O’Neil didn’t feel that he expected an answer, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for the drink. De Bono clapped his hands, and in a moment, the servant in the white uniform entered and poured him and his master a glass of wine. As he offered the glass to O’Neil, De Bono raised his hand for the servant to stop. “I believe our guest prefers cognac. Take the wine to Hertz.”

  Over at the window, Hertz made no response, but he took the glass and set it on the sill in front of him.

  The servant got a clean glass and filled it half full with cognac, then at O’Neil’s prompting, filled the remaining half as well. He took the glass when it was offered to him, drained a third of it, then set it on the desk between himself and De Bono.

  “I thank you, and my liver thanks you.”

  “However,” De Bono said. “This does leave us in what you American’s call a pickle. Ms. Dreschler’s family has, shall we say, a history in German society and we can’t just turn her over to a firing squad on the word of an American drifter.”

  “Don’t really care. Not my problem,” O’Neil mumbled and grabbed the glass for another deep guzzle of amber. “Where’s Tommy? We had a deal.”

  “Mr. Huston is on his way. Herr Hertz’s men are bringing him.” De Bono lifted his glass of wine and swirled it between him and the sunlight, making prisms on the freshly polished desktop. “As I was saying, we’ll need more than the word of an adventurer like yourself.”

  “Ask Costa. He heard every word I did.”

  De Bono lifted his eyes to Costa.

  “Not every word,” Costa said. “But enough.”

  “And we have proof that she is a double agent?” the Marshal asked.

  “It’s difficult to prove,” Costa answered.

  “That’s the trouble with good spies.” O’Neil finished the last of his liquor. “They don’t advertise.”

  De Bono smiled, then looked to Hertz and let the expression lapse for a moment to a frown. “There is, how do you say it, our rub, is it not?”

  “If I may speak, Marshal?” Bridgette twisted at her bonds, then sat up as straight as they would allow her.

  “Certainly, Miss Drechsler,” De Bono said.

  “I believe I have a solution for your problem.”

  “Please share, young lady.”

  “Yeah,” O’Neil said, cutting his eyes from the liquor to the lady.

  “Inside my front pocket you’ll find a set of papers in an envelope.”

  O’Neil rose and leaned toward her, but she shook her head vehemently. “I’d prefer anyone other than the armless arsch to retrieve them, thank you.”

  He didn’t need a translator for that one, he thought. So much for living up to the finishing school standard.

  De Bono nodded and laughed, then called to Costa, who didn’t speak, but walked to the woman, delicately opened her coat, and withdrew the envelope from her inside pocket. He opened it, read for a few moments, then his eyes grew wide.

  “Yes?” De Bono prompted.

  “Yeah. What’s the news?”

  Even Hertz had turned and was watching intently.

  Costa handed the letter and envelope to his superior, who took it, read it, then slapped his desk top and yelled out, “By damn!”

  O’Neil’s patience hit the red, and he jerked the letter from De Bono’s clutches. As he did, Costa swung for him with his ham-sized fists. O’Neil ducked, and stepped away from his chair to avoid a follow-up punch, but it never came. The Marshal nodded for Costa to stand down.

  “You should be more careful with your actions, Mr. Armless O’Neil.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  He opened the letter. Then laughed.

  “Glad to see you’re having a good time, old friend,” came a voice from the door.

  O’Neil turned to see Tommy standing a supposedly free man, with one SS guard behind him and one off to his right. The guards remained only long enough for Costa to dismiss them.

  “My God, Tommy, did you dodge a bullet this time!” He stomped over to his young friend and threw his arms around him, but only for a moment. “I don’t mean the firing squad. I mean the black widow of the SS.”

  Tommy cut his eyes from O’Neil to Bridgette and back again. “What are you on about?”

  O’Neil handed him the letter, and Tommy read it quickly then let it drop to his side. “An SS agent?”

  “Signed by Himmler himself, I’m afraid.” O’Neil smacked the young man on the back. “I’m afraid so, Tommy. We both got played for patsies, but at least my heart hasn’t been stomped on with her stilettos.” He took the note back, returned to the desk, and handed the page to De Bono.

  “So where does this leave us now?”

  Bridgette spoke up. “With me still tied to a chair.”

  “Yes, that.” De Bono motioned for Costa to cut her loose, and the giant did as instructed.

  “Der Führer has long suspected a group of Thulists within his ranks who have other loyalties than the party. My job was to flush them out,” she said once she was free. “And I do appreciate Mr. O’Neil’s assistance in that matter.”

  “And I don’t appreciate being a Nazi stooge.” O’Neil raised his hook at the woman, then thought better of it and put it down again. “I’d like to get the kid and go now.”

  “Almost,” said De Bono. He returned his attention to Bridgette. “And this traitor is?”

  Bridgette’s eyes locked on Hertz’s back. The office grew quiet as every other eye in the room did the same. After a moment, Hertz must have felt the weight of the stares, and he turned to face De Bono and Bridgette.

  “I have served der Führer faithfully for years,” he said.

  “Only as it served your interests, I’m afraid,” she responded.

  O’Neil felt the air grow heavy, like smoke without the color or the odor, just the weight and the thickness. Pick a side, he told himself, because in about two seconds that’s going to be the only way out of this room alive.

  Hertz went for his Mauser.

  O’Neil went for the floor behind the desk.

  De Bono stood up and reached for his own pistol, but there was no way he’d beat Hertz on the draw.

  Bridgette screamed and dove for the floor. Tommy appeared and huddled over the woman like a blanket.

  O’Neil looked for Costa. The giant was in motion with a speed that seemed disproportionate to his size.

  Hertz fired, and the bullet grazed the giant’s thigh, but didn’t slow him down. In the next moment Costa launched into the German’s gut like a mortar shell. Both went through the window and into the street, rolling away from the building like schoolboys on a tirade.

  Upon hearing the crash, those walking in the street glanced at the fight, noticed the uniforms, then ran for cover. In a few scant seconds, the street was empty save for Costa and Hertz.

  O’Neil waited at the broken window, and soon felt Tommy, De Bono, and Bridgette heavy on his back.

  De Bono yelled for his guards to help Costa, but before they could make it outside, another shot split the dusty air, and the two stopped rolling in the dirt.

  “What hap—” Bridgette asked.

  “Can’t tell,” said Tommy.

  “You just killed another man,” O’Neil said. “That’s what happened. Just don’t know yet whether to thank you or slug you.”

  “Are you okay, Bridgette?” Tommy asked, ignoring him.

  “She’s SS, Tommy. Your bloodline doesn’t measure up, kid.”

  “I can still be human, can’t I?”

  “Sure, but can she?”

  Tommy put his arm on her shoulder and she settled in next to his chest.

  O’Neil ignored them both and watched out the window. In the street, the mass of dusty uniforms finally moved. The larger figure on top seemed to rise first, but then it fell over to the side, and the smaller one sat up and aimed a pistol at the window.

  “Sorry about your boxer, De Bono,” said Hertz. “But he lost this one.”

  “Give it up, Hertz,” Bridgette yelled.

  A group of four Italian guards ran into the street and stopped.

  “My private guard,” De Bono said with as much care as if he were calling his manservant, “will shoot you on the spot before you can fire a second shot.”

  “It will only take one.”

  He turned the pistol to his own temple. “Traitor,” he said, glaring at Bridgette, then added, “Für den Ruhm der arischen Rasse.”

  The Mauser spoke a final time, and Zellenleiter Johannes Hertz fell to the ground beside the body of Lieutenant Rubiano Costa.

  De Bono spoke to his private guard in Italian, then turned away from the window, returned to his desk, and sat down. “Would you like another drink, Mr. O’Neil?”

  O’Neil glanced from the window to the desk, then to the open door leading out of the office. “No thanks. I’ll get my own. The company ruins the flavor.”

  He walked to the door.

  Tommy followed a few steps, then stopped and looked back to Bridgette.

  O’Neil shrugged his shoulders.

  “What’ll we do now?” Tommy asked.

  “You’re free to go, Mr. Huston,” De Bono said, not giving the tall American a second look. “You may do whatever you like.”

  Tommy cut his gaze to the blonde woman, who smiled, then shook her head. “I’m afraid your friend is right about me.”

  “One thing I don’t get, Drechsler.” O’Neil sighed loudly. “Why the map? It obviously was a fake.”

  She smoothed her skirt, and stepped away from Tommy toward De Bono. “A ruse, of course. A made-up trinket to draw out the cultists who are trying to unduly influence der Führer.”

  “Not the goods, but the girl,” he mumbled. “Should’ve seen it a mile away.”

  “What are we going to do, O’Neil?” Tommy seemed suspended between the woman and O’Neil, wound up like a string and ready to start spinning.

  “Do whatever you want, Tommy.”

  The boy looked hurt, but O’Neil didn’t care. Besides, Tommy would get over his hurt feelings soon enough. It was the curse of the young to forget too quickly to avoid walking the same road again. “I’m going to get you another ticket to America, and maybe after this she-wolf convinces you finally that your blood’s too mixed up to sell her the moon, I’m going to put you on the damn boat myself this time.”

  He turned to De Bono, and the Marshal looked up to meet his gaze.

  “Yes?”

  “Changed my mind.” O’Neil wandered to the bar behind the desk and grabbed two bottles. He didn’t look at the labels. He didn’t care. “I will take a drink.”

  He locked his eyes on the doorway and walked toward it, then through it, then disappeared into the Ethiopian dust.

  THE END

  PALLADIUM

  by Nick Ahlhelm

  Chapter One

  As she boarded the ship, Genevieve Prynne calmly cooled herself with an ornate Oriental hand fan. It showed a hand drawn picture of dozens of perfectly formed lilies. She received the fan from her father only a few short weeks earlier on her twenty-third birthday. The next day they left for the first leg of their journey, from New York all the way to Cairo.

  The air was hot and heavy. She could feel the sweat bead beneath her corset and full dress. While she loved the exotic atmosphere in the busy streets of Egypt, she couldn’t begin to imagine how much worse the heat would get as they started the next leg of their journey.

  A gob of spit hit the deck just in front of her. Genevieve stopped short and looked at the ball of yellowish goo on the deck. She followed the trail of the offending saliva up onto the roof of the steamer’s main hatch.

  The sailor wore a tight albeit stained white shirt that showed him to be fit for his age—somewhere between 35 and 40, Genevieve guessed. He wore an ascot hat atop his head. But none of these were his most notable feature. No, that was the large hook arm that extended out from his left sleeve.

  He raised it and waved it like a hand. “Right sorry about that, ma’am. Didn’t see you and yours down there.”

  Genevieve shook her head in disdain and continued onto the boat. A sailor welcomed her into the hatch. He waved her inside. She continued down towards the guest quarters. She paused only long enough to look back at her father.

  “Is that the type of man we should expect to see on our trip, father?”

  Harold Prynne patted his daughter on the shoulder. “I warned you that the ships of the Nile were crewed by a rough lot. Callous, lowly types. You insisted on taking the trip with me despite those warnings.”

  Genevieve sighed. “I know, father. You’re right. I just expected them to be a bit… cleaner, I suppose.”

  “You will find few places with the standards to which you’ve grown accustomed daughter. Your mother’s reservation has more amenities than the places to which we travel. And you know as well the poverty that the Cheyenne live in.”

  Genevieve nodded. As she did, her hand went to her long black hair. As she stroked it, she thought of her late mother. Cancer took her only months before their trip began. If only they could have made this trip a year ago…

  She felt tears well in her eyes. Harold pulled his daughter in close. She rested her head against her father’s shoulder. He gently brushed the tears from her eyes.

  “Now, now, my darling. You have far too beautiful a face to mar with tears. I understand them, but I hate seeing them.”

  She forced a smile onto her face. “You’re right, father. It’s been nearly a year. Mama would want me to move on.”

  Harold gave his daughter one last rub on the back as she pulled away. She took his hand as they continued down the stairs and into the guest quarters.

  They found the captain waiting. He was a scrawny old man, his face lined with age and weather. What little hair he had stuck out in tufts from his head. A pipe hung from his mouth unlit. He smiled with a flash of wooden teeth.

  “Good day to you!” he exclaimed. His words rang loudly through the enclosed space. He continued at that volume, obviously speaking loud enough to hear his own voice, even as deafness set in with his old age.

  “You must be Mr. and Miss Prynne. Welcome aboard, the Heart. I’m your captain, Stuart Roy. Meals are at seven, noon, and six on the dot. We’ll be under way in just a few more minutes. Will you be joining the captain’s table for dinner?” He said the last few words with a cackle.

  Genevieve looked to her father. With a smile, he said, “Of course, captain.”

  Captain Roy nodded happily. “We’ll be quite full for this voyage. Mister Wagner and his men are also aboard. Mister Wagner runs a Dutch concern in search of precious gems farther down the river from your stop, just before the mouth to Victoria. I was a bit surprised when he came with nearly twenty men, but we’ve got food and accommodation for all.”

  “Thank you for everything, Captain. My daughter and I hope that our search will be fruitful, but it will be good to have some time of peace aboard your ship.”

  Her father offered his hand, but it was a few uncomfortable seconds before Captain Roy noticed the offered hand. He shook it quickly before hurrying off up the stairs.

  “Are you sure this is the safest ship to take us down the Nile?”

  Harold only smiled.

  “I’m serious, father. Captain Roy doesn’t seem… well.”

  “He’s the best ship captain on this water,” Harold Prynne said. “He’s navigated it more times than any other man. We’ll be fine in his hands.”

  “I hope so, father. I hope so.”

  Chapter Two

  O’Neil fidgeted under his pressed and cleaned shirt. He hated this kind of pretty boy clothing. It made him feel like some kind of fop. He tugged at the collar as he looked around the dinner table. Not even the tug of the ship across the water, the lull of the current moving underneath him, could give him comfort.

  The captain sat directly across from him. The old man cackled at something said by one of the Dutchmen at his side. The Dutch sat in perfect rows of six and eight on each side of the table with only two seats left open for the scientist and his daughter.

  Something rubbed O’Neil the wrong way about Wagner and his men. They all sat up straight and true, like little clones of one another. They almost seemed like some kind of machines, programmed to act like men.

  O’Neil pushed the thoughts aside. Perhaps it was only because the men were so formal. He wasn’t used to much formality in his life; his annoyance at his own clothes was proof of that.

  The other two tables in the hall were filled with the crew and the remainder of the Dutch contingent. They already were eating a hearty potato soup. The smell of it made O’Neil’s stomach tingle. Unfortunately for him, the captain insisted that the entire table be present before any of the food was served.

  By the time the young lady and her middle-aged father walked into the room, O’Neil had given thought to gnawing off his own leg. Their arrival felt like a God given miracle.

  Captain Roy rose from his chair and welcomed them to the table. He invited them to have a seat. O’Neil said a silent thank you when they quickly obliged.

  Cookie came out of the kitchen with the third and final stewpot. He placed it in the center of the captain’s table and started ladling the contents from the bowl. O’Neil felt his mouth water.

  The Captain leaned over to the new arrivals and ‘whispered” loud enough for the entire room to hear.

  “Mr. Prynne, I know that we have been properly introduced. Would you like to meet the rest of the table?”

  “Of course,” Prynne said with a weak smile. His daughter looked up and down the table with a casual disdain. Her eyes stopped at O’Neil.

  O’Neil raised one hand and waved even as Roy started to rattle down the names of the Dutch contingent. He arrived at O’Neil just as he finished the wave.

  “Oh, it seems like you know my first officer then. His name’s O’Neil, but for obvious reasons everyone calls him Armless.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said coldly. “We’ve met.”