Chapter 4

Anna examined herself in the full-length mirror behind Artie's bedroom door. She had achieved the effect she was going for, and therefore the idea of dyeing her hair a brassy red was abandoned - maybe Artemus could use that jar of henna for some future disguise. She left the train as Arnaude DeRouisseau.

On the street, all eyes were upon her. Women on their way to church nudged one another and whispered. Another, whose young son appeared fascinated with the lady in the blue dress, placed her hands over his eyes until the offensive sight entered the hotel.

Both Jim and Richmond were seated with their backs to the door; only Artie saw her enter. Unable to contain his shock, he blurted out "Anna, you look like a French –! " He caught himself, and trailed off "— um, you know..."

"Thank you" she replied without irony, "exactly the reception I was hoping to receive." Her cleavage was spilling out of the top of her dress. Her cheeks were overly pink from rouge, her lips were bright carnelian, which made her eyes appear even greener. Her hair was beautifully arranged in the back, but dangling down the front was a long sausage curl that grazed her bosom, drawing even more attention to the display.

"If that doesn't rattle Mladepovich, nothing will," said Artie, more than a little rattled himself.

Both Jim and Richmond turned around to look. Jim let out a low whistle. Richmond stared, but had no comment. She sat down next to Artemus, who immediately felt a warm pressure against his knee. What that her knee? It had to be.

"Mrs. White, a question: when Artemus was shot yesterday, did you know what we were going to find?"

"Excuse me, Colonel - what are you referring to specifically?"

"Did you know that the revelers had those razor bullets before Artemus was shot? As soon as we knew he'd been hit, you went on about germs and dirt."

"I don't see the connection, sir. I went on about germs and dirt because, having worked at army hospitals, I know from experience that germs and dirt are often more deadly than artillery. "

"But did you know that those people had those bullets?"

"Not until saw one I didn't. What are you implying?" she asked coolly. She was desperately hoping the name Warriner would not come up. She was deeply ashamed of her breakdown before Artemus.

Richmond shot a look at West. "Well, it's been bandied about that those bullets could spread disease even without entering the body, unlike a regular bullet."

"Any bullet that gets as far as the skin of a target can cause disease. An open wound, unattended to, is a breeding ground for any number of diseases. I don't know if germs can survive on a flying bullet, but I saw the types of people who were shooting, and I wasn't willing to risk Mr. Gordon's health. I'm sorry that my concern was misinterpreted. "

That last comment was delivered directly to West, who replied with a mumbled, "I see."

Richmond dug out his pocket watch, "Eight on the dot. Here's to a successful and speedy outcome" All rose and shook hands, after which West and Richmond disappeared through the doors.

"Artemus, is your room still available?"

He looked at her with great surprise – a surprise he wouldn't have felt if she'd been dressed a little more... normally. He babbled assent.

"We need to go over some things we didn't get to last evening, and I'd rather not discuss them in public."

Artie was both relieved and disappointed. "Let's go then."

Once they were in the room, with the door shut, Anna asked, "What thought have you given to how you're going to play Edviva?"

"Some, but I figured that you created the character, you should maybe set the tone. I'm thinking - just thinking here - of a very loud personality, very expansive, completely oblivious as to how his behavior might be interpreted. His Russian-ness is - as you indicated -- mainly just a form of rebellion. He would be a total clod when it comes to understanding authentic Russian language and culture."

"My goodness, Artemus, you're brilliant! And how do you see him relating to Arnaude? I guess I should say 'me.' As I said may have said yesterday, the sooner we become Timofei and Arnaude, the better."

A picture flashed across Artie's mind - quite a pleasant one - but his intellect required that he answer her question. "He's long on wealth and short on brains, " he began slowly, "so I don't think he'd any interest in keeping up appearances. He'd be rather blatant about the nature of the relationship. That also should take the heat off of Arnaude - as weak as the Edviva character is, we don't want Mladepovich to think she is running the show."

"Perfect! So you lead and I'll just follow."

A difficult question arose in his mind - how far to go. He'd witnessed drunken tycoons slumming with their gold-digging mistresses in waterfront dives practically ravish them in public. How far would be too far? Or would he be able to read any signals Anna might send?

"Artemus?"

"Hmm?"

"Your brow is knotted. Very un-Edviva-like." Anna said laughed.

He saw his opportunity. Artie's brow unknotted immediately, and he grinned. "Anna, you giggled! Never have I ever heard a government agent giggle."

"Artemus, I may have laughed, but I did not giggle. I am no longer sixteen," she replied, her dignity offended.

"No, you giggled. I heard it," he said with gravity, as if he were on the witness stand. "Heee heee hee," he shrieked, "it sounded just like that." .

"Never - now please stop making fun of me." Her voice sounded very angry, but there was something in her eyes Artie wasn't quite able to interpret.

"I'm not - why are you so -?" He left the room and returned with a rickety wooden chair taken from the hallway. He positioned it directly across from where Anna was seated. Here goes nothing, he thought. "Sorry, honey, I argue better when I'm seated."

"Honey?? Mr. Gordon, I'm an agent of the United States Secret Service. I am not your honey." She attempted to rise, but Artie gently pushed her shoulders down. Her expression had a taken on a playful look, even though her mouth was definitely frowning.

"I'm not Mr. Gordon, I'm Mr. Edviva and you are my honey, mademoiselle." He backed up, expecting to be slapped. When that didn't happen, he leaned forward again, planning to elaborate on the giggle taunt. What happened then had him floored – and delighted. Anna reached out and put both hands on the sides of his head, leaned in and began to kiss him passionately on the lips. When she finally stopped to come up for air, all he could say was, "Anna!..."

"Mon nom est Arnaude," she smiled, as she rose and pulled him toward her.

* * *

Mladepovich relit his cigar, and waved it around to scatter the scent. He liked to watch the sour look on Tereschevsky's face. "Your report, please," he grumbled, as he kicked off his left shoe and used his foot to maneuver the needlepoint-covered footstool under his right foot, which was thickly wrapped in gauze.

Tereschevsky shook his head and repeated over and over "Zetrudnayne..., zetrudnayne..., zetrudnayne... "

"Zetrudnayne" Mladepovich growled. "Difficulty! Difficulty of finding and arming men! Difficulty of getting through to Tsar, that fool who persists in ignoring me. Tsar - he's no tsar, he's a functionary. And this gout - fires of hell are nothing compared to it!"

"Gospodin..., " Tereschevsky slowly backed toward the door, in order to make a quick escape when Mladepovich began throwing things, as he undoubtedly would.

"English, Nicolai. For now, we are guests in America. Nothing foolish Americans like better than foreigner who attempts to speak foolish English. Once colony established, first order of business, outlaw English everywhere - in schools, in streets, even in homes. Language is culture, Nicolai - don't forget. Things move so much more smoothly once subjects learn to speak proper language. But for short time until then - English."

"Gospodin..., "

"English!"

"Lord," Tereschevsky began resignedly, "could not explode shack. Was explosion, but-"

"But? Explosion, but? Shack made merely of sticks, still standing?" Mladepovich's naturally ruddy face became even ruddier with rage. "You think we just ask nicely, 'Please, Mr. U. S. President, sir, return to us Alaska, and area from Canadian border down to Mexican border and as far east as Nevada, since we have proof area does truly belong to Russian empire.' What answer would he have, you think?" Mladepovich was waving the cigar again.

Tereschevsky tried mightily to resist the smoke, which made his eyes water terribly, but he was unsuccessful; almost immediately, his eyes were so red and his cheeks so wet that. the casual observer would assume he'd just had a good cry. "Lord, perhaps he suggest to discussion, we persuade him ---" He knew this line would outrage his boss, and get him thrown out, thereby escaping the cigar.

"Fool!" Mladepovich screamed, as he picked up the nearest item, a miniature bronze bust of Peter the Great, and hurled it at Tereschevsky. "Out of my sight! OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Just as Tereschevsky made his way through the door, the bust slammed into it, then fell to the floor and rolled onto the Oriental carpet.

The door opened again, a footman carrying a tray. "Gospodin, telegramma."

"ENGLISH!"

The footman stopped and bowed. "Sir, telegram."

"Read to me." Mladepovich glowered. Some days, the pain in his foot was nearly unbearable – this was one of those days. Worse yet, he was too young for this – not yet fifty, and still considered the "the Adonis of St. Petersburg" – over six-and-a-half feet tall, a full head of blackest hair, bluest eyes, and extremely muscular.

The footman read, "Honored Sir, Have learned of your project. Can offer technical support re: explosives. Arrive San Francisco Aug. 29. Pls acknowledge if interested. Your servant, F. E. Warriner."

Immediately, the pain in his foot subsided. "So, perhaps at last fortune has smiled upon us. Mr. Edviva will bring money, this Mr. Warriner will perhaps allow us to speed up work. Alexei, you're excused, but first pick up bust and hand to me."

The footman complied, and then exited with a bow. Cradling the bust in his hands, Mladepovich murmured, "Batuschka, ya vash slynak."

* * *

"Artemus. Artemus?" Anna had backed off, yet Artemus still had his eyes closed and his lips puckered.

"Ummmm."

She slapped him lightly on the cheek. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

"Oh, no – I was having the most wonderful dream."

Anna sighed. "Mr. Gordon – Artemus – what just happened was merely to break the ice; to get you comfortable with the idea of us representing ourselves as lovers."

Artie's eyes snapped open. "Oh, of course. Yes, very appropriate."

With the hint of a smile, she said, "I can't say I didn't enjoy it, though. "

"Ditto." He checked his pocket watch, which showed the time to be almost 8:45 am. "Oops, we've got to get going, ma'amselle."

* * *

The Palace Hotel was no stranger to wealthy men and their courtesan companions. For her debut appearance, Anna had gone to extremes to give the impression of a fille de joie, dressing in an shockingly low-cut dress – even more so than the blue one – and nearly dripping with millions of dollars of emeralds and diamonds, or rather what would have been millions of dollars, had they not been paste. For himself, Artemus chose a diamond stickpin (also paste) somewhere in the area of eight carats or more, and a multi-jeweled pocket watch, actually real, he'd found in a pawn shop years before for only $25. The idea behind the display was to fix in the mind of anyone who saw them that they were quite wealthy but not overly possessed of anything indicating true "class."

"Mr. Edviva, your suite is on the top floor. I'll summon a porter for your luggage; you and Mrs. Edviva may go up now, or perhaps you'd like to visit our restaurant."

"Mrs. Edviva! Non! Non, monsieur! Moi, an old married lady? No, indeed!" Anna grabbed Artie's arm, and asked, in a heavy French accent, "Is that how you represent me, mon coeur? You disappointment me."

The clerk became alarmed. Unrelated couples were most emphatically not permitted in the city's finest hotel – well, they were, actually, but they certainly had to be a little less blatant about it.

"Arnaude, don't be silly, darling. The man thought you were my wife, but that's only because the family resemblance is so slight. Sir, this is my... sister. I've taken it upon myself to show her the glories of the United States of America, beginning in the great state of California, and that beginning in your fine establishment" he said floridly. "Any telegrams? The man who keeps my polo ponies has been making enquiries about buying a few from one of the old Astors – they drive a hard bargain, as I'm sure you know."

The clerk looked to the man at his right, who had given the couple a hostile glance when Anna first spoke. During this exchange, the man had been writing on a pad. The clerk looked down to see that what his co-worker wrote was completely illegible. Odd. "Ivy, stop scribbling – are there any telegrams for Mr. Edviva?"

"Yes, Corny." the answer came, somewhat angrily in a Russian accent as the man rose and went to the telegram files.

"That's Mr. Cornelius. More than once I've told you not to call me Corny in front of guests," the clerk hissed.

"Then you," his co-worker replied as he dropped three telegrams on the counter in front of Artie, "call me by my proper name: Ivanovich."

"Ivanovich!" said Artie, as he reached over to shake the man's hand. "Tovarich! We must sit and have some vodka – I too am Russian!" While pumping the man's hand furiously, he also tried to read what the man had written on the pad. Indicating it with a nod, he asked "May I look? I so love to look at Cyrillic script."

Ivanovich was about to refuse, but Artie had already snatched the pad, holding it upside down and pretending to read it. "Oh, how very impressive! You see, my dear – this is what I mean when I say that the Russian hand is so superior to the Latin." As he spoke he turned it right side up so that Anna could read it.

Anna studied it, tracing the lines with her finger. "Non, non. You are mistaken, mon amour. I cannot... um, how does one say? – make heads and tails of this – an ape could write this way. Les soeurs à l'école – " She mimed having her hand struck. "A stick to the knuckles."

Artie took the pad from her and returned it to Ivanovich. "Sorry, tovarich, she's such a pretty little puppet, but so bereft of true intellect." Sighing, he continued, "So many, many women I've known and I've learned this one thing: women have only hearts, we men have all the brains."

"That is so, my friend," said Ivanovich, looking daggers at Anna.

Artie picked up the room keys and took Anna by the hand. "I understand they have rising rooms here – imagine!"

"How interesting," she replied wanly. The thought of being suspended six stories high by a single cable filled her with dread.

Artie noted that her face had gone pale. "Would you rather I carry you up six flights of stairs?"

"You wouldn't – you couldn't!" she laughed.

"I can, and... I think I will." Instantly he picked her up and carried her to the grand staircase. Whispering into her ear, he asked "Is anyone watching?"

"Only everyone," she whispered back. "But not at you – I think they're staring because I dared to wear diamonds in broad daylight."

Artie pouted in reply. "Then I'll have to outdo myself," he said, then began to sing "Vi ravviso, o luoghi ameni" from La Sonnambula in a hearty baritone.

When he finished with a flourish, nearly to the third floor landing, Anna laughed. "My goodness, you certainly are talented!"

"My dear, you have no idea," he said mysteriously, before giving her a peck on the forehead.

"You can let me down now."

"Only three more floors to go, are you sure? I have some Elizabethan songs you might enjoy. "

"Show's over, Mr. Gordon.

"It is?" This was the most fun Artie'd had in weeks.

"Yes. I suppose you'd want to know what Mr. Ivanovich wrote?"

"Oh, of course," Artie said as he put Anna down.

"To translate 'Edviva arrived. Accompanied with French woman,'" and, ah – "

"Yes?"

"This is followed by a colloquialism which is quite crude, which I'd prefer not to translate, followed by a second colloquialism which translates something like, 'the boss is not going to be happy.' And I was quite right – his penmanship is dreadful," said Anna, shaking her head.

Artie took the telegrams out of his pocket. "Let's see, one from Mladepovich, one from – no, two from Jim. The earlier one, "Wilson family may be traveling south. Few still here. We may follow. Decide end of week.' And this one, 'Met friends of the Riley's. Will visit them this week..' And from Mr. Mladepovich, 'Please contact upon arrival.'"

For years, whenever Jim and Artie needed to send one another coded telegrams, the "Wilson family" always referred to whomever they were pursuing, whether one person or a group. "Friends of the Riley's" were anyone in a position to offer information about the Wilson family. These were often either victims of the Wilson family, or former associates. In this case, it happened to be a family who had been forced off their property.

"Anna, how would we like to contact Mr. Mladepovich?"

"I had some calling cards made up for you, I'm sure Ivanovich would be willing to drop one off."`

Suddenly they were walking arm-in-arm up the steps, neither quite knowing how that happened, but each silently enjoying it.

As they reached their floor, they were suprised to see Ivanovich standing outside the door to their suite. "Mr. Edviva, have word from Mr. Mladepovich – he invites you to luncheon with him in his home at one p.m. Will send carriage for you."

"Ah, how nice of him. Won't that be lovely, Arnaude? The man who I've been telling you about for so long?"

"Sir, apologies, invitation just for you."

"Oh, then it's not possible. I couldn't leave my... my sister alone, not on her first trip to San Francisco. That wouldn't be family-like at all, you see. And Papa – well, if word got back to him, I might find myself a few million dollars short come inheritance time. Mr. Mladepovich wouldn't want that now, would he? Look at her, so dewy and innocent. If she was your sister, would you leave her alone in this great city, even if it were in your wonderful hotel?"

Anna tried her best to appear demure, not an easy trick, at least not in that dress.

"Sir, please – I have my instructions." Ivanovich had never before been in such a tight spot. If the woman – a French woman, and not only that but not even this man's wife, and certainly not his sister – were to appear, Mladepovich's wrath would be unbearable. On the other hand, if he did not produce Mr. Edviva, it might be worse.

Artie ran a hand through his curls, and let Ivanovich dangle another minute or so. "I've got it, my good man. I will pretend that I misunderstood – all my fault, you see. Say that you just left a note at my door, you could not deliver it to me in person as you were called out to, say, deal with a drunken guest, or some such. My fault entirely and, if you get any trouble from Mr. Mladepovich, I will defend you to the end, tovarich..

"Yes, but –"

"But? There is no 'but.' As much as I would enjoy a good Russian midday repast, I cannot abandon my sister."

Ivanovich's face seemed to be that of a man facing the guillotine. There was no choice but to relent. "Yes, sir. It will be as you say."

"That's the spirit!" Artie said as he offered his hand, while grinning hugely. Ivanovich accepted reluctantly, then went in the direction of the rising room, while Artie and Anna went into their suite.

While he'd been in many a fine hotel, Artie had never had accommodations like this. The suite had a small parlor area, and a huge bedroom, with a dressing room on each side, everything decorated in the most opulent taste. His mind reeled at the what this all must have cost. Rather than take a look around, Anna stretched out on the wide settee, and kicked off her peau de soie shoes.

"Tired?"

"No, it's only that these shoes were strangling my toes something awful. I thank headquarters for outfitting me so beautifully, but I think they had my shoe size wrong."

"So, curtain goes up in an hour-and-a-half," Artie said while looking at his watch. "What should we do between now and then?"

"Ah, well, we worked every minute the two days we were on the train, so I really don't think we could be better prepared."

"True."

"On the other hand, " Anna began slowly, "I think we would use more practice in one area, which, as you know, we neglected on the train ride."

"Yes?"

"Oh, yes." She reached out her hand and pulled him toward her.

"Oh, I remember now," Artie whispered, before joining his lips with hers.

* * *

The carriage drove through Nob Hill, with the trip ending under the porte-cochere of an enormous stone mansion. Artie and Anna were met by Tereschevsky, whose face fell as soon as Anna greeted him, en francais. He delivered them to the terrace, which overlooked a garden planted with a number of pear trees, herbs, and lavender, the scent of which was most delightful. Mladepovich was seated at the end of a small table, alone except for members of the kitchen staff, who were bustling about with trays of caviar, smoked mackerel, and salads.

"Gos– Lord, Mr. Edviva," Tereschevsky said, indicating Artie, who stood smiling while holding Anna's hand. Anna smiled prettily, but said nothing. "And Mr. Edviva, please to introduce Mr. Piotr Mladepovich," he said, while standing behind the latter's chair.

"And the lady, who is she?" Mladepovich asked, the annoyance in his voice unmistakable.

"My lover, of course!" If Mladepovich was to be rattled, best to start in immediately, Artie thought. "We are men of the world, are we not? And I have found that traveling without a beautiful woman makes for a dull trip."

"She is not wife?"

At that, Artie roared with laughter. "Wife? What need have I of a wife? Do I need my socks darned? Not when I have enough in my pocket to buy a whole sock factory! Do I need someone to cook my supper? I have already the best chefs on my staff! I suppose someday I might like to have a son, but that's centuries away from now. No, I subscribe to the line in the old poem, 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' This particular rosebud..." he paused to kiss her cheek, "is among the finest I've found in any garden. Of course, she's French, which is a pity, but –"

"French?? Mr. Edviva, you must have read of Napoleon, and yet you can be involved with... French woman!" It was a Herculean effort to keep his rage in check. "And not married!

"Please, Mr. Mladepovich, tovarich,... love, it makes the world go around, doesn't it?

"Illicit love? Does not build empire, does not build state." Mladepovich took a deep breath. Nothing to be gained by discussion. All Edviva good for was money. No wisdom in looking gift horse in mouth. "Does French woman understand English? I prefer conversation to be for our ears only."

"Oh, just barely, and only when I'm speaking of love," said Artie, as he kissed Anna's hand.

"Mr. Edviva, I am empire builder – empire I build will be based on highest moral value."

"But, of course," Artie replied genially.

"No doubt you have read of Peter the Great. Without him, Russia remain in Dark Ages, without him to bring Russia into greater life of Europe, Napoleon have no more interest in Russia than in little pygmy village. Yet Peter stopped at bringing Russia into present. While lesser nations, England, Spain, ... France," that last which he said with repulsion, "pursue to colonize even lesser, more backward lands – Americas, Africa, Orient – Russia stopped in tracks. Our greatest tsar did greatest injustice to his people and people all over world not moving forward to pursue empire."

"So true."

"Yet, who more deserving than great, diligent and pious people of Russia to rule Earth? My plans are great and have started to come fruition. Have cleared out settlements in Vancouver, and will soon proceed south, then east. First Russians come here by land bridge – no longer existing – from easternmost Russia thousands of years ago. Even your American scientists –"

"My American?" Artie asked angrily. "Mr. Mladepovich, I am a poor Russian whose curse was having been brought up in this barbaric country, so please do not attribute anything 'American" to being mine."

"Ah, a man who understands!" Mladepovich raised his glass of mineral water, Artie did the same, and they clinked them together in a toast. "To rephrase, American scientists claim Indian peoples come from Russia by land bridge. So are not Indian, are Russian, so is right of Russia to secure all territory for their good. It is not them we move, but Europeans. And only move Europeans to empty ground for re-education as Russian citizens, as right and proper. We Russians are not violent as Americans are. So many grave injustices to Russian brethren and yet we are not bitter. We extend branch of peace under great banner of Russia."

"Wonderful! What is the immediate plan, and how can I be of help?"

"Immediate plan, say, six months, move all Europeans out of Washington Territory into empty wilderness. Then to clear out Oregon, and then – on six-month anniversary, have huge celebration on Russian River, California! How I hope you will help is related matter – very easy. To buy back Alaska. Mr. Seward pays two cents an acre, we buy for three cents, Mr. Seward make hundred-and-fifty percent profit overnight! Six months through one year, plan to move east after Pacific border safely under Russian control. By one year, should be nearly to Chicago. By two-to-three years, depending on cooperation of European peoples, Atlantic border under control. Uncooperative people, by five years, certainly."

"Why all the way to the Atlantic?" Artie asked. Anna's original understanding of Mladepovich's plans implied he was only interested in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest.

"Mr. Edviva, poor Russians labeled 'Indian' are found everywhere in America. Should continue to suffer because not in Alaska or Washington Territory?"

"Is any part of the plan related to going into Canada? Plenty of Russians there, too."

"Unfortunately, not foreseeable. Canada under control of Great Britain. Great Britain very fussy about colonies. America, not so fussy. But after America fully a Russian state, say, after decade, we consider Canada."

"Very sound plan, that." Artie said, agreeably. "So what can I do for you now? Right now?"

"Ah, anxious and ambitions man – great example to Russian youth! You may send draft for amount to buy back Alaska, say, 15th of next month?"

"Oh, sure." Artie replied. "But -- um, Mr. Seward passed away two or three years ago. We'll need to discuss our offer with the U. S. Government."

"U. S. Government made up of politicians. Politicians likely for sale as well. Buy right politicians, U. S. Government pay us to take Alaska, eh?"

"Ah, yes, that would be fine. One more question, how did you go about clearing out those settlements?"

"So very easy, yet humane. Send troops – my troops - to home, make family leave. Easy enough. Show rifles, bayonets – people flee like rats from sinking ship. Rarely use weapons, except when display of weapons unsuccessful. Family permitted to take any and all livestock, possessions, anything but weapons. Then we torch buildings so no one returns."

"What a humanitarian you are!" Artie deadpanned.

"Yes, you see? I do for their good and good of mistreated Russian peoples. Europeans soon have home again, only as part of Russian Empire of U. S. A. Problem is slow approach. Am looking into exploding buildings, rather than fire. Very faster and safer."

During this discussion, Anna tatted. Keeping a tatting shuttle and thread in one's handbag guaranteed that one was never completely bored. It also served to calm the mind – so essential in a situation where one needed to listen and remember.

"Yes, I could see that you could turn people out of their homes in less than half the time it takes you now. Isn't this exciting, miliy?" Artie asked. Anna smiled, and placed her hand on his wrist, then returned to tatting.

"Is not easy. I am thinker and I inspire. Am not expert of demolition, nor my staff. Yet, have good news – Providence sends to me man who may help with explosion."

"Another Russian, I hope."

"No, I think not. Sends me telegram, gives name as F. E. Warriner, to arrive 29th August."

Once more, Anna grasped Artie's wrist, this time very tightly.