1884 No Boundaries

A. E. Wasserman

Description

An Englishman and his lovesick German friend are thrown into a life-and-death pursuit of spies, killers, and assassins while in London.

Love, murder, sex, and terrorism swirl within a collapsed world economy.

No, it’s not today.

It’s London, 1884.

Recently married LANGSFORD, born of wealth and privilege, is bound by the restrictions of Victorian society. Dynamite has been invented, but the term “homosexuality” has not and men can be arrested for either.

Langsford accompanies his visiting friend, HEINRICH, eighteen, who innocently flirts with young ANNA at London’s Leadenhall Market.

What should be the end of the story becomes the beginning, for Heinrich falls in love with her, never part of the plan. Instead it becomes the catalyst for everything that follows when he flees Germany to return to her. Events unfold that expose terrorists, espionage and international intrigue.

Langsford walks a fine line as he crosses boundaries he never imagined, rubbing elbows with spies, killers and would-be assassins to save his friend, stop an assassination, and prevent a war.

Sujets

• Historical
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 23 avril 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781480816541
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

1884 No Boundaries
A Story of Espionage, and International Intrigue
A.E. Wasserman


Copyright © 2015, 2022 A.E. Wasserman.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
Cover Art: Wassily Kandinsky, The Blue Rider , 1903 Private collection, Zurich, Switzerland
 
Map courtesy of Map©Cassini Publishing Ltd. All Rights Reserved
 
This book is a work of fiction and although based upon a true story, names, characters, places and incidents are used fictionally and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4808-1652-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-1653-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4808-1654-1 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905544
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 2015; 2022
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part 1: The Prelude & Fugue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part 2: The Quagmire
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part 3: The English Hunt
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Part 4: Frenzy
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Background: 1884 No Boundaries
Sources
Acknowledgments
About The Author

Dedicated to Their Daughter
Florence
Born June 23, 1885
And in Memory of
Richard Warren Field

Anybody can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathise with a friend’s success.
- Oscar Wilde


PROLOGUE
The Rhineland, Prussia, Bullay, Germany
April 29, 1884
Reeking of ale, the German pushed his way through the crowd of merry-makers, stumbling toward the door of the beer hall. Karl shoved past one last heavy-set man and made it through the entrance, out into the cool night air.
He’d lost sight of his brother and worried Marc had left. He should never have told him; no one else was to know. Verdammt, his brother knew too much and was too stupid, zu dumm , to understand the necessity of what the others planned—the far-reaching implications. No choice now; his little brother had to join in.
Desperately looking up and down the dimly gas-lit street, he saw only a tall stranger walking toward him. Who the hell was this man? He knew all the people in the vicinity of the village. The German proceeded unsteadily to confront this outsider. “ Wer bist du? Who are you? What are you doing in this village?”
Startled by the German’s belligerence, the newcomer abruptly halted. After a breath, he calmly replied, “I’m headed to the train station.”
The angry drunk staggered closer to block the way. At a couple inches under six feet, he stretched taller to be eye to eye with the stranger. “Is that your horse there—the one in the harness? I see no wagon. Did you steal it?” Karl accused, hoping for a fight because he felt like one.
The stranger stood more erect, and with a dark look in his eye defiantly replied, “No. It’s not mine. Now let me pass, danke .”
Karl squinted harder at the stranger but failed to yield, and the two men stood eyeing each other. After a long minute, the drunken German broke eye contact, looking sideways. He took half a step back when he remembered why he’d come outside. Less threateningly, Karl asked, “Have … have you seen a man come by here? A little shorter than me, with brown hair?”
“No, I’ve seen no one,” the stranger said evenly. “Excuse me. I must go.” With that, he stepped around the drunk and without looking back, continued toward the depot.
Karl glared after him, wanting to fight the arrogant bastard, but again remembered he was worried about his brother. He had to find Marc and force him to join the group. Otherwise, the consequences could be dire: death for one or both of them.
He staggered on down the street, attempting to hurry. Turning up a tree-lined lane, he spotted someone farther up whose silhouette resembled his brother. Then he heard the clip-clop of the harnessed mare behind him. Loose, she followed him as he went, much to his annoyance. Just as he was going to wave her away, he heard Marc calling. He left the horse and walked to his sibling. Now he would settle everything once and for all.
Five short minutes later, Karl rushed back down the lane, his veins coursing with adrenaline and a head clear of everything but what he’d just done. Racing toward the street, he spooked the little mare. The train whistle announced its arrival at the station, but he didn’t hear it as he tucked the knife with its sticky blade back into its sheath. Wiping the blood from his hands onto his shirt, he hurried through the darkness to his home two blocks west. As Karl ran, his legs pumping fast and heart pumping faster, he heard the screams as men hurried from their homes, some even in nightshirts, and into the lane.

They found his bleeding brother sprawled beside bushes along the lane. One man clamped his hands tightly over the blood spurting from the dying man’s chest. Another ran to get the town watchman. Someone else caught the mare and tethered her. Others hovered over the bleeding brother, asking who stabbed him. “Did you see who it was? Was it a robber?”
All they could hear in a whisper bubbling with blood was, “Bismarck … a … a plot … stop … kill him… .”
PART ONE
The Prelude & Fugue
CHAPTER 1
London, April 23, 1884 Six Days Earlier
Langsford was bored. He tugged the corner of his stylish moustache as he rode in the carriage with his guests. A tall, handsome gentleman, his dark beard was neat and trim. Nearly twenty-two, he was an aristocrat, wealthy, and well-educated.
He knew his one companion, former school-chum Heinrich, was also bored because he sat and stared straight ahead, looking at nothing.
Youth and boredom—a delectable combination for trouble, but neither of them thought about that on such a lovely spring day.
They, along with Heinrich’s father, Reichsgraf Dieffenbacher , rode in the coach from Langsford’s home on Grosvenor Square, headed to London’s financial district, the last place the younger two wished to be. The Reichsgraf, a mature, solid man with light-brown hair and piercing pale-blue eyes, was always a formidable presence. Guest or not, declining his order-like request to come along for the day wasn’t an option. The young men sat in stilted silence.
Pulling up in front of the Bank of London, Pelham, their driver, expertly halted the pair of blacks, their hooves dancing on the cobblestones while Graf Dieffenbacher got out. “I’ll be a while. Wait here,” he ordered. He turned and confidently strode toward the massive bank.
As soon as the older Prussian disappeared through the tall embellished doors, Langsford exchanged glances with Heinrich, who looked dashing in his expensively tailored suit.
Langsford prompted his friend. “Let’s escape—what say?”
“Yes! Anything!”
They both bolted from the carriage, pent up energies propelling them.
“Wait for us, Pelham,” Langsford called up to his driver. “We need to stretch our legs.”
“I have no doubt, m’lord,” Pelham replied with the hint of a grin.
The two headed to cross Threadneedle Street, surrounded by banks of stone opulence that held their stoic wealth, standing firm and strong in the financial district that anchored the world’s economy. Heinrich, clean shaven, tall and lean, took in a big breath of fresh air and sighed, “I don’t care a whit about finance, but even walking here is better than sitting in a blasted carriage. I’d rather be astride a horse than have one pull me about.”
“You always have. I prefer my feet on the ground, not my seat in a saddle.”
“Of course you do. And poetry and anything with ‘artistic merit,’” Heinrich teased. They worked their way through the maze of fancy broughams and barouche carriages, and paused for a passing phaeton. There were few merchant wagons on this financial street and even their elegant five-glass landau had failed to stand out among the many fine vehicles. They hurried and