21

The antiquities shop, Sunday, June 13, to Monday, June 14

Herman used the key Luigi had given him to enter the shop and drag the case to his workbench. He brought out the damaged weapon and stared at it. He was furious, but admitted the weapon had not failed him nearly as much as he had himself. He had been fired at and flinched. The woman still lived and would now be more difficult to kill. Luck had not totally deserted him, however, as they didn’t get a good look at his face in the shadows; but they now knew he was in London and armed—or he would be, once he repaired his weapon.

He studied the wounded rifle. Sure enough, the Achilles’ heel of the weapon was the air flask. The fragile neck of the brass air reservoir had snapped where it threaded into the firing chamber. Until he could remove the remnants of the damaged one, he was carrying a twenty-pound doorstop. Fortunately, he had two flasks left.

He reached into his waistcoat to check the time and sighed. His pocket watch was now irretrievable. The license on the side of the cart would lead the police to its owner. Either the cart owner would be used as bait or would be sure to notify the police if Herman returned. A costly mistake. I’m sorry, Andrei. Our family heirloom deserved a better fate.

Herman worked early into Monday morning at Luigi’s shop, repairing the rifle and making lamps. He allowed himself two hours’ sleep but was back before opening. He could now wire a lamp in little more than an hour and had five ready by the time Luigi arrived. The Italian marveled at the quality of Herman’s work and was able to sell them nearly as quickly as they were made. Herman was low on funds, so the ten-pound advance Luigi paid him was welcome.

There was a knock at the entrance thirty minutes before opening time. Luigi went to shoo the visitor away, but he let out a cry of recognition and opened the door, locking it quickly after. He and his visitor came to the back office as Herman was starting on another lamp. He was deep in concentration threading a wire through a freshly drilled hole when he heard a voice behind him.

“Guten Tag, Herman. I hope you’re happy to see me.”

Startled, Herman turned toward a familiar if unwelcome face: his former employer, Grüber.

“What are you doing here?” he said, baring his teeth. “Haven’t you caused me enough pain?”

“Herman, I came here to make what amends I could. The authorities have ceased their hunt for you in Berlin, though it will never be safe for you to return. After a difficult questioning, I was released from custody as I was able to convince the police you acted without my knowledge. Fortunately, I have influential friends who spoke on my behalf. I believe the chief of the Secret Police still suspects me, but lacking clear evidence, was forced to let me go.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. You told me how you were able to come here. Not why.”

Grüber glanced at Luigi. “This is difficult for me, Herman. Please, may we speak alone?”

Herman shrugged. “As you wish. What more can you do to me?”

Grüber flinched at this but said nothing. Turning to Parmeggiani he said, “Thank you for taking Herman in. I consider your debt paid in full.”

“Prego, Signore. It is nothing. His skill as an electrician has already proven profitable. You may send as many such as him as you like.” Bowing, Luigi finished by saying, “I have some work to do in front to prepare for opening. I will let you gentlemen talk in peace. Scusi.”

Once they were alone, Grüber pulled out his wallet and counted two hundred pounds onto the workbench. “You have suffered much for our cause and at my request. I know you hadn’t time to prepare, and I hadn’t the time to help you as you deserved. This money will not bring your family back, but it can help you establish yourself here.”

Herman stared at the money and thought of the loss it represented. No, it would not replace what he lost. That was impossible, but perhaps it could be put to good use, nonetheless. He frowned but took the money.

“What will you do now, Herman?”

“I have the air rifle. With this money, I can take my revenge on those who robbed me of my family.”

Grüber paled. “Like me?”

Herman shook his head. “No. I blame myself more than you. I knew what I was getting into, or I should have. I blame Fraülein Harkness. This was none of her affair. Astrid adored her books and felt betrayed that this woman would be an instrument of the aristocracy. She will pay. Then, if I can, I will seek this Professor Bell. After that, well . . . I don’t know. What else is there?”

Grüber placed his hand on Herman’s shoulder. He felt like an angler about to tempt a trout with his fly. “Have you considered that you are striking out at the symptom of your pain and not the cause?”

“What do you mean?”

“Harkness and Bell were acting as mercenaries. They were mere agents. If you want to strike a blow against those who cause the death of innocents, you should attack their employers.”

“You said yourself I cannot return to Germany, though killing Herr Adler would give me great pleasure.”

“No, Herman, I don’t mean the functionaries of those in power. I mean the aristocracy, those who employ others to do their dirty work.”

“You want me to wait for the Kaiser to visit his grandmother the queen?”

“No, my friend, but the ruling class are all related. A blow against one frightens and weakens them all.”

“And?”

“If you want to prevent other innocents from dying for the decadent on their golden thrones, you can do so here in London.”

Herman felt a thrill move down his spine and felt more alive than he had since hearing of Astrid’s death. “The queen herself?”

“Yes, Herman. Kill the queen, the mother and grandmother of half of European royalty, and you will strike at the head of the serpent.”

“How will the death of this old woman make a difference? She may not even live until the ceremony.”

“You miss Astrid, and killing Victoria will not fill the loss of her death. But I can help you rejoin your son if you do this.”

Herman clenched his large fists, and Grüber took a step back, unsure what Herman would do next. “You are offering to trade my son for the Queen of England?”

Grüber swallowed. “I wouldn’t have phrased it like that, my friend, but in essence you are correct. Kill her during the Diamond Jubilee, with the entire world watching, and not a single crowned head will feel safe again. Their sense of invulnerability will be shattered forever. Do that, and I will get your son to you.”

Herman thought about Immanuel being raised by a grandmother who hated him. All his son would ever know of his father was that he had caused Astrid’s death.

“How can I trust you, after all this?”

“Herman, I have always kept my promises to you. Do this for me, for the cause, and I will see to it that your son is sent to you wherever you choose to live. America, perhaps? A man and his son could easily disappear in such a large country.”

“I would need enough money to buy passage and start a new life.”

“Easily done. We have wealthy patrons who can give you what you need to establish yourself there. From what I have heard, a skilled craftsman like you would do quite well in America.”

Grüber extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“From what you say, Frau Vogel will never agree.”

“Frau Vogel has no say in this matter.”

Herman sighed. What have I got to lose that I haven’t lost already? Herman looked at Grüber, then, ignoring his hand, took off his apron and hung it up. “Excuse me, I need to find a seat for the ceremony.”

“Herman, wait!” Grüber pulled out his notebook and quickly scribbled an address, then tore out the page and handed it over. “We have sympathizers in Southampton who will take you in on my behalf. Wait there for me or a message after the deed is done, and I will see to it your son is delivered to you.”

Herman took the note, turned to leave, then paused and looked back. “Do not forget our bargain, mein Herr. If I survive and you fail to deliver my son, I will hunt you next.”

Grüber was struck at the hardness in the man’s cool gray eyes. The thought of those eyes peering through a telescopic sight with him in its crosshairs gave him a s udden chill despite the warm June morning, but the feeling quickly passed. As he watched Herman’s broad back leave the workshop, the man bent on his new task, Grüber had to restrain a smile. The trout had risen to the bait, and the hook was deeply set.

Herman bought a newspaper with a map showing the route. The procession was to begin at Buckingham Palace and proceed to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the site of the actual ceremony, traveling via an egg-shaped circuit which wound from Constitution Hill, down Piccadilly, to Strand, then Fleet Street, until finally arriving at St. Paul’s. On the return the royal procession would cross the Thames twice, pass the Houses of Parliament, then arrive back at Buckingham.

Herman considered the options. His target would be as dead if he shot her on the return leg of her journey as she would be on the front end, and the bridges tempted him. If he should miss on his first shot, there would be no place for the carriage to go but forward.

Obviously, he could not hold a rifle in plain sight, even one as unusual as Befreier. Once assembled, its purpose was plain. He would have to find a rooftop, but that would be difficult, as every flat surface along the route was being prepared as a viewing platform.

He spent the day examining possibilities within range of the two bridges and finally gave it up. Even at the sedate pace of the royal carriage a shot over one hundred yards at a moving target the size of a pie plate, among a throng of hangers-on, would be risky. No. He had to look elsewhere.

As he studied the route map again, he idly turned to the description of the ceremony. He was astonished to read it would not be held within St. Paul’s, but outside. Victoria, due to her advanced age and rheumatism, would remain in the carriage, the celebrants standing on the steps above her. She would be motionless out-of-doors for about twenty minutes.

Herman stood at the foot of the cathedral stairs where the map showed her carriage would rest. He turned slowly in all directions. First, he studied the cathedral. There was one window to his right, high up, but getting the rifle inside past the throngs of clergymen and military officers would be well-nigh impossible. Next, he scanned the courtyard. Every rooftop had temporary bleachers being constructed with awnings placed above in case of rain or excessive sun. No place to hide.

He was about to give up and see what opportunities could be found close to Whitehall when he noticed a narrow street leading out of the plaza straight ahead of where the carriage would be pointing. Down at the end of the short street, on the corner, was a building with a flat roof and both first- and second-story windows. If he could see the windows from where he was standing, then he could see his current location from there. Worth a further look. He walked to the entrance just around the corner and saw a small sign: St. Paul’s Boys Choir Boarding School, and underneath: No Visitors.

I need to make an official visit, I see, Herman thought. I’ll be back.