaught and aimed a booted foot at Diamond's groin. Preston shifted, slashing down to block the kick with his left arm; his right fist, a power driven piston, snaked out in a reverse body punch that blasted wine stale breath from the depths of the foreigner's lungs. He doubled over, retching and wheezing. Too late, Diamond saw the evil little derringer in his fist.
Preston shifted sideways but failed to dodge. The little gun spit fire from both barrels; two slugs tore across Diamond's chest, ripping through his shirt and raking a double tunnel through the flesh below his left nipple. The force of the passing lead spun him in a complete circle; when he again faced his opponent, the Colt was in Diamond's right hand belching flame.
The Apache, gushing blood and dead on his feet, gave up the struggle. Preston swung his gun to cover L'Heureux, but held fire for fear of hitting his friend.
Xi-Ping Chiang had broken a leg.
And he was about to break the other one so as to bring Henri L'Heureux down to a level where he could be reached. Various weapons: another derringer; a foreign multi-barrelled pistol; a stiletto; a set of brass knuckles; and —one that Preston recognized— Sifu's throwing knife, lay scattered about the waxed dance floor.
The commandant stood on one leg; chest heaving, one eye closed, blood streaming from nose and ears. Through a red haze he recalled the vow he had made to Serge Ravenelle: They won't kill me with their bare hands. Now, he realized that that would happen; he never dreamed it would be the bare hands of an old, old man.
A dull and sickening crunch reached Preston's ears as Chiang's wicked side-edge kick struck just above the calf of L'Heureux's good side. The leg buckled, dropping Henri to his broken knees. Sifu slipped by the anemic clutching of the commander's banana fingers and dealt a flurry of knife-hand slices in the area of the kidneys. He then shifted forward to land one last jab between third and fourth rib, left side. L'Heureux's eyes, even the swollen one, shot open and, sightlessly, he stared at the gold trimmed crystal chandelier above him. Numbed hands involuntarily covered his heart. With a lingering gasp of terror from beyond this world, he fell face forward.
Searing pain from the hot bullet wounds brought Preston Diamond round to the immediacy of his situation. Somewhere in this building, Serge Ravenelle held Dominique captive. He had to find her. Ignoring the dripping blood spreading across his shirt and the gnawing aches —one from the fresh wounds, the other deeper inside— Preston fed cartridges into the Colt, then shifted to the doorway through which L'Heureux and his companion had entered the ballroom.
No one was in view. This opening led into a wide hall that had several doors along either side; the first two, stencilled in large black letters, bore the announcements MEN and WOMEN. Weak light emanated from a lamp at the end of the passage; an open set of double doors on the right side, halfway along, had brighter light spilling through them. Preston eased up to the frame and cast a quick glance inside. A pattern of long tables was laid out in a circle, chairs were pushed up to the tables, a sheaf of paper and writing utensils were placed at each position. A conference without attendees.
Across the room, partially shielded by another table, insane rage distorting his handsome features, Serge Ravenelle stood with his left arm clamped round his niece's neck; his right hand held a pistol to her head. Upon seeing Diamond, he shifted the gun.
Preston drew back. Dominique screamed and a bullet splattered plaster where Diamond's head had been. Desperation rang clear in Ravenelle's voice as he shouted in heavily accented English, “Forsythe, give up your weapon and step in here with your hands where I can see them. Do it now and move slowly or my dear niece will have her brains, if she has any, scattered all over this room. You know I will not hesitate.”
Dominique cried out, “No, Adam! He will kill….” Her words terminated in a muffled groan.
Sifu Chiang, throwing blade in hand, appeared silently at Preston's side but he offered no advice.
Preston's eyes were blurring, his chest hurt, blood was dripping on his boots; on the floor. He had to finish this French monster now before Ravenelle could harm Dominique any more. Diamond winced as he reached in his right shirt pocket, extracted a bloodied star and held it in his palm. He looked at Sifu, who responded with a slight nod. “Alright, Ravenelle, I'm coming in. Here is my gun.” He slid the Colt across the floor, then followed it into the conference chamber.
“Bullet very fast. You be faster.” Sifu's words came back as Preston stepped into the line of fire. Was he fast enough to dodge Serge's bullets? He had just taken two of the Apache's slugs across the brisket; there wasn't much margin for error. At close range no one was faster than a bullet, but Preston now understood that underlying meaning of Sifu's words: the human factor; the minuscule delay between an opponent's point of the barrel and the pull of the trigger; the impulse from brain to finger. Preston had to be faster than that.
Serge Ravenelle had changed position. He now stood clear of the table; nearer to the entrance but more to the left side of the room. His features bore a contemptuous sneer; no sign of defeat, no surrender.
Ravenelles never lose.
Still using the girl as a shield, he shifted round to squarely face Preston but the movement momentarily eased his grip and the struggling Dominique pulled free. Deliberately blocking Ravenelle's aim, she broke across the room toward Diamond. Mindless of his niece, Ravenelle pulled the trigger. The short-gun barked in his hand; a small cloud of smoke trailing the projectile from the muzzle. Preston had timed his own movement with the dangerous glint in Serge's eyes. In the fraction of an instant the finger tightened on the trigger, Diamond dodged to the right. Plaster and dust exploded beside him. As Serge fired again, Preston hurled the star.
Ravenelle's second bullet struck Dominique. The front of her jacket flared out as she was spun in a half circle and thrown to the floor.
The shuriken, aimed for the jugular, flew high. The wickedly sharp teeth struck Ravenelle in the face; one point sunk deep into the left eye socket, the adjacent point sliced through the bridge of his nose. The Frenchman, screaming in agony and rage, clutched at his face with his left hand and, without aim, fired the pepperbox pistol with his right. Diamond dove for his Colt and came up firing. With deliberate, spaced shots, he emptied the revolver into Serge Ravenelle. The crime boss's body was pummelled a step backward with the impact of each round. The last slug slammed him against a white pillar; he slid to the floor leaving long streaks of crimson stark against the whitewash. In addition to six Colt .45 holes, the haft of a balanced throwing knife protruded from Serge's chest.
Preston, with Sifu Chiang at his side, rushed to Dominique. Blood soaked her clothes and a puddle was forming on the hardwood. Her face was ghostly white but she was conscious. One hand held her wounded side, the other was tightly clenched. As Preston slipped his arm round her neck and raised her head, she spoke in French, “Adam, I love you so much… I… I wanted you to have this.”
Her fist opened to reveal the tiny locket she had taken from her jewelry box. Diamond lifted the locket from the small hand and opened it up. He looked inside: Dominique's lovely face smiled back at him. “I… I hope you like it. Adam, I so much wanted you to have it.”
Preston kissed her forehead. “It's beautiful, Dominique, beautiful like you.”
She tried to smile but a cough made her wince and a tiny froth of blood appeared on her lips. She said, “It's growing dark… I… I'm going away, my love. I will always love you… I'll take good care of our son…” She went limp in Preston's arms.
Panic seized Preston; he turned to Xi-Ping. “She's dying, Sifu! Please, please, you've got to fix her!”
Tears, years of sadness welled in the old master's eyes. He placed one hand on Dominique's arm and the other on the shoulder of his student. He shook his head slightly and, in perfect English, said, “She is gone, Adam.”
Preston's eyes blurred. He bent forward, gently kissed the unresponsive lips, then collapsed across Dominique's chest, sobbing tears he swore to never shed again.
Rebecca Unzer coped with her private bereavement but it pained her to see her 'son' returned to the state of grief he had suffered following the loss of his parents. Adam had not known Dominique was with child; now his loss was even greater. The girl had told no one except her mother, but Mrs. Unzer recognized the symptoms of morning sickness and she presumed that pregnancy had contributed to Dominique's fainting spells. Rebecca had also realized that Adam was ignorant of the situation but she held her tongue, waiting for Dominique to tell him. During those few short hours, she had grown fond of the idea that one day she would be Grandmother Unzer.
Serge Ravenelle's bullets had taken away that and so much more.
Preston would have preferred to wallow in melancholy; he would have welcomed death; life only built you up to tear you down again; there was no eternal peace, no heaven on earth. Colonel Unzer and Sifu Chiang would not allow the lad to quit. The first three mornings after Dominique's death, the master came round to Unzer's house where he and Colonel Jim forced the bandaged youth out into the backyard, insisting that he continue his training. In different words, both old men explained that life goes on for the living; hard work and discipline keep grief from driving one insane. On the fourth day, Preston returned to regular training in the garden on Capitol Hill. But, if he lived forever, he would never recover completely.
A mother's loss of her only child ripped the heart from Gabriella Ravenelle. She aged a decade in a week. She did not blame Preston for the loss of her daughter and permitted that Dominique, through special arrangement by General Grant, be buried in the military cemetery alongside Preston's parents, Colonel Cutler and Constantina Diamond. Though Preston did not broach the subject, Gabriella volunteered the information that it was she who had told Serge's messenger and left the note saying they were bound for Alexandria. She apologized, saying that she had only found out, minutes before Adam and Sifu arrived that morning, that Dominique was pregnant. In her confusion, Gabriella had wanted to lash out at Adam Forsythe.
Madame Ravenelle and Robert Tessier sailed for France shortly after Dominique's funeral. They intended to return permanently when Gabriella had closed out her affairs across the Atlantic. Those affairs were not insignificant, Robert and Preston realized when, at the docks, Gabriella encountered a group of tough French speaking men wearing clothing and the chapeaus conspicuous of Les Apaches. The men obviously knew who the regal lady was and did not argue when she turned them round and shipped them back to France. Tessier and Diamond exchanged knowing glances but neither questioned Madame Ravenelle.
Early one morning, a fortnight after the final reckoning with Ravenelle, Preston saddled Rascal, tied on his bedroll and rode through the quiet streets of Washington. When the gelding hit the open country, Preston let him have his head and the pair raised a spiral of dust as they flew down the road toward Alexandria, then veered off to the right at the fork to Conception Landing. In less than two hours, Preston was drawing rein on the sweating, plunging horse amid the cacophony of Rufus Tweed's yapping hounds and braying mules.
For several weeks Diamond turned his mind to hard labour, trying to outwork his big black friend. Rufus told him that the Ku Klux Klan had never shown their faces around the farm again; he and his family were treated with respect in the village. With a toothy grin, Rufus admitted that General Grant and his men had paid a visit. In the evenings, sated with another of May-a-Belle's fine culinary productions, Preston would read to little Constantina or bounce Rufus's baby boy, Ulysses Cutler Tweed, on his knee. He liked the names Rufus had chosen for his children although Preston would have preferred Cutler Ulysses. Late at night, in the quiet bedroom that Rufus insisted reserving only for Preston, Diamond gazed at the picture in the lid of the locket. When he blew out the lamp, he heard the low voices of his parents talking in the parlour. He could hear Dominique's laughter; see her smiling face. Sometimes he heard a baby softly crying; was it Rufus's son or were the muted whimpers coming from beyond?
Diamond rolled over, the sounds faded and, in his mind's eye, he saw Sifu Chiang dropping petals from a flower on the lush green grass. He watched the master twist two blossoms together; when he held them up to catch the sunlight, they stayed joined as one. With his free hand, Xi-Ping reached out and touched Preston's shoulder. I have lost much, but I am never sorry for what I had.
Sorrow, so deeply rooted as to haunt day and night, gave Preston Diamond little peace. The Grants, Unzers, Tweeds and Xi-Ping Chiang held him together though the toll was especially tough on Rebecca and Colonel Jim. Sifu's teachings, healing and training kept Diamond from giving up; the master, working with new techniques, new weapons, trained his student harder than ever.
In an effort to save them all from clouds too heavy to blow away, Diamond booked passage for himself and his friends, the Unzers and Xi-Ping Chiang, to sail to Spain and the Mediterranean. The six month vacation was a boon for all. In Barcelona, Colonel Unzer became reacquainted with the men who had, almost two decades ago, risked their lives to free Señorita Constantina García y Ramírez (Preston's mother) from the clutches of Queen Isabella II. Diamond learned more of his grandfather, Eduardo García. The man had died a Spanish folk hero and legend.
Four months after they sailed for France, Gabriella Ravenelle and Robert Tessier (now husband and wife) returned home to Washington. Tessier and Davy Brannigan formed a partnership and took over Serge Ravenelle's construction companies. Robert insisted that Mrs. Hugh Bagnold be adequately reimbursed for the loss she had suffered through the conniving of her lawyers and the French minister. Preston, when he was available, recommenced work with Tessier.
Lily Brannigan married the carpenter she nearly loved. At the wedding, the bride's sister, Amy, tormented Preston Diamond to no end though the wild passion they had shared a year earlier, did not surface.
In 1868, Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, in a landslide victory, became eighteenth President of the United States. Three years after the end of the Civil War, the staggering nation continued to flounder with an inept reconstruction plan. The new chief had his hands full. Capitol Hill was powered by corruption and Ulysses Grant sought people he could trust implicitly.
They were in short supply.
The president decided he should appoint a man to cover special assignments that were too delicate for regular law agencies; a man of discretion who could handle himself in any situation; a man of many talents and schooled in many languages who would work undercover; a man of principles, of a singular character so particular as to preclude all other possible candidates. President Grant summoned a young man named Preston Diamond….
Les Apaches were a group of thugs associated with the French underground. There was a revolver named for them that was more than a gun, it also had knuckle duster and knife in one pocket-size package. My reference, “Preston grudgingly admired Les Apaches' show of guts. They were fighters akin to the famous French Foreign Legionnaires who battled in 1863: sixty-two soldiers and three officers fought against two thousand revolutionaries (1200 infantry; 800 cavalry) in Mexico. The Legionnaires, out of bullets, and down to six men, fixed bayonets and charged.” is an actual account. In fact, of the last six men who stood up and fought, three were taken prisoner. The officer in charge lost his wooden hand; it now rests in honour in the Legion's Hall of Fame in Aubagne, France.
The Chinese (for the most part, railroad workers) did build extensive tunnel networks under the streets of many cities: Pendleton, Oregon; Havre, Montana; Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, to name a few. From these underground passages, they operated legitimate businesses and some that were not necessarily in accordance with the laws of the day. I don't know if ever there were tunnels in Washington, DC. The Chinese underground in this story is purely fiction.
Xi-Ping Chiang is a completely fictional character. However, he is inspired by, and is a tribute to, a real life legend: one Zi-Ping Wang, an early 20th century Wushu Grandmaster. Zi-Ping Wang is remembered to this day for incredible feats of strength, patriotism, morality, and martial skill. In addition to feats of strength and fighting prowess, Wang was known as a compassionate doctor of Chinese medicine. Wang was born into a family of martial artists, a family that is still active today. His daughter, Ju-rong Wang, became the very first female professor of martial arts in China and developed the beautiful Flying Rainbow Fan forms. Her daughters have carried on the tradition; the eldest, Helen (Xiao-rong) Wu is a world-class Wushu master in Toronto, Canada. I came to know her, and the story of her family, through my son, who has been her private student for five years.