Seems You've Been Influenced

"How did you know I was here?"

Hoover turned toward me, still holding a piece of lingerie. A white brassiere, trimmed with lace.

"Finding out where you are is nothing. Anyway—opening a place this fine? You've got some real talent."

"I'm only helping my mother with her work."

"Whatever it is. I need somewhere we can talk in private…"

He hung the lingerie back up and glanced around at the customers. I led him to the office at the back of the shop.

The moment Hoover sat down at the table, he got to the point.

"Just like you said—the second Russian Revolution has started. The revolutionary army has already taken the city where the provisional government is based."

At this rate, the collapse of Russia's provisional government and the rise of the far-left revolutionary faction—the Bolshevik Party—was only a matter of time.

"You think that's how it plays out? This is a completely new kind of state, one that tears down the old order entirely."

Hoover had come because something I'd told him before had come true. And now he was probing—measuring how much my thinking matched his, and where it diverged.

In other words, it was my turn to show off.

"The Russian government doesn't have the strength to stop the revolutionaries. Fair distribution. A classless society. How ideal does that sound? Public sentiment has already swung their way."

"You're not a socialist yourself, are you?"

"I'm a man who loves capitalism to the core."

Hoover looked relieved and fired off another question.

"Once the Bolsheviks take control, how do you see the situation developing?"

"Civil war is inevitable. They'll try to purge the remnants of the provisional government and anyone who opposes their one-party dictatorship. Whoever stands out in that fight will take Russia. Keep your eye on that man, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hoover."

"Won't power just go to their leader, Lenin? Looking at his age, the next ten years should be his."

He wasn't even fifty yet. Most people would think the same as Hoover. That was the normal conclusion.

But Lenin would take a bullet from a fellow socialist—a woman revolutionary—suffer the aftereffects, and die. That was only a few years away.

Then again, who could say what a person's fate held? Better not to sound like a fortune-teller. I'd hedge it carefully.

"The more the Bolsheviks lock down one-party rule, the more assassination attempts there'll be. Even if Lenin survives, the second-in-command is worth watching."

"Well, that has to be Leon Trotsky, right? Anyone can see that."

Lenin had laid the foundation of the revolution; Trotsky was the tactician who carried it out and made it succeed. By any measure, Trotsky was the undisputed number two.

But after Lenin's death, the man who actually seized power wasn't Trotsky—it was Joseph Stalin. That was too far ahead to be worth mentioning.

"I brought up the second-in-command because of what comes after a socialist revolution."

The Soviet Union that would emerge from the October Revolution would be the world's first socialist state built on the ideas of Karl Marx.

"But Marx saw socialism as an intermediate stage on the way to communism. Watching how that process unfolds will ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be fascinating. Important, too."

"Communism is fantasy—something that only works in dreams. It's the delusion of malcontents who can't stand reality."

"I agree completely. The problem is, the public won't know it's garbage until they've tasted it."

Hoover locked eyes with me, his expression strange.

"Someone who understands socialism as well as you do—you'd think you might be swayed by it. Why are you so critical?"

"Because I don't need to taste it to know."

That answer was only half honest.

If I'd been living in this era as an ordinary worker, without any memories of a past life—would I have said the same thing?

I might have been seduced by talk of equality and fair distribution, might have dreamed of a communism that could never be achieved. I might even have grabbed a spear and marched at the front of a revolt to overthrow the state.

But having watched communism collapse, I agreed entirely with Hoover—it was a dream that could never be realized.

"Communism is doomed to fail because, in the end, the ones running it are human."

"That's right. People aren't perfect."

"And yet a handful of humans stuffed full of desire and greed get to run the country?"

"They'll whip up the masses purely for power, and if you don't fall in line, they'll trample freedom and human rights without a second thought."

"They don't even recognize private property. Why would I live in a country like that? I want to be rich. I want to get what I want freely and… legitimately. That's what America makes possible."

"That's exactly what I've been saying."

As we went back and forth, the look in Hoover's eyes changed. What had been mere curiosity and interest took on heat—passion and drive.

One more push and I'd have him.

First, I needed to make it clear we were on the same side.

"Communists are only going to get bolder from here on out. To protect my property, my rights, my freedom—I want to help you, Hoover. I'm an anti-communist myself."

His gaze sharpened. Then he held out his hand.

Son of a bitch. That wasn't what I was going for.

I took it.

"What you just said—that's the reason I decided to devote myself to this country."

He gripped hard and shook, staring at me with grim resolve.

"I expect I'll be coming to see you often. Day or night!"

"…Skip the nights. Come during the day, when there are people around."

"The hero who took down two anarchists is afraid of the dark?"

No. I'm afraid of you.

I pulled my hand back. Hoover smiled and asked another question.

"Back then you said something else, besides Russia. Remember?"

"Of course."

"Still stand by it? Our ground forces are about to deploy."

"Now that America's involved, the war will be over before next year is out. Germany and its allies don't have anyone feeding them a steady stream of munitions the way America does. How long can they hold?"

After more than four years of war, the soldiers and civilians of the enemy nations were exhausted beyond measure.

The Allies were just as worn down—but one after another, Greece, China, and Brazil had declared war alongside America, and morale had surged.

The enemy, by contrast, was fighting around Germany, the Ottoman Empire, Austria-Hungary, and Bulgaria. Then the Spanish flu would drive the final nail into the coffin. The war had no choice but to end.

We talked through several more subjects after that. Roughly an hour had passed before we left the office.

I was walking him out through the shop floor when Hoover suddenly stopped.

"Somehow I feel like I ought to do something for a friend who wants to help me. For my own peace of mind."

What he chose was a Lucky Box.

Hoover studied the promotional copy carefully.

"This your idea?"

"Yes. Don't you want to buy one on impulse?"

Hoover let out a short laugh and picked up a box—of course it was the most expensive one. The ten-dollar bill he casually held out was not a welcome sight.

"Mind if I open it here?"

"Be my guest."

He tore the wrapping off the long, forearm-length box and lifted the lid.

Inside were a black brassiere and panties with lavish lace, a finely worked necklace, and a pair of earrings.

"Wow. This is better than I expected."

"Looks like you caught a real stroke of luck, Hoover."

"But what's this?"

"A mask."

A futuristic design—canvas on the outside, soft cotton lining against the mouth, and a thin layer of cotton batting in between.

"Why would I need this?"

"For your health. It'll help in weather this cold. Take care of yourself, Hoover—don't catch a cold. And make sure you gift that lingerie to someone else."

Hoover glanced at me as if to say, Obviously.

"I'll drop by from time to time, then."

"You're welcome anytime."

After I saw him out and came back into the shop, Ida muttered under her breath.

"So there really are people who buy those."

"I told you. Once they see it, they get hooked."

"Yeah. We just need nine more like him."

On this miserable stretch of Allen Street, marks—no, VIP customers—like Hoover were rare. Would the rest of the Lucky Box owners even show up this year? Nine suddenly felt like a very large number.

53–63 Park Row, Manhattan.

The twenty-story Pulitzer Building, with its dome and spire. When it was finished in 1890, it had been the tallest building in New York. Floors fifteen through twenty were occupied by the New York World.

On the seventeenth floor, a stout middle-aged man sitting on a sofa reading a letter let out a whistle.

"Remarkable stuff. So when did this letter arrive?"

"Two months ago."

"And he already predicted the Russian October Revolution in this much detail back then?"

"Yes. I almost threw it out, but the content seemed plausible enough that I kept it. Lucky I did."

Two months earlier, a letter had been delivered to the desk of reporter Herbert Swope. It concerned a second Russian Revolution; at the time he'd skimmed it and stuffed it in a drawer.

Then the situation in Russia shifted rapidly, and Swope dug the letter out again and read it carefully.

"I don't know how many times I was surprised while reading it. Of course the revolution isn't over yet, so we'll have to wait and see—but looking at how things are moving, the Bolsheviks becoming the ruling power seems certain."

"Mm. I think the same."

The man nodded at Swope's words.

Until January of this year he had been the United States Ambassador to Germany. Together with Swope he had co-authored My Four Years in Germany. His name was James Gerard.

He was now practicing law in Manhattan and writing a book about Germany based on his own experience.

"So is this the only letter?"

"No, there's one more—but the content on that one is pretty absurd."

Swope handed over another letter.

Gerard scanned the contents, and his brow drew tighter and tighter.

"You're right—it's absurd. A pandemic, out of nowhere."

"But look at the terminology. It's quite technical, isn't it? Influenza, virus, contagion. I asked some doctors I know, and they were all astonished. They scoffed at the claims themselves, of course."

"Either a fraud looking for attention, or a genuinely extraordinary prophet. He says it starts early next year, so we'll know soon enough… but looking at this fellow's name, I'd say fraud is more likely."

Gerard frowned at the sender written at the bottom of the letter.

The K and the G were initials. The problem was the middle.

It was a slight twist on the name of the great sixteenth-century prophet Nostradamus—Nos turned into Nox.

"Just a delusional patient, then?"

"Hard to say. But he's clearly been influenced by Nostradamus."

Nostradamus's book of prophecies, Les Prophéties, published in 1555, was a perennial favorite whenever Europe underwent religious or political upheaval.

The present great war in Europe was no different. Plenty of people clung to vague, open-ended lines about "great turmoil in Europe" and "the fall of kings and nations."

"Besides, Nostradamus did prophesy a pandemic of sorts."

But how many plagues had there been in human history? The Black Death, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, the Russian flu—the language was so broad and sweeping it barely counted as prophecy.

"It's nothing more than people's imagination and expectations summoning Nostradamus again and again. Still… this fellow is rather more specific."

The contents of the letters were too unusual to dismiss as the work of a fraud or a madman.

Silence settled over the office. Both men were thinking the same thing.

Who is this person, and what does he do?

Second floor of the twin buildings on Allen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Street.

Corey came barreling up into the office.

"Boss! There's a brawl near Orchard Street!"

"Bad enough that I need to go?"

"Yeah. There's a lot of them. Oliver and the boys can't hold them off alone."

Then I had to go. I'd been cooped up in the office long enough to be sick of it anyway.

I grabbed a club and a knife and pulled on my coat.

Late afternoon. Corey and I left the building and headed for the fight.

By the time we arrived—

"Come on, you sons of bitches! You want the territory, come and take it!"

Oliver's voice rang out like a bell, with the dull thud of impacts, groans, and curses for a backdrop.

When we reached the scene, dozens of men were locked in a tangle of fists and weapons. A genuine blood-soaked battlefield.

My body reacted at the sight—a thrill waking every nerve—but I held back.

Unfortunately for that impulse, Cale and Brian chose that exact moment to come charging in at the head of our men.

"Yo, motherfuckers!"

The way Cale came flying in with an iron pipe raised high—it could have been a shot from a movie.

Our men crashed into the melee like a wave and started cracking enemy skulls without mercy. Blood sprayed. Groans filled the air. More and more ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the other side went crawling across the ground on their bellies.

Only once the ringleader had been rounded up and forced to his knees did I step out in front.

"You came looking for a real fight. Which unit are you with?"

"…Cough."

Thud.

"I said, which unit."

"W-we don't belong to anyone. We're our own independent gang…"

"That so?"

A new outfit, then.

I fixed the boss with a hard stare and grabbed him by the hair. Then I whispered, low.

"Looks like every one of you is Jewish. Want me to throw you a bone?"

"…W-what?"

I held out a sheet of paper to the man whose face was nothing but question marks. It was a list of shops that had been refusing to pay protection money.

"I'll let you boys collect protection from these places."