by Sean Ellis
Pierre Chiron did not believe in miracles.
He always stayed behind when she went to the Shrine, not at home in Paris, but at a hotel in the nearby city. He knew from experience that she would be gone all day, and upon returning shortly after dusk, she would be eager to put her faith to work. Chiron had come to think of the yearly pilgrimage as a sort of holiday. If the weather was accommodating, he would lay by the pool and read a bestseller from cover to cover. When conditions were inclement, he would take a walking tour, safe beneath the capacious dome of his umbrella, darting from one café to the next until his veins were almost humming with caffeine and sugar. On such days, his stimulant-induced insomnia permitted Collette to repeatedly test whether her prayers would be answered.
Today was such a day, but Chiron no longer cared to hyper-stimulate his nervous system. He was getting old and missed sleep was now something he regretted. He nursed his café au lait rather than gulping it down, and lingered at his table, idly browsing through the morning edition of the Courrier International. Even at that, he ran out of coffee before he was ready to leave. Sighing, he folded the paper under his arm and stepped out into the rain. In defiance of Collette’s God, he left his umbrella furled, letting the angry raindrops pelt his face and thinning hair. He was blinking rapidly to clear his vision when a limousine pulled alongside.
He started momentarily. The vehicle had appeared almost as if by magic. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such deluded musings, and continued walking. The limousine kept pace with him, creeping along in the street less than a meter away.
When he was certain that the presence of the oversized car was no coincidence, he stopped, turned and peered at the tinted glass. A dark line appeared across his reflection and descended slowly as the window was lowered. Then he recognized the face gazing at him and instantly regretted his initial irritation.
“Bonjour, Pierre.”
“Madame?” He fumbled for words. “This is a great honor.”
The woman smiled wryly. “Get in.”
The driver of the vehicle, a large man whose barrel chest strained the seams of his immaculate black uniform, circled around to open the door for Chiron, who climbed in without hesitation and laid his umbrella on the spacious floor. The limousine eased forward, cruising slowly along the narrow streets, but for Chiron, the world beyond the darkened interior of the vehicle had ceased to exist.
The woman scrutinized him for several moments as he settled into the plush interior, and Chiron stared back, his blood roaring with an unexpected surge of adrenaline. Though they had never met, he had no doubts concerning her identity. He recognized her by reputation alone. Like Sophia Loren, only more so, he had been told. The whispered, anonymous rumors were not very specific on the latter point, but he had developed his own interpretation, which he now found to be slightly in error. She indeed bore a striking resemblance to the Italian-born movie star, although considerably younger. And yet there was something in her that was like nothing he had ever seen in that actress, or for that matter in any woman: A fire of purpose…No, he thought. It’s rage. But at what? It was not altogether unattractive. Chiron did not even realize that he had put all thoughts of his wife’s struggle and his own divinely directed ire out of his head.
Thankfully, the woman’s simmering wrath did not seem directed at him. Despite the fire behind her eyes, she gave him a reserved smile, then reached into a cabinet alongside the broad seat. “Cognac?”
Normally, he would not have dreamed of drinking so early in the day, but he surprised himself by accepting the offer. The warm brandy soothed his anxious nerves, allowing him to breathe and speak with more ease. “As I said, madame. You have paid me a great honor. I had not expected to meet you in person.”
“It was convenient,” she replied, explaining nothing. “I expect you have been eager to learn the status of your…shall we say, application?”
“After six months, I had come to accept the worst—”
”These things take time, Pierre. Six months is not even a tick on the clock of the universe. Besides, our enemies continue to multiply and ever seek to infiltrate our ranks. Our vetting process must be thorough.”
“Then I…I don't understand why—”
“You may consider this a final interview, Pierre.”
He gulped and suddenly even the cognac wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. “I see.”
“Tell me,” she continued, as if his anxiety was irrelevant. “Have you determined the identity of your sponsor?”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to have that information, but I could not resist trying to figure it out. I believe it is one of two men in the Ministry of—”
”It’s not whom you imagine it to be,” she said with a hint of dismissive irony. Then she told him.
“Mon dieu! He is one of you?” He had never met the person she named, a noted inventor and marine explorer, though he had corresponded with the man a few years previously in an effort to end atomic testing in the South Pacific.
“I did not say that, and you would be wise not to fuel such a rumor. Suffice it to say, he brought you to our attention—whether directly or indirectly, I cannot reveal.”
Chiron raised the snifter to his lips once more, only to realize in dismay that he had already drained its contents. “Then I am doubly honored.”
“We will speak no more of how this honors you.” There was an edge to her voice. “Ours is not some gentlemen’s drinking club where we sit around and congratulate each other on achievements of avarice and notoriety. Our goals are lofty, our purpose transcendent. You bring to our cause something of extraordinary import. All of us contribute something essential, or else no invitation is extended. You cannot buy your way in or know the right people; you must be the right person.”
Her oration in no way diminished Chiron’s sense of accomplishment, but he withheld further banalities. “And what do I have that will serve your cause?”
“Our cause,” she reproved, but with a smile. “That is no great mystery, Pierre. Before you took your current post, you were the foremost scientific advisor to the French government. You still have a certain degree of influence in an area that is currently of great concern. We need you to do something, a very small something, but of considerable importance to an ongoing experiment.”
“Yes?”
She shifted in her seat, banking her inner fire as the discussion became more business-like. Outside, the world was a blur of green; they were well beyond the city, cruising through the countryside. “On the fifth of September, the French Army will detonate a device in the Fangataufa atoll testing grounds.”
Before her words could sink in, Chiron felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I cannot prevent that,” he said hastily. “God knows I have tried.”
“You misapprehend. The test must go forward on schedule, no matter what other forces conspire to postpone or cancel it, and they will try. We require only that you alter the order of the tests.”
“Alter…I don’t understand.”
“The September fifth test must be conducted underground, in the Mururoa proving grounds. The Fangataufa test may take place on the second of October, the date originally set aside for Mururoa. Additionally, you must modify the yield specifications for the first test. The device must not exceed ten kilotons.”
Now he understood her earlier declaration. This was indeed no platform for social climbing. He was not even a member of their ranks and already they were demanding sacrifice, a sacrifice that stood in opposition to everything he had worked for. “Madame, I fear that you have overestimated my influence. I have already petitioned President Chirac to suspend these tests he has planned. My advice was not heeded. Our new president insists on reminding the world that France is also a global power. Why do you think anyone will listen now if I make this demand?”
“We trust that you can make a persuasive argument to accommodate our request. What you say is at your discretion. It is not a significan
t deviation from the schedule, but the time and location are critical to an experiment we will be conducting at the observatory.”
“Observatory?”
“You would know it by a different name.” She told him.
He could not hide his surprise. “How can an event on the other side of the world influence your experiment in Paris?”
“That will become clear in time. There are many levels to our cause, and you are yet on the verge of the outermost ring. Do not mistake my presence here as an initiation. That will come when we see how you…” Her eyes lost focus and her voice trailed off, as she gazed past him out the rear window of the limousine. Curious, Chiron turned to see what had distracted her.
A motorcycle had appeared behind them and was racing to close the intervening distance. It did not seem a noteworthy development, but the woman continued to stare at the approaching vehicle as if trying to assess the significance of its presence. She toggled a switch on the armrest, activating the intercom.
Her words were unrecognizable, but after a second, the chauffeur’s voice scratched from the speaker, likewise incomprehensible. It’s true, was Chiron’s first thought. They have their own language.
The limousine immediately charged forward, racing into a turn with a roar of horsepower. The tires slipped on the wet macadam, shrieking in protest as the heavy vehicle fish-tailed, only to become silent as the road straightened and control was once more asserted. The motorcycle fell back momentarily, caught by surprise and unable to match the other vehicle’s power, but the rider lowered himself behind the abbreviated windscreen and surged forward.
“Is he chasing us?” inquired Chiron, still not grasping the situation.
“I told you our enemies were multiplying,” replied the woman through clenched teeth.
The concern evident in her expression hit Chiron like a slap. My God, we’re in danger.
With the prey alerted, the hunter now forsook subterfuge, taking full advantage of the motorcycle’s superior maneuverability to close the gap whenever the road forced the chauffeur to apply the brakes. Chiron could now clearly see their pursuer. The aerodynamic motorcycle had been painted a glossy black to cover any telltale markings. It was impossible even to be certain of the vehicle’s manufacture, but Chiron was a fan of speedway racing and instantly recognized it as a Caviga 125 Roadster. The rider’s black leathers and helmet were not so easy to unriddle, but his driving skill suggested that he too was more than a little familiar with the dangerous sport.
The limousine was forced to slow as it entered a hairpin turn, the beginnings of a switchback that carved its way into the Pyrenees. The motorcycle shot forward and the rider lifted his left hand from the grip and drew an oblong object—a gun, thought Chiron. Of course it’s a gun—from a holster on his hip. As the gap shrank to nothing, the rider laid the long barrel of his weapon across his rigidly straight right arm and sighted on the back window of the limousine.
Chiron ducked instinctively, but not before he saw a pinpoint of flame at the tip of the weapon. He knew the gun had been fired but heard no report; the limousine’s insulation effectively squelched all outside noise. What he did hear however—a harsh, surprised gasp from his companion—froze his blood.
This cannot be. The glass must be bulletproof.
He looked over at the woman, confirming his worst fear to be true. She sat in stunned disbelief, her right hand clapped over her left shoulder but unable to staunch the scarlet flow that stained her white jacket.
She’s wearing white, he thought. Why didn’t I notice that before?
There was a sharp cracking sound, and he saw a neat hole, smaller than the thickness of a pencil, appear in the partition behind her head. The bullet had passed through both the rear window and the barrier separating the inner compartments. Even Chiron, who knew very little about small arms, was familiar with the concept of armor-piercing bullets. Impulsively, he threw himself forward, pushed the woman down onto the floor and covered her with his body.
The adrenaline that had surged through him at the initial meeting was now gone. The instinctive urge to flee or fight had departed, just when circumstances dictated he ought to have needed it most. Instead, there was only a surreal calm, as if he were a spectator watching a scene from a movie. There was no horror, only a curiosity about what would happen next.
Another Teflon-coated projectile perforated the window and continued through the partition with a harsh crack. Chiron immediately felt something change; the limousine was slowing. Even without looking he knew what had happened. The round, blindly fired through the mirrored glass by the motorcyclist, had struck the chauffeur. Something about the way the vehicle meandered toward the edge of the road told Chiron that the wound had been fatal.
The car careened from the road with deceptive slowness, as if it might at any moment stop, allowing its passengers to get out and stretch their legs. Chiron braced himself between the opposed seats and hugged the woman close as the large car left the paved road and crashed down an abrupt slope. Despite his preparations, he was thrown violently about the interior of the vehicle as it bounced chaotically down the hill. It was difficult to ascertain the moment at which the limousine stopped moving, but there was a final intense heave forward that lifted him off the prone woman and slammed him into the fractured partition.
Chiron felt no pain, though he knew the hammering he had taken must have resulted in, if nothing else, at least a mass of bruises. He lay stunned for a moment in the crook of the upholstered seat. The car was tilted forward at a forty-five degree angle, skewing his sense of balance like a trick in a carnival funhouse. He pulled himself toward the edge of the seat and looked down at his female companion.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he rasped, surprised at the sound of his own voice in the sudden silence.
She nodded, but seemed to be having trouble righting herself. Chiron reached toward her, then changed his mind and focused instead on disengaging the door handle. The door fell open, revealing a rain-soaked, but familiar landscape. Just outside the door flowed a body of water, and in the distance, he could see an overhanging wall of rock.
The grotto, he thought dumbly, cursing himself for having paid no attention to the route chosen by the chauffeur. An instant later, he realized what good fortune had provided them: if they could reach the mass of people, which even now was looking up from their prayers and ablutions in order to gaze on this unfolding spectacle, the assassin would not dare to follow.
There was a tortured squeal of metal behind him and Chiron turned to find a man clad in dark riding gear peering in through the opposite door. The cyclist had removed his black helmet, but the gun remained, now held in his right hand.
The assassin looked like a man about to transform into a savage beast. He sneered, thin lips pulling away to reveal teeth that seemed too large—the better to eat you with, Chiron thought, manically—and his eyes blazed with barely restrained fury. He glanced at the scientist first, appraising his value as a target and potential threat, then turned his fiery gaze upon the woman and began speaking.
It was a short declaration uttered, Chiron supposed, in the same strange tongue the woman had used earlier with the chauffeur. That their killer shared the mysterious form of speech with the woman ought to have been troubling to him, but somehow it seemed only a minor concern. He did not need to be fluent in their language to comprehend what the man had said. It was unquestionably a gloating pronouncement of victory: a death sentence. As if to underscore this supposition, the man extended the gun toward the woman and aimed down the barrel so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.
A sudden flash of light filled the interior of the wrecked limousine. The gunman flinched involuntarily, blinded by the brilliant burst. The muzzle of the gun wavered as he blinked furiously to clear away the retinal fireworks.
A flash camera, thought Chiron. Someone is here to save us.
But any well-intentioned passerby with a camera would be ill-equipped to
deal with a vicious, armed killer. That Good Samaritan would simply be added to the list of victims when the assassin’s eyesight recovered. Chiron knew he had to act.
He thought about trying to leap at the man and attempting to wrestle the gun away, but dismissed the idea instantly. He was no fighter, and would have only the vaguest idea of what to do with the gun in the unlikely event that he succeeded in capturing it. Then his eyes fell upon the one weapon he was familiar with, not for close-quarters combat but rather battling the elements.
Without thinking, he snatched the umbrella off the floor and gripped its hook-shaped handle in both hands. The gunman must have seen the movement in his peripheral vision because the end of his weapon shifted toward Chiron, but the French scientist had the advantage. He thrust the metal tip of the umbrella up at the man’s face.
Whether due to good aim or sheer luck, his attack struck home, extinguishing the fierce glow in the man’s left eye. The lupine assassin’s head snapped back and the cane handle was ripped from Chiron’s grasp. The gun fell away as his hands flew up to his face to wrap around the shaft of the object that had reduced his eyesight by half, and he unleashed a bestial cry of pain and rage as he tore it free.
In a moment of unreal clarity, Chiron saw that the tip of the umbrella was now stained red and clumps of tissue were clinging to the metal point like bits of paper plucked up off the grass by a groundskeeper. The wounded assassin continued to cover his ravaged eye with one hand, but the remaining orb was bright with intensity of purpose. He scanned the interior, looking for his lost weapon, then gazed past his victims at the approaching throng of devotees drawn away from the healing waters by the commotion. His attention returned to Chiron.
