Murcheson discounted her opinion on the matter out of hand, and his refusal to even consider it wearied Charlotte at first. Finally she pushed past the point of disillusionment and into a kind of fatal humor at the absurdity of it all, at Murcheson’s insistence that his trouble was the Crown’s trouble. She liked him, respected him still, but Charlotte finally accepted that the life-and-death make-believe hadn’t ended with the war, and would probably never end. It was the only way people like her father and Murcheson knew how to operate. They would keep this secret war going forever.
Charlotte realized, then and there, that it didn’t necessarily have to be her secret war. Not anymore. She had a choice.
She had a future in which to make it. And for the first time in years, that future rose up before her as an opportunity, rather than a duty.
To her surprise, once she’d had this epiphany, Charlotte found herself beginning to enjoy the town and the enforced relaxation.
Sipping bitter Turkish coffee and enjoying the salty afternoon breeze off the estuary, Charlotte sat outside an old half-timbered building and watched the meticulously detailed model boats bob along the water. A choir was singing traditional French sea shanties somewhere nearby, and families wandered past on their way home from the festival, exhausted children carrying buckets of shrimp they’d spent the day catching.
Holiday, she finally realized. I’m on holiday.
Her last holiday had been her first honeymoon, so she forgave herself for not recognizing it sooner. This was nothing like that trip, or even like her voyage to France with Dexter, all tension and anticipation. This reminded her more of her unplanned day in the countryside, when her soul seemed to calm once she resigned herself to the fact she had nothing to do but wait. She had done all she could.
Charlotte saw the delivery boy bringing the evening paper to the newsstand down the street and abandoned her table only long enough to buy one and return. She flipped it open, and her jaw dropped as she translated the headline. The mystery airship had been forgotten, shoved aside by a more newsworthy story:
ROLAND DUBOIS MURDERED! the paper blared. WEALTHY INDUSTRIALIST STRANGLED BY MYSTERIOUS ASSAILANT IN BRUTAL DAYLIGHT ATTACK.
The police, it seemed, had named no suspects yet. Charlotte suspected immediately who the murderer was, but thought it unlikely the police would ever apprehend him unless French intelligence willed it so. Perhaps she and Dexter had been wrong and Coeur de Fer had never stopped working for the Égalité French, after all. Or perhaps, after years serving the execrable Dubois, he had undergone a change of heart and done away with the villain.
So that was it. Whether Murcheson was right or not, whether Dubois had been plotting with Gendreau to build a doomsday device and take over France or not, it didn’t matter anymore. Either way, Charlotte accepted, her part in the intrigue was over.
* * *
MARTIN’S HEAD THROBBED in time with his heartbeats. The fever that had plagued him on and off for days seemed to have taken permanent hold now. Even when chills overtook him and sweat poured from his face he could feel the heat, only banked, never extinguished, always ready to return even hotter than before.
Still, it could be an infection. It could be something treatable, removable. He’d been nearly as sick at least twice before as his body reacted to the metals and other foreign substances attached to it during the implant process. He was lucky, he knew, that the arm had lasted as long as it had, that it hadn’t rotted off entirely as often happened with such extensive implants after a few years. Martin’s body seemed uniquely amenable to the grafting, but even he had suffered from it on occasion.
The fever is making you stupid, he warned himself. He was still determined to follow through with his recent decision. A surgeon-engineer could take the arm off, but a highly skilled makesmith might be able to locate the poison vial within the workings. Failing that, a makesmith could still perform an amputation if he had to. Without the arm, the poison vial would be no danger, the infection would heal. So Martin’s overheated brain insisted, ignoring the quiet voice that said the vial might be anywhere in his body, even inside his skull with the ear implant . . . or the poison might have spread too far to stop it now, no matter where the vial was.
No, it must be the arm. Take the poison out, even if it meant taking the whole arm off, and the world would be right again. His nightmare could actually end. Dubois was dead, and the secretary’s delay in “finding” the body had been sufficient to help Martin escape detection. He could be free. He could even make a life.
You’re already dead, that maddening little voice whispered, but Martin doggedly continued down the corridor of the hotel, leaning on the maid’s cart for support as he pushed it before him. The maid would never miss it, because he had made sure to take it at a time when the housekeeping rounds were well over for the day.
A convenient corner in the hallway would provide him all the cover he needed to await the Makesmith Baron’s return, because the man was obviously no agent and would never think to scan the entire hall before approaching his room. Martin had been watching him come and go from Murcheson’s factory for three solid days now, and knew Hardison would also be tired and off guard when he returned from whatever he was doing there. Martin no longer even cared what that was.
He would take Hardison to the place he’d prepared, convince him to remove the arm, and then kill him. One final life taken, to save Martin’s own. It would be simple, and Martin reassured himself he would be up to it despite his weakened state, as long as Hardison obliged by being tired and inattentive at the crucial moment.
* * *
DEXTER RUBBED HIS eyes, leaning against the back of the lift gratefully as it rose. The attendant smiled politely then ignored him as usual. Dexter was glad for any silence that didn’t result from a room full of people waiting for his next instruction.
The project was thrilling, captivating, but after four . . . five? . . . days of nearly nonstop work, he was too drained to continue without a decent night’s sleep and a large, uninterrupted meal.
He wondered, as he stepped from the lift, whether Charlotte would be in the suite, and whether she would be glad to see him so early in the evening.
Relatively early, he amended. It was almost nine o’clock, but perhaps they might still have time to share dessert. Dexter tried not to think beyond that but he was tired, not dead. He hadn’t really intended to neglect her entirely these past few days, but his work at the station simply hadn’t allowed him the time to see Charlotte or talk with her, much less attempt anything more intimate. When their paths did cross for a few minutes they were increasingly polite with one another, and he could feel the wedge slipping between them as though it were a physical object.
He had made such a mess of things with Charlotte, but they would be returning to the Dominions soon. Her work for Murcheson seemed to have concluded. The danger was over. Perhaps it was time to broach a discussion of the future, even if she had rebuffed his previous attempts? Even if it wasn’t time for that, he still wanted her. That much hadn’t changed, and he wasn’t above attempting to take advantage of the situation during their last few days in France.
Dexter had to laugh at his own presumption as he fumbled for his key. He was so sleepy already he could barely keep his eyes open to find his way to the room; he’d probably be lucky to make it through dinner, never mind an attempt at seduction.
The maid’s cart squeaked behind Dexter and he sped up his search so he could clear the corridor and let her by. He patted his pockets one at a time until he finally located the key. As he lifted it from his pocket in triumph something pricked the back of his neck, making him flinch and slap at the sting.
His last thought as he crumpled over, falling into the cart that seemed to have positioned itself to catch him, was to wonder why he hadn’t just knocked on the door so Charlotte could let him in.
* * *
THE CLOCK ON the sitting room mantel stood at two minutes to nine. Charlotte sighed in i
rritation at the noise in the hallway, the squeaking of the cart and the clumsy thumping as the housekeeper fussed with her equipment. After a moment the wheels squeaked away, however, presumably making toward the end of the hall where a corner and an alcove hid the entrance to the service lift.
Nine o’clock.
Charlotte tried to focus on the horrid novel she was reading while she waited for Dexter’s return, but something bothered her into looking at the clock once more.
It’s nine o’clock.
The maids don’t service the rooms at nine o’cl—
She ran to the door, yanking it open to an empty hallway. A few steps away and around the corner, she saw the service lift was already in use. No maid or cart was visible anywhere in the corridor.
Charlotte dashed back to the suite, missing the hint of brass on the colorful oriental runner. Her bare toe struck something, however, and she looked down as the object skittered into the baseboard with a tiny metallic chink.
A key. Their room key. Dexter’s room key.
“Dexter!”
She ran for the window to signal Murcheson’s men, blood rushing in her ears even louder than the ocean.
* * *
MARTIN CRANKED THE window down, his need for fresh air trumping his fear of a passerby overhearing a sound from his unwilling passenger.
“I knew you would tax my supply of tranquilizers,” he said hoarsely.
Dexter grunted through the gag, and Martin felt the steam car jolt as the large American tried to kick his way out of his bonds.
“I’m very good at knots, my friend. Try all you like. Brute force is not going to help you here.”
Another series of grunts. It sounded as though the rat was attempting to scold him around the gag.
Martin chuckled, feeling better than he had in days. He felt purposeful, in control, even hopeful.
Febrile euphoria.
Whatever the reason, he appreciated the respite from heat and pain and despair. He had fully convinced himself, in the days since Dubois’s death, that he was not in fact ready to die. Feeling so close to death was unsettling.
Martin’s imagination ran over the events of Dubois’s last moments, lingering on the way the man’s stubby fingers had pushed the button on his triggering device over and over. Nothing happened.
The blare of a horn made him jerk his head up, and he yanked the wheel to correct the steam car’s course across the narrow bridge. He had been inches from sliding into oncoming traffic.
A whimper from behind him assured him that his passenger had noticed the lapse in attention as well.
“Sorry, my friend. I am not as well as I might be. But you can help me with that, and soon I will be better than ever.”
* * *
“CAN’T YOU MAKE this thing go any faster?”
Charlotte clutched the seat in front of her, urging the driver to push his own limits as well as those of the steam car. Bad enough they were not following Dexter and his abductor, they didn’t need to drag their feet not doing it.
“You’ll report here,” Murcheson had ordered when Charlotte and the two agents outside the hotel notified him. He’d stated in no uncertain terms that only one of the agents was to follow Coeur de Fer, while the other was to bring Charlotte directly to Atlantis Station for further instructions.
Charlotte knew a team was already being assembled, and that the trailing agent would radio Murcheson with whatever information he could. She still would have rather gone after Dexter herself, instead of arriving in the second wave.
The agent watching the front entrance of the hotel had seen Charlotte’s frantic signal with a hand torch at the window, and met her in the lobby as she reached the bottom of the stairs, practically flying down the last flight. They joined the agent in the rear of the building just in time to see Coeur de Fer drive away, traveling around the corner from a side street in a steam car.
The second agent hadn’t paid attention to the unattractive maid with the laundry cart, naturally. He hadn’t seen Coeur de Fer put Dexter into the steam car, but the key and the abandoned cart suggested an abduction. The radio was fired up and Murcheson contacted as the first agent lit out in pursuit of Jacques Martin.
Charlotte had thrown off her dressing gown and pulled on the most practical garments she could find in a hurry, a pair of the new breeches in a soft fawn, some short walking boots, a simple linen shirt cut like a man’s and the white leather jacket she’d once worn to pilot the Gossamer Wing. She’d neglected a hat, and her hair was still in the long braid she wore it in for sleeping.
“You look like a rebellious young girl,” Murcheson said in surprised disapproval when he saw her attire. Perhaps, Charlotte later reflected, that sentiment was behind his ordering her to proceed to the station instead of joining the agents who were already mustering near the factory.
“I can take the Gossamer Wing to those coordinates and be there before—”
“And be seen by every security guard or late-working longshoreman from here to the estuary? You’ll stay at the station, where I can at least ensure you’ll be safe, and you won’t present Coeur de Fer with an additional target.”
“Where I’ll be out of the way, you mean,” Charlotte snapped, feeling very much the part of the thwarted youth. She didn’t care. She was frantic, her heart pounding, desperate to do anything to get to Dexter. Nothing else mattered, and the need was so paramount it crowded out all other thoughts in her mind.
I have to get to him . . .
Murcheson scowled at her, and she lifted a hand to her forehead, pressing against the temptation to cry. She knew it wouldn’t help her case if she did, but a voice in her head was screaming for action.
It can’t end this way, I was stupid, so stupid . . .
“I have to do something.”
“You’re far too emotionally invested to be objective in this matter, Lady Hardison.”
Charlotte didn’t attempt to deny it. An idea had started to form in her mind. She closed her mouth and listened in brooding silence as Murcheson briefed his men; then she allowed herself to be escorted down to the tram and into the station with no further protest.
Admiral Neeley barely noticed her arrival, more concerned with an ongoing training exercise than with one off-duty agent at loose ends. He noticed her departure from the bridge still less, and nobody batted an eye at the sight of Lady Hardison making her way down to the miniature submersible’s docking bay. She’d spent so much time there already, after all.
Charlotte felt bad about tricking the young technician, but it had to be done. She milked him for the status of the fuel tank, a last few bits of information regarding the navigation system, and then she asked him very sweetly if he could possibly find her a decent cup of tea. It was cruel; she knew the boy was smitten, and she took advantage of him even though she knew he would surely be reprimanded for dereliction of duty. But she needed that submersible. She waited two minutes after he left the lab, then ducked into the Gilded Lily and took the little craft down and out into the dark, murky waters of the channel.
Her plan had solidified once she heard the report of where Coeur de Fer had taken Dexter. The agents traveling overland were at a decided disadvantage, Charlotte had realized during the debriefing. They were in steam cars, which ran far slower on average than the speeds the sub was capable of in calm waters. They had to travel on the convoluted byways of the quays of Le Havre, and they were beginning from the Murcheson factory well north of town. From the station, though it was farther away, Charlotte could steer the submersible in nearly a straight line to the dock and the hulk of a decommissioned cargo freighter that Martin was evidently using as a base. What’s more, she could use the sub’s specialized listening devices to pinpoint their location on the freighter. She might even hear something that could help them take Martin without risking Dexter’s life.
The main challenge, as Charlotte saw it, would be maintaining her sanity in the claustrophobic confines of the tiny submersible long e
nough to get to the docked ship where Jacques Martin was holding Dexter hostage. Once she survived that, she reasoned, the rest of the rescue would seem easy in comparison.
Twenty
LE HAVRE, FRANCE
ICY WATER SPLASHED over Dexter’s head, waking him with shock, and he blew the salty, stinging stuff from his mouth and nose as he tried to get his bearings.
His stomach lurched and he choked back vomit, struggling to breathe, panic setting in as he began to remember his circumstances.
“Bastard!” he sputtered, finally realizing he was no longer gagged and could speak again. Coeur de Fer was standing a few yards away from him, an empty tin bucket next to his leg. “Where’s Charlotte? What have you done with her?” Dexter rocked back and forth on the chair to which he was bound, accomplishing nothing but nearly falling over.
The question seemed to surprise his captor. “I have done nothing with her, monsieur. Have you misplaced her?”
“What?”
They stared at each other, both confused now. Coeur de Fer finally broke the silence by coughing weakly. He shook his head and repeated, “I have done nothing with Lady Hardison, monsieur. I took only you. She will come to no harm, as long as you agree to assist me.”
What the hell would you want with me? Dexter couldn’t help but think. Despite recent events, he knew he was no spy. Unless Jacques Martin was interested in recent technological advances in seismology, or desperately required a specialized weapon harness or custom-made machinery, Dexter didn’t know what he could possibly do for the man. He feared what Martin might ask, knowing that his probable inability to provide whatever it was would most likely result in his death. Everybody knew that was how it worked: when the deranged killer no longer had need of you, he killed you. Usually not in a quick, merciful way.
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