PROLOGUE Cool white light from a cold overcast sky cut a bright path through the dark library. Julian Turleau stood in the window staring out to the sea. Beyond the thundering surf, angry storm clouds threatened. The wordsmith’s thoughts wandered over the slate grey horizon, across the vast Atlantic. With his mind’s eye he spied a similarly imaginative soul gazing upon his own stormy shore. Did he ponder the wonders beneath the waves? Or perhaps he saw Julian with his own inner sight. A sharp knock at the door dissipated Julian’s daydream. From across the dark, wooden expanse of the library entered Charles. The diminutive sinewy manservant shuffled silently. An envelope held tightly in his white gloved hand piqued Julian’s curiosity. Quickly closing the gap, Julian’s footfalls echoed sharply. Eager to see what secrets lay within, he shredded through the envelope. Dear Mr. Turleau, November 13, 1878 We are deeply saddened at the loss our mutual friend, Dr. Christopher Martin. At your request, we have examined the notes written by the good doctor on the day of his death. Julian paused. His lifelong friend’s tragic passing under such horrific circumstances scarred him. The injuries incurred that fateful day paled in comparison. Writing became impossible. Sound sleep eluded him as nightmares invaded his slumber. Julian clung to the hope of some worthy purpose emerging, some bright light arriving as a result of recent disastrous events. Wiping a tear from his tired eyes, Julian read further. I must caution you this is most likely a hoax. The translated text is as follows, “I am Osashar. I speak to you from Heru-deshret. I am happy to hear your voice. I hope to speak again with you soon.” Osashar is an obscure ancient mythological character. Heru-deshret refers to a mythological land. My colleagues and I agree that in the context written it may refer to the planet Mars. As incredible as this sounds… Stunned, Julian’s fingers let the letter slip. Drifting to the floor, it settled atop the tattered remnant of the envelope.
Charles’ dutifully concerned words whispered across the space between them. “Sir, are you alright?” Silently, Julian glided over to his desk. He poured another cup of coffee. Outside, the sun smiled through. Fair winds caressed calming seas. The butler beckoned once more. “Is something wrong, sir?” A grin grew from within the wordsmith’s silvery beard. “No, Charles.” Abruptly, Julian spun toward the door. Marching out, he paused to peek back at Charles from the threshold. A long lost twinkle returned to his eyes. Julian blustered with cheerful urgency. “Pack a picnic basket for me, Charles. I’ll be down at the laboratory. You’d better bring dinner as well. I have much work to do.”
PART ONE CHAPTER ONE
From the unpublished works of Solomon Hanson: Amiens, France, the spring of 1881. At the home of Julian Turleau, I spoke with his butler, Charles. The small knot of a man seemed unusually taken with me and my quest. I could swear we shared some kinship, though I couldn’t tell you how or why I thought so. He wished me well. I missed the famous author by a day. Following my subject to Paris hardly sounded urgent or dangerous. The butler’s worried owl eyes said otherwise. Paris dusk dims into night. As the sun sets the busy bustling city does not retire tired. She dons glistening gas lit jewelry and the black velvet dress of night hides her weary bones. Tonight she dances in dazzling beauty, daring to forget the day’s work and woes. The cape of shadows drapes over her squalor, drawing attention to her more attractive features. Solomon ‘Hap’ Hanson approaches the glittering theatre. Julian Turleau is expected to attend tonight. Hap’s recently acquired evening wear manages to look out of place, underwhelming, amongst the finery of those present. He struggles amongst a sea of tuxedos and fine dresses. Beneath an evening mist set aglow by gaslight conversations clutter the air as the handsome herd shuffles into the gilded building. Hap cuts a course through the crowd, scanning for Julian. The colorfully dressed women contrast with a checkerboard of men. Penguins and parrots. Hap laughs aloud, unheard amidst the clamor of the crowd. Approaching the entrance, masses merge, bodies press together tightly. Competing perfumes and various tobaccos sicken Hap. Fighting to breathe, he swims across the current to the outer edge of the mob. The crimson carpeted lobby comes into view briefly. An iron hand clamps down on his left bicep then the other. Writhing, stamping, Hap’s efforts fail and he inevitably is wrested from the bright lights and crowded streets toward darkness. Hap’s assailant shoves him into the dark dingy alley. Aromas, old as the ancient Frankish city itself, wax strong here; human waste and decaying refuse. Whirling around, Hap searches for his foe.
A familiar figure emerges from the murky shadows. Claude’s dark angular features framed by jet hair and a goatee perfect the man’s devilish appearance. His midnight eyes meet Hap’s sea green gaze. Claude Dufresne, the enigmatic personal assistant to Julian Turleau, seems set against anyone visiting the esteemed author. This second encounter looks to go much worse than the first. “You are persistent,” Claude growls. Hap forces a grin. Springing back a step, he assumes a boxer’s stance. “And you’re ugly, two reasons why I date more.” Claude is easily thirty pounds heavier, all muscle. Hap drops his guard momentarily. His grin droops. “Do we have to do this?” “It depends.” “On what?” “If you are still persistent.” “I am.” From around the devil’s moustache a sadistic smile curls. “Good, I end this now.” Gently Hap removes his jacket. Claude tilts his head in disbelief, frowns. Folding the crisp clean garment, Hap explains. “At least let me save my clothes from a beating, it’s borrowed.” Scornfully, Claude spits. “You fight like an Englishman.” Hap snaps back. “You don’t know me.” He winks. “I’m full of surprises.” Hap’s clenched fists rise. Shuffling in a wide arc, he keeps his feet shifting. Claude’s stance is more relaxed, loose. They circle slowly. Tighter they turn. Feints, half-hearted attacks flash. Quickly, Hap jabs. Quicker, the Frenchman deflects Hap’s strike with a loud slap. Claude’s leg flexes oddly and Hap wonders if just witnessed a kick withheld. Hap attacks again, slower this time. Claude blocks faster, following with a lightning kick. Hap blocks the blow, barely. Hap spies Claude's concern in his widened eyes. Hap chuckles. He’s bitten off more than he bargained for. A third time Hap comes in with the same punch, but pulls up short. Claude falls for the feint. Quickly Hap leans in and drives home an explosive left cross. The blow lands hard, jarring Claude’s jaw and dropping him to the ground.
“I told you, I’m full of surprises,” Hap quips triumphantly. “Have you had enough or do you want some more?” Without a word, from the alley floor Hap’s devilish adversary swings his feet in a wide windmill circle. One foot hits Hap behind the knee; it buckles. He lands with a dull thud, crumpled atop his own legs. Before Hap reacts, a sharp blow collapses his throat. While he battles to breathe, Claude flips to his feet. In a blur, he strikes Hap across the chin. Hap’s limbs go limp. Blackness seeps in from all sides as he feels his lungs let out a great involuntary sigh.
CHAPTER TWO
Pain awakens Hap. Begrudgingly, his swollen throat permits a breath of dank alley air. Attempting to rise, he topples helplessly to his side. Splashing face first into a cold puddle of filth shocks the cobwebs from his head and his eyes regain their focus. Righting himself, he realizes his hands are bound behind his back. , with a practiced tuck and roll, he brings his bound hands down, around his feet. He can’t help but laugh at the bonds before him. That bastard, he tied me up with my own jacket. Minutes later a scuffed up, mussed up Hap emerges from the alley. The once bustling boulevard slumbers; he’s lost half an hour. The show is still going on. Julian and his fancy friends must still be inside. But where is Claude? I need a drink and a bath. After that, I’m getting the hell out of here. A small bistro across the street beckons, with its small candlelit tables along the sidewalk; Hap’s drink waits patiently. Limping to a tiny table facing the theatre, he collapses into the chair beside it. Turning, Hap’s startled by a small elderly gentleman sitting at his table. Shock renews the pain in his head and he winces sharply. Gradually Hap recognizes the fellow. “Charles?” “Yes, Solomon. I see I am too late.” “Too late to help me whip that jackass Claude?! Yes.” Charles smiles thinly before becoming solemn again. “When I overheard Claude changed his plans I came as fast as I could.” “Well I’ve changed my plans, too. Whatever their game, Claude and Julian can play without me.” Charles’ gaunt, wrinkled face frowns, panic flashes in his tired eyes. The waiter arrives, cheerfully oblivious until he beholds the battered Hap. Before the waiter can retreat, Hap orders a stiff drink. Charles orders the same. Only the undulating muttering of the patrons mar the quiet scene. The two wait in silence until their drinks arrive. Hap gulps his quickly. Charles attempts the same, choking on the last of it. Hap sucks air through his teeth while the liquor burns its way down his gullet.
Pulling closer, Hap leans in to tell the old man the truth. “I’m not here to talk to Julian about his writing.” Charles winks mischievously. He pats Hap’s hand. “Yes, I know.” Anguish darkens Hap’s normally bright face. “No, you don’t. I’m not just here to talk about my writing either.”
CHAPTER THREE From unpublished notes written by Solomon Hanson: My adventure began as many beginnings do; with an ending. I was in the coal covered city of Pittsburgh. The year, 1880 Hap dismounted his horse and scanned the Pittsburgh skyline below. Iron black acrid pillars of smoke from nearby steel mills hung over the huddle of brick behemoths and tainted everything. He shuddered. Hap’s sandy hair once shined like brass. Now muted, merely tan, the ever-present soot suppressed its luster. Bloodshot halos often encircled his sea green eyes. A reporter for the Pittsburgh Examiner, Hap eventually hoped to write his way to a modest solitary home, far from the ‘wonders’ of the industrial age. Arriving at his destination, Hap paused to take it in. The pantheon of Pittsburgh’s elite built their Olympus here. From this hillside retreat the stewards of steel escaped the sullen surroundings of their subjects below. Proudly standing atop a treeless hill, the Brazelton mansion demanded attention. White trim gleamed in the muted afternoon sun. Unstained yet by soot saturated rain, the roof radiated a deep red. Its pristine splendor proclaimed the owner’s meteoric rise in status. Hap rang the doorbell. The door swung open. Standing boldly in the entrance, Allen Brazelton beckoned Hap in. Shorter, Allen’s fiery hazel gaze pierced from under thick thunderstorm brows. “Come in, Solomon.” Briskly, they strode in silence. Only the tick-tock of the grandfather clock disturbed the eerily hushed house. Before Hap asked, Allen answered. “I gave my staff the evening off. The ladies are out of town. It’s just us.” Hap swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. They ended their march in the billiard room. Allen thrust a glass tumbler at Hap. “You’ve done good work Solomon.” Allen poured them each a drink. His grim features failed to match his glowing praise. “That’s why I’m offering you this opportunity rather than fire you.”
Hap’s tumbler slipped, his jaw dropped. “Allen, Mr. Brazleton, what is this about?” Hap’s host seized a pool cue from the wall. He crouched over the blue-green table and struck the cue ball, the white bullet blasting the tightly packed spheres. Only then did Allen share the tempered fury with his glowering glare. “This is about my Caroline.” Stalling, Hap drained his tumbler before speaking. “What about Caroline?” Hap barely caught the cue Brazleton threw to him. “You know too well what.” Hap diverted his eyes to the billiards. Craning over the table to make his shot, he boldly responded. “Caroline and I enjoy one another’s company enough to see past our differences.” A father’s face flushed. “I did not raise my daughter to be enjoyed.” Brazleton focused his fury, fired his next shot. Silence sank in. Hap watched his friend, his boss smolder awhile longer. His eyes burned holes through the green felt. Slowly, fury faded. Allen Brazleton locked his molten-iron eyes with Hap. “Solomon… Hap, I didn’t ask you here to quarrel over Caroline.” His hazel embers cooled slightly. “Earlier I spoke of an opportunity. Let’s get back to that.” Hap let a sigh escape. It’s the first time this afternoon he’s called me Hap, hopefully a good sign. Allen cooled further as he began. “You’re an observant man. The world is changing. Steel and steam are the backbone of great nations. Edison’s inventions will make the twentieth century an electrical age. Those failing to embrace the new will be left behind, forgotten.” Pouring another drink Hap listened. Allen continued. “America leads in ideas and industry.” Hap braved a grin, a chuckle. “I never knew you to be overly patriotic, Allen.” Allen grimaced. “No, but I enjoy wealth and power as much as the next man. My point is this; a new player has entered the game and I mean to know more about him.” Incredulous, Hap recoiled. “Where are you going with this?” Allen’s gaze darkened. “France. Hap, someone’s beginning to challenge the status quo.” “How do you know and why do you care?” Despite their solitude, Allen’s voice lowered. “I have friends, powerful friends.”
Smiling, Hap clapped his boss on the shoulder. “You run a newspaper, one I enjoy writing for.” Then frowning, “Let Europe worry about France.” “They’re perfecting a new technique for lightweight, strong steel. Hap, what if French steel production surpasses Pittsburgh’s?” Allen countered gruffly. “Where do I fit in all of this?” Hap asked, raising an eyebrow. “Find out what you can. Rumor is their working on a variety of advances.” Hap shrugged. “This hardly sounds like an opportunity for me.” Allen’s amber eyes twinkled. “Still writing your book?” “Sort of, it sits on the shelf mostly. Why?” “The key investor in France’s industrial surge is Julian Turleau.” Hap’s eyes flashed briefly then hardened. “That’s dirty pool, Allen.” The old competitive fire flickered in Allen’s eyes. “It’s reporting Hap, you know it. Interview him about his next book. Slide in a word about your novel. Once Julian knows your ulterior motive he’ll let his guard down. With any luck you and I get what we’re after.” Smiling wryly, Hap finished Allen’s thought. “… and Julian feels good about helping an aspiring author.” Allen offered a broad, innocent grin. “Right. Everybody’s happy.” Allen’s smile failed to ease Hap’s apprehension. It intensified. As a reporter Hap had tiptoed around the truth to get his story. Before, the truth of the story outweighed any little lies told to uncover it. Justice required it. This story lacked the luster of virtue. Tightness in Hap’s gut tugged at him, warned him. Returning to the billiard table, Hap studied his next shot. The distraction allowed Allen’s words to sink in, settle, crystallize. Cautiously, Hap wondered. “What’s all this got to do with Caroline?” Allen turned to look outside. Against an evening sky, his face, like the vista beyond, darkened. He spoke in a low somber tone. “I want you to leave before my Caroline returns. There will be no farewells, no tearful promises.” Stunned, then angry, Hap snaps. “You think you’ll break us up that easily?”
Turning back, Allen glared at Hap squarely. Shocked, Hap saw something unexpected in the older man’s gaze; pain, remorse. He knows he’s breaking Caroline’s heart, yet he’d rather do that than allow us to stay together. Am I that bad for her? Allen answered the question in Hap’s heart. “It’ll never work Hap. She’s infatuated. How long before an eighteen year old girl realizes you’re not so wise, not so smooth… not so young?” Hap lashed out. “What’s my age got to do with anything?” “Hap, most men in their thirties know what they’re going to be when they grow up. Hell, most are halfway there. What will you be when you grow up?” “I am a reporter, a damn good one. You said so yourself.” “You’ve been a soldier, a cowboy, a miner, and now a reporter. Your passions burn like brush fires, Hap. They start quick, burn hot, and move on to consume something else. Caroline is not the only one infatuated.” Hap’s fury flared. “Dammit, Allen! I joined the army because I believed in what we fought for. After that, I worked where I could. Finally, maybe, I’ve found my calling. Being a reporter and writing novels are not mutually exclusive.” “You must know you two aren’t headed for a happily ever after.” Allen’s words hung in the air as the two stared at one another. Startled, Hap’s rage receded as he saw the pain in Allen’s eyes. Turning from Allen, Hap looked outside. He’s trying to avoid a war for Caroline’s heart. If I stay, things will get ugly for all of us. Hap’s gaze fell upon the murky Pittsburgh skyline. He imagined dead factories, smokestacks transformed into aeries for buzzards, economic ruin, chaos. Maybe saving this city is justification enough for my deception.
CHAPTER FOUR In the Paris bistro, Hap slams another stiff drink. Wryly he wraps up his odyssey thus far. “So I hopped on a steamer for France to get my ass kicked by a gorilla in fancy clothes.” Charles begins to smile. He shuffles his chair closer. “I am glad you told me the truth.” Hap pulls back, frowning in disbelief. “Why are you so damned happy about it?” Charles benign smile widens. “Because you have proven my initial impression of you correct.” Then Charles’ gaze deepens. He pleads. “Please Solomon, please reconsider. There is more to Julian’s work than steel. He will need a man like you. What could I do to convince you to carry on?” “First off, start by telling me what’s going on?” Charles grimaces, gazing into the past. “The adventure started for Julian over two years ago. He sought something greater from his life, real adventure. He locked himself in his makeshift laboratory for days on end. After a breakthrough he invited others to join him in some quest. He needed the help of entrepreneurs and scientists. As more strangers came to Amiens, Julian became concerned about protecting his project. He hired a local man, Claude, to maintain the security and secrecy. Last year Julian began leaving the estate for extended periods. He spoke of the impact of his project. ‘The world shall be changed forever’ he said often.” Hap’s eyes narrow. Absentmindedly he runs his hand through his bronze hair until a sharp pain reminds him of the encounter in the alley. “Who all is involved?” Charles tips up his glass, finishing it. He shivers briefly. “I do not know, but from what I hear, Julian is overwhelmed with troublesome, not so altruistic men.” The small wrinkled man’s eyes slide left, right. “Something wrong?” Hap asks. A shy smile flashes. “I want another drink.” Hap flags down their waiter, orders another round. Charles takes a measured sip before continuing. “There is a Russian, Nikolai. He is a twisted genius.” “Who is Julian entertaining tonight?”
Charles looks across the street as a wave of well clad Parisians pour out of the theatre. Charles reaches out with a boney claw of a hand, clutching Hap’s forearm. He retreats into the bistro, tugging Hap from his seat. “What the…?” Hap then sees what sends Charles scurrying into the shadows. Claude emerges from the crowd, leaving a wake of disoriented theatre goers behind him. With a sharp whistle, Claude hails a cab. The elite in the crowd cast disdainful glances as a carriage races in, blocking Hap’s view. When it whisks away, the devilish brute is gone. “So why me, Charles?” Hap begins. “You are a dreamer. I see it in you. The skullduggery laid upon you is ill-fitting. It does not suit your nature.” Hap scowls incredulously. “What the hell? And how do you know?” “I do not know how I know, but I do.” “Oh, really? So what then does suit my nature? ” “You will make the right decision when the time comes. I suspect you always do.” Hap bites his lower lip. His brow curls down over dark green eyes. He cannot help but smile. “So I need to forget the original reason I came here, try to reach Julian, and save him from some unspecified danger?” “Yes.” “Why me? Oh, because I’m a dreamer. You know that sounds stupid, right?” Patting Hap’s hand, Charles explains. “Your interest in seeking the truth, in seeing good prevail over evil, is what Julian needs. You will save his adventure from itself.” Hap waves the waiter down, soon another round of drinks arrive. He quickly upends his glass. He turns the glass over in his hand, staring into it. There could be no going back to Pittsburgh if he followed Charles’ plan. No more coughing and squinting through the soot-laden fog. No more Allen Brazelton judging his character. No more Caroline. That last one sticks in his craw. Looking up from his empty glass, his eyes meet Charles’. The frail little man silently pleads his case. Hap nods. “I’ll do it. If it’s anything like you’re saying, I’d be a damn fool to pass this up.”
Charles’s grin grows quickly, broadly. The older man pushes his drink across the table. “I shan’t be needing this.” “I didn’t order it for you,” Hap says, winking and downing the drink. “Well I’d better get going then if I’m going to catch them.” Charles’ grin diminishes. “Indeed.” “By the way, you never did tell me how you knew my nature.” Looking up from the table, Charles’ expression warms. “One recognizes his own kind in time.”