Time Killers

Zenobia and I were engaged in our usual Friday night chess game. We played in the war room of our Park Avenue penthouse. Z had decorated the room with Empire period furnishings she picked up in Paris during one of our Napoleonic era jobs. We liked working for the Emperor; he was very generous.

However, after our last contract we got a stern warning from Agent Control. “Agents Ludwig and Zenobia; the Time Transporter is not to be used for your personal souvenir hunting. Is that understood?”

“Aw, c’mon chief,” Z whined, “What’s wrong with picking up a few knick-knacks here and there... now and then?”

Agent Control replied, “I wouldn’t call Oda Nobunaga’s armor, the pommel stone of Charlemagne’s sword, and Queen Hatshepsut’s mummy a ‘few knick-knacks’. The Agency has adopted a Zero Tolerance policy about such things, largely due to your sticky-fingered collecting habits. Bottom line: stop it, or you’re through.”

I was contemplating my weak pawn position when the Blackberry bleeped Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. “Sorry, Z, it’s the Agency. Game delayed.”

Z smirked, “You ought to resign, Luddy. I’ve got you in the endgame.”

It was good news: a lucrative contract. Perhaps this would take Zenobia’s mind off the game. “We’ve got a job, Z. Interesting, and it pays well.”

Zenobia frowned; she was still studying the board. Without looking up, she asked, “Who, what, when, and where?”

“Swindlers and powerful aristocrats; scumbags are scamming the aristos, we whack the scumbags; spring, 1850; Baden-Baden.”

“Damn,” Z winced, “Victorian era again; corsets, crinoline, and girly frou-frou.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Z. I kind of like you in girly frou-frou.”

“Screw you, you don’t have to wear it. Can’t I go as a boy?”

“Sorry, Z, according to our contract, we go as a Swiss couple: Colonel and Mrs. d’Hébert.”

“Okay, Luddy. I’ll do it if you admit defeat. Resign.”

Z gave me a triumphant stare; she really looked hot when she had you by the ’nads. I smiled, reached over to my king, and knocked him down with a flick of my forefinger.

“Good morning, HAL.”

“Good morning, Dave.”

Someone at the Agency had a sense of humor; the computer that controlled the Time Transporter responded to the name “HAL,” and it called all the agents “Dave.” Considering the risk associated with the deconstruction and reconstruction of one’s molecules, where a miscalculation could transform an agent into a blob of scrambled eggs and ketchup, some didn’t fully appreciate the Agency’s comic touch.

Z and I came straight from wardrobe. I drew a buff-colored swallow-tailed coat; long, too-tight breeches; silk waistcoat with gold watch and chain; top hat; cape; walking stick; and stiff, highly polished boots. The worst part of this get-up was the starched high-color and intricately tied silk cravat.

Z looked fetching in a raspberry bombazine crinoline. Her hair done in curls, her face covered in white powder and rouge, she reeked of civet-based perfume.

“Hey, Z, you look just like a girl.”

Z responded with an extended middle finger.

Time transportation had become routine for veteran agents. An attendant buckled us into our safety seats and gave us our “happy juice.” The drugs had a hallucinogenic effect, making time travel seem like Dave’s trip to Jupiter in 2001. Just prior to entering our altered state, we heard the computer say, “Have a nice day, Dave.”

We agents invariably replied, “Screw you, HAL.”

III

On the other side, we gave the typical agent’s greeting, “Congratulations; you’re still alive, and human-looking.” We stood in an open field, not far from a dusty post-road. The surrounding countryside was green and hilly, intersected by small, clear streams and patches of forest filled with large oaks and lindens. The sky was clear blue, with a few wispy cirrus clouds: the sun at high noon, the breeze mild and balmy.

“Luddy, I’m soaking. How the hell could women suffocate themselves in these frigging outfits?”

“Spare me your twenty-fifth century feminist perspective, Z. In these goofy duds, I’m sweating like a pig, too. Let’s get some shade.”

We walked about fifty meters to a large, old oak, keeping an eye open for our contact, Colonel Zapfenstreich. We didn’t have to wait long. A closed coach approached from the north; the driver spotted us, and pulled to the side of the road. The door opened: three men emerged and began walking toward us. We left our spot in the shade, and went to greet them.

The leader appeared to be about forty, tall with a bushy blonde moustache and side-whiskers. As he came nearer, I discerned a couple of mean-looking dueling scars on his ruddy face. He wore a uniform that looked like a leftover from a mid-twentieth-century production of The Student Prince. His subordinates were a nondescript pair in mufti.

The Colonel greeted us with the password, “God makes all things good.”

I responded, “Man meddles with them, and they become evil.”

The Colonel smiled, and said, “Agents Ludwig and Zenobia, I presume?”

“Yes, and you are Colonel Zapfenstreich?”

“Of course.” The Colonel turned to his associates. “Permit me to introduce my operatives, Hans and Fritz.”

One nondescript man clicked his heels, bowed and said, “I’m Hans, and he’s Fritz.”

The other immediately countered, “No, you’re Fritz. I’m Hans.” This exchange entailed a squabble, until the Colonel intervened, putting them both right.

“You’re Hans, he’s Fritz. Got it?”

The two clicked their heels, bowed and simultaneously replied, “Yes, Herr Colonel.”

That settled, Zapfenstreich briefed us on our assignment.

Our employers were a wealthy countess, and her lover, a young German prince. The countess was Z’s kind of gal: about six feet tall, liked to wear trousers and boots, a man’s shirt with no undergarment, a bright red sash about her waist, and a scarf around her head such as duelists wore to tie back their hair in a fight. She also carried a riding crop as an affectation, and thwacked it against her boot to accentuate a point in conversation.

She was a widow of about thirty, having married an old count who was one of the wealthiest men in Germany. According to Zapfenstreich, the count and countess favored delicate young people of both sexes. That seemed the case with the prince. He was small, fair-haired, blue-eyed and pretty, accentuating his effeminate appearance with face powder and rouge, perfume, foppish dress and manners.

It was also rumored that he and the countess had a ménage à trois with the count, and that they plotted and carried out the count’s murder; the Colonel had access to relevant police files and, in his opinion, the rumor was true, though the government quashed the investigation.

The countess had a villa at Baden-Baden modeled upon the Royal Pavilion at Brighton. Surrounding the villa were splendid gardens where peacocks roamed, fountains trickled and spouted, and a canal large and deep enough for miniature gondolas meandered in and out of artificial grottoes. Small Italianate style bridges crossed the canal, and gravel pathways led through intricate mazes, to secret arbors used for midnight trysts. The garden contained exotic foliage, and erotic statutes interspersed amid the greenery.

We approached the villa along a broad, oak and linden lined avenue, entering under a fanciful arched portico, and then through a pair of large metal doors covered with elaborate repoussé.

From the entrance, we passed through a vestibule into the interior of pink and white marble and azure tile, and from there into a great hall below the bulbous oriental dome, in the midst of which was a fountain and reflecting pool. Light entered through stained glass lunettes, shimmering within the interior.

Known throughout Europe as a Mecca for gamblers, nineteenth-century Baden-Baden attracted wealthy nobles and nouveau riche capitalists addicted to gaming. It also attracted its share of con artists and blackmailers, and the prince was beholden to a notorious pair.

The rogues traveled under the guise of the Chevalier de Fiacre and his lovely companion, Mademoiselle Saponine. The chevalier was a cashiered officer who had served in the French army. He was a swindler, blackmailer, card cheat and cutthroat.

Mademoiselle Saponine was a dark-eyed, raven-haired beauty the chevalier purchased from an Algerian brothel. The two were ardent lovers, and steadfast partners in crime. They met the prince and countess at the gaming tables, and soon were intimate.

However, the prince ran up considerable debt, and the swindlers managed to gather enough dirt on the prince and countess to blackmail them. The noble couple wanted the scoundrels discretely disposed of; they contacted Zapfenstreich, who was one of our Agency representatives. Our plan was simple; Z and I, along with Hans and Fritz, would get rid of the swindlers following a masked ball at the countess’s villa.

The time for the ball arrived, Z and I appeared as an oriental potentate and his concubine, and Z looked hot in her translucent harem costume. The countess dressed as a dashing hussar, the prince as an Ancien Régime lady-in-waiting, and the blackmailers chose to appear as Caesar and Lucrezia Borgia.

The fountain in the main hall flowed with champagne, exotic fragrances perfumed the atmosphere, and warblers flew freely under the dome. The servants were all blackamoors: that is to say one or two were actually black, the rest were German boys and girls darkened with cosmetics.

An orchestra played popular dance music, and I recognized some Viennese waltzes by Johann Strauss. Outside, wandering oriental musicians, jugglers, and magicians entertained and late in the evening fireworks lit the sky. Z and I danced and mingled with the masked guests, enjoying the festivities.

At two in the morning, a time when most had departed for trysts, or had drunk themselves into oblivion, Hans, Fritz, Z and I moved to the arbor for our rendezvous. The prince and countess, along with the swindlers, approached in a gondola on a nearby section of the canal, accompanied by a group of musicians.

I heard violins, flutes, and guitars playing Schubert’s Serenade. As the melody grew more distinct, I noticed a sudden change in the atmosphere: the clouds parted, a gentle and fragrant breeze stirred the foliage, and for a moment, moonlight flooded the arbor.

The sounds of the serenade came very near to our ambuscade, and then began to fade in the distance as the musicians proceeded along the canal. The lovers disembarked and approached the secret arbor. The prince and countess appeared together with the sharpers and soon paired off; the countess/hussar with Caesar, and the prince/lady-in-waiting with Lucrezia.

The chevalier was a dangerous man, and armed with a dagger; Mademoiselle was not so formidable, but we knew she could handle herself in a fight. Hans and Fritz’s job was to protect the prince and countess, and to move them away from the scene as swiftly as possible. They played their role to perfection, and the distracted rogues barely had time to react.

The chevalier did manage to get his dagger half way out of its scabbard; I zapped him with my silent mini-blaster before he had time to draw his weapon. Miss Saponine bolted, but she tripped over her voluminous skirts. Z was on her like a tigress, injecting her jugular with insta-venom.

I went back for the body of the chevalier, and found upon him a purse filled with gold pieces and precious gems that the prince provided as payment of his debts. We moved the bodies to a prearranged location, meeting a man who would dispose of them. I gave the man some of the gold as agreed. I also impressed upon him the need for absolute secrecy, and one look into my eyes and at the dead bodies of the chevalier and mademoiselle made the necessary impression.

The bodies became cadavers for a Professor of anatomy at the nearby University of Heidelberg. There they were flayed, dissected, eviscerated, and turned into skeletons for the Professor’s anatomy class. As for the official story, the prince, having paid his gambling debt, wanted nothing to do with the disreputable couple, and the chevalier and mademoiselle left the Grand Duchy of Baden for parts unknown.

When we returned to our room, Z rushed to my arms, saying, “That was fun; now let’s look for souvenirs.” I answered,

“No, Z, remember what Agent Control said. Besides, your percentage on this contract is much better than knick-knacks.”

Z frowned: “Luddy, sometimes you can be such a bunghole. Nevertheless, there is something that you must see.”

Frankly, I had a rather exhausting day, and at that moment, all I wanted was rapid transport back to Manhattan, 2424 C.E. However, Z, who could be difficult, had performed well, and I acquiesced. “Okay, Z, I’m all yours.”

Z smiled, touched a finger to her lips, and whispered, “Now, follow me, but you must be quiet.” She led me to a wall in our room where she manipulated a sconce. A secret panel slid back, opening onto a gallery within the walls. Z said, “Take off your shoes, and try not to make any noise.”

I followed her, doing as she said until I heard the faint sounds of music: it was Il Mio Tesoro from Don Giovanni. As the sounds became more distinct, Z opened a small panel and quietly bid me look.

Peering through the peephole, a sight greeted me so ludicrous I could barely contain my laughter. A blind castrato was singing Don Ottavio’s aria, accompanied by a blind guitarist. The countess was giving the prince a royal shagging with the butt end of her riding crop.

I clapped my hand to my mouth to stifle the laughter, and looked back at Z who was smiling. We then crept back to our room for a night of vigorous horizontal refreshment.

Back in our Manhattan war room, we listened to Beethoven’s Quartet Opus 131 in C sharp minor, sipped an excellent Château Cetus 2416, and played chess. Playing black, I had Z on the ropes. “Give it up, Z, next move, P-R8 (Q), I win.”

Z studied the board for a moment; she smiled, took something from her pocket, and flipped it to me: “Catch!”

The thrown object was a flawless ruby the size of a quail’s egg. “Z- where... how?”

Z kept looking at me, sort of sphinx-like; then she broke the silence. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

I didn’t.

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