by Simon Hawke
“No, of course not,” Finn said. “Only…well, forget it What happened with Fitzroy?”
Lucas picked up a glass from a silver tray upon the table and poured himself some port from the decanter. He looked tired.
“I didn’t get much rest,” he said. “I signaled Fitzroy as soon as I got to Calais and he came out to meet me. He wanted to know why I didn’t go through channels and use our contact over here.” He smiled, wryly. “I told him. Fitzroy had never heard of Mongoose. Our contact in England is supposed to be an Observer named Captain Jack Carnehan. Carnehan’s description matches that of the groom who gave me that note from Mongoose, the same groom whom no one else around here seems to have seen,” he added.
“How did Major Fitzroy react?” said Andre.
“He didn’t take it very well,” said Lucas. “He had to check it out, of course. He clocked out ahead and made a routine inquiry and, not surprisingly, discovered that there is no officer in the Observer Corps named Jack Carnehan. At that point, he immediately contacted the TIA, thinking that they were involved in this mission and that he hadn’t been informed. The new director, Allendale, assured him that such was not the case and insisted that we had made a mistake. When Fitzroy told him about the ersatz Capt. Carnehan, Allendale ran a check on Mongoose. The records had him listed as inactive, on medical leave. Fitzroy insisted that Allendale check in with Darrow, as well as agent Cobra. Cobra was unavailable for some reason, but Allendale set up a secure-line conference with Darrow, just to mollify Fitzroy. Darrow told him that Mongoose had been given medical leave following his last mission in the field, but that he had returned to active duty shortly thereafter, which so far coincides with what we already know. If Mongoose had been given medical leave again, said Darrow, it happened after his resignation and he wasn’t aware of the circumstances.
“Allendale wanted to know why Mongoose had been removed from the field duty roster. Darrow was a bit stiff about that, but he did say that it was all a matter of record and he was surprised that Allendale had to ask. The reason he had to ask, as it turned out, is that Mongoose had the records altered. He managed to transfer himself out of evaluations and then place himself on medical leave, so that he would not be missed. Then-get this-he forged departure tags for himself under the name of Lieutenant Vasily Rurik. The real Lt. Rurik is on medical leave from the Observers, recovering from wounds sustained on duty during an arbitration action in the 20th century. Mongoose had access to his records when he was in evaluations. He assumed Rurik’s identity, requisitioned a chronoplate for the purpose of Observer duty in the War of the First Coalition, clocked out, and promptly disappeared.”
Finn nodded. “He bypassed the tracer functions on the plate, showed up here, and reported to Fitzroy as Carnehan. Fitzroy gave him a full briefing on the mission status, naturally. The guy’s got nerve, I’ll hand him that. He showed up last night.”
“You saw him?” Lucas said.
“Not exactly. I had a note delivered to me, telling me to meet him in the maze at one o’clock.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Andre interrupted.
“Because you went up to attend Marguerite and that was where I wanted you. For all I knew, the note was just a ruse to get me out of the house. I wish I had told you, but it’s too late to cry about that now. I never saw Mongoose. We spoke, but he kept out of sight. I managed to get close enough to stick him through the hedge with a sword cane, but I think I only grazed him. He ran and I tried to follow, but he’d switched all the urns around and by the time I found my way out of that blasted maze, he was long gone. I should have remembered the sequence of the turns,” he said to Lucas.
“You should have told me,” Andre said, angrily. “I could have waited for him outside the maze. You let him escape, just because you didn’t trust me enough to-”
“I’m sure that isn’t true,” said Lucas. “Still, that wasn’t very smart, Finn. Suppose we were wrong about him and he was on the level?”
Finn shook his head. “He told me that he wasn’t. Besides, if he was on the level, why didn’t he show himself? No, when he saw that I wasn’t buying his story, he made it clear that he was acting on his own. He knew I sent you to Fitzroy. He said he saw you with him in Paris.”
“What’s he want?” said Lucas. “Did he say anything at all about why he did it?”
“From what little he did say,” Finn replied, “it’s my impression that this is some sort of last fling for him. He knew he had reached a dead end in evaluations and rather than go crazy sitting behind a desk all day, he decided to go crazy on the Minus Side.” Finn sighed. “I don’t know what the hell he wants. He’s out to prove something, I don’t know.”
Lucas shook his head. “If he really thinks he can get away with what he’s done, he’s crazier than I thought. In any case, we’ve got specific orders as far as he’s concerned. We’re to keep our hands off him unless he does something that actively endangers the adjustment. Don’t ask me how we’re supposed to define that, I haven’t the faintest idea. Allendale is sending a TIA team back to bring him in. He wants him alive, both to make an example of him and to find out how he managed to screw around with the records. Darrow’s in for it, too, because he was soft on him and didn’t bust him out of the agency.”
“So much for not having the spooks underfoot,” said Delaney. “I knew this mission was too good to be true. It was too easy.”
“So far, at least,” said Lucas. “It’s about to get a bit more difficult. Fitzroy’s got orders for us. It’s time for the Scarlet Pimpernel to make a trip to Paris. Think of something to tell Marguerite and get hold of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst. We have to leave this evening.”
“Who’s the target?” Finn said.
“The Marquis de Leforte,” said Lucas. “Not a very nice man, by all accounts. Treated the peasants as if they were less than animals, so consequently they’d like very much to kill him now that he’s vulnerable.”
“How’s Blakeney supposed to find him?” Andre said.
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Lucas. “Leforte’s in the Bastille. He’s already been tried and condemned to death.” He smiled, mirthlessly. “All we have to do is get him out.”
“Get him out of the Bastille?” Finn said. “How?”
“That’s what I asked Fitzroy,” said Lucas. “His answer was, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. After all, Blakeney did.’”
It was four o’clock in the morning and Finn and Lucas stood in the street, looking up at the north tower of the Bastille. Andre, under protest, had stayed behind with Marguerite. She hadn’t liked it, but they had made her understand that her job was just as important as theirs; perhaps more so. Someone had to watch Marguerite while they were gone, to make certain that Mongoose didn’t try anything with regard to her. They had no idea what he intended to do and they couldn’t afford to take any chances.
They had a plan of the Bastille, thanks to Fitzroy, and they knew where the Marquis de Leforte was being held. He was imprisoned in the north tower, in cell number 106. But knowing where he was and getting him out were two very different things. One was a fait accompli, the other seemed impossible.
Dewhurst was waiting for them on board the Day Dream, which lay at anchor off Boulogne-sur-Mer. Ffoulkes was in that seaside town, about twenty miles from Calais, awaiting their arrival. Several newly recruited members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel were in a small apartment in Paris awaiting instructions from their leader. Everything was in a state of readiness. Now all they needed was a plan.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Finn said, wryly. “We’ve got exactly eight hours before Leforte’s due to be executed. You got any ideas?”
“Yeah,” said Lucas. “I say we go find Fitzroy and threaten to disembowel him unless he gets us some equipment. With the right stuff, we could walk right in there and take him out.”
“A couple of AR-107’s would be real nice,” said Finn
“I was thinking along somewh
at less lethal lines,” said Lucas. “Like, some nose filters and a few gas grenades, real basic stuff. Just put everyone in there to sleep, Leforte included, and walk in, open up his cell and carry the poor bastard out.”
“Fitzroy won’t play, huh?”
Lucas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, he won’t play. According to history, at least so far as TIA intelligence has determined, Blakeney got him out.”
“I don’t suppose Blakeney had any gas grenades,” said Finn. “Did the TIA tell us how he did it?”
“Unfortunately, there’s no record of that,” said Lucas. “All they were able to learn, according to Fitzroy, is that Leforte was captured trying to sneak out of Paris dressed as an old woman, thrown in the Bastille, tried, condemned, but never executed. The Scarlet Pimpernel took credit for his escape, by sending one of those notes of his to the public prosecutor. It would’ve been nice if they could have clocked back to see how it was done, but Blakeney’s already dead. However it was done, we’re going to have to be the ones to do it.”
“Sure would be nice if we could hop on a plate and jump ahead a few hours so we could see how we did it,” Finn said. “But then, we’d have to do it first before we could see how it was done. Ain’t temporal physics wonderful?”
“It’s times like these that make me wish I’d kept my lab job,” Lucas said.
“It’s times like these that make me wish I’d stayed in the regular army,” Finn said. “But then, if I had, I’d probably be dead by now. So much for the old ‘what ifs.’ We’d better come up with something fast, partner.”
“I’m agreeable,” said Lucas. “What did you have in mind?”
“Beating the living daylights out of Fitzroy, stealing his plate, knocking out the tracer circuits, and going to Barbados.”
“We’ll save that as a last resort, okay?” Lucas said. “Come on, we’ve been in tougher spots than this. Let’s work it out.”
“Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. What are the odds of our getting in there and taking Leforte out between now and sunrise?”
“Not very good,” said Lucas. “These new citizens have become very conscious of their new positions. If anyone’s got any business being in there, they’re known to the guards. It’s like an ‘old boy’ network. It’s doubtful that we could bluff our way in and if we tried to force our way in without the right equipment, we’d have a whole garrison down on us before we got halfway up the tower.”
“Okay, so forget storming the Bastille,” said Finn. “That leaves us with the option of trying to take him when they bring him out.”
“Which should be anytime between ten o’clock and noon tomorrow, when he’s scheduled to be executed,” Lucas said. “They’ll bring him down into the courtyard in the prison, put him in a tumbrel, and take him out under guard along the most direct route to the Place de la Revolution. The entire route should be packed with spectators, since Leforte is so well loved. That means that the tumbrel won’t be going very fast.”
Finn nodded. “I’d guess a little faster than a walking pace, just to give everyone a chance to spit at the marquis. If we’re going to put the snatch on him, it’ll have to be then, somewhere between the Place de la Revolution and here.”
Lucas pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The crowd’s going to be the main problem,” he said. “We won’t be able to seize control of the cart and drive him away, because we’ll never make it through the crowd. If we try to pull him out of the tumbrel, they’ll tear us to pieces before we can go several yards.”
“Scratch that idea,” Finn said. “That leaves us the Place de la Revolution. The crowd’s going to be thicker there than anywhere else along the route.”
“That could work for us,” said Lucas. “They’ll be at a fever pitch by the time Leforte gets there. What we need is mass hysteria, confusion. Something to drive them crazy enough so that they’ll be running in all directions. If we can create some kind of a diversion in the square, we might be able to grab Leforte and get lost in the crowd. All we need to do is to get him out of that square. Then we can take him to the safehouse, knock him out with that trick ring of yours, and have Fitzroy clock us to Boulogne-sur-Mer. But we’ll need something to disguise Leforte until we can get him out of the square.”
“No big deal,” said Finn. “We can throw a shawl and a cloak over him. Now all we need to do is figure out some sort of a diversion. How about a fire?”
“It would be risky,” Lucas said. “We don’t want to get anyone killed inadvertently.”
“We can take steps to minimize that possibility,” said Finn. “Don’t forget, we’ve got some extra manpower. We’ve got league members Barrett, Moore, Smythe-Peters and the Byrne brothers standing by. All we have to do is pick a likely building, get one of the boys to start a small fire that’ll make a lot of smoke, then torch the place but good. We’ll need a healthy blaze to steal the show. There’s enough time to pick a site, get instructions to the boys, and start them off making Molotov cocktails. It should do the trick.”
“I hope so,” Lucas said. “Well, I can’t think of a better idea at the moment, anyway. Come on, let’s pick our spot.”
At ten-thirty in the morning, Leforte’s jailors opened up his cell and led the stunned marquis downstairs to the courtyard of the Bastille. The aristocrat had not slept at all that night. He spent what he believed to be his last night on earth praying. A man who had never paid more than lip service to religion Leforte found faith in the last hours of his life. He had no hope, none whatsoever. He knew only too well how much the people hated him and how justified that hate was, he knew that he could expect no mercy. He had known it when they had arrested him, just as he thought that he was going to make good his escape. Ironically, on the day before he was scheduled to die, he had learned that the man who was responsible for his arrest would soon be following him up the steps leading to the guillotine. One of the guards had told him that Sergeant Bibot had also been thrown into a cell in the north tower, for allowing the Duc de Chalis to escape. The guard, a bloodthirsty old peasant, had found the irony amusing, but the fact that Bibot was to die brought little comfort to Leforte. Instead of dwelling on the thought that the man who had brought him to this fate would share it, Leforte thought about de Chalis, an old man who had won his freedom. It seemed monstrously unfair. De Chalis was in the twilight of his years; he could not have long to live. Leforte was thirty-seven and in the prime of life.
He had been very much afraid, but now the fear had spent itself. Leforte felt numb. He found that singularly puzzling. Over and over, he kept thinking to himself, “I’m going to die. Why don’t I feel anything?”
They put him in the tumbrel, a crude, two-wheeled wooden cart, and a small escort of soldiers of the Republic formed up on either side. The driver, who reeked of garlic, looked at him only once, dispassionately spat upon his shirt, then turned his back on him and flapped the reins up and down several times to get the horses moving. The tumbrel moved forward with a jerk, going through the gate with Leforte as its sole piece of human cargo. The marquis took a deep and shuddering breath, resolving that he would not give the peasants the satisfaction of seeing him cower in fear. In point of fact, he was not afraid. He had accepted death with a deep despondency and he had run the gamut of all possible emotions. There was nothing left.
I will go to my death with dignity, he thought. To the very end, I will show this rabble that I am better than they are.
The street was lined with people. He was surprised to see how many of them had turned out to see him off. The noise was deafening. They laughed, they screamed, they jeered and rushed the tumbrel, trying to grab a piece of his clothing, to touch him, strike him, spit upon him, or throw garbage at him.
They followed the tumbrel as it proceeded down the street toward the Place de la Revolution and the soldiers made only the most token efforts to hold them back. The cart turned down another street and an old woman tried to clamber up onto the tumbrel. Leforte stared through
her as she screamed unintelligibly at him. One of the soldiers pulled her off the cart, then turned to look at Leforte with a mixture of disgust and irritation. A hole appeared in the middle of the soldier’s forehead.
Leforte stared at it and frowned. The cart lurched forward and the soldier fell, being left behind as the procession continued. Puzzled, Leforte turned around to stare at the fallen soldier and then another soldier fell. This time, he heard the shot. Almost immediately, another shot rang out and the driver pitched forward off the tumbrel to fall in a lifeless heap upon the street. Another shot, another soldier fell.
The mob went wild.
“What the hell?” said Finn. “Someone’s picking off the soldiers!”
“Did you tell them to-”
“I didn’t tell them to shoot anybody!” Finn said. “They’re not even supposed to be here! I sent word to them to wait in the square until Leforte arrived!”
All around them, the crowd was surging in all directions as people ran in panic from the shooting, shoving each other and trampling those unfortunate enough to have lost their balance in the melee and to have fallen. Only one soldier remained from the small squad assigned to escort the Marquis de Leforte, and he had no desire to join the others. He dropped his musket and ran for the shelter of a building across the street. The horses, wearing blinders and by now long used to such cacophony, remained standing where they were, but they sensed the fear around them and pawed at the cobblestones skittishly. Leforte stood in the tumbrel helplessly, his hands bound, not knowing what to do.
“Up there,” said Lucas, pointing to a window on the second floor of a house across the street.
“Let’s go,” said Finn.
They pushed their way through the mob and rushed toward the house from which the shots were coming. By now, however, they were not the only ones who had marked the room on the second floor and they made it through the doorway of the house just ahead of several other men, one of whom was brandishing a pistol. The door to the room they sought was open and they all burst into the room to find not a gunman, but a small boy of about twelve or thirteen years with jet black hair and piercing dark eyes. He sat slumped against the wall beside a man’s corpse and as they entered, he began to cry.
