Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle

by English, Ben

  Another heavy snap, and more rock trickled off the face. Closer this time. That was odd.

  Mercedes looked upward for her next grip, and realized she was being watched. The sensation came over her quickly, the surety that a predator focused on her. The wind flowed up over the rock in a constant, mild stream. Instinctively Mercedes started to look over her shoulder, and felt vertigo crack around her.

  The shyest whisper sounded behind her, very close, and another handful of pebbles broke away from the cliff.

  Mercedes found a deep crack running through the granite near her left hand. Slowly she pressed her palm in as far as she could reach, nearly to her elbow, and made a fist. The makeshift anchor would fasten her to the cliff face as long as she held the fist. With her free hand she found her smaller camera, a digital, on its lanyard at her waist. Carefully, almost leisurely, she twisted enough to look back towards the valley below.

  And looked right into the glaring eyes of an eagle.

  Mercedes hands tensed, and she nearly lost her grip on the wall. The enormous creature drifted smoothly before her, barely moving from side to side on the upwash of air. She’d never seen a live golden before, and Mercedes’ practiced eye took in the dark brown plumage extending all the way to the toes, and the distinct gold bathing the back of its head and neck. While Mercedes remained for the most part in awe of the bird, the practical portion of her brain catalogued its wingspan at almost seven feet. Of course, this is the female, she thought.

  It was big enough to pluck her off the wall, if it wanted to. Mature females can carry whole deer away. Now, how did she know that?

  Its eyes flicked over her body; the head tilted quizzically, and when its gaze locked again with her own Mercedes was struck with how elemental, how uncommonly fierce they were. She felt helpless and at once exalted before the creature, and as her adrenaline spiked Mercedes felt a kinship with the mother bird, with the supreme predator spread majestically before her.

  She almost forgot to take its picture, and took several until the eagle slid in front of the setting sun. Every outspread feather glowed pink, and the crown blazed with white-gold fire.

  Something smacked the rock face just a few feet from them, walloped it hard enough for Mercedes to feel the impact through the stone, and for the first time Mercedes became aware of a whine, almost a whistle, that had preceded the hit. Almost like the sound a bullet would make.

  The eagle glanced away, folded its wings, and sliced off down towards the darkening green below. Mercedes watched until she lost it against the pattern of the trees, and resumed her climb.

  *

  The damn pistol was no good at this range and angle, and the silencer deflected the shots past any hope of accuracy. His companion had been right after all; should have brought the rifle. Better not give him too much credit, he thought. The fool didn’t have enough sense to stay on the trail, now, did he?

  As long as the woman hung on the cliff, though, staring at the bird . . . he aimed again, then swore as the bird moved between them. He fired anyway, and saw that the bullet deflected a bit. Must be the same breeze the bird used. He raised the gun again—now where was the bird?

  Dropping like a stone through the golden light, like some kind of screaming missile, like a sliver of fire, right for his position. He dropped his pistol and slithered backwards through the brush, suddenly, shockingly afraid.

  All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men

  Paris

  10AM

  Jack leaned back as far as the balcony rail allowed, considering the file before him. The three of them sat at his customary table at the corner of the terrace, where Vincenzo had long ago arranged the overhead canopy to block out any prying eyes.

  Alonzo and the Major ate quietly, scrutinizing the boulevard below. The tagliatelle verdi and frittata were delicious, though Jack picked at them absentmindedly as he pored over the documents stamped with the seal of MI-5, the internal arm of British Secret Intelligence. Several small bottles of Sanpellegrino carbonated water turned double-duty, weighing the pages to the table. Jack lifted one and motioned to a nearby waiter. “Marcello? Another aranciata, per piacere?” His mouth had gone dry.

  He shuffled the papers back into chronological order and skimmed once again over the pertinent details.

  A week before, the Princess Christine, only child of Britain’s Royal Family, had arrived with her guards at the family estate of Balmoral Castle in Scotland. She had traveled in a modified Sikorsky transport helicopter, what the American Navy was calling a Super Stallion these days. She spent the holiday with her parents, who left early for a press conference or to preside at the opening of some cheese factory or another. No member of the Royal Family travels with another, for obvious security reasons. In the company of fifteen security agents, plus the regular contingent of Scotland Yard detectives and other employees of the Crown, the Princess had spent two days “larking about with her ponies” under the direct supervision of more than one hundred people, according to the report. The last recorded contact with the security team at Balmoral occurred at one a.m. two days ago. A brief lightning storm and the resulting atmospheric disturbance made all contact with Balmoral’s team impossible between four and four thirty the following morning. Radar coverage of the area had been blanked for nearly an hour. Jack skimmed over the transcripts of the attempts to contact the team by radio and phone, seeing nothing. They knew exactly what they were doing, he realized, to have been that ready to act during the storm.

  At five o’clock three squads of marines from the nearby Royal Navy base converged on the grounds, to be greeted with utter silence. Only one man, an outer perimeter guard, had been found alive, wedged into a pocket of rock on a cliff overlooking the castle. He had yet to regain consciousness. Everyone else at Balmoral from the resident security chief down to the two stableboys had been coldly, efficiently murdered. They found the Secret Air Service guards posted outside Her Highness’ door with their pistols drawn and readied, but not a shot fired.

  It was as if Death had scythed through them like a wind.

  The only thing missing from the grisly tableau was the Sikorsky, its pilot, and the Princess. Her personal kidnap recovery device, a microchip-sized telemetry burst transmitter hardwired into a bracelet she wore, was found in a saddlebag on one of the horses, where sufficient body heat would keep the alarm from sounding.

  Jack skipped down through the details of the quiet, desperate mobilization of the Empire and the measures taken to prevent the news from leaking to the media. Anything to distract the slavering press from the Royals: A car bomb had exploded harmlessly but sensationally in the Whitechapel area of London, the government called an unusual, rambling press conference on the topic of the future of Welsh sheep cloning, and three sons of a tavern keeper had produced definitive recordings of the Loch Ness Monster. Jack shook his head. Misdirection was a hazardous game. Other news of the past two days had added to the confusion: four other little girls between the ages of five and nine had been abducted in the Greater London area.

  Mid-afternoon the next day had heralded the discovery of the missing pilot, washed up on a beach near Bergen, Norway. He had suffered extreme exposure and was identifiable by the remains of his flight suit. An intensive search in the area produced part of the serial plate of the Sikorsky and oil particulate in the water characteristic of a high-velocity crash at sea. Current search and rescue operations were being conducted in radiating circles from the determined point of impact. Experts on site could not agree whether the crash was authentic and verifiable, and the search went on—

  Jack read over the details, noting the increasingly cold and professional tone in which it had been written. MI-5's progressive use of academic terminology masked a growing, palpable frustration. Several pages of theory and analysis followed on possible motive and identity of the kidnappers, all convoluted and improbable. Jack sighed and let the report fall into his lap. One fact lay unspoken in the entire file: the longer the kid
nappers went without contacting anyone, either for ransom or political statement, the less likely the Princess would be rescued.

  Of secondary importance, as the circling search patterns grew ever wider and more and more manpower was needed to maintain its intensity, the odds grew exponentially that news of the Princess’ abduction would leak. The press would have a field day. All the governments in the hemisphere, to the best of Jack’s knowledge, would fall over themselves in an effort to rescue her. Britain would be made a laughingstock in terms of security. Terrible things could happen to a country that has lost face. The door locking chaos out would be ajar, at the very least.

  “Major Griffin,” Jack handed the sheaf of papers back to the young woman seated opposite him. “Level with me here. How good is this intelligence?”

  “That’s the entire package, forwarded to me by His Majesty’s private secretary this morning. Not much added from the information I was sent last night. The guard that was recovered from the outer perimeter remains in a coma, I’m afraid.”

  “Jack,” Alonzo said, “Balmoral isn’t all that defensible; wouldn’t take too many men to get in.”

  “I remember. What’s got me worried is the timing of the attack to coincide with the storm. Radio and digital communications went down about the same time the land lines were cut.”

  Alonzo’s eyebrows shot up. “You think it’s not a coincidence?”

  “Look at the times of the attack and the atmospheric disturbance. What kind of a storm knocks out state-of-the-art radar?” Jack poured the last of his Sanpelligrino into a glass and drank it.

  “So, you think whoever they were used something like a pink noise generator?”

  The major broke in. “Excuse me, a what?”

  “A pink noise generator,” Jack said. “A machine that creates a random sound. Small ones are used to fine-tune a home speaker system. Because the sound from the generator changes randomly in frequency and amplitude, it is difficult to filter out. Build them bigger and you can mask conversations by, well, desensitizing a microphone or other type of listening device. Build them big enough and you can override microwave signals, pretty much anything on either side of the visible band.”

  “So you postulate that such a device was used?”

  “It makes sense. I’m surprised none of your people thought so. ”

  Major Griffin shrugged. “Sounds a titch like science fiction.”

  The waiter came with two more of the small green bottles of carbonated water for Jack, and another bottle of Peroni beer for Alonzo, which he waved off. The smaller man was intently scrutinizing the blue movie ticket Jack had found.

  Jack shook his head. “I seem to remember reading about the maser research going on right now in your country, Major. Microwave amplification instead of light amplification? A pink noise generator is just about the same thing.”

  “Could this machine be used to kill?”

  He frowned. “I suppose. Why?”

  Major Griffin pursed her lips. “Some of the Scotland Yard detectives assigned to the Princess were burned through. I mean to say, when they were autopsied, their internal organs and extremities showed an identical degree of scorching.” In answer to his next question, she added, “Autopsy reports were deemed inconsequential, and not included in the report you read just now.” She waved her hand. “The men and women were deceased, after all.”

  “Al, did William mention anything about a maser?”

  Alonzo looked up. “He said something about an electric weapon being involved in that wacko plot to demoralize Western culture.” He dropped the ticket on the table. “I’m more worried about this. Looks like an invitation to a trap, if you ask me. Any more ideas about the other stuff that guy said in the attic?”

  “That name, ‘Alex Stefanovich.’ Except he said it harder, like ‘Aleks.’ Doesn’t ring a bell. And I’ve never been to the Illuminatus Cineplex.”

  The major spoke up. “It’s relatively new. I believe it’s in the same building as the new Harrods.”

  “What I still don’t get,” Alonzo said. “Those two guys in the hat shop were so professional, but they didn’t know about Vincenzo’s countermeasures. And you say the older one was French?” he asked his friend.

  “Yeah, he was. Maybe he knew about Vincenzo’s security net all along. Wanted to get our attention. That makes sense when you think about all the clues he was so desperate to drop.”

  “But why should he be trusted?” The major asked.

  They were silent for a moment. It was such a beautiful day in Paris. Despite the noise and fumes from the thoroughfare below, a special clarity held the air, a certain crisp freshness. A pair of pigeons alighted on the balustrade behind the major, cooing, and Jack was tempted to smile at their warbling challenge. It wouldn’t be Paris without legions of pigeons.

  The city had become a refuge for him, a familiar fortress in which he’d ensconced himself behind walls of habit, of custom. Jack loved the fact that life continued to abide in the City of Light. Even before he and Victoria had come here to live, there had always been something vaguely comforting in the idea of Paris; of taking breath in the city where countless men and women had also lived and managed to make sense and civility out of generation upon generation of life; had sweat, sang, fought, prayed to a God in Heaven and then cursed each other by that god’s name, had made peace, made war, made love, and then given birth to another generation that would inherit the ancient yet fresh walls of Paris. Borders of stone and mortar that framed the most exquisite living portrait of humanity Jack could imagine.

  “Out of chaos, order,” he muttered, his gaze aimless over the city.

  “Eh?” Alonzo said, querulous.

  “We won’t make sense out of any of this until we go to London.” Jack rubbed his eyes, passed a hand over his stubbly chin. Time to shake off a little of the stone and mortar.

  Major Griffin was on her feet, the papers already in a manila folder. “I can make the arrangements right away, Mr. Flynn. The embassy has a special agreement with British Airways.”

  “No, ma’am.” Alonzo made a dismissive gesture. “Jack overheard one of those spooks mention something about monitoring the airports for us. We could all go in disguise, of course,” he ignored her smirk, “but that would mean splitting up, making this all more complicated than it has to be—”

  “And if it comes to that, we’ll need some privacy and time in close quarters to plan together, Major.”

  Griffin was nonplussed. “Perhaps you’d prefer an eight-man rowboat with which to cross the Channel.”

  Alonzo chuffed. “Through the Chunnel on the Eurostar, right?”

  Jack nodded. “Have everyone check their tracks first. After this,” he gestured to where the two watchers had set up their listening post, “we don’t know who else might be paying attention to our comings and goings. Let’s lose any tails before we leave town.”

  “That could take some time,” the major said, frowning.

  Alonzo shrugged. “It will take a few hours to prep the materiel. Anything else?”

  “Get Steve to work on the name ‘Aleks Stefanovich.’” Almost as an afterthought, Jack added, “And have Ian check in with his contacts in the FBI, just in case he’s done anything stateside.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to need a little time to myself.” He rocked back from the table. “I’ll meet you all at the station.”

  The smaller man gave his friend a long look. Finally, “Don’t take too long, Jack.” He winked and added in a fake stage whisper. “You can do this, man.”

  Major Griffin snapped her briefcase shut. “Going to rain soon.”

  A gust of wind tugged at her hair, rifled through the napkins on the table, and sent the pigeons fluttering.

  She was right. Jack could smell the storm. “Okay, then. Anything else?”

  Alonzo thumped his hand on the table and glanced around for the waiter. “Where’s Marcello? He ever going to bring my beer?”
>
  Hradek

  London

  12PM

  “This will mean an end to hope.”

  He could feel night at the edges of noon. Alex Raines stood at the window of his London office, and flung the Sanderson toile drapes wide to let sunlight scour the room.

  The onrushing radiance set his white suit aglow. He reveled in the light; soaked in it; drank it in as if it were a featherlight, intoxicating nectar. Or, better yet, a kind of nourishment. Raines savored the sunlight like the heavy aromas of the Italian cuisine he relished preparing personally, meticulously, lingering for hours in the kitchen of one of his homes. Steam from risotto, just after you poured the seasoned broth over the rice. Freshly baked ziti drowned in virgin tomato sauce. He wet his lips.

  His entire adult life he’d been thrust into the role of the connoisseur.

  Raines stood in the very center of the window, the streaming light turning his pale linen suit to pure gold. He touched his long fingers to the glass. London at noon in the early spring was deliciously luxuriant. Raines counted it one of his life’s greatest blessings that he was able to see the joy in his life, more specifically, in this particular day, with such completeness and overpowering depth. In his forty-five years he’d met no one capable as he was of savoring the daily slices, the tartness, of reality. Perhaps he alone among men looked down on the London of this particular moment and tasted it, tasted it as sure as if it were a dessert of zabaglione, made with a touch of Marsala wine from his own vineyard. Delectable. He considered bowing his head briefly and offering thanks for the clarity granted him, but his chosen deity had never required that particular obeisance.