Thunder Crashes Lightly
A 1916s espionage-thriller in wartime Austria.
The rain and sleet beat down against the brim of the walker's hat. He stomped through the hoarfrost that covered the sidewalks, trudging onward purposefully and tightening the stiff collar of his greatcoat. It was dark, and it was cold. It suited him perfectly. Lightning flashed between the clouds as if it were fearful of the ground, illuminating the dark cityscape and with its ominous towers. Far, far away the echoes of an artillery siren rang. The Austrians feared it, and rightly so. But he did not. He knew that nothing would interfere. It came from the top.
He ducked suddenly into a dark alleyway, the noise from the street cars and the panicked howls of those caught unprepared in the storm dying away. All he could hear was the dampened roar of wind, rain, and thunder. Without guidance but for the flashing bolts in the heavens, he made his way to a steel door. He knocked, and it was opened without further rapport.
The door attendant was a grimy visage- about fifty, his simple clothes dirty and with bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes. The walker observed the man's motions and demeanor, even without words determining that he had clearly made use of the powder recently. Although there wasn't a doubt to begin with, it was certainly gone now- he was in the right place. The walker passed the second door and the eruption of subtle music emitting from the Edison Amberola phonograph in the corner being bated by the clatter of silverware, wineglasses, and chattering laughter of the city's wealthy in their well-hidden retreat from the miseries of war. Here, they held the illusion of security, a privilege not affordable to the downtrodden and estate-less masses.
The walker removed his greatcoat, draping it across his arm and placing his hat in a tight grip. He moved slowly now across the room, listening to the various tongues - French, German, and even some English - which could not be heard during this era of war in anywhere less secluded than this den of privilege. He moved towards a woman in a scarlet gown, a comely and elegant matriarch whose vivid dress defied her pale and austere flesh. As he loomed near, she withdrew a parcel from beside her without so much as a glance his way. A dish of the Oriental powder rested before her and her cadre of younger men. He took the parcel and carried on. Another woman, this one in a revealing sapphire dress, twitched as he passed as she succumbed to whatever substance she had been given by the dark Cossack man seated beside her. The room took no notice of her passing, and neither did the walker.
He passed a curtain of beads and ascended the stairs at the end of the dining room. They were dark, the candles not having yet been lit. He marched up the ominous marble stairs, which were it not for their great breadth would have felt like a dark and ancient castle. The walker ascended several floors, windows now visible. The storm had not abated and there were several hours still until dark would yield to dawn. He reached the highest floor, glancing out the window to the miserable streets below as another bolt of lightning crashed in a deadly cadence with the shelling of artillery flashing several miles in the distance.
He turned back to his business. The walker tore loose the thick paper wrapping around the parcel and took its contents before ascending the last flight of stairs. Up the final flight, he took notice of the surroundings. Ancient art lined the hallway. Oriental tapestries covered the southern wall, and Renaissance statutes graced the north. The place may as well have been a wing of the Palace of Versailles. War was bad for many, but it had been exceptionally lucrative for some.
The walker's ears were alerted to the sound of a soft harp playing from a port down the corridor. He moved quickly, quietly towards the sound. He placed his greatcoat and narrow-brim hat upon an elegant, cushioned chair. The soft sound of an effeminate voice sang softly from beyond a wooden door cracked open ever-so-slightly. He peered into the room, where a roaring fire crackled softly in line with every note of the harp, guided in song by the slender fingers. The room, perhaps a library before its current possessor had taken it, was filled with the odds and ends of the world meant to satisfy the whims of one who was not yet a man, but neither was still quite a boy. The young Austrian strummed from a short, padded stool. Around his feet were sundered treasures. A globe cleaved in twain by an ancient axe on one side, an old ledger of some sort butchered on the other with a trail of torn papers in a line towards the fireplace, and a bow of Near-Eastern origin smashed against an old and abused child's toy horse. A plate of tin soldiers lay at the harpist's feet, sprayed across the floor in anger.
He pushed the door open. The long-faced harpist took no note for several seconds, his long mane of hair brushing into his eyes and lost in the sounds of his own creation. When he glanced up, it was far too late to cry if there had ever been a chance at all. The walker had leveled the pistol at the Austrian - a gilded Colt 1911 that must have cost the woman in scarlet a mighty sum. It felt frigid, even through his gloves. The walker waited for the proper moment. The harpist had stopped his melody, but made no words, only giving a soft whinny as a tear rolled down the his face. The window, covered with drops of rain and frost, flashed suddenly. The thunder crashed lightly, concealing the violent voice of the pistol.
