The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(16)

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.”

His cell phone rang. I jumped a little. I don’t know if it was my jumping or the ringing of the phone, but one of the men by the door jammed his hand inside his coat pocket, then slowly took it out again when Mr. Samson began to talk.

“Yes. . . . When? . . . Are you certain?” He listened for a long time. In the early-morning light his face looked old, with deep shadow-filled creases. I wondered how old Bernard Samson was. I wondered if he was telling me the truth. I wondered what exactly he was telling me.

“Very well,” he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. He sat next to me again.