by J. D. Weston
The cars drove on, washing through a long rain puddle, maintaining the thirty-kilometres-per-hour speed limit despite having one of France’s most prominent targets on board, despite the town being deserted on Christmas Eve, and despite the apparent lack of security.
The three cars pulled into the marina, took a wide half-circle and stopped beside the yacht’s boardwalk, where Kane was standing to attention.
“It is show time, Monsieur Kane,” said Gabriella.
The two policemen in the first car remained seated, but the passenger door of the saloon opened and a man in a suit appeared. He glanced around at the empty space and nodded at Kane before approaching him.
“I have your eyeball in my cross-hairs, Monsieur Kane,” said Gabriella. “If you try anything stupid, you will die a failure and a disgrace. Blink twice if you understand.”
Kane blinked twice then offered his hand to the prime minister’s chief of security.
“Mr Kane?” said the man.
“Good morning, Monsieur Berger,” replied Kane.
“The area is secure? I haven’t been able to reach you. We agreed on open communications, did we not?”
Kane nodded. “Apologies, Monsieur Berger. It must be the storm.” Kane waved his hand at the sky then opened his palm out to catch a few drops of rain. “It’s been playing up all night.”
Berger studied Kane as if reading him with a trained eye.
“Is everything okay, Monsieur Kane?” asked Berger. “You seem a little distracted.”
“I’m fine,” said Kane. “It’s been a long night, that’s all.”
“And your men? Where are your men? You promised me a minimum of three teams. Yet nobody stopped us on the way into town. I saw no men at the agreed check point. Where are they, Monsieur Kane?”
“I promised you security, Mr Berger. That you cannot see my men is a testament to their skills.”
“Very good, Monsieur Kane,” said Berger, offering a nod with a hint of suspicion. “Is there anything I should know? Were there any incidents at all?”
Berger continued to examine Kane, waiting for an answer. But Kane remained silent.
“Monsieur Kane. I asked you a question,” said Berger. “Is there anything I should know about?”
“Charlie-one, this is Tango-two,” said Gabriella through the radio. “All clear, sir. Nothing to report.”
Through the scope, Gabriella saw Berger raising his eyebrows.
“Nothing to report, then?” said Berger.
“Nothing to report,” said Kane, snapping out of his daze.
The two men met in a stare. Berger’s inquisitive eyes searched for a hint of disbelief. Kane’s blank stare offered nothing in response but a seed of doubt and a flavour of fear.
“Very well, Monsieur Kane. Let’s get this over with,” said Berger.
He turned, gave the small marina a thorough visual examination then stepped over to the saloon and opened the rear door. He retrieved a black umbrella from the parcel shelf and popped it open in time for a tall man in a casual sports jacket, cream pants and boat shoes to step out. The prime minister buttoned his jacket, collected the umbrella from Berger, and held out his hand for his family to follow. A small boy climbed outside then turned and waited for his mother, displaying the mannerisms of a well-educated young man rather than the average boy who might have run to the gangway and onto the boat.
The first lady of France followed, her smile barely weakened by the harsh wind and incessant rain. She stood beside her husband, who passed her the umbrella, then she took the boy’s hand. The prime minister extended his arm, allowing his wife and son to board the yacht. Then, as two staff carried two cases aboard, he shook Berger’s hand. He turned to board the boat but stopped when he saw Kane. His eyes flicked between the two men as if requesting an answer to an unspoken question.
“Sir, may I introduce Monsieur Kane,” said Berger, his voice hinting at a bitterness or reluctance to make the introduction.
“Keep your cool, Monsieur Kane,” whispered Gabriella.
“Anglais?” said the prime minister.
“Yes, sir,” replied Kane.
The prime minister offered his hand to Kane, who hesitated, then reached out and shook it.
“Our journey was uneventful. I believe we have you to thank, Monsieur Kane,” said the prime minister. “We were expecting the journey to be a little bumpy.”
“Enjoy your Christmas, sir,” replied Kane, and offered him a weak smile.
The prime minister nodded. “And you,” he replied. Then he nodded his approval at Berger and turned to board the boat.
“Are you ready, Monsieur Kane?” whispered Gabriella. “Glory and honour await.”
“Sorry, sir?” said Kane as the prime minister placed his foot on the gangway.
He turned to face Kane, his hand on the rail.
“Now,” said Gabriella.
“There is just one more thing,” said Kane.
He raised his weapon as Gabriella’s first shot entered the side of Berger’s head.
A single shot sang out in the night. It came from a high powered rifle from the church steeple above where Harvey stood with his hand on the ancient door handle.
The incessant wind that tore into Saint-Pierre from the sea bit into the burns on his face, but eased when the cool church air touched his skin. At the east end of the church was a door either side of a raised platform, where Harvey assumed a choir would stand. The door to the left had been built into the curved, stone wall. The tower rose above it, disappearing into the vaulted ceiling and beyond.
The tiny echoes of Harvey’s boots seemed to wake a thousand years of memories that whispered in the shadows, the eaves and the galleys. He stopped at the wooden pew closest to the chancel and, for the first time in his life, he sat down in a church.
There was no lowering of his head in prayer or thoughts of those he had loved. Just a rare peace. A peace he had sought for too long.
No thoughts of God crossed Harvey’s mind as he marvelled at the stories told by the stained windows. But he felt a curious understanding, perhaps more than ever before, about the solace others found in prayer.
The space held a thousand years of births and deaths, weekly prayers, and sorrowful confessions, and there Harvey sat for the tiniest fraction of time. Another thousand years of births and deaths would follow, although they would be stained by the violence Harvey was about to bring to the peace.
An apology formed on Harvey’s lips, as soundless as it was subconscious and prominent in his mind. The memories that stared down at him from the lofty shadows of the vaulted ceiling seemed tangible. It was as if he could touch them, or if he spoke, be heard by them.
Or be seen by them. His actions might be judged by the presence of peace itself.
Shadows buried the aisles to each side of the nave and concealed Harvey’s approach. But still, the eyes of memories bore into him, teasing his conscience with reminders of the purity he was about to taint with the blood of man.
He stopped at the door to the tower with his hand against the wood. Something was watching him, something more than the memories of happiness and peace that filled the ancient space. Eyes drilled into him. Unafraid.
Lowering his hand, Harvey remained still, his senses alive in his new surroundings.
As if acknowledging Harvey’s awareness of his presence, a figure, robed and silent, stepped from the darkness with the confidence of a man who knew no fear and held the greatest power in his heart.
In a silent exchange of questioning expressions, the priest conveyed an understanding of Harvey’s purpose. He nodded. The movement of his head was almost imperceptible in the dark church. Only the motion of the glints of his eyes were clear.
Harvey turned the ancient handle and pulled the door, which opened with surprising ease. No creaks or groans broke the silence. Only the first cold, stone steps of a narrow curved staircase presented itself before the priest spoke. His voice was old and cracked like the ancient
timbers that sheltered them both from the storm.
“Prenez la mort de cet endroit,” said the priest.
“Anglais?” replied Harvey in a whisper, finding his throat parched and his own voice cracked.
Long robes fell over the priest’s feet as he moved closer to stand in front of Harvey, fearless with his God by his side. He reached out a folded arm, the long sleeves unfurling to reveal a thin, weak hand that rested on Harvey’s shoulder.
“Take death from this place.”
The staircase, narrow and curved, led clockwise with walls that threatened to squeeze Harvey the further up he climbed. It was as if the church itself knew that death had crossed its threshold. He turned sideways, taking soft steps and listening for a sign.
Narrow windows, empty of glass and as wide as Harvey’s fist, adorned the baron walls with each sweeping turn. One was home to a pair of pigeons, who neither saw nor heard Harvey approach or move past them as they perched on the ledge, their heads buried in plumes of thick feathers.
At the top of the staircase, the dim, morning light revealed an old wooden door, framed by a stone arch no higher than Harvey’s shoulders, and much narrower.
A soft tuneful murmur came from the far side of the door. It was the hum of a song that sounded familiar, along with the aroma of one-thousand-year-old stone and dust.
Harvey lay his hand against the painted wood and closed his eyes, picturing the scene on the far side of the door.
The image in Harvey’s mind showed a bell hanging from the centre with a narrow walkway around the edge. There would be large open windows below the pitched roof offering a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Saint-Pierre.
The sweet, tuneful humming had ceased and a silence ensued that offered Harvey small teases of the tiniest movements.
“Are you ready, Monsieur Kane?” said Gabriella.
Harvey ran his finger along the grain in the wood, his eyes closed, picturing the scene. In his mind, he placed Gabriella to the left, her back to the door and her focus on Kane.
A strong wind touched his burned face with the hint of a sting. But it also allowed him to orient his position in relation to the sea.
“Now,” said Gabriella.
A spray of red mist covered Kane’s face. He spat the iron taste from his lips, holding the prime minister in his sights along the length of his handgun.
The police cars burst into life. All four doors opened and all four policemen began to wave their guns, searching the boat yard for the source of the shot.
The second shot burst through the chest of the policeman closest to the prime minister.
The prime minister froze to the spot. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open and his legs shook as he was unable to hold himself still.
“Tell the prime minister to step off the boat, Monsieur Kane,” said Gabriella over the radio.
“Step away from the boat, sir,” said Kane.
The remaining three cops turned their guns on him.
Gabriella fired another round that severed the neck of the lead cop. He dropped to his knees, choking on his own blood.
“Toss the guns into the water,” said Kane. “Or the prime minister is next.”
Two splashes confirmed the policemen had obeyed the order.
“You’re making a big mistake,” said the prime minister. “I’ll see that you die for this, Kane.”
“Please, sir, step off the boat.”
“I knew we couldn’t trust a bunch of hired guns,” the prime minister continued, as he stepped away from the boat. “You will die for this.”
Kane gestured with his weapon for the prime minister to move past the cars and into the open ground where, he knew, DuBois would be able to see him through her scope. But in the distance, above the wind and the rain, the sound of approaching stomping feet began to grow louder.
“Remove your headset, Kane,” said Gabriella. “I wish to talk with the prime minister.”
Kane did as instructed, pulling the cable from the radio and tossing it to the ground, then he held out the radio. But the prime minister was transfixed on the sight of a hundred or more people marching in unison toward the marina. The dark shape of their mass and the volume of their boots formed a terrifying image. The policemen began to step back towards the water’s edge, their worried faces a picture of fear and uncertainty.
“Monsieur Prime Minister,” said Gabriella. Her voice sounded tinny through the small speaker, but her confidence carried through despite the incessant wind that blew off the sea in a growing rage and rocked the smaller boats moored in the marina. “You will, no doubt, be questioning your decision to employ the services of Monsieur Kane. And you would be correct to do so.”
The prime minister turned to look at his yacht. Through a small port hole, he saw his wife staring down at him and holding her son close with a look of terror on her face.
The mass of people stopped at the gates of the marina, blocking the exit. A single man’s voice began to chant. The crowd replied with audible anger.
“Monsieur Prime Minister, do I have your attention?” said Gabriella.
Kane held the push-to-talk button down for the prime minister to reply.
“You have my attention. Who am I talking to?” said the prime minister, shouting to be heard above the chanting crowd one hundred yards away.
“My name is Gabriella DuBois, Monsieur Prime Minister.”
The prime minister’s eyes flicked from the yacht to the mass of people at the marina gates, and then to Kane.
“You are Gabriella DuBois, sister of Francis DuBois? The infamous leader of the French rebellion? He was a traitor to France.”
“My brother was not a traitor, Prime Minister. He was a patriot. He died for what he believed in, and his blood has stained your hands for long enough.”
“He was a traitor, DuBois,” said the prime minister. “He died because he was a threat to France and all we stand for. You and all these people, is this it? Is this the sum total of your so-called rebellion?”
“We prefer to call ourselves La Resistance,” said Gabriella. “And we are many, many more than what you see.”
“The resistance died with World War Two, DuBois. The resistance had honour. They fought for the nation and its people.”
“You’re correct, Monsieur Prime Minister. Look at the crowds in front of you. They are the people. It is they who suffer at your hands. We fight for our nation. Only this time, instead of ridding France of its Nazi occupation, we are disposing of the corrupt, selfish government. The time for change is long overdue. The time for action is now. If you want your family to survive, you will do everything I say. Do I make myself clear?”
“My family?” said the prime minister. “Leave them out of this, Miss DuBois.”
“I will try my hardest, Prime Minister. But do you see my friends at the gates? They are angry. Something must be done to save this country from the turmoil you have created. A new government must be empowered, a government that recognises France and all its people as great, not just the wealthy minority. A new balance must be found, and for that to happen, I am afraid, you must die.”
As if on cue, a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. Two great flashes of lightning lit the marina and the mass of angry rebels who waited at the gates.
“Monsieur Kane, I am now talking to you. I have you in my cross-hairs,” said Gabriella. “It is time.”
Kane sighed and hung his head. Rain fell from his nose and chin. For the first time, his boots felt like lead weights, gripped by fear and indecision. He stared back at the church tower.
“Monsieur Kane, I will explain. The prime minister and you have two options. Are you hearing me? Do you understand? Tell me you understand, Monsieur Kane.”
He raised the radio to his mouth, hit the push-to-talk button and spoke through his choked throat. “I understand, DuBois.”
“Option one,” said Gabriella. “You will raise your weapon to the prime minister’s head and pull the trigger. The
crowd before you will rush in and raise you up. You will be a hero. You will be on the front page of every newspaper across the world.”
Kane’s stomach rolled. He blinked away the rain drops that disguised his tears.
“And option two?” said Kane.
“You fail to kill the prime minister. The resistance will storm the marina and may God help anybody who stands in their way.”
16
The Great Gig in the Sky
Standing from her position behind the tower wall, Gabriella rose and outstretched her arms. The resistance could see her figure in the dim morning light. Her crowd roared in response, and the chanting began again with renewed vigour, awaiting her command.
She held out her hand, palm facing out, and the crowd below faded to silence. Only the hissing of rain hitting the ground and the rushing of wind off the sea could be heard.
“The fate of the prime minister’s family resides with you, Monsieur Kane,” said Gabriella over the radio. “It is time to decide.”
Below, standing in the centre of the marina with the Mediterranean Sea behind him and a hundred rebels in front, hungry for blood, Kane raised his weapon and aimed at the prime minister’s head.
A woman’s scream cried out from inside the yacht. It was carried by the wind to Gabriella’s ears, raising a smile on her tired face. She lifted the rifle to her shoulder and found Kane in the scope, his head a perfect fit between the cross-hairs.
Kane mouthed an apology to the prime minister, who dropped to his knees with his hands behind his head. But he remained resolute with a straight back, a proud man who would die for his family and stare at his killer with open eyes.
“Now, Monsieur Kane,” said Gabriella, “or I will order the attack.”
But Kane’s hand began to shake. He supported the weight of the weapon with his left hand, but still, the muzzle wavered.
The angry crowd tensed. The atmosphere was electric amongst the rain-soaked bodies who fought their way to the front of the group to be the first to get their hands on the man who was destroying their country.
