“They weren’t trying to take it,” Mr. Myers said. He was staring at the sword with a weird expression. “They were trying to stop you from taking it.” He leveled his eyes at me and something dark passed over his face.
“You have done me a great service, Mr. Kropp,” he said to Uncle Farrell, but he was still staring at me. “So I will pay you in kind.”
“That’s good,” Uncle Farrell said. “We had a deal, and I almost got killed getting it.”
“Oh, yes. They certainly would have killed you for the sword. They are sworn to protect it at all costs. They are ruthless men of iron will, Mr. Kropp. Ruthlessness has gotten a bad reputation over the years, but there is honor in ruthlessness, a purity to it, would you not agree?”
Mr. Myers had the sword now, but he was getting at something important, something he wanted us to understand before he left.
“They are my enemies, in a way, since we work at cross-purposes, but I admire them,” Mr. Myers said. “They have much to teach us about the importance of the will.” He turned to me. He was smiling. It was the kind of smile that could give smiling a bad name.
“You see, Alfred Kropp, the will of most men is weak. It buckles at the slightest challenge. It crumbles at the first sign of resistance. It does not listen to the dictates of necessity. Are you following me, Mr. Kropp?”
“Not really,” I said. “You’ve got the sword, Mr. Myers. Can we have the money now?”
“I’m going to give you something much more valuable than money, Mr. Kropp. I am going to give you an important life lesson. I am going to teach you what happens when your will conflicts with one that is stronger.”
In two strides, he was in front of the sofa, and I could do nothing but watch as he drove the sword into my uncle’s chest, burying the blade into the cushions behind him. Uncle Farrell’s eyes slid in my direction and he whispered, “Alfred,” before he died.
10
Myers came toward me. I froze, waiting for him to slam the sword into my chest, but instead he put a finger to my lips and whispered, “Shhhhh.” Then he left without another word.
I realized right away that this was the time to get some adults involved and, since Uncle Farrell was the only adult in the room and he happened to be dead, I dialed 911.
The police came. First a couple in uniforms, then the detectives, who wore rumpled jackets and crooked ties. A photographer came to snap pictures of my dead uncle, and a lady from the coroner’s office. Then another lady showed up who said she was a counselor from social services. I told her instead of some counseling I could really use a glass of water. One of the policemen brought me a glass of water.
I told them everything, from the night Mr. Myers gave Uncle Farrell the down payment to get the sword, to my fight with the brown-robed sword-fighting monks, to Mr. Myers stabbing Uncle Farrell and how he promised to kill me too if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.
Nobody acted like they believed me.
Then they put Uncle Farrell in a black plastic bag and carried him into the hall, where all the neighbors were standing around, gawking. One of the detectives asked me to describe Mr. Myers, so I did. I told him about the long hair drawn back in a ponytail and the shimmering suit.
One of the detectives took a call on his cell phone and he talked in a whisper for a long time. I don’t know what time it was, but it must have been close to dawn when the door opened and a big man with a lion’s mane of golden blond hair stepped into the room, followed by two tall men in dark suits.
“Are you done?” one of the men in dark suits asked a detective.
“We’re done.”
They left us alone, and the two guys in dark suits took positions on either side of the door and stared at nothing.
The big man with the golden hair sat beside me by the window. The rising sun shone through the window, glinting off the ends of his hair. He put a hand on my forearm.
“Do you know who I am?” His voice was kind and very deep.
“Are you Bernard Samson? You look like the guy in the picture.”
“Yes, I am Bernard Samson, Alfred,” he said softly.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
He smiled. “What I know might surprise you.”
“Are you going to explain what’s going on, Mr. Samson?”
“Yes, Alfred, I am,” he said in that same soft voice. “Would you like anything?”
“One of the cops gave me a glass of water,” I said. “So that’s taken care of. I could use some sleep. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. Plus I’m hungry, but I’m afraid if I eat anything, I’ll puke. Mostly what I’d like, though, is some answers.”
He smiled. “Ask.”
“Who are those guys?” I asked, nodding toward the men by the door.
“They are agents.”
“Agents of what?”
“Agents of an organization that you have never heard of, that very few people have heard of, actually. They belong to an agency specifically trained to deal with emergencies such as this one.”
“This is an emergency?”
“More of a crisis. You see, Alfred, what has been lost is very important.”
“You mean the sword?”
He nodded.
“It doesn’t really belong to Arthur Myers, does it?” I asked.
“No.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I tried to tell Uncle Farrell that, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” I asked.
“He is many things.”
“You’re answering my questions, but you’re not giving me any answers, Mr. Samson. I thought you were in Europe.”
“My flight just got in.”
He patted my arm again and stood up. He began to pace around the living room, his hands behind his back.
“Who is Arthur Myers?” he said. “I had never heard that name before today. But I know the man. He has gone by many names and many guises in many lands. Bartholomew in England. Vandenburg in Germany. Lutsky in Russia. Who knows what his true name is? To my friends here”—he nodded toward the men by the door—“he is known by his code name, Dragon. The name he used when I first met him, though, years ago, in Paris, was Mogart, so to me he has been and always will be Mogart.”
Mr. Samson gave a little shake of his enormous head and laughed bitterly.
“Mogart! What can I tell you about Mogart? He is many things, and yet nothing. Mercenary, provocateur, assassin, a destroyer and murderer, but I don’t need to tell you that. A lover of darkness. Yes! Of darkness. For if a man may be defined by what he does, you may think of him as simply an agent, Alfred. An agent of darkness.”