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Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Smashwords
Type: Fiction
Pages: 300
Copyright: August 22, 2011
ISBN-13: 9781465988621
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
An Italian anarchist tract writer agrees to murder the sitting monarch of Belgium.
1902 – It is a cold and rainy Saturday morning the 15th of November in Brussels, Belgium. Gennaro Cataldo, an Italian anarchist, has traveled incognito to Brussels from London and Paris. In the Belgian capital he plans to assassinate Leopold II, King of the Belgians. Positioning himself on a roof Rubino fires repeatedly at King Leopold’s carriage as the cortege, returning from a memorial service for the King’s deceased wife, passes below. Unable to determine whether he succeeded, Rubino escapes to France.
We find Cataldo hiding in Brittany, living with his sister in wooded Saint-Enogat, a hamlet adjoining Dinard, France, a then fashionable seaside resort of stunning cliff top villas, a fabulous casino and a burgeoning art colony favored by American and British aristocrats and European royalty. Descending on Dinard every summer, they occupy the only first class hotel in town rather than rent villas, give lavish parties for one another and, in the evenings, book every restaurant in town.
Promenade_du_moulinet
When Cataldo learns that Leopold II, accompanied by his 19-year old mistress, will be arriving in Dinard aboard his yacht to gamble at the casino he jumps at the chance. He aims to finish what he failed to accomplish that day in Brussels.
The murderer flees first to Peru aboard The City of Bruges a transatlantic steamer sailing from the walled city of Saint Malo across the bay. Once aboard he listens and learns to a hoard of thieves, crooks and con men who, like him, are escaping to South America.
But close behind comes George Remi, a well-funded and determined Belgian Secret Service detective who has set off from Brussels to bring Rubino to justice.
Unprepared for a life on the run Cataldo treks across Latin America in search of a refuge but in the end makes the mistake of his life by deciding to settle in Kourou, French Guiana, the overseas capital of the French colonial penal system and infamous Devil’s Island.
Excerpt
November 1902 – Brussels, Belgium
In the early morning hours of a cold, bleak and rainy Saturday morning Gennaro Cataldo, a 34-year-old Italian anarchist, let himself out quietly onto the sidewalk from the Brussels flat he had shared on the rue de Suede. It was a wretched, basement apartment, and a short distance from the imposing Gare du Midi. He occupied the flat for two nights with a man named Chapelle, a Belgian anarchist, who went around with a bomb in his pocket he could detonate by squeezing a rubber ball. The object of Cataldo’s intention was King Leopold II of the Belgians, a monarch he planned to assassinate that very morning.
The night before, rest had not come easily to Cataldo as he lay on the hard, wooden floor. A weak, coal-fired stove had kept the flat only just warm and he did not sleep well. He was reminded, as he tossed around on the floor, he was still wanted for further questioning in connection with an incident in London protesting the British monarchy. There, along with a small group of protestors, he helped place a bomb alongside the elaborate Buckingham Palace gates. No one was hurt in the explosion, but following a major outcry by the British people against unprovoked anarchist action – and a sudden renewed interest in anarchism by the London Metropolitan Police – Cataldo was apprehended, interrogated, and held all night.
Seymour Galbraith, a senior member of the London anarchic cell, met Cataldo outside the police station the next morning after he was released. His intention was to hide Cataldo, without delay, in a safe house. After they had detoured through central London for an hour to make sure they were not followed, they finally boarded a horse-drawn tram. They crossed the Thames over the five cast iron cantilevered arches of the Battersea Bridge onto the South Bank and, at the end of the line, jumped off and walked in a short time toward York Road. Finally, they made their way down a narrow, blighted street that ended at the river. The two-story, brick dwelling, abandoned long ago, stood forlorn on its overgrown lot close to the factories that lined the embankment. Cataldo could smell their industrial stench well enough as it floated over the neighborhood. Galbraith had said something about a candle factory nearby and, whatever the predominant smell, it added to Cataldo’s displeasure at being detained first by the police and now by his own organization. With its crumbling walls, holes in the floors, and remnants of a destroyed staircase, the safe house was ideal for an impermanent operational hideaway. The two entered through a rear door and picked their way across a wooden floor that trembled as though, at any moment, it might suddenly give way beneath their feet.
“Well, then, it was an unpleasant night?” asked Galbraith. He had a worried look on his face, as if afraid to hear the details. They were seated at a small wood table in what had once been the kitchen. Cataldo said nothing at all for a few moments while Galbraith busied himself pouring Cataldo a glass of ginger beer from a glazed earthenware jug.
“Not very pleasant at all.” Cataldo nodded as he watched the man pour. He tried not to sound annoyed, the answer obvious. He took a sip from his mug, grimaced, and put it down. Ginger beer was not his drink, but he appreciated the gesture.
“Well then,” began Galbraith. “Let’s have it.”
“I was interrogated most of the night,” Cataldo said. He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Who I was, where I was from, my involvement with the incident, but I said nothing.”
“Excellent. I must say,” marveled Galbraith, “for a tract writer, your field smarts are impressive.”
Cataldo shrugged, last night’s ordeal still fresh in his mind. “It wasn’t easy,” he muttered.
He longed for a taste of red wine, some Primitivo, strong and full-bodied in a glass, not the anemic beer in its heavy, coarse mug. “They’re going to come looking for me,” he continued all of a sudden. “More questions. They’re frustrated and mad. I’m their only suspect. The police told me we quite embarrassed King Edward with our little stunt.”
“Well, don’t worry about the bloody police. And as for Edward, who gives a damn?”
“Yes, well, that’s lovely, but it’s me they want after all.”
Galbraith looked at him in silence, worried. “I’m well aware,” he said. Later, he explained to Cataldo how he would arrange for him to flee London and temporarily relocate to Paris. It would be an exile of sorts. “Look, I’ll have you out of here in no time. The Continent is only four hours away. No need to worry.”
“Paris?” asked Cataldo. He was skeptical. “Why Paris? You couldn’t find somewhere closer?”
“Too risky,” he said. “Best to have you out of Britain altogether. Once the police ask Scotland Yard for help those fellows will find you quickly no matter where we hide you in Britain. They’re very good, you know. Or, stay in London and you run the risk of being found by the local police. Either way you’ll be imprisoned at His Majesty’s pleasure. Not my cup of tea I can tell you,” he added with feeling.
“I see,” said Cataldo. He was gloomy at the prospect.
“Alright then, listen up,” said Galbraith lively and quick. “Pull yourself together. Here’s how it’s going to happen. First, the tram to Victoria Station this evening, and then the night train to Folkestone and the ferry over the channel to Boulogne. There, you’ll find the connecting train to Paris. Arrive Gare du Nord. Catch the number 62 bus over to the Quai Montebello. It’s in the Latin Quarter.” He tapped the table with the tip of his right index finger as each link in the journey was described. “It’s quick and it’s fast. Tomorrow morning you’ll be in Paris. Understand? ” It was a set of instructions he had given before and he rattled through the details quickly.
“Alright,” said Cataldo closing his eyes for a moment.
“I gather you’ve never been. You’ll see, lovely city, Paris,” said Galbraith, trying to sound cheerful. “Our French cousins are used to this sort of thing, you know. We exchange people regularly, back and forth. Things get too hot in Paris for one of theirs, they ship him over here for a while and vice versa. Common practice.”
As Cataldo took another unwanted sip of his beer, Galbraith touched his arm.
“Now, one more thing. Give me your attention. You’ll no doubt meet with Elize. She’s the brains behind the operation over there. Nothing gets by her and she has her say about everything and everybody. Keep your wits about you when you meet her. Volunteer your services. Make yourself useful. But kiss her arse when you have to.”
Cataldo nodded vaguely and said he would. He was too tired to listen to anymore of Galbraith’s advice about the French, the series of instructions unending. What he needed right now was a soft bed and a hot meal.
Galbraith said the move would only be temporary until things quieted down. The French would look after him, shelter him, and maybe even involve him in some of their activities. The loose ends drawn Galbraith found some paper and prepared a letter of introduction to the head of the Paris anarchist cell. He watched Cataldo recover from his ordeal by lounging on the floor in a corner of the living room and closing his eyes.
He introduced Cataldo as a tract writer for the British cell. Cataldo had emigrated to England from Italy with his sister to escape his government’s disapproval of his very public anarchic treatises criticizing the King of Italy and calling for his abdication. Galbraith addressed the London situation next. He sketched the details of the bomb blast the night before, unsure whether the news had already been published in the Paris press. Galbraith asked for Elize’s help in sheltering Cataldo until the police investigation quieted. Because it was a routine request, he saw no need to flatter her with accolades about Cataldo. For what it was worth – and it was often worth the effort when asking the French for anything – he wanted to sketch a few, positive traits about his man. Cataldo was what he was, thought Galbraith, uncertain how to characterize him precisely on paper. The man was a novice. Quick thinking, yes, of course, but also lucky and, he noted, Cataldo had learned to keep his mouth shut when behind bars. It was something he seemed to have learned in Italy where he had been jailed for his seditious writings. He was quiet, too, and as competent as could be expected given his limited field experience as an anarchist. Beyond that, he took orders well, perhaps as a result of his three years in the Army.
Galbraith concluded his assessment with the notion he saw in Cataldo a natural talent in need of nurturing so he could broaden his skills and become an effective, operational activist in the movement. Perhaps Elize could be helpful there, he suggested, ending his sentence. Something, he concluded, could be made of him during his stay in France if the French would be interested in taking him on. He hoped in turn Cataldo could be useful to the movement while he was with his hosts. Galbraith closed the letter with his usual endearments to Madame, and then signed with his pseudonym. He sighed as he put down his pen. Galbraith had no way of knowing whether he would ever see Cataldo again. Elize might recruit him permanently, or he might be caught or captured, as the French cell was active in demonstrating against the Republic. The French President had been assassinated only eight years ago and God only knew what Elize was planning now. Galbraith despised losing an operative, even temporarily, and especially one with as much potential talent as Cataldo. He knew well how difficult it was to recruit good men to the movement because that was part of his job. But the security and safety of the London anarchist cell was paramount, and so too was its ability to be able strike out at the government at a moment’s notice then fade away safely until the next opportunity presented itself. Galbraith re-read the letter a final time. He had done all he could do to help the man along, but at least he would be gone from England. Full of regret, Galbraith folded the letter in thirds, slipped it into the envelope, and sealed it with candle wax so Cataldo couldn’t read it.
For security purposes, the letter would travel first by courier from London to Boulogne. Galbraith’s courier, a woman unknown to Cataldo and to the authorities, would be on the same train and ferry and would clear French immigration behind him. Once Cataldo had safely entered France, she would approach him, introduce herself, and hand him the envelope. The rest was up to him.
Cataldo’s instructions were to deliver the letter to a French contact he would meet on the Quai de Montebello, on the Left Bank across the river from Notre-Dame. He was to look for the moored barge Jean-Michel. He would spot it because it had a deep green hull and a cream-colored superstructure. His contact, wearing a fisherman’s cap and a long sleeve, navy blue and white striped sweater, would be lounging on the quai in the morning waiting for him. It would be early and the bookstalls that lined the quai would be closed. Approaching the contact, Cataldo would ask him a question to verify his identity: “Where was Chateaubriand born?” The contact would answer, “Saint Malo.”
In the afternoon, in the process of being extradited unceremoniously from England by his own people and, for all he knew, living in exile for the foreseeable future, Cataldo walked disheartened through the empty rooms. He tried to dodge the chilly draft that persisted in circulating throughout the house. He was cold and hungry, but his quarters afforded him relief from neither. Galbraith had left earlier, but not before asking Cataldo to write a quick note to his sister Fiorella who was no doubt anxiously awaiting his return. In the note, Cataldo outlined in cryptic sentences he would not be home for some time but that the bearer of the note would explain. He hoped Galbraith would find the time to spend a few extra moments with her after he handed her the cash provided for her livelihood. Cataldo knew she would be at her wits end after she listened to Galbraith’s version of the events. She was only 27, naive and impressionable, but he also knew Fiorella could be resilient and clever and would find a way to adjust and survive until he returned. Cataldo was left behind and told to stay away from the windows – through some miracle those in the front room still had glass in them – and not to leave the house for any reason.
Galbraith was back by six.
“Hello?” he called out. He had brought food: a tin of sardines in oil, crackers, a jar of olives and a small wedge of sharp cheese wrapped in butcher paper. “Something to eat before you leave,” he said. He displayed the food on the table and lit the candle. He watched Cataldo emerge from the gloom of the front room, rubbing his eyes.
“I don’t have many French Francs to spare so this might be your last meal for awhile. Come and sit.”
Cataldo nodded and yawned. The two ate quickly in silence by the light of the flickering candle.
At eight o’clock, Galbraith handed Cataldo money for his passage to France.
Cataldo slipped the Pounds in one pocket and the Francs in another while Galbraith went over the arrangements and the password instructions again. After a quick, nervous handshake, and a pat on the back, Cataldo was hurriedly shown to the door.
As he picked his way across the dark yard, he heard Galbraith promise London would be in touch and not to fear, and then the rough sound of the door closing behind him. Cataldo heard the words clearly enough but worried there was no serious intent behind them. He was not impressed by the way that London had chosen to get rid of him. He still felt arrangements could have been made to hide him somewhere in England, but arguing with Galbraith would have been useless. The man was too high up in the organization and did not need to have his orders reviewed. Now, with his new life in London in shambles, he was again being shuffled off abroad. First, it had been the Italian cell moving him to London. Now, the British were passing him on to the French. Cataldo was unhappy and cold as he walked in the night to the tram stop and began the first leg of his exile to Paris. Hours later, crossing over the town of Folkestone on the Foord Viaduct, then enduring a steeply graded railway descent, Cataldo’s train arrived at Harbor Station at 12:32 AM. There, Cataldo pushed his way through the crowd and, along with the others, boarded the South Eastern & Chatham Railway Company ferry to Boulogne in France.
Once arrived, after a choppy crossing two hours later, he entered the Gare Maritime in the midst of an untidy group of laborers, businessmen, and sleepy visitors. The tired looking uniformed policemen, with whistles in their mouths, waved their arms and motioned the crowd forward and through the dim hall over toward a one-person turnstile. On the other side stood several idle officials in long coats smoking, drinking coffee and muttering to each other. A quick glance at each passenger as he or she passed before them was all that was required. Immigration control between the two countries had become routine. Had he been pulled out of line, Cataldo would have presented a worn, Italian passport with a valid visa for travel from Bari in Italy to Folkstone dated the year before.
“Pardon me. Might you be a friend of Mister Galbraith’s?”
Cataldo was slumped on a hard bench in the station, his eyes closed. Startled, he opened them and looked up into the eyes of a pleasant, middle-aged woman who peered at him with interest. She wore glasses and a brown scarf that was pulled over her hair and tied beneath her chin. She seemed as nondescript as the man selling newspapers.
“Yes.” He mumbled the words and sat up. “Yes, I know him.”
“I have something for you then.”
She sat beside him, reached into her black handbag, and then handed him an envelope. “Good luck to you,” she said as she snapped her bag shut and left him alone.
After waiting almost an hour, he boarded the southbound connecting train and arrived at last in Paris three hours later. He found the barge without incident tied up on the Seine and had no trouble picking out his contact who, after answering the password question correctly, accepted Cataldo’s envelope. In return, the man handed him a set of instructions that directed him to an anarchist hideaway near the quarries of Paris. There, members of the Parisian socialist anarchist cell sheltered Cataldo temporarily, one of the largest and oldest such cells in Europe.
He was shown to a cool, but comfortable, underground dormitory. The ceiling was vaulted, the stone whitewashed walls were adorned with old, faded promotional posters from the Palais des Beaux Arts and the floor covered in green linoleum. A man assigned him to a cot made up with a firm horsehair mattress and pillow both covered in stripe ticking. It was fitted with clean course bed sheets and a heavy wool blanket. He shared the room with six other men he did not know, and to whom he was never introduced. Occasionally, in the evenings, they would beckon and he would join them to play a game of double-six dominoes at which he invariably won. After two days Cataldo was directed to a flat on the fifth floor of an ancient apartment building on the rue du Bac near the Pont-Royal in the Seventh Arrondissement. His appointment was set for two o’clock and he was forewarned not to be late, nor to use the elevator, that was known to stop unexpectedly, often between floors.
It was an imposing sandstone building when he found it, decorated in organic Art Nouveau flair, the exterior an intricate facade of richly molded sculptures with floral inspired motifs. He disregarded the small, two passenger, birdcage elevator he had been warned about. Instead, he climbed the smooth, white stone stairs that wound majestically upward around the shaft, grasping the fine fer forgé railing as he went. He took some of the stairs two at a time glancing at the series of oval windows, framed in colorful stained glass that lit the stairwell. The building was still soundless when Cataldo, breathing heavily, arrived on the fifth floor. He had neither seen nor heard anyone when he finally stood in front of the only apartment door. Pushing the buzzer, he began to suspect the Parisian cell was a much more sophisticated enterprise – and certainly had a more imposing presence – than its shabby London counterpart. The British headquarters were in a decaying, musty old house on High Street close by Clapham Common.
After he impatiently pushed the buzzer again, the door was at last opened and a maid admitted him into a furnished vestibule. Cataldo stood aside, removed his cap, and shoved it into his pocket, while the silent woman closed the door behind him. Then she showed him wordlessly through a set of double glass doors covered by unlined, yellow silk curtains and into the grand salon. Papered in green and gold, the focal point of the large room was the three tall windows that afforded a majestic corner view of the Seine and the Tuileries Garden beyond.
Following tentatively behind, Cataldo noticed her at once, a small woman standing next to a beige sofa, silently inspecting him. Elize, the 73-year old doyenne of the Paris anarchist movement, was not what he expected.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” said Elize. She moved toward him and extended a small, veined, hand. She was pale skinned, smartly dressed and coiffed and wore a long, mauve gown. She radiated an air of self-confidence and poise difficult to ignore.
Cataldo, very much aware of her position atop the French socialist pyramid, found himself bringing his feet together, grasping her hand, and affecting a stiff bow in a show of respect.
“Madame,” he said.
Elize nodded at Cataldo’s show of chivalry, turned and gestured toward a set of armchairs at the other end of the room. They were placed on either side of a small fireplace encased in a white marble mantelpiece and crowned with a gilded mirror. It was a dim, fall afternoon, the sky heavy and grey, and the outside light struggling to fill the room. Cataldo noticed two porcelain lamps had already been lit as he followed her over a brilliant blue and gold rug, the scent of her perfume trailing behind her. After they were seated, there was a moment of silence while the two looked at one another through the unclear light. Cataldo, tense at the thought of conducting business with Elize, sat uncomfortably on the edge of his chair while his uneasy eyes darted back and forth between the woman and the mantel. He caught glimpses as he did of her short, brown hairstyle waved stylishly and youthfully so that her ears were exposed, and at the simple pearl earrings and matching necklace that set off her clothes.
“So, Monsieur Cataldo, what can I do for you this afternoon?” she asked. She came to the point all at once, the efficiency in her voice startling. “You came here all the way from London, I understand.”
“Yes,” affirmed Cataldo. “The ferry landed me at Boulogne.”
“I see. Yes, a dreadful place. I know it well. And so you made your way here, and you met my associates and I have your letter here from Monsieur Galbraith.”
He sensed she wanted to hurry him along. “Yes,” said Cataldo again. He wasn’t certain what to say because he had not read Galbraith’s letter, though he knew why he was there. After an awkward pause, he presented his facts. He could think of nothing else to say.
“As you must know, Madame, I was arrested and questioned by the London police and it was Galbraith who urged me to leave the country at once. The London police are quite eager to question me again.”
Elize nodded, rearranging the folds of her gown. “Yes, I’m familiar with the circumstances. Please continue.”
“I am volunteering my services to your movement during my time in France,” he explained.
“Obviously, I hope to one day rejoin my comrades in London but, in the meantime, I would be eager to work with you. Frankly, I know nothing of your plans for the future, but I would welcome the opportunity to join with you in any plot you might be hatching.”
“I see,” said Elize smiling faintly. “Yes,” she mused for a moment. “Monsieur Galbraith writes you were quite impressive in the way you marshaled the others to the gates at Buckingham Palace. And when arrested, and held overnight, you kept your wits about you. Very commendable.”
“Thank you. Yes, well, it was in the spirit of the moment. My devotion has always been to the cause, Madame, even though I am only a tract writer.”
“Admirable,” she said. It was a heartfelt affirmation. “So, tell me, Monsieur Cataldo,” she asked, a hint of a smile on her face. “What do you know about ‘hatching,’ as you call it, a plot against a European monarch?”
“Nothing,” he admitted. He looked uncomfortably down at his hands.
“So it seems,” she said. She murmured the words, as she looked him over again with interest. “Well, Monsieur Cataldo, I believe we can solve that problem easily enough. In any event, I have someone I would like you to meet. His name is Monsieur Lapo.” He watched her turn her head toward the door as if the force of her gaze alone would compel Lapo to appear.
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