When the pictures appeared, they were even more forbidding, but Francisco Braun was ready for that. The first frame captured the two as they came out of the house. In the second frame it was clear that the pair had been instantly aware of him. The old man, surprisingly, moved as well as, if not better than, the younger. In fact, the older man's gaze into the camera was the more interesting of the two. It was as though he were checking the weather. Absolutely no care whatsoever. Then he turned to the younger to make sure he had seen what was on the ridge, and seeing that the young one was already staring at the camera, he turned back into the house. And then, of course, came those three pictures, those featuring the amusement on the face and in the dark eyes focused perfectly, no panic at all.
Good. Francisco Braun had done wisely not to attack at once. He took two identifiable images, with height apparent and weight probable, and brought them with him for his appointment with Mr. Caldwell.
Mr. Caldwell's office now sprawled across an entire floor in a downtown New York City building. Two uniformed men with a crest of an apothecary jar and a sword emblazoned in red on their trim dark jackets stood at the doorway.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Caldwell," said Braun. He held the two pictures under his arm in a small leather envelope.
"Please, if you will?" said the guard.
"If I will, what?" said Braun.
"Wait for your audience."
"I am unaware that I am going to perform for anyone."
"Wait," said the guard.
There was that term "audience" again.
As soon as the doors opened, Francisco Braun began to suspect what the guard and the secretary had been talking about.
There were no separate offices anymore. Rather, the secretaries and lesser employees sat at desks on either side of the room, leaving a vast open expanse in the middle. There, on a raised platform, was a high-backed chair. The chair glimmered with colored stones, possibly jewels. Above the chair hung the strange embossed seal, red on dark velvet. And in the chair, one hand resting on an arm, the other in his lap, was Mr. Harrison Caldwell. "We will see you now," said Mr. Caldwell.
Francisco Braun looked around. He looked for the others. But Mr. Caldwell was alone. There wasn't anyone within twenty-five yards of him. A jeweled finger beckoned Braun up to the high-placed chair.
Braun heard his own footsteps click on the polished marble leading to the platform. Not one of the lesser employees looked up. The hand with the jeweled finger extended to Braun. He would have shaken it, except the palm was turned down. There was no doubt anymore. This was an audience, not a meeting.
"Your Majesty," said Francisco Braun, kissing the hand.
"Francisco Braun, my sword," said Harrison Caldwell. "Have you come to tell us that you have disposed of our problem?"
Braun stepped back with a bow. So Mr. Caldwell thought he was a king for some reason. True, the money was good, and Mr. Caldwell had yet to do anything foolish. But this new dimension forced Braun to consider more carefully before he spoke each word. Caldwell could be insane. Yet if he were mad, he was still awesomely rich. Even the major corporations of America, Braun knew, did not have money to waste on vast space in the financial district. This one room, this throne room, filled an entire floor.
"Your Majesty faces a more formidable enemy than I first realized."
"Enemy?"
"Yes, your Majesty," said Braun.
"We have neither permanent enemies nor permanent friends."
"Your Majesty. I did not choose these men to kill. They are not my enemies."
"As long as you serve me, Francisco, they are."
"Yes, your Majesty. They escaped the first assault," said Braun. "I have come because you have mentioned that with your power you have greater access to information than ever before."
"Greater every day," said Caldwell.
"I want to know more about these two so that I may better dispose of them for you."
"Enemies are not always enemies, you know." Braun hesitated. He did not know if he dared correct Caldwell now. But he had to. If he were going to eliminate those two, he had to have help. If not, better to leave with one's life.
"Your Majesty, you yourself wanted them eliminated because they were interfering with something, according to your reports. Have they stopped interfering?"
"Not to our knowledge."
"Then I need help. If they are more formidable, then to hang their heads on your walls, so to speak, would give you greater respect in the eyes of men who respect only force."
"Force is not only blood, Francisco. But a good sword would think that way. So be it. We will give you what you need."
"I need, your Majesty, to identify two men," said Francisco. He unsnapped the leather folder and presented the pictures to Mr. Caldwell, or His Highness Mr. Caldwell. Braun was not sure which.
Caldwell did not take the pictures, but made Braun hold them up before him.
"I see. What contempt in that face," said Caldwell. "What an arrogant smile. He must have thought very little of the photographer. I would have, too. They are not good pictures."
"What I need to know is where they have learned what they have learned. They have special skills." Braun held the pictures before His Majesty Mr. Caldwell. The extension of the arm pressured the nerves so that the pictures began to tremble. His Majesty Mr. Caldwell took no notice. He stared at the ceiling. Braun glanced there. It was a plain ceiling. His Majesty Mr. Caldwell must be off in his own mind, thought Braun. He lowered the pictures.
Caldwell snapped his fingers. Braun raised the pictures. Caldwell chuckled.
"An amusing idea has occurred to us," said Caldwell, who knew that his idea would not amuse Braun in the least. He lowered his eyes to meet his sword's. "Our good Francisco, do not let what I am about to say trouble you excessively. But in the days of the true monarchs, there was a person who fought the king's battles. He was called the king's champion. He was the best in the land. Our idea, the idea that amuses us, is that these two may wield powers that are greater than yours."
A bolt of anger shot through Francisco Braun. He felt like tearing the pictures away from Caldwell, this imitation king, His Highness of a court that had not existed for centuries, the old Spanish monarchy. But His Majesty Mr. Caldwell was also the richest man he had ever worked for. And up to now he had not been a fool at all.
Francisco Braun replied, with great control in an icy tone:
"All I have told your Highness is that the two men are not yet dead. But they are in the process of dying. Your sword begged his crown only to assist that process, to help establish your power in the eyes of those who would destroy you."
"Well spoken, good Francisco," said Caldwell. "We will arrange everything." With a slight beckoning motion he moved a single finger. A secretary clippety-clipped along the polished marble floors. Braun felt her come up behind him. She kissed Caldwell's feet and took the pictures.
"We will speak to you about those later," said Caldwell. The young woman nodded. Apparently she wasn't even allowed to speak to Caldwell. Braun had been given that honor.
Then Caldwell's hand came forward. Braun knew exactly what his liege wanted. He took a deep breath, kissed the ring, and backed toward the door. Before he left, an aide handed him a heavy briefcase and an address a few blocks away from Wall Street.
It was the gold exchange. He was carrying at least forty pounds of gold. Was he a delivery boy now? Was Caldwell demoting him to that? He delivered the gold to the exchange, and inside, with suppressed anger, he took bar after bar of gold out of the briefcase and slammed it on the counter.
A bespectacled old man in a vest weighed each bar, chuckling.