by Darren Swart
She rolled her eyes. “Me, dummy.”
Gillian watched, as Coco faced forward into the cockpit and asked the pilots how long it would be before they began to taxi. The short interchange was in German to which the pilots responded in kind. There was more to Coco than met the eye. She would have to watch her. The drinks arrived shortly. She placed the correct drink in front of each one of them. Marty noted a small resistance to the acrylic cup, as he lifted it from the table in front of him.
Coco smiled at his curious look and simply said, “They’re magnetic. That way they don’t slide around.”
He looked at the bottom of the tumbler to see the small round disk embedded in the tumbler. “Humph. What’ll they think of next?”
He drank half the tumbler in one gulp. Gillian eyed him, as she sipped her drink. Marty took a long breath and visibly relaxed. He finished the drink off and handed it back to Coco. She had barely set Digger’s drink down when Marty said, “That was perfect. Could I have another, please.” She smiled dutifully and shuffled off again.
Moments later, she was back. She moved gracefully against the sway of the airplane, as it taxied. As she handed him the second drink, he asked, “This is an excellent Scotch. What is it?”
She smiled. “It’s a Glenlivet thirty-year-old special reserve.”
He smiled. “I didn’t know Glenlivet had a thirty-year-old reserve.”
She smiled, demurely. “They do for the right people.”
He sipped the next tumbler a little more judiciously, taking in the musky odor and the crisp smoky flavors. It was Bess who had quietly educated him on the subtleties of Scotch when he was old enough. She was partial to Bowmore, while he tended to like Glenmorangie. They both liked Glenlivet. It had been her most carefully guarded secret in the small Baptist community. They only tasted on days when Irene was off and Bess always double washed the glasses.
Marty was well into his second drink before his nervous edge began to wear thin. Coco showed up, appeared with a heaping tray of hors d’oeuvres. Marty’s eyes bulged at the tray of Goose Foie Gras, imported Dutch Goat’s Milk Gouda, and smoked duck slivers ringed by handmade sesame crackers. He hadn’t thought about how hungry he was until the smells from the tray tickled his nose and reminded him they had not eaten that morning. There was no encouragement needed for the trio to dig into the tray. Marty savored the tangy richness of the duck for a moment before swallowing and popping a dangerously full cracker with foie gras. Another gulp from the tumbler and it was empty. Another one was in its place before Marty could ask.
Coco watched their camaraderie and took pleasure in experiencing their laughter. It was not something she had done in many years. Digger poked Gillian in the arm. “Man, I was mad at you in the motel. I was having this awesome dream about Rachel, and right in the middle, you woke me up.”
Marty sniped in mock jealousy, “Jeez, Dude, I got some weird old guy in a library and you end up with the babe… What’s up with that?”
Gillian punched Marty in the arm. All three tittered at the inside joke. Coco could not help but give them a quizzical look. Gillian smiled disarmingly and whispered to her, “Video game.” She nodded and politely smiled, as she backed toward the galley, all the while thinking, Enjoy it now guys. Enjoy it now.
The cabin fell silent as the passengers were lulled by the gentle hiss of the airplane, the alcohol and sumptuous food. Marty was rocked into gentle sleep. His dream carried him far away to the sheer edge of a rugged granite cliff. The winds whipped and tugged at his body, as he surveyed the diorama of green rolling pastures surrounded by neatly tended vineyards and punctuated by clumps of evergreen hillocks. The wind beckoned him forth. He stood motionless over the drop. He should have been petrified, but there was no sensation of fear hardening the pit of his stomach, warning him to back away from the edge. It was an odd sensation. He should have been afraid. In that moment of calm insanity, he did what should have been impossible for a normal man—he jumped.
He fell, exhilarated at the magnitude of gravity pulling him downward. He hurdled toward the serenity below him, feeling the delicious mixture of falling and the freedom of flight. His arms outstretched, every nerve tingling, the earth raced toward him at an alarming rate. And in that long descent, he began to level into an awkward glide. He lacked the finesse of a creature of wings. And yet, he was as airborne. He felt the continual unyielding draw of the earth, while he glided effortlessly above the trees. He turned and rolled, relishing the freedom of flight. A small village loomed on the horizon. He glided to it, as though drawn by some hidden force. Amidst the chaos of the courtyards below him, a peaceful stone church beckoned to him. He eased over the stone wall surrounding the church and landed gently on his toes, crunching the gravel beneath his feet.
The sensations of flight made him feel odd being grounded again. He wanted to return to the air. Yet, even with the thrill of having just flown like a bird, he could not overcome the magnetism of the small chapel. He wondered what drew him to this place. He walked slowly toward the chapel. The façade was simple, almost primitively crude, and yet an aura clung to it like a cloak. It differed from any church he had ever seen. He stared at the skull and crossbones so prominently displayed below the crucifix and wondered, Did pirates come here? And why were they in the mountains? None of this makes any sense.
He climbed the chapel steps, not knowing what or who to expect. He was surprised by the wizened old man who stood waiting on him. His wool coat was frayed and tattered, adorned with patches making it a mere remnant of what it once was. He smiled kindly at Marty, revealing that he had only a few teeth remaining. His voice rasped in a foreign tongue that Marty couldn’t understand. He listened carefully, but could make no sense of it. He shuffled up to Marty, gently took his elbow and led him inside the ancient chapel.
His feet scraped against the uneven flagstones of the vestibule. Through filtered colored light emanating from stained glass windows, he was able to discern the uniqueness of the small room. Unlike anything he had ever seen, the carvings and features spread throughout in an array of symbols. His gaze moved from the figure of a beautifully carved stone angel to a waste high figure of Lucifer beneath it. Even in the dim light, Lucifer’s face was garish and frightening. Its mouth gaped in a permanent howl. Its eyes bulged out in a piercing, grotesque stare. No matter where he stood, it seemed to follow him. Cautiously, he moved closer to the statuette to inspect it in more detail. A chill raced up his spine as the figure’s head slowly turned toward him. Marty found himself instinctively backing away from the statue. He looked around for the old man—only to find that he was now alone with the abomination.
The stone demon leaped from its small pedestal, its feet clattering of stone against stone. It made a trail of stone chips as it lurched forward. The creature settled back on its two forked feet and hunched down, seemingly unable to move. It wheezed and hacked, coughing itself to life. Marty crept toward the small figure in morbid curiosity. He crept closer and closer until the demon was within range. With lightning speed, the statue grabbed his leg with a tiny stone claw, catching him with a steely grip that made him wince. The cold began to creep up his leg from the claw. Marty tried to snatch his leg away only to feel the monster’s grip tighten.
Gnarled brittle wings unfurled from its back, which began to mechanically beat. Fearing the worst, Marty raised his hand and sent it crashing into the back of the small figure. His blow centered squarely between the wings on the hunched figure below him. To his surprise, the demon released his leg and began coughing forcefully at the floor. On the third retching cough, a stone emerged from its mouth and clattered across the floor. Unlike Martin’s Sappire, the gem was a large yellow diamond. The walnut sized gem winked and sparkled in the waning light. The demon froze in position, just as suddenly as it had started moving The diamond lay at Marty’s feet.
Wary of his stone adversary, Marty slowly watched its lifeless eyes as he bent over. Its jagged teeth appeared weathered and worn and
completely devoid of life. With the gem firmly in hand, Marty backed away from the stone figure. The diamond was not particularly attractive, but it was quite fat with a degree of intricacy around the edges that seemed atypical of any gem he had ever seen. As Marty scrutinized the stone, a hand clutched his arm making him jump. The old man smiled apologetically and looked down. Marty scowled at him and opened his mouth to scold him.
Old watery eyes regarded him, pleadingly. In plain English, he said, “Marty, it’s time to wake up. We’re here.” The old man sounded a lot like…Gillian.
Chapter 26
A slight nip in the night air greeted him, as Franz keyed in the security code to the gate lock. The classic wrought iron gate swung open smoothly on automated hinges. He eased the Range Rover through the gate to the charter terminals at Aero port D’Orly Sud. He eased down the access road to a small glass and chrome building. The small office was tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Air France and other commercial airlines. The small non-descript building had been the portal to France for some of the most famous personalities in Europe.
Franz glanced at his watch. He was twenty minutes early, assuming the Finnish pilots were on time. But then, they were rarely late. A young female customs agent waited inside the terminal. She wore the position with pride, with her uniform pressed and her head held high. Despite the show, it was more of a formality than a screening process. Franz exited the Range Rover and moved over to the terminal, where the young woman patiently waited. His French was passable, as they spoke. He knew she spoke English, but it was polite to speak in French. The French could be appeased by acknowledging their superiority.
The trio exited the plane on the tarmac, with Coco waving farewell to them in the morning air. It was one o’clock am, as they walked into the terminal. Between the seven hour flight and the six hour time difference, it was late—even by Paris standards.
Gillian wondered how they would arrange for transportation at this time of night. It was possible that they might catch a cab. They entered the terminal building to find only two occupants; a young customs agent and middle-aged portly man. The customs agent smiled and greeted them, cordially. “Bon Jour, welcome to Paris.”
Gillian responded with an equally bright smile for being on such a long flight and having as many drinks as she had.
“Passport, please.”
Three passports were extended almost in unison. The young woman scarcely glanced past the diplomatic seal, as she stamped them in quick succession. Gillian was caught off guard by the ease of their exchange. There were no questions and no more than a brief smile, as she bid them “Adieu.” Quite to their surprise, she left the terminal, leaving the trio behind with the short, portly man. Digger and Gillian exchanged surprised glances.
The portly man stood slowly, smiling at them. He extended a hand to Digger, who smiled. “Franz, it’s been a while.”
It was now Gillian who was caught off guard. She had never met the voice on the other end of the phone, while Digger was treating him like an old friend. She was both amazed and a little perturbed. Franz turned to Gillian and smiled. He reached out and greeted her with a hug. It caught her off balance for a moment. She managed to bring up her arms limply, without actually returning the hug. As Franz broke from the embrace, she smiled—not quite sure how to respond, considering the nature of their relationship.
Franz smiled broadly, as he turned to Marty with an outstretched hand. “Martin, it’s certainly a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Marty stared at him. It seemed funny for some reason through the haze of alcohol, “Yes, Sir… likewise.”
Franz smile broadly at the trio. “You kids must be tired. I have some rooms booked for us in Marias. Let’s get you checked in and get some rest.”
With that, he moved between Digger and Marty, putting his arms on each young man’s shoulder. “So tell me about your trip guys,” he said as they walked out the terminal door. Gillian trailed behind them, trying to sort it all out.
Chapter 27
The hotel lobby felt cozy for a large hotel; cream colored curtains complemented the dark wood of the crown molding. Golden light emanated from alabaster sconces mounted to the wall, giving the room a welcoming glow. Hunter green carpet set with floral borders gave the room the feel of an English garden without the bugs. This was not the first time Franz had entertained guests at Le St. Paul, and his gratuities were reasonable and frequent. The staff was always happy to see him, even when his entourage was so clearly American. Jean Claude, the portly night clerk, smiled warmly, and greeted them like long lost relatives. “Bonjour, Monsieur Shemu’el. It is so good to see you again.”
Franz’s tired eyes made him look bulldoggish, as he smiled. “Precisely why I keep coming here, Jean Claude. It’s like coming home to family, without all the drama.”
Jean Claude slid three large antique looking keys across the desk. “As was intended, Mon Ami. We have prepared the rooms you requested.”
“Were you able to hold the adjoining rooms facing the courtyard?”
“But of course. We placed the American tourists on the street side. They will never notice.”
Marty, Digger and Gillian exchanged quiet smiles behind Franz.
“Excellent.”
Jean Claude eyed the Spartan array of luggage. “Shall I call the night porter to assist you to your room?”
Franz smiled. “I believe we can manage.”
“Very good. Then would you like a wake up call?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
The pre-war elevator smelled of brass polish and lemon oil from the wood panels. It hummed along, as they stood in awkward silence to their floor. Each one of them shared a common goal for a completely different reason. Franz’s pudgy jowls settled into an unassuming smile, as he looked at each one of them in fleeting glances. He tried to assess the trio’s mood. Inwardly, however, his stomach was twisted into knots. His ploy to smoke out the gem was a calculated risk. Now, he must deliver as promised or suffer at the hands of the duke; a man who was neither patient, nor forgiving.
Digger beamed, quite happy to be in Paris again. His penchant for the Paris night-life lifted his mood in anticipation. Marty appeared haggard and drawn. The stress of the flight and his sudden random out-of-body experiences had put him on edge. Marty could not predict when he would lapse into another experience and he worried whether it would occur at an inopportune time. Gillian remained stoic, focused on protecting her little entourage. Experience would not allow her to drop her guard. The ease of the trip put her on edge. Aside from the encounter with Armand, there had been virtually no complications to their travel. That wasn’t something she was used to.
Their floor was peaceful at the late hour, and Franz scooped the room between Marty and Gillian.
Gillian looked at Franz. “Do I need to check the rooms?”
He smiled. “No. No one should know were here. It’s safe.”
She looked at him grimly. No one should have known they were in the safe house in Green Lake nor should they have known when they arrived at the airport, but they did. There were too many coincidences. As it was, she held her tongue and entered her room without looking back. Marty smiled, cordially. “See you guys in the morning guys.” Digger and Franz raised hands in unison, as they all adjourned through separate doors. With the door securely locked behind him, Marty took a quick look around his room. As with the lobby, the room glowed amber, as it reflected off the deep wood tones of the paneling around him. The room smelled heavily of cleaning fluid and lilac. It was an odd combination. He looked around, curiously. The mini-bar was well-stocked with a variety of popular liquors. Most he recognized, but some he did not. The refrigerator was stocked with a half-dozen bottles of Badoit, locally bottled water. He smiled, for some reason, he thought the French only drank Perrier.
Right now, though, his interest was not in beverages. He was exhausted. All he wanted was to clean up and get some rest. He dropped his bag on the bed,
which didn’t appear to give at all. He didn’t care. He could have slept on the floor at this point. He kicked off his shoes, flipping them into the corner, and fumbled for the switch in the bathroom. As he punched the switch which predated the cold war, the bathroom flooded with stark white light which contrasted the soft glow of the bedroom. It was like walking into the center of a light bulb. He squinted for a moment until his eyes adjusted. He stripped his shirt, dropping it to the floor, and let the sink faucet run until it was as cold as it would get. It was surprisingly brisk and almost immediately melted away some of the cobwebs. He breathed in the water, clearing his head of the long trip. A light rap on the door made him pause. Now what?
Muttering, he pulled his shirt on and moved to the door, as another light tap sounded. There was no peephole, so he quietly set the security latch and stepped away from the door, easing it open. Gillian stood there. In bare feet, work out shorts and a baggy tee, she looked as sexy as any woman he had ever seen.
He tried not to look surprised, all-the-while knowing that he was probably failing miserably, basedon the smirk on her face. He removed the latch and swung the door wide. Her eyes sparkled mischievously, as she asked, “Expecting trouble?”
He snorted. “Well, yeah, as a matter of fact.”
“Can I come in?”
He tried to think of something witty; something to make him sound interesting, but knew it wasn’t going to happen. She looked too perfect, he was too tired, and the mood could be shattered far too easily. So he stepped back and bowed with a sweeping motion, closing the door behind her. Without the slightest modesty, she said, “Let’s take a shower.”
Damn. I just knew she was going to say that…
The motion sensor for the hidden fiber optic camera watched Gillian enter Marty’s room from across the hall. When the door closed behind her, the camera stayed fixed on the door and poised to capture future movement. A control room a country away recorded the event.
