understand exactly who’s responsible for this damned outright
“Mr. Xonck—” began Major Blach.
“Shut your foul foreign mouth,” snarled Xonck coldly. “I don’t want excuses. I want thoughts. Think about your problems. Then tell us what you’re going to do about them.”
Except for the clink of Xonck’s glass, there was silence. Svenson was astonished. He’d never heard Blach spoken to in such a way, nor could he have imagined Blach reacting with anything but rage.
Blach cleared his throat. “To begin—”
“First, Major,” and it was Bascombe speaking, not Xonck, “there is the man from your compound, the Prince’s Doctor, I believe?”
“Yes,” hissed Blach. “He is not a factor. I will go back tonight and have him smothered in his bed—blame it on anything—no one will care—”
“Second,” interrupted Bascombe, “the disruptive man in red.”
“Chang—he is called Cardinal Chang,” said Blach.
“He is Chinese?” asked Bascombe.
“No,” snarled Blach—Svenson could hear Xonck snickering. “He has been—he is called that because of scars—apparently—I have not seen them. He escaped from us. He has killed one of my men and seriously injured two more. He is nothing but a vicious criminal without imagination or understanding. I have men posted across his usual haunts as they have been described to us—he will be taken soon, and—”
“Brought to me,” said Xonck.
“As you wish.”
“Third,” continued Bascombe, “the female spy, Isobel Hastings.”
“We have not found her. No one has found her.”
“She must be somewhere, Major,” said Bascombe.
“She is unknown at the brothels I was directed to—”
“Then try a hotel!” cried Xonck. “Try the rooming houses!”
“I do not know the city as you do—”
“Next!” barked Xonck.
“And fourth,” continued Bascombe smoothly—Svenson had to admire the man’s coolness of manner, “we must arrange for the return of your Prince.”
Svenson listened—this would be what he was waiting for—but there was only silence…and then Blach’s sputtering rage.
“What are you talking about?” he fumed.
“It is quite simple—there is a great deal of work yet to be done. Before the marriage, before anyone may return to Macklenburg—”
“No, no—why are you saying this? You have already taken him—without notifying me! You have taken him hours ago!”
No one spoke. Blach rapidly explained what had happened at the compound—the escape to the roof, the furniture against the door—then how he and Flauss had just now left complaints and a request for aid with Lord Vandaariff, who had promised to do what he could. “Of course, all the time I assumed he had been taken by you,” said Blach, “though I have no idea how it was done.”
Once more there was silence.
“We do not have your Prince,” said Xonck, in a quiet, calm voice. “All right—fifth, Blach, you will continue in your efforts to find this Chang and this Hastings woman. We will find the Prince. Bascombe will be in touch. Sixth… yes, and sixth…” He took a moment to toss off the last of his wine. “You can help us get poor Crooner out of Mrs. Crabbe’s kitchen. They should have something ready by now at the river. We will take your coach.”
Twenty minutes later Svenson stood in the kitchen alone, looking down at the now empty table, smoking a cigarette. He opened his medical kit and rummaged inside for an empty glass jar and pulled out the cork. He lit a match and leaned over the table, looking closely. It took several matches until he found what he wanted, a small flaking of what looked like blue glass. Using a tiny swab he brushed the glass bits into the jar, inserted the cork and stowed it back into his bag. He had no idea what it was, but was certain that a comparison with the Prince’s glass card would be useful. He snapped the medical kit shut. He could not return to the compound. He did not know how long he could stay where he was—he should probably be gone already. At least he knew who his enemies were, or some of them—neither Xonck nor Bascombe had mentioned Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Svenson wondered if she could be responsible for taking the Prince. Yet she had been searching for the Hastings woman as well—the different figures overlapped maliciously. Indeed, for these men had mentioned Doctor Lorenz as if he were one of their own, while Svenson had seen with his own eyes the man’s attendance to Madame Lacquer-Sforza. Perhaps they were all intent on betraying each other, but up to this point had been in league. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. Svenson picked up his bag and walked out.
The alley gate was now locked, and he climbed over it with the stiffness of a man not used to this kind of exertion at such an hour. The fog was still thick, the street still dark, and Svenson still had no firm destination in mind. He walked away from the compound—generally toward the Circus Garden and the heart of the city—keeping to the shadows and forcing his increasingly tired mind to work. While the Prince was certainly in danger, Svenson doubted it was immediately mortal. At the same time, he’d felt a chill when Xonck had referred to “the Process.” Could this be related to the facial burns? It almost sounded like a pagan ritual, like a tribal marking ceremony, or— he thought darkly—like branding one’s cattle. The dead man, Crooner, had obviously been involved—there was science behind it, which was why it was taking place at the Institute, and why Lorenz was part of it as well. Who
Svenson kept walking, his boots grinding on the wet cobblestones. His thoughts began to wander, the wet chill of the fog taking him back to his time in Warnemunde, the cold rail of the pier, the snow falling silently into the sea. He remembered, as a boy, walking into the winter forest—wanting to be alone, in despair once again—and sitting in his thick coat under a pine tree, pressing the snow around him into a soft burrow, laying back and looking up into the high branches. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, his mind drifting, perhaps even close to dangerous sleep, when he became aware that he was cold, that the heat from his body had been steadily leeched away by the snow and frosted air. His face was numb. It had happened so gradually, his mind had been elsewhere—he could no longer remember the girl’s name—but as he forced his frozen limbs to work, rolling first to his knees and then to a shambling walk, he had a moment of insight, that he had just seen in miniature his own life—and every human life—a process where heat slowly, relentlessly dissipated in the face of unfeeling and beautiful ice.
He stopped and looked around him. The great park entrance of the Circus Garden was just to his right, and to his left the marble pools. He had to make a decision. If he looked for the man in red, Chang, and was lucky enough to locate his haunts, he would in all likelihood only find one of Major Blach’s troopers. To look for Isobel Hastings would require knowledge of the city’s hotels and rooming houses that he simply didn’t possess. The cabal of Crabbe, Xonck, and d’Orkancz did not, by their own words, have the Prince. As much as he dreaded it, as much as his nerves fluttered at the idea, as little as he trusted himself, the best choice that came to mind was Madame Lacquer-Sforza and the St. Royale Hotel. He was only minutes away—perhaps brandishing his doctor’s bag would get them to open the door at such an hour.
The windows of the hotel still streamed light, but the street outside was still and empty. Svenson walked to the door. It was locked. Before he could knock on the glass he saw a uniformed clerk walking toward him with a ring of keys, alerted by his pulling on the handle. The man unlocked the door and opened it a few narrow inches.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, excuse me—I realize the hour is late—or early—I am looking for—I am a doctor—it is very necessary
