The Night of the Empire Builder
Chapter 1
"It's too... damned... hot! And we can't even open the windows because then we'll be not only hot, but completely covered with alkali dust." Artie removed the damp rag from around his neck and wrung it over a bowl on his lap. Adding to his bad mood was watching his partner practice his game of pool, when it was simply too hot to engage in such athletics.
"So you're going to greet Colonel Richmond without a shirt on. Correct?" Jim asked. He was at least wearing a cotton undershirt, which by now was just about as damp as the rag.
"Right as rain," was the angry reply. "They could have outfitted this train with a vapor condenser refrigerator – it probably would have cost no more than the pool t-- – hey! Don't sweat on the wood! I intend to trade it in for a refrigeration unit and there you are devaluing it."
"Sorry." James rose and tugged at the chain of his pocketwatch. "Fourteen hundred hours, two minutes. Twenty eight minutes to bathe, dress, and invent an excuse for you."
Artie headed in the direction of the kitchen to draw more water. "Ha! If anybody needs an excuse it's those high mucky mucks in Washington who ordered this train. And since Colonel Richmond is their representative maybe be he can answer for them and... "
The wind slammed against the windows, drowing out nearly every sound but the urgent rapping on the door to the car. West was in the middle of lining up a crucial shot, so whoever was knocking could wait, since it couldn't have been Richmond, famous for arriving at any appointment exactly at the minute agreed upon. Perhaps it was a telegram delivery.
It wasn't.
The colonel entered and, after taking one whiff, immediately backed up. "Good lord man, have you taken a vow not to bathe?"
"You're early, sir. I was just about to."
The wind died down somewhat, making the complaint on its way in the room from the kitchen eminently audible.
"...and another thing that Richmond oughta apologize for is the sorry state–" Artie stopped to take in the scene before him, then continued, "As I was saying, another thing that the city of Richmond ought to apologize for is the very limited availability of topnotch --"
"Drop it, Gordon. I want to get down to business and, I must say, your choice of attire is most unfortunate. Today especially."
"Today especially? Sir, I direct you to that thermometer on the wall. Currently, it registers a full one hundred and six degrees. And judging by the atmosphere in here, that's celsius."
Jim hastened to offer the colonel a seat, while Artie attempted to calm down, an attempt which ceased once the door opened again.
"Colonel Richmond, I am not a surprise Christmas box to be left on the doorstep. Certainly these gentlemen have laid eyes on a woman before."
The words came from looked like a cloud of loosely-woven white linen.
All three men were temporarily speechless, Jim and Artie because of the completely unexpected entry of this person, Richmond because he had not yet issued his prepared statement.
The cloud moved forward. "Good afternoon, Mr. West, Mr. Gordon. My name is Anna White. It is my understanding I'll be working with Mr. Gordon." She paused and looked over her shoulder at the Colonel, "Sir, is that still the plan?"
"Yes, Mrs. White"
"Ah, and which one of you is the esteemed Artemus Gordon? Undershirt or no shirt?"
Artie raised his hand sheepishly.
"Please don't be embarrassed, Mr. Gordon. At the risk of sounding unladylike, you are not the first shirtless man I've ever seen. I am hoping that some day Americans in these climates will dress as they do in Arabia. Far more practical, and I don't want to be the only oddity who does so." Indeed she had done so – her clothing was nearly identical to those one saw worn by the Arabs pictured in travel book illustrations.
"Very charming indeed, Miss White," said Jim as he regarded her. Was that fabric thin enough to see through? he wondered. Hard to tell in this light.
"Thank you," Anna smiled. "You're the first man to say anything even remotely positive. At our last stop on the train ride here, I received a most unpleasant reception. What was it, Colonel, something about my being indecent?"
The colonel reddened as he tried to frame an answer. Anna smiled wickedly and continued.
"Oh, now I remember. Something about my not wearing a corset. Can you imagine? First of all, how could anyone tell, and second of all, who would be mad enough to wear one in this heat? And thirdly, how horribly ill-mannered to pass judgment, out loud and in public, on what a lady is wearing. What if I had been Arabian? – I should have been most insulted."
Now Jim and Artie reddened, and shared a brief glance. Anna smiled again, greatly amused at their discomfort. At last, the colonel composed himself.
"Gordon, Mrs. White will be working with you while you're in San Francisco. West, I'll need you to accompany me up to Vancouver. Now let's get down to business."
Everyone was still standing.
"Please, can we all sit down? The introductions have been made, the tea party's ready to commence," Richmond growled. All sat, West and Gordon on the hard wooden chairs, lest they sweat onto expensive upholstery. The colonel and Mrs. White shared the settee.
Indicating Mrs. White with a nod of his head, Jim began, " With all due respect, sir, if at any point we need a secretary on this mission, we could hire one in San Francisco. Artie and I have been studying the Russian situation from every angle, and we are confident that together we'll be able to determine the true nature of Mladepovich's operations there. I don't see the need to go barreling into Vancouver when the we already know that he's based in the San Francisco area. If we're right, what's going on inVancouver – while serious – is merely tangential. Maybe even totally unrelated."
Mrs. White rose and began to quietly inspect the car. The men stared, and Colonel Richmond was not only offended but deeply surprised that she had done something so unprofessional as to more or less walk out on the meeting. The lady paused next to the entryway to the kitchen.
A split second before Richmond was about to upbraid her, she flashed what Artie was beginning to find a captivating smile.
"Sirs, now that I have your full attention – first, Colonel, I wish to apologize in advance for undermining your authority, but I believe I can answer Mr. West rather more forcefully than you can on this particular matter. My own research suggests that Vancouver is actually the center of the activity and what is going on in San Francisco is, while significant, essentially a smokescreen."
"Your own research?" Jim asked incredulously. He never took well to his opinions being challenged, and took it even less well from women. Particularly attractive women who were, in his mind, good for a number of things, but serious government work was not among them.
"Yes. I speak, read and write Russian fluently and have been in contact over the years with a number of Russian organizations. Among my contacts are a few people who became involved with Mladepovich. When some of the information I was receiving began to hint at something rather alarming, I constructed a false identity and began communicating directly with him. At the same time, I also alerted the government. So, the plan is that Mr. Gordon will personify the false identity I created, Timofei Edviva, while my cover will be as his mistress, Arnaude DeRouisseau."
Artie grinned broadly. Jim shot him a look – he was still offended, and was developing an opinion that this woman was some sort of dilettante.
"If we need a secretary we can certainly hire one, as Mr. West suggested, but I was hired
to gather intelligence. I have over fifteen years experience in this area, having worked as a spy for both sides in the late war, as well as for foreign governments." Anna flashed a smile once more. "I now cede the floor to Colonel Richmond."
Before Richmond began, Artie cleared his throat and raised his hand. "I don't know if you know this but, although I can speak Russian pretty well, it's been years and years since I had an opportunity to read it or write it, so if we're going to interact with these people directly, I believe I'm at a disadvantage. The original idea was to be as covert as possible."
Anna removed the cowl from her head, revealing a mass of thick dark curls, which set off her green eyes quite dramatically. "My, it's warm in here. Sorry, Mr. Gordon, what did you say?"
"I said –"
"Gordon, we've hashed this out already." Richmond rose and walked toward the kitchen."I'm after a cool drink. Mrs. White, you may continue."
"'Timofei Edviva' was raised in this country, has only a beginner's knowledge of Russian, and cannot read or write it at all. In fact he's only half-Russian, but over time developed a hatred for this country and his mother's people – fabulously wealthy Boston Brahmins – he wants to be Russian through and through. He's pig-headed and woefully ignorant, but he is also the only heir to an enormous legacy – tens of millions. "
"That's some interesting character you came up with," Artie said admiringly.
Mrs. White nodded graciously, "Merci beaucoup.."
"But why does he need his mistress to come along? Not that I'm complaining, of course," said Gordon as he beamed at her.
Colonel Richmond returned with two tepid glasses of water, one of which he handed to Mrs. White, and a linen shirt draped over his arm, which he handed to Artie.
"Please, Gordon, Mrs. White is under enough strain."
Artie had almost forgotten that he was shirtless and was instantly overcome with acute embarrassment. He jumped from his seat and headed toward his room.
"Sorry, ma'am. Be right back."
"So answer the question, Mrs. White, why do we need you along?" West demanded. The heat was starting to get to him, and he did not like the fact that this woman – a Mrs. White – whom no one had ever heard of, had assigned herself a principal role in this mission.
"Mr. West, you are reputed to have one of the finest minds in the Service, and yet you cannot see how much more effective this plan would be? The Edviva character, for all intents and purposes, knows no Russian, while both Artemus and I are fluent. My alter ego, the Frenchwoman Arnaude DeRouisseau, knows very little English and not a word of Russian. For those reasons, Mladepovich would feel free to say almost anything in front of the both of us."
"What?"
"Oh, goodness, if your's is what passes for a fine mind in Washington these days, heaven help all of us," she snapped. The heat was beginning to get to her as well. "Why would Mladepovich suffer a fool like Edviva? For the money he can pour into Mladepovich's war chest. But Edviva is half-American, can he be trusted? Perhaps not. But if he is fool enough to travel with his French paramour, he's automatically trustworthy, if only by virtue of his stupidity. Mladepovich despises the French – something about Napoleon, I'm told. And he is quite the moralist. What we will present as our relationship – Edviva's and DeRouisseau's – is anathema even to a man of the world like him."
"So why not present yourself as Edviva's wife?"
Anna rolled her eyes. "Because wives, Mr. West, are – in this culture – dainty little things who spend their days at home in dainty little pastimes. A woman of the other sort is granted greater entree into the world of men, if only for the purposes of exploitation. But I have played the game long enough and well enough that I usually win."
At that, Artie entered the room, coughing to mask his broad smile.
"Gordon, I hope you appreciate the gravity of this approach. You and Mrs. White are going to be working in what might be a very dangerous environment. I myself have reservations about sending Mrs. White, but the President thinks she'll do a crackerjack job."
Richmond rose and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. "I'm going to the hotel now – there's mountain of paperwork to go through before tomorrow morning, and I'd like to cable a few things before we take off. West, you and I will take the Wanderer to Vancouver tomorrow. I'd like to leave around six a.m. Gordon, you'll need to pack before then - there's a train leaving from this station that will connect with another train to San Francisco around eight a.m. tomorrow – I have tickets for you and Mrs. White in a... a sleeping compartment."
Toward the end of that announcement Richmond's throat tightened up. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "It is most important that Mladepovich not see any cracks in this charade, and... ah.... I know we will all comport ourselves as professionals." Again his throat tightened and in his embarrassment, he delivered that last comment to his shoes.
"Indeed we will," answered Anna, while glaring meaningly, but not unkindly, at Artemus.
Recovering himself, Richmond looked around the room at to see three increasingly bedraggled and sweaty people. Even Mrs. White in her white linen was beginning to succumb. "We might as well all spend the night in the hotel. I understand they have a cold spring nearby, and an underwater river that has caused some big oaks or elms or some such to grow outside the hotel. The rooms should be cooler than this hot box, and we will all need a good night's sleep."
"I'll be packed and in my best bib and tucker within the hour." Artemus avoided looking at Mrs. White, as it was almost all he could do to suppress a grin.
***
"Some high-class establishment, this," West observed dryly.
The Grand King George Hotel was neither grand nor a hotel, strictly speaking. On the first floor were a kitchen, a bar, six tables featuring a variety of bullet holes, graffiti and splinters, and twenty-five mismatched chairs. On the second floor were four rooms, each with a bed, chest of drawers, chair and wash basin. The largest two of these were termed the "Royal Sweets," which a sign behind the bar advertised as "Fancy comidations for queen or king. Linens laundered faithfuly every Saturday as needed." The "as needed" translated to two or three times a year, since nearly all overnight "guests" were bar patrons who'd lost a fight and needed a place to be stowed until the doctor could be found. These were never put up in a Royal Sweet. Yet, for the first time since the establishment's name was changed from The Ladd Tavern, both Royal Sweets were booked, reservations having been made for Artemus in one Royal Sweet and Mrs. White in the other.
The downstairs was completely unoccupied except for the man behind the bar. Colonel Richmond hailed him from the doorway, "Are those other two rooms available? We'll be needing two more."
The barkeep, who was drying glasses with the tail of his shirt, didn't look up. "Sorry, sir, need to keep at least one vacant. Or don't you know today's Saturday?"
"Colonel, why don't you take other Royal Sweet? I don't mind sleeping on our car, and Jim has to get up and out earlier than I do. Just boot me off the Wanderer when you're both ready to leave."
"You're sure, Gordon?"
"Yes. In any case, if tonight is what I'm guessing Saturday nights are like here, there'll be precious little sleeping going on anyway. Too much racket."
"I may take you up on that or I may not. For now, I'd like to start in on my paperwork. I'll let you know later if I'm willing to stay for this evening's festivities or not. You there, we'll take just one more room then."
"Suit yourself. Grab one of the keys, top row on the wall there." The barkeep looked up from his work and cocked his head in the direction of where the keys were mounted. Richmond took one, and went upstairs.
"You folks want my opinion, ain't none of you gonna get a good night's sleep here. John Smith's gettin' outta prison t'day, and there's gonna be some dust up here tonight, that's for certain."
"John Smith? " West chuckled as he sat at one of the tables and stretched out his legs. "What's his real name?"
"Dunno, but that's the one he used this time when he was sent up. Got a couple more though. You're pretty sharp, howdja guess 'John Smith' wuddn' his real name?" The barkeep, finished with the glasses, was now sweeping the floor, but was only successful in kicking up the combination of sawdust, alkali, and dried mud. Mrs. White and Gordon joined Jim at the table, Mrs. White with part of her hood drawn over her face to keep out the dust.
"Oh, just a wild guess," Jim answered as he attempted to brush the dust away from his jacket. "It's not that common of a name," he deadpanned.
"True," the man agreed thoughtfully. "Mostly the people around here, they got a Spanishy name or maybe Indian, but then we got a lotta Irish, and English and so forth. Me, I'm one of a kind, guess what my name is!"
"Haven't a clue."
"Aw, that's cause you ain't imaginative. I'll ask your friend and the lady then – hey, wanna guess my name?"
"I've never been good at guessing games," Artie answered ruefully. "Why don't you give me a hint?"
"Naw, too early in the game. Hey lady – wanna guess my name?"
"Is it... John Barleycorn?" she asked playfully.
"Nope."
"Pietropaolo Liechtensteiner?"
"Nope. You're not even warm. Give ya one more chance.
"Bill Collector?"
"Now you're just teasin' me. It's Freddy Hakimoglu! What do you think of that?"
Not knowing what else to do, Jim and Artemus clapped. Mr. Hakimoglu stood up straight and thumped his chest.
"I'm the only half Turkish, half English feller probably in the whole country. And I speak four languages. Unfortunately, three of 'em are Indian languages and aren't of much use around here particularly, but there was a parson came through a year or so ago, and he said I oughta try to get employment with the U. S. government on accounta they need people to talk Indian to the Indians a couple hundred miles south of here. And there's some talk the last coupla weeks some high ranking goverment people gonna be comin' through town soon. Have no idea why, but that's the talk. Maybe they're the ones looking for somebody who can talk Indian."
The three agents looked at one another. This mission had been planned with the utmost secrecy, even to the extent of having them meet up in one of the most isolated areas train stations west of the Mississippi. Mrs. White rose and walked purposefully to the door.
"Oh, how boring. Government and criminals. What dull conversation. I think I'd like to take a walk."
West and Gordon shared a glance, then Gordon rose to follow her.
"Oh, Mrs. White, my I accompany you? I'd like to stretch my legs."
Mrs. White continued on, but waved her hand carelessly, so Gordon took that as an invitation.
Outside of the hotel were only four buildings: church, telegraph office, doctor's office, and the train station. Mrs. White was on her way to the telegraph office. In spite of the heat, she moved very quickly.
"Mrs. White, is something wrong? I mean, other than the possibility that–"
Mrs. White stopped, yet her clothing billowed about her. "Mr. Gordon, the sooner we refer to one another as Timofei and Arnaude, the better. However, for the moment, you may call me Anna."
"Anna, then – is there something wrong?"
"Possibly very wrong, but I believe we can handle it."
"'It' meaning?"
Mrs. White started again toward the telegraph office, and began speaking with a French accent.
"Darling Timofei, I must cable Maman. It is her birthday on Mardi — ah – Tuesday. 'Tuesday' – is that correct?"
"Oui, mon cherie," Gordon answered. Looking around, he noted that the few people on the street were watching them with great interest. Then, very quietly he asked "Other than for Maman's anniversaire, why are we going to the telegraph office?"
"We're going to the telegraph office because I have an idea who leaked word of our arrival, and I want to send him on a little trip."
Gordon did not respond, preferring to think through the possibility that this woman was not entirely above-board. If this whomever had leaked the information about their arrival, who else but Mrs. White could have been the original source?
As if she read his mind, Mrs. White whispered "Mr. Gordon, if you're thinking that this person got the information from me, you are correct, however it was not intentional, and there is, of course, a possibility that we are not the 'high-level government people' to whom Mr. Hakimoglu was referring. In any case, I have some business I would like to pursue while in San Francisco. Rest assured, it will not compromise our mission."
"Oh?" He wondered if Colonel Richmond had any inkling of whatever this unrelated business might be.
"Purely a personal matter. Well... not purely, it has something to do with law enforcement, or rather a lack of enforcement. Perhaps I'll discuss this with you later."
Upon entering the telegraph office, Anna returned to her French accent. "Mon coeur, please can you write for me? My English, now I speak, but cannot write." She was addressing Artie, but at the same time directed a beaming smile to the telegraph clerk who grinned back at her. Women this attractive were few and far between, especially the middle of nowhere.
She slipped her arm around Artie's back, and gave him a look that said "the curtain has gone up."
Anna's touch was nearly electric and, for a split second, Artie almost lost his composure. Recovering himself, he slipped into character.
"Miliy, miliy, but of course I will write for you." He wasn't too certain as to how much of an accent, if any, Edviva was supposed to have. That was one of the things they'd have to discuss later. That and ... well, at some point they'd have to go over the ground rules for this faux romantic relationship.
"So what would you have me write, miliy?"
"Ah...'best of wishes... please to meet in San Francisco in two weeks, from A. W. Leave word Palace Hotel.' Dear Maman, she so loves to read en Anglais. "
He handed the note to the clerk along with a five dollar bill, far more than what the telegram cost, but enough to give the impression that he was wealthy and somewhat foolish. The clerk offered change, but Artie waved it away gallantly. "No, my good man. I have far more than that moldering in the bank. One needs to give it an airing now and then. Das svidaniya." He took Mrs. White by the hand and led her through the door.
"So we're staying at that new hotel? Those are some fancy digs, from what I've heard."
"Naturellement, mon coeur. Where else would you have us to stay?"
Once more her hand brushed his back, and it was all he could do to keep his mind on what he was supposed to keep his mind on. He had no idea how difficult that would become as time went on.