The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp 1)

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.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much time, Alfred. Things are moving very quickly and time is our enemy now. We’ve tapped every resource at our disposal, but he has had time, too much time, to slip through the net. The rest of your questions, quickly.”

“I just want to know what’s so special about this sword; why three guys dressed like monks with black swords tried to kill me for it; and most of all I want to know why my uncle is dead.”

“Your uncle died to send a message, Alfred. To me. To you. To those men you met last night. He died as a warning and a promise that more will die should we oppose Mogart. I’m afraid we can fully trust that message, Alfred: More people will die before this is over.”

“Before what is over? Why don’t you just talk plain to me, Mr. Samson? I’m really tired and I feel really bad. I felt bad from the first about this deal and I tried to talk Uncle Farrell out of it, but he wouldn’t listen, and now I feel really bad.”

He patted my hand, looked at his watch, and then said, “The sword you took from my office, did you notice anything unusual about it?”

I didn’t say anything.