Saint Anna's Emerald: Spies Among Us

            Pushing aside the large doors, the servants were finally allowed inside. They rushed into the ballroom, and their trays were adorned with snacks and drinks. The guests paid them little attention, however hungry they may be. George Turner smiled and returned to his group of guests.

            “It’s about time the help finally arrived, I say,” he said, a chuckle filling his throat, “I think they worked better in the time of slavery. More motivation if they could be replaced by cheap labor at a moment’s notice.”

            “Not in good sport, though, Slavery,” said Colonel Haddock, crossing his arms.

            Jeremiah Goldwin and Charles Roddenberg were also among the group. Roddenberg was sporting a large beard, and was laughing loudly at ever joke, patting his belly. Goldwin had quieted down, sipping his cocktail and watching over the group.

            “Returning to the conversation at hand,” said Haddock, angrily, “I think the presidency was much better suited in McKinley’s hands.”

            “That’s all fine and great,” waved away Turner, “I grow tired of politics, don’t you, chaps? Why not we take a seat yonder and swap tales. I wish to be thrilled with stories of war!”

            “War, Turner? Come now,” said Goldwin.

            “Why not? My ailments keep me from being too active,” continued Turner, “And how often do we have both a distinguished Colonel and a Master of Disguise Spy within our midst?”

            “Fine, but I grow weary of my stories,” said Haddock, turning to Roddenberg, “However, I do wonder how one makes a living as a… master of disguise, was it?”

            “Indeed, you would be surprised what people would believe if they really want to,” laughed Roddenberg, “Come now, let’s have a seat, and I can delve a few tales!”

            The group sat at a table at the end of the room. Roddenberg scooted his bulk into a chair and got close to the table, but failed to remove his enormous top hat. Haddock was quick to sit across from him, lighting a cigarette with the candle at this table. Turner sat beside them both at the end of the elongated table. Since the table connected to a bar, they all ordered drinks and some snacks, which the bartender expertly slid down the table to each recipient.

            “So, how does one get into another’s head?” asked Turner hungrily.

            “It is easier than you might expect,” smiled Roddenberg, “For it is all in the performance, in the art. It is also in the eyes, ol’ boy. If you do not believe you are this person, then only fools would believe your escapade.”

            “That’s all well and good, but haven’t your biggest exploits been in impersonating another?” asked Haddock.

            “Indeed, sir, and right under some of their closest friends and families noses,” smiled Roddenberg, “In that situation, you must not only believe, but you must know your target. Know him as a wife would know a husband.”

            “A great deal of research, then,” smiled Turner.

            “Yes… but I hope you don’t know become his wife just for the job,” smiled Goldwin, “There are certain things a man just should not do for the sake of a career.”

            The group exchanged a chuckle while Roddenberg just shook his head. Haddock even broke a smile.

            “Some, come now,” said Turner, “Enchant me with a tale. OH! Tell me how you stole the Maharaja’s Diamond Fork. OH, how about the Kaiser’s Toupee! Oh, wait. How about the time you bedded Grover Cleveland’s wife!”

            “No, no, those are all great stories,” said Haddock, “But I believe they were very publicized reputation scandals. No, we demanded a war story. Why not share with us one of those, untold tales?”

            “Aw… fine,” said Roddenberg, “But the Mrs. Cleveland one is quite steamy under the collar.”

            “No, please… dazzle us all,” frowned Goldwin.

            “Alright, alright. So… ok, here’s a pretty decent one,” started Roddenberg, “So… I was once hired to do a little something… well… down south. Louisiana. Ever been?”

            “Oh, never!” commented Turner.

            “Beautiful state,” said Haddock, “If you like the under filth… and the heat.”

            “Ah, but New Orleans is such a gorgeous place,” smiled Roddenberg.

            Turner clapped his hands together in glee.

            “Don’t get too excited now,” said Roddenberg, smiling, “Unfortunately I am not taking you into the glorious city. No, the story happened long ago and up the river a ways. A small town nobody has ever heard of, now a days. Called Riverville.”

            “Riverville… no I have never heard of it,” said Goldwin, now interested, “What on earth could have brought you down that far?”

            “Well, a long time ago I was just starting out my little business of espionage,” said Roddenberg, “And I was eager to make a name for myself. So… what better way to make a name, and a buck, then that little old civil war?”

            “That was some time ago,” said Haddock, “You don’t look nearly old enough to have been alive at that time.”

            “Makeup is a wonderful thing, Colonel,” said Roddenberg, “But I was but a boy during those times.”

            “Well… not a boy,” said Haddock.

            “I was 17. Practically a man but blooming my life,” said Roddenberg, “Anyway, at this town there was a small group of pilgrims. They weren’t very much. However, not a mile away was, at the time, one of the biggest confederate camps that ever did exist.”

            Haddock and Goldwin’s face hardened at the mention of the rebels. Turner didn’t seem fazed.

            “Well, they were moving something… talk says it was pretty secret,” said Roddenberg, “So they wanted to be close to this large band of Grey-Backs. Well, little did they know, a Union scouting band was close by. So, I was paid to get at whatever secret was in those boxes.”

            “Union?” asked Goldwin.

            “No, independent party,” corrected Roddenberg, “Anyway, so I devise a plan, yeah? I go pretend I am working for the Rebs. I tell them the Union knows, and they need to avert the path of the package away from their large army. On the other hand, however, I send a telegram to the Blues myself, insuring an army was on their way to stamp out the rebs.”

            “You… shouldn’t be telling this story,” said Goldwin, “I feel like I would’ve read this in the news.”

            “Perhaps it isn’t for everyone,” nodded Haddock.

            “No, by all means,” said Roddenberg, continuing, “So I lay low in that little town. The Rebs roll in, and decide to stay the night. Well, it doesn’t take long for confusion to run through the crowd. I plant a few guns and pistols, and set up some dynamite. I tell the rebs that there are spies in the town, and they are waiting to ambush. Well, the rebs seize the town. Searching, finding. They find the guns, they find the dynamite. Well… I set off one of the traps, fire a shot into the air and scream… it doesn’t take much to rile up some pissed confederates.”

            “Good lord, you didn’t?” Turner’s smile was beginning to fade.

            “You, sir,” said Haddock, his mustache twitching slightly, “You are good… who… are you?”

            “Well, the rebs open fire, and the explosion and commotion draw the attention of the camp. They all draw to arms and charge. I am free to take the package in the confusion.”

            “There’s no way,” said Goldwin, “There could not have been that much confusion. And they were just fighting… a foe that wasn’t fighting back.”

            “Yet,” smiled Roddenberg, “It wasn’t two minutes that the slaughter was almost over then those Unions came through the trees, and engaged the ‘murderous’ rebels. It was in that confusion, I escaped.”

            “This man,” said Haddock, turning to Turner, “He… he isn’t Roddenberg. This man is lying.”

            “Oh, don’t get offended, ol’ boy,” said Turner, waving him off, “I’m all caught up in the tale. Shush.”

            “So you just… walked out?” asked Goldwin.

            “No, I got some help. Put whatever it was it fit in a trunk, and in return for their help, I aided a family in escaping the massacre. A father, a mother, and a child.”

            “Stop,” said Haddock, “I beg of you. I grow tired of this tale.”

            “Shush, Colonel. Just let him finish,” cried Turner, “I apologize Mr. Roddenberg.”

            “I don’t,” said Haddock, snapping his fingers and looking around the room.

            “So, this family and I escape with our lives,” said Roddenberg, “However, the Man was so… angry at me. He knew my secret, he knew I was to blame. He wasn’t going to give me my prize.”

            “How do you know this… You weren’t there!” snapped Haddock, his fist clenching.

            Turner and Goldwin snapped from their trance like state, turning their attention to Haddock.

            “But you were, weren’t you, Mr. Roddenberg?” smiled Roddenberg, leaning back in his chair.

            “Bravo, sir,” said Haddock, standing in his seat.

A gentlemen approached the group from behind Haddock, and he produced a sawed off, double barreled shotgun from his coat. Turner and Goldwin held their mouths agape. Their heads turned from Haddock to Roddenberg.

“You killed them,” Roddenberg continued, “Shot them in cold blood, Mr Roddenberg. Over… something…”

“Your story is incredibly accurate, mate,” The real Roddenberg dropped his accent. For an older gentlemen his voice now sounded more alive, and his face seemed to not fit his appearance anymore, anger displayed, “They died. Everyone died. The dynamite saw to survivors. It was recorded losses to both sides so early in the war! The city was razzed. The couple murdered. I shot them myself!”

“And the boy,” said the imposter, smiling and flipping over his cup, putting it onto the table, “Shot him right in the shoulder. Cold hard killer. Thought that would never show up in your past?”

“You the boy?” said Roddenberg.

“No, so I assume Colonel Haddock is long dead by now?”

“Who are you?” asked Roddenberg.

“Name’s Flint,” said the imposter, “And the boy… he send his regards. Should have finished the job.”

“Order up!” called the bartender, sliding a C96 Mauser down the long table.

Flint crouched down into his seat, holding out his hand to catch the sliding pistol. The shotgun blared, firing at Flint. Flint’s top hat exploded, red splattering all over the wall behind them and some bits spraying Goldwin and Turner. Flint’s hand shot up, the pistol leveling at the body guard, and firing. Three bullets rapidly entered the shot gunner’s chest, causing him to fall back. Flint’s hand moved to Roddenberg, and he shot, the bullet slamming into his shoulder and Roddenberg dived back, the second shot missing entirely. Flint stood, red goop covering his clothes and face and beard.

Turner reached for a pistol, and Flint turned his gun on his, firing a shot right into his chest. Shots rang out in the ballroom. Screams and shattering glass filled Flint’s ears. Servants and guests alike drew guns, firing into the air and yelling orders. Some of the body guards tried to draw their weapons, but were gunned down. The bartender jumped the bar, and ran up to Flint.

“Lieutenant, are you ok?” he asked.

Flint took off what was left of his top hat. A shambled mess of fabric was all that was left, and red goop filled his fingers and hair. He tossed the hat aside, and examined the floor around him.

“I’m fine, good timing with the pistol,” said Flint, “Nice idea with the tomatoes in the hat. You think that stunned them enough?”

“You still breathe, sir?” asked the bartender.

“Good point,” said Flint, ripping away the false beard, only leaving his mustache and a clean face, “Where did that bastard go? I got him!”

“Flint,” yelled one of the servants, pointing to a window. Roddenberg had opened a tall window at the end and he was leaping from it.

Flint raised the pistol and began pulling the trigger wildly, but his shots fell on an empty space.

“Damnit,” yelled Flint, tossing the Mauser aside, “We need to go after him!”

Flint opened his shirt and removed the padding used to make him larger. The bartender gave out a whistle and ran to the bar.

“What was that?” asked Flint.

“I just figured there was more padding in there,” said the bartender, “I am unsure of your ability to… chase him down.”

“You chink bastard,” smiled Flint, re-buttoning his shirt, “I’ll get him. Give me the Tommy.”

The bartender reached over the bar and produced a Thompson Submachine Gun and threw it to Flint as he ran for the window. Flint caught it and jumped up on a table, the leapt for the window.

“Lieutenant, the hat!” yelled one of the Servants, throwing a black Fedora.

Flint caught it and put it on his head, “Thanks,” he yelled, climbing out the window.

“It wouldn’t feel right without it, would it?” asked the servant.

“Maybe not,” answered the bartender, “Quickly, now, let’s go!”

Flint leapt from the window, hitting the grass harder than he expected. Wiping some of the tomato gook from his tailcoat, which was now only slightly too big for him. He could see knocked over patio furniture and a place in the bushes that had been seriously disrupted. When he ran to it, he could see a blood smear. Flint burst through the bushes.

On the other side was a deserted side street. Commotion could be heard from out front, and guests filled the main street. A garbage can was knocked over further down the side street, and Flint took off in the direction, cocking a round into his Thompson.

He approached the garbage can, and caught Roddenberg’s shadow round a corner of an alley. Running down the alley, he turned the corner and spotted his further down a second alley. Flint raised his gun and held the trigger, bullets shooting down the alley. Roddenberg leapt away from the fire, but Flint could see he had at least caught his leg.

Flint took off running down the alley. As he approached the spot Roddenberg had disappeared down, he could hear Roddenberg pleading to someone fairly loudly. As he rounded the corner, gun raised, he saw a woman standing over a kneeling Roddenberg. She had a gun to his head. She pulled the trigger, and Roddenberg slumped to the ground. Flint’s heart began racing.

“Drop it,” he yelled, aiming his rifle at her, “Drop it!”

“Oh, come now, don’t be upset,” said the woman, “You were going to kill him anyway, right?”

“I said, drop it,” said Flint.

“Calm down, Lieutenant Flint,” said the woman, holstering the pistol, “It will be awfully hard to talk with you so… upset.”

Flint lowered his weapon, a confused look filling his face.

“How… how do you know my name?” he asked, then he shook his head, “Who are you?”

“Amelia. Amelia Turnbuckle. We’ve been looking for you for some time. This job is in the way,” she walked over the body and walked up to Flint, “We need a man of your availability and ‘social skills’, Lieutenant,”

“Is that so…” said Flint, who took a few steps towards Roddenberg and moved the body with his foot.

“Oh, do not fret your charge, Lieutenant,” said Turnbuckle, “The mission was to kill him. It’ll be all over the paper, and you will not be to blame. Roddenberg killed Colonel Haddock and Mr. Turner and was killed trying to escape. I’m sure Mr. Down will pay you handsomely for avenging his family.”

“How… how do you know that?” asked Flint, turning to the woman.

“You ever heard of the Emerald of Saint Anna?” said Turnbuckle.

“Uhm… no.”

“Saint Anna seemed to have prized a very large Emerald in her youth. She said it had… special properties. We believe her,” Turnbuckle said quickly, showing no sign of taking in Flint’s reaction, “We are having troubles with the locals down in Saint Anna, Mexico. It’s bad enough with the heat, wild life, and jungle to deal with. Now we have these bloody locals!”

“So… need some hired muscle?”

“We are very interested in this Emerald, Lieutenant Flint,” stated Turnbuckle, “The visual might of your Landship might help keep the locals at bay, but if they will not sell or let us examine the Emerald then we have no choice but to become barbaric and use superior might to get at it.”

“Sounds rough, but it doesn’t appear to be something I am interested in,” said Flint, “If you paid more attention, you’d notice my resume is on the other side of these sort of things.”

“Of course, that’s why we figured you would be interested in knowing that the locals are controlled by a tyrant you may recognize. Someone by the name of Klintock?”

Flint closed his eyes and sighed. He recognized the name.

“I thought he died.”

“Alive and well, and starting up some mighty fine trouble.”

“So you think him seeing my landship will make him less likely to attack? I don’t buy it, lady. There’ll be blood.”

“No, seeing as you bested him when he was better prepared for it I figure he might be more likely to lie low and be compliant. He’s only using the town so he can lick his wounds and build up the courage and army to make his way back towards the states.”

“I have no beef with him. He survived our encounter? So did I,” said Flint, “I finished my mission there and everyone is better off for it.”

“Look… the properties of this Emerald… it could make him more powerful than anything we have come across yet,” said Turnbuckle, “If he gets ahold of it… he may not need his army. If the stories are true, we must find this emerald first!”

“And who is ‘we’?”

“None of your business.”

“Then it looks like this whole thing is none of my business.”

“Lieutenant Flint, where is your sense of adventure? You must have picked up SOME of your father’s traits.”

Flint scowled, his patience with this woman wearing thin, “It’s hard to pick up those traits when you never knew your father. That man is dead to me, ma’am. And so is your cause. Good day.”

“We can pay handsomely, and we think it is our insistence on it that is drawing attention to it from Klintock!”

“Sounds great,” said Flint, “Let me know how it all turns out…”

“Lieutenant Flint, please,” begged Turnbuckle, following him down the alley, “We really cannot do this without you. We have resources and pull, but to hire a private army to take over a town is just unacceptable. All we need is a little glint. All we need is to look tough. Please, Flint!”

Flint stopped and thought a moment. He sighed, and turned to Turnbuckle.

“Handsomely?”

“Easily more than your last three jobs combined…”

This caught Flint’s attention, but it also worried him.

“You don’t say… and you really don’t mean these locals any harm?”

“Not at all. We wish to protect them. If the emerald is nothing like we think then we don’t even want it. They can have it.”

Flint paused to think it over once more, then he sighed again and pointed his gun at Turnbuckle.

“Listen close, Miss… Turnbuckle? I get to back out whenever I deem fit. You understand? The moment you try to command my ship… the SECOND I think we are being unfair to those poor locals. I will turn that ship around and I will DEAL with you and your friends. Understood?”

Turnbuckle smiled, “Completely! You will have forty-six hours to have your crew ready to go and to purchase supplies. We will board your craft three miles south at the Dortenburrow Station. Until we meet again!”

Just like that, Amelia Turnbuckle walked down the path and turned the corner just as abruptly as she shot Roddenberg. Flint stood there, almost dazed. Tilting his hat down and slinging the Thompson on his arm he hurried away from the dead body and made his way to the Landship docks.