The Assassin (Isaac Bell 8)

The assassin found the right derrick along the shore of Baku Bay, which sheltered tank steamers, barges, and tugboats from the Caspian Sea. Its parapet commanded a perspective of the Baku road and the gate where traffic entered the refinery. The smoke made it hard to see, but wind gusts off the water stirred it sporadically, much as the Kansas wind had at Hopewell Field.

Safely ensconced high in the air with a panoramic field of fire, all that remained was to assemble the Savage, adjust the telescope, insert the clip, and wait for the so-called Special Envoy Joseph D. Stone, Standard Oil directing head Bill Matters, and supposed former Van Dorn detective Isaac Bell.

—

After months of instigating murder in the streets and homes set afire and property looted in hopes of distracting angry citizens from contemplating revolution—hopes largely realized—it dawned on the czar’s government that the European investors demanding stability were right to be alarmed. The Tatar pogromy against the Armenians was about to destroy Russia’s most valuable industry. So when Purest Incorporated executive Bill Matters and Special Commercial Envoy Stone drove to the Nobel refinery in Black Town, the Baku region prefect and the governor insisted on providing a powerful escort.

Cossack outriders in brilliant red uniforms crowned by tall sheepskin papakhi formed a cordon around their auto—a Cleveland-built, 24-horsepower Peerless Tonneau car—which caused Isaac Bell to elevate every nerve end to its highest state.

Surrounded by saber-wielding horsemen, the car’s rate of speed was limited to a brisk trot. At the same time, the glittering Cossacks pinpointed the exact location of the Peerless—itself a visual extravaganza of red enamel and polished brass—for a revolutionary with a pistol or a sniper drawing a bead.

Bell was not particularly concerned about a revolutionary getting past the Cossacks, and even if one managed to, the scuffle would give him plenty of time to blow the attacker’s head off with his Colt automatic. A sniper was a grimmer story, and Bell watched anxiously for a glint of smoke-darkened sunlight on a distant rifle. He could be stationed on a roof or in an attic window, at any height that presented a line of fire above the tall horsemen.

They moved out of the hotel and embassy districts, past Armenian neighborhoods of shuttered houses, and through slums where the Tatars, distinguished by their blue tunics, darker skin, and round faces, stared sullenly. The Cossacks’ faces hardened, their tension betrayed by stiffened backs and darting eyes.

Bell had befriended the chauffeur, Josef, a Georgian with a tall pompadour of wavy black hair and the furtive flicker in his coal-dark eyes of a police spy assigned to eavesdrop on the Americans. Josef explained in halting English that the Cossacks had new orders to stop the pogromy, to which they had been turning an officially sanctioned blind eye. Now they were the Tatars’ enemy. “Tatar shoot Cossack,” the Georgian flung cheerfully over his shoulder to Bell in the backseat. “Cossack shoot Tatar. Make peace.”

Bell glanced at Rockefeller beside him. The old man was looking everywhere with big eyes. “What splendid horses!” He seemed happy, almost joyful. Bell speculated that he was delighted that his Special Envoy disguise allowed him for the first time in decades to move about in public. Tatars were glowering at his police escort, not at the “most hated man in America.”

Whereas Bill Matters sat rigidly in the front seat next to the chauffeur, uncomfortable as he always appeared to be in Rockefeller’s presence. He did not appear nervous, although he was hardly at ease.

Bell was not quite sure what to make of him. As brusque and tough as he had found Edna and Nellie Matters’ father on first meeting, he had not seen real indications of the “hard as adamantine” that Spike Hopewell had characterized. Granted, the man had kept a cool head during the train attack. He was clearly accustomed to command. And it seemed that the former independent had effected a successful transition to what Rockefeller referred to as a “valuable executive.” But regardless of the high level of Standard Oil director or head of department the president had permitted him to rise to, Bell did not believe that Bill Matters had yet become “one of the boys” who ran the secretive trust.

The smoke grew thicker in the suburbs, the sky blacker.

They headed southeast toward the Bibi-Eibat oil field and Black Town refineries.

The slow-moving auto and clattering horses crept into an enormous field of refinery tanks. Beyond the tanks were countless refining pots, each with a squat chimney belching smoke. A sharpshooter could crouch on the climbing rungs on one of the chimneys, though he would be taking a big risk of being seen. The more likely sniping position, like the roost that the assassin had climbed up to in Kansas, would be in the virtual skyscraper city of a thousand oil derricks that marched in close-packed ranks to the edge of the Caspian Sea.

A Tatar plumber working on the roof of one of the refinery tanks dropped a monkey wrench. The tool banged resoundingly against the metal side. The noise startled a horse. It reared so suddenly that its rider nearly slid off his saddle. For a moment, there was consternation, angry shouts, and milling horses. The chauffeur had to slam on his brakes. The Peerless stopped abruptly, jostling Matters against the windshield, the chauffeur into his wheel, and Rockefeller half off his seat until caught and held firmly in place by Isaac Bell.

In that same instant, Bell heard the crack of a high-velocity rifle slug split the air inches from the back of his seat. He grabbed Rockefeller’s arm to drag him down out of the line of fire. A second bullet struck the tall detective like a bolt of lightning.

22

The impact of the high-velocity slug threw Isaac Bell against the side door, breaking its latch. It flew open. He tumbled

out of the Peerless, ricocheted off the running board, and sprawled on the oil-soaked road. Still gripping Rockefeller’s arm, he found himself vaguely aware that he somehow landed underneath the two-hundred-pound magnate. A bullet shattered the windshield. Bills Matters and the chauffeur jumped for their lives.

Bell heard his own voice. He sounded as if he were calling to John D. Rockefeller from a passing train. “Are you O.K.?”

The old man straightened his wig.

“My, my! Mr. Bell, your coat is drenched in blood.”

From Bell’s neck to his elbow, his white suit jacket was soaked ruby red.

His shoulder felt on fire.

The shooting had stopped. Now the danger was the steel-shod hoofs of the panicked horses plunging and rearing as their riders looked everywhere at once for the source of the gunfire.

Again his voice drifted from a distance. “We better stand up, Mr. Stone. Before we get trampled.”

He struggled to his feet, used his working arm to help Rockefeller to his, then found himself holding on to the old man to keep his balance.

“There!” Bell shouted, pointing at the derricks, the likeliest place the assassin fired from.

The Cossacks drew swords and galloped in the opposite direction.