by Simon Hawke
"The chronoplate!" said Jimmy. "We can go back in time and outmaneuver them! Of course, we can go back and save Silvera and then-"
"Screw Silvera," Taylor said. "He made a mistake and he's paid for it. No, we don't need the plate, Jimmy, not yet. We can always use it as a last resort if need be, but we're still ahead. The scenario's progressing smoothly. They may know who I am, but for the moment, they don't know where I am. And, after all, we're the ones threatening to change history, remember? They're here to preserve the status quo. If they know that I've become de Winter, then they'll surely know that the real Milady's dead and that's just it. They need de Winter. Or, more precisely, they need a de Winter to insure that events in this period of history progress as they should. They can plant their own de Winter, but they wouldn't dare to do that as long as I'm around. No, they'd have to take me out first and that won't be so easy."
"But the very fact that they know," said Jimmy, "the fact that they're here-"
"Only serves to make the game more interesting," said Taylor.
"The game?" said Jimmy.
"Of course. It's a wonderful, fascinating game that just became more challenging. The TIA and I have been playing it for years and now it's reached its climax. They'll have their best people in on this, you can be sure of that. There's more than just the two we've spotted. The one Silvera killed was not one of the first-string or Silvera would not have taken him so easily. The woman, I'm not so sure about, but the man… He was expendable. Maybe his only purpose was to flush us out. Yes, that would be the way he'd do it," Taylor said, nodding his head and smiling.
"Who?"
"My old friend Mongoose," Taylor said. He suddenly seemed very happy.
"Who's Mongoose?"
"We've been playing cat and mouse for years," said Taylor. "He's the TIA's best agent. He's my doppelganger. Neither of us knows what the other looks like. Oh, Jimmy, this is going to be fun! Sometimes I've beaten him, sometimes he's beaten me, but this time, this time, I'm going to get him! I'm going to take him, Jimmy. I'm going to take him and I'll keep him for a while, we'll talk about old times, and then I'll kill him. It's going to be wonderful."
There was no doubt in Jimmy Darcy's mind that Adrian Taylor was insane. About everything else, Jimmy had a great deal of doubt. He had joined the Temporal Preservation League because his older brother had died in the time wars. And for what? To protect his family? To defend his homeland? Had Danny's death anything to do with protecting his own, with patriotic loyalty, with anything at all that made any sort of sense? No, it had all been part of some grandiose game, wars fought on paper, move a decimal point and another hundred people die. Just an endless escalation to keep the machine oiled and running, to feed its momentum until, sooner or later, the inevitable would happen. Man had already split the atom and now he was threatening to split time. The only movement that made any sense at all was that of Albrecht Mensinger. There was no alternative. The time wars had to stop. They were mankind's greatest folly. In his attempts to master nature and his fate, Man had gone too far at last. He had poisoned himself and the environment he lived in, he had stripped the Earth of resources, he had shown contempt for all the works of God. Nor was it enough to imperil his future. Man was now threatening his past.
The leaders of the league were fond of quoting Thomas Jefferson, saying that government was far too important to be left up to the people. The people had demonstrated a staggering irresponsibility, electing leaders whose own criminal stupidity surpassed even that of those who put them into office. It was past time for the elite to lead. Someone had to show the way.
There were those within the league who went by the strictest principles set down by Albrecht Mensinger, but there were also those who thought that what the league was doing did not go far enough. It was to this more militant group that Jimmy Darcy had been attracted. It was from this group that he had been recruited into the Timekeepers.
Jimmy Darcy had a great deal of anger roiling away inside of him. It had fueled his terrorist activities. He saw no ethical contradiction in using violence to achieve peace. In thousands of years of human history, the passive way had never worked. The ideology of peace was alien to the warmongers. Violence was all they understood. There were those within the league who believed that the end did not justify the means. Jimmy had once believed that too. Since then, he had become a great deal more pragmatic, more realistic. He understood that it was not up to him to justify the means. His course had been forced upon him by people who remained steadfastly unaffected by any other course of action. Let them justify the means, Jimmy had shouted at the doves within the league. They have handed us our tools. Those who are morally right have no need of justifying anything. A resistance leader by the name of Arafat had once said, upon addressing the United Nations, "I come bearing an olive branch in one hand and a machine gun in the other. Do not let the olive branch fall from my hand."
The doves within the league held out the olive branch. It was repeatedly ignored. The Timekeepers fired the machine gun. To ignore it was to die.
At the core of his existence, Jimmy Darcy still believed in peace. It was what he fought for. He fought the war machine. When the war machine was beaten, he would be happy to let the machine gun fall from his hand into the dust, never to be fired again. He did not believe that Adrian would do the same. No, Adrian would find another battle, start his own war if need be. Even in the Timekeepers, Adrian was feared because Adrian was always at war, with the world and with himself. Yet they needed Adrian. He was effective. They have handed us our tools.
"It isn't a game, Adrian," said Jimmy. "It's a struggle for survival. Surely, you can see that, can't you?"
Adrian regarded him with amusement. "Of course I can see that, Jimmy. Can't you see that the struggle for survival is the most fascinating game of all? The stakes are high and it's winner take all. Life is a game, Jimmy. The idea is to play to win. And we're going to win, because for once, we control the board. We're on the offensive. Milady wrote a letter to an Englishman. Not just any Englishman, mind you. She wrote to George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham. It was a love letter. It wasn't from Milady, even though she wrote it. Buckingham will think it's from the Queen. He'll have received it by now and, doubtless, it will have inflamed his passion for the Queen anew. I do have a way with words, if I say so myself."
"I don't understand," said Jimmy.
"No, you wouldn't, but Richelieu will and that's what really counts. He was quite pleased about it. In fact, he told me that he wished he had thought of it himself. He'll take the credit, of course, but that's all right. It all fits into the plan."
"I still don't-"
"Be patient, Jimmy, I'll explain it to you. There's a very charming lady here in town by the name of Camille de Bois-Tracy. She just loves intrigue, especially if it has to do with love. She can't resist it. For quite some time now, she's been an intermediary for Buckingham and Anne of Austria, a sort of patron of the heart, a role she dearly loves. Richelieu's been made aware of this, of course. It's brought Milady further into his good graces. When he receives that letter, Buckingham will surely come to France. He might be on his way to Paris even as we speak. He will come to Camille de Bois-Tracy and a rendezvous will be arranged. Richelieu, of course, will try to take him, Buckingham being an enemy of France."
"I remember now," said Jimmy. "Buckingham gets away, according to history. Only we're going to change that, right? Yes, it's a brilliant plan. If the musketeers are prevented from helping Buckingham escape, then Richelieu has him. If not, then we can grab him and then we'll have a hostage. They'll have no choice but to listen to us! Either way, they'll have an adjustment on their hands, an adjustment made that much more complicated by our being here to interfere with it."
"No, no, Jimmy, you see, you don't understand the game at all. I intend to make certain that Buckingham gets away."
"But… why lure him to Paris in the first place, then?"
"To set up the next act in this sce
nario," Taylor said. "But you won't have to worry about any of that for now. You'll have another job to do. I want you and Tonio to find Jack Bennett and that agent. See if they'll lead you to any of the others. Find out what you can, then kill them."
Jimmy left, feeling confused. Letting Buckingham get away made no sense whatsoever. Obviously, it would take an adjustment in order to attain their goal. The simple act of threatening to create a timestream split would never result in their demands being met by the warmongers. No, the threat would have to be brought home to them. They'd have to face an adjustment situation, one in which the interference of the Timekeepers would be a factor added to all the other difficulties inherent in such a task. They had a chronoplate now. That gave them the edge. They could create an adjustment situation, interfere with its resolution, and then clock out to another period and repeat the entire process. They could repeat their demands and continue to create one adjustment situation after another, forcing the warmongers to bring more and more attention to the problem, draining their financial reserves, putting a strain upon the Referee Corps and the TIA and the adjustment teams, nipping at the heels of the war machine until it was no longer cost-effective, until they realized that they could never win. It was the logical course of action.
But Adrian Taylor wasn't being logical. Or Jimmy couldn't see the logic. What was he planning? His cover was surely blown, yet he seemed completely unconcerned. He had created an excellent opportunity for an adjustment situation and he was walking away from it, using it to set up… what?
Jimmy was beginning to have a lot of doubts about the operation. Terrorist tactics had to be hit-and-run in order for them to be successful. They had an opportunity to hit-and-run now, but Taylor wasn't taking it. He was building up to something else, to some more elaborate game. Somehow, the TIA had received intelligence about their operation and they had brought at least one team of agents in. That didn't bother Taylor. Taylor's cover had been blown. That didn't bother Taylor, either. One of the group had disappeared, killed most likely, possibly taken prisoner to be interrogated, to reveal all the members of their cell. That didn't bother Taylor. What would it take to bother Taylor? Why this pointless stalking of the traitor, Bennett, and the agents? Why take unnecessary risks when all it took was to create an adjustment situation quickly, cut and run, and repeat the process somewhere else, tying up the opposition's manpower until they realized that they only had one choice-capitulate or face a timestream split? A split was something no one wanted, not the warmongers, not the Timekeepers, and certainly not the league. The key to success was to walk that ragged edge between adjustment and disaster, to exhaust the Referee Corps with adjustments until they faced their folly and brought the time wars to a halt. But to Taylor, it was all a game, a senseless, crazy rivalry with the agent who had dogged his heels for years. It was putting the entire operation in jeopardy.
Jimmy was wondering if Taylor could be trusted with leading the operation. Based on recent evidence, the answer had to be a resounding no. But Taylor could not be relieved. It would not be a matter as simple as holding a meeting of the cell and voting him out of office. No, if it came to that, Taylor would have to be eliminated and that would not be easy. Taylor was dangerous. Taylor was suspicious to the point of being paranoid. Taylor had that musclebound German, Freytag, a homicidal brute who could snap him like a twig with just one hand. And Taylor had the chronoplate. Jimmy was alone. He could sound out Tonio, but he would have to be very careful, very subtle.
There was nothing to be done now except to follow Taylor's leadership. Bennett and the woman would be found, questioned, and killed. It would be risky, but there was nothing else to do. He would follow Taylor's orders, but the operation would come first. He would sound out Tonio, he would watch Taylor carefully, and he would bide his time. In the end, it always came down to time.
D'Artagnan was in love. More to the point, he was in lust, though he had not yet attained either the age or the experience that would enable him to tell the difference. He and the three musketeers, having become fast friends following their run-in with the cardinal's guards, had spent the better part of the evening discussing the mysterious woman who had intervened on their behalf. None of them had ever seen her before and each of them was fascinated by her. Each vowed to discover her identity, each maintained that it was he whom she had meant to save, and each had his own unspoken amorous designs upon the lady.
Over the next couple of days, their attention was occupied by this delightful mystery, but not to the exclusion of yet another illegal brawl with Richelieu's guards. Due to Treville's intervention with the king on their behalf and Louis's own secret delight at seeing Richelieu's men embarrassed, the musketeers were not only spared punishment, but they were given the sort of praise a master might lavish on his hounds upon discovering that they had torn apart a larger pack of dogs. The king had been especially delighted with Cadet D'Artagnan and, seeing that he was poor, he had gifted him with a purse containing the sum of forty pistoles.
The Gascon had celebrated by buying himself a fine new suit of clothes and procuring the services of a valet, a bedraggled, flea-bitten, scarecrow of a man whose name was Planchet. Porthos had found him sleeping in a garbage heap. He smelled terrible, but he was as grateful as a stray responding to the kindness of a stranger. All this was very pleasant to the Gascon, but it did nothing to assuage his mounting passion. D'Artagnan was a young man of extraordinary simplicity. His attention could be completely occupied by only one thing at a time. The new distraction appeared in the person of his landlord's wife, the pretty Constance Bonacieux. He already had the mystery woman of the mud puddle on his mind and he was preoccupied with his plans for courtship and seduction. However, the mystery woman was still a mystery, nowhere to be found, unknown, intangible. Constance, on the other hand, was very real; she was nearby and she was, it took no great perception to discern, available. D'Artagnan, being an eminently pragmatic youth, simply shifted gears and redirected his attention toward a more accessible objective.
The fact that Constance Bonacieux was also a woman of some mystery and the fact that she was married only served to add spice to the situation. In fact, her about-to-be-cuckolded husband had approached him just the other day, offering to forget about the rent if the dashing Monsieur D'Artagnan, who was already gaining something of a reputation as a swordsman, would help to rescue Constance from her abductors. This, in itself, had piqued the Gascon's curiosity.
It turned out that Constance's godfather was the cloak-bearer to the queen and that he had secured for her a position in the palace as both maid and companion to Anne of Austria. It was in the palace that Constance had made her residence, coming home to see her much older husband twice a week. After she had missed a visit, Bonacieux had received a letter. He had shown it to D'Artagnan. It read: "Do not seek for your wife. She will be restored to you when there is no longer occasion for her. If you make a single step to find her, you are lost."
D'Artagnan had not been at all certain about how he would go about finding the lady, much less rescuing her from her abductors, but the story had intrigued him and he was in no position to turn down the offer of free room and board. He had barely given the matter any thought when two singularly interesting things happened. Bonacieux was arrested by the cardinal's guards and taken away for questioning and, in his absence, who but the kidnapped Constance should appear, having escaped from her captors by letting herself down from a window by the means of knotted sheets. She had made her way straight home to be sheltered by her husband, but in his place, she found D'Artagnan. The Gascon instantly perceived that it was a situation Madame Bonacieux found not at all unpleasant.
He saw that Constance was very young and pretty and quite obviously possessed of a strong sexual appetite. He knew that the opportunities for romantic diversion at the palace were not rare, but Constance, being a married woman, had her reputation to consider. At the palace, there would be no telling who was an informer. For many at court, it was
a profitable occupation. Moreover, most of her time would be spent being a companion to the queen.
Constance did little to hide the fact that the possibility of a passionate and deliciously illicit romance so close at hand was having an effect on her. Her smoldering glances were not lost upon D'Artagnan. Her husband was much older than she was and the Gascon suspected that Madame Bonacieux's twice-weekly visits to her husband did little to satisfy her cravings. She had, after all, seen the handsome gentlemen at court and, compared with such cavaliers, Bonacieux paled into insignificance. D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was young, muscular, dashing, and good-looking and what he lacked in courtly manners he more than made up for in enthusiasm. What with the bowing, the hand-kissing, the putting of the arms around the shoulders to comfort an obviously distressed young woman, it took about twenty minutes for the comforting to travel from Bonacieux's front door to D'Artagnan's bedroom.
Between hugs and kisses and please-don'ts and no-I-really-shouldn'ts, Constance explained the circumstances of her abduction. She did not, however, go into too great detail. She did not tell D'Artagnan that word had reached Anne, through the usual secret channels, that the Duke of Buckingham had received her letter and had arrived in Paris in answer to her summons. Anne was understandably distressed, for she had written no such letter. Clearly, the whole thing was a trap to snare her lover, an enemy of France. Someone close to her was an informer, doubtless in the pay of Louis or, even worse, of Richelieu. Having no one else to trust, Anne had turned to Constance, pleading with her to go to the house of Camille de Bois-Tracy and warn the duke of treachery. She had been on her way to the house in the Rue de la Harpe when she had been taken by a group of men commanded by the Count de Rochefort.
The account she gave D'Artagnan was deliberately vague and it was accepted without prying questions because the Gascon's mind was less intent on conversation than on pressing his seduction of his landlord's pretty wife, which process progressed with faint cries of protestation and only token physical resistence. (Please-no, don't, oh-monsieur-I'm-only-a-weak-woman.)
