The Assassin

Virovets translated the writing on various shipping stickers pasted to the crates. The autos had been originally sent to Moscow, then south on freight trains to Baku. It was strange, Bell thought, when he discussed the details of the trip with Bill Matters, the Pipe Line Committee director had never mentioned the autos. Had Matters thought them unrelated to a bodyguard’s concerns for Rockefeller’s safety? Or did he not know about them? It seemed, Bell thought, odd for Rockefeller to keep the autos secret from a colleague. But for whatever reason they were hidden, it was clear again that Rockefeller had pla

—

“Well, Father, here we are all three having tea as if we’re off to the theater in New York.”

“I’m very surprised to see you.”

“How could you be?” asked Nellie. “Edna writes about the oil business.”

Edna was quietly watching their father and letting Nellie do the talking.

Their father said, “I didn’t think that the Oil City Derrick had the means to send a reporter to Baku.”

Nellie said, “Cleveland would be more their limit. Edna is writing for . . . May I tell him, Edna?”

“It’s hardly a secret.”

“The New York Sun! What do you think of that, Father? Your daughter is writing for one of the finest newspapers in the country.”

“The Sun is no friend of Standard Oil.”

“Fortunately for Standard Oil,” said Edna, “Standard Oil does not depend on the kindness of friends.”

“And furthermore,” said Nellie, all excited with color high in her cheeks, “Baku could be the biggest thing to hit the oil business since Spindletop.”

“In an opposite way,” Edna interrupted drily. “Cutting production in half instead of spouting gushers.”

“I don’t know if the situation is that bad,” Matters said automatically. “The authorities seem back in control.”

“Really?” asked Edna. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that shots were fired at some American business men.”

Bill Matters shrugged. “An isolated incident.”

“Apparently,” said Edna, “the Cossacks reacted by slaughtering refinery workers. And now the rest are up in arms.”

Matters shrugged again. “It’s Russia. My impression is the authorities have strict control of the situation.”

“And what are you doing here, Father? Last we heard, you were in Cleveland. I just mailed you a postcard there. Had I known, I could have handed it to you and saved a stamp.”

“Mr. Rockefeller sent me to rustle up some refinery business—and don’t print that.”

“Not without verification,” Edna said.

Nellie laughed so loudly that people glanced from nearby tables. “Father, you should see your face. You know darned well she won’t print that. Certain things are sacred.”

“Father is sacred,” said Edna with a wink that warmed Bill Matters’ heart.

He sat back with a happy smile on his face. They had bought his story.

“It’s like old times,” he said.

The girls exchanged a glance. “Whatever do you mean?” asked Nellie, and Edna asked, “What are you smiling about, Father?”

“Like going to New York to see a play back when you were in pigtails.”

“‘Pigtails’?” echoed Nellie in mock horror. “Whenever you took us to the theater, we dressed like perfect little ladies.”

“Even after we ceased to be,” said Edna.

“All I’m saying is, it makes me very happy.”

—

“Who was that man with E. M. Hock and Nellie Matters?” John D. Rockefeller asked Isaac Bell. “I saw him at the Astoria, and lurking here in the lobby when they came for tea with their father.”

“He is their bodyguard.”

“He looks the part, I suppose. But are you sure?”

“I know him well,” said Bell. “Aloysius Clarke. He was a Van Dorn detective.”

“A Van Dorn? What is a Van Dorn doing here?”

“Not anymore. Mr. Van Dorn let him go.”

“For what?”

“Drinking.”

“Drinking? I’d have thought that was not uncommon among detectives.”

“Mr. Van Dorn gave him several chances.”

“Who does he work for now?”

“I’d imagine he’s gone freelance. I’ll speak with him, find out what’s up.”

Rockefeller asked, “What is that smile on your face, Mr. Bell? There’s something going on here I don’t understand.”

“I was glad to see him. Wish Clarke is a valuable man. I just may ask him to join forces.”

“Right there! Not while he serves E. M. Hock!”

“Of course not. In the future, after we’re all safely back home.”

24

My daughter is reporting for the New York Sun!” Bill Matters exulted to John D. Rockefeller. “It’s a big feather in her cap. A wonderful step up!”

“Does she know I am in Baku?”

“Absolutely not!”

“What makes you so sure? How do you know she didn’t follow me here?”

“They sent her to cover the riots.”

“There aren’t any riots.”

“That could change in a flash, Mr. Rockefeller. You can feel it in the streets. And my daughter told me that the officials she’s interviewed sound deeply worried . . . Now, sir, I know that you can’t abide the Sun. Neither can I, but—”

Rockefeller stopped him with a gesture. “Right there! The Sun is nonsense. Newspapers are all nonsense. The less they know is all that’s important to me.”

“She doesn’t know you’re here.”

Rockefeller stared. “All right. I will have to take your word for it.”

“It’s not only my word, Mr. Rockefeller. It is my judgment. And I guarantee you, sir, if she had told me that she knew you were here, I would inform you immediately.”

Rockefeller shook his head and whispered, “She would never tell you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All right! I’m sending you to Moscow.”

“Moscow?” Matters was stu

“We need those refinery contracts. You have done all you can with the local officials. Now you must convince Moscow that the Standard’s thoroughgoing, able administration will do much better for Russia’s oil business than these old, good-for-nothing, rusted-out refineries. And if you can’t find the right officials in Moscow, you’ll go on to St. Petersburg.”

“But what about the pipe line?”

“First the refineries.”

—

Isaac Bell met Aloysius Clarke on the Baku waterfront. The oily, smoky air had been cleared by a sharp wind blowing across the bay from the Caspian. Lights were visible for miles along the great crescent harbor, and Bell saw stars in the sky for the first time since he had arrived in Baku.

Bell thought his old partner looked pretty good, all things considered. He was a big, powerful man who carried his extra weight well. His face was getting fleshy from drink, his mouth had a softness associated with indulgence, and his nose had taken on the rosy hue beloved by painters portraying lushes, but his eyes were still hard and sharp. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all, unless you caught an unguarded glimpse of his eyes, which was not likely. Besides, Bell told himself, a private detective mistaken for a drunkard bought the extra seconds required to get his foot in a door.

Wish wrapped his tongue around the English language with a self-taught reader’s love. “Best job I can remember. Sumptuous feasts and the finest wines shared nightly with a pair of lookers. And Joe Van Dorn pays the piper . . . How bad’s that arm?”

“Healing fast,” said Bell. He flicked open his coat to reveal a Colt Bisley single-action revolver where he usually holstered his automatic, and Wish nodded. Since Bell could not yet rely on the strength in his hand to work the slide to load a round into his automatic’s chamber, the special target pistol version of the Colt .45 was an accurate, hard-hitting substitute.