Rennegal, her assistant, and the stagehands and electricians trooped into the elevator, chorusing, “Good night, Mrs. Bell.”
The elevator hummed down to the lobby, leaving her in a silence. Marion paced the empty stage. What if, she wondered, she got rid of the smoke? Did it soften the light or make it brighter?
She really had to go home and rest up for tomorrow. But as tired as she was, she could not stop thinking.
She opened the door in the glass north wall of the penthouse and stepped outside, onto the narrow terrace. A chilly breeze from the mountains plucked at her blouse. She hugged herself for warmth and peered over the parapet down at the tiny circle of the life net a hundred feet below.
Lighted by the spill from the windows of the first-floor film exchange, the canvas gleamed like a silver dollar. Marion studied it intently. There had to be a way to depict the beams of the searchlights without washing out the surrounding darkness.
“WELCOME, BITTEREINDERS,” Christian Semmler greeted the fighters he had summoned from the vice-consulate. These six had been the last of the so-called Bittereinders, holdouts who had refused to surrender when the British defeated the Boers’ regular armies and had fought on, extending the last days of hostilities by harassing slow-moving British columns, cutting their lines of communication, and killing sentries.
In the decade since the lost war, they had wandered, fighting for pay in the remote parts of the world where disciplined mercenaries fetched a premium. Ten years of such work had seasoned them into quick and nimble gunmen intimately familiar with up-to-date weapons, who were brave when they had to be and feared no one. But Semmler gave them pause. Some had seen him in action. All knew him by reputation. Each vowed privately that he would do exactly what the strange-looking German demanded—for despite his dazzling smile, he carried himself in a light and fluid way that promised sudden violence of memorable speed and ferocity.
He issued weapons, heavy-caliber American revolvers, clean and oiled, and short lengths of dynamite with fuses attached.
He showed them a map of the escape route from a secret exit out of the Imperial Building to a boxcar in the nearby Southern Pacific freight yards, where a special had steam up to shuttle them to the harbor at San Pedro and a ship ready to sail. Then he showed them blueprints of the building.
“We will survey the recording studio through this judas hole. After we locate our targets, we will enter through this wall, which slides open to the right.
“We will take the machines down these this hidden stairs. Once outside the building we will throw these quarter sticks of dynamite through the windows of the film exchange.”
One of the Boers held the quarter stick disdainfully between two fingers. “What will this little piece do other than make a loud noise?”
“The film stock is highly flammable. When the dynamite ignites it, it will burn the building to the ground.”
Semmler was a guerrilla fighter at heart, which made him a realist. He sensed that Isaac Bell was tightening a noose around his neck. The cold truth was that a single piece of bad luck—Isaac Bell appearing on the Mauretania’s boat deck at precisely the wrong moment—threatened to run the Donar Plan off the rails. Everything that had gone wrong since could be traced to that night on the ship, and it was only a matter of time until the private detective exposed the Imperial Film scheme to spread pro-German propaganda.
But the Imperial Film system of manufacturing, distributing, and exhibiting propaganda movies was only a device. Better that he destroy it himself, incinerating all connections to the German Army. The volatile moving picture business would welcome a new “Imperial Film” by whatever name and under whatever pretense. The key to the Donar Plan was still the Talking Pictures machine that would make the moving pictures irresistible.
With Talking Pictures in hand, he could still implement his original goal of using propaganda to divide Germany’s enemies. Killing three birds with one stone, he would take his revenge on Isaac Bell, destroy all evidence, and escape home to Germany with the propaganda tool he needed to start anew.
He beckoned his fighters closer. “Pay strict attention to this photograph.”
Christian Semmler showed the fighters a picture of Clyde Lynds that had been snapped by an Imperial publicity photographer when the scientist visited the penthouse studio stages.
“Not one hair on the head of this scientist is to be disturbed. He is the sole purpose of this raid. So mark well where he stands when we raid the studio. We will take him and his instruments—him unharmed, his equipment intact. Is that clear?” He looked each man in the eye until he answered, “Yes, General.”
ISAAC BELL TELEPHONED IRINA VIORETS.
“I was hoping you were working late,” he said when she answered.
“I am always working late.”
“I met Mr. Brooks.”
Irina Viorets surprised him. She said, “Then you know I lied to you.”
“Why?”
“I think you should come to see me. Now.”
“All right. Tell the doormen to let me in.”
“No. Not here. I’ll meet you on the street.”
IMPRESSED BY ISAAC BELL’S cold confidence that events were coming to a head, Larry Saunders had shed his tailored jacket for a still-stylish but more loosely draped garment with room for a Colt .45 in a shoulder holster and a couple of pocket pistols. And just to be on the safe side, he brought with him his top man, the formidable Tim Holian, who was the only detective in the field office who didn’t care how he looked and slouched about the city in a disreputable-looking sack coat bulging with firearms.
When they got to the
