MasterStroke

by Ellis, Dee

  “You with those folks out the front?” she asked curiously.

  “Not really,” Sandrine replied as she took a sip. It was cold and freshly-squeezed, just as she liked it. She already had a good feeling about this meal and it went up a notch in her expectations.

  “Din’t think so,” the waitress replied with traces of an easy country drawl that hailed from much farther south than these parts. Her name-tag read Karen. She had expressive eyes that initially suggested estropia but were more like a cat’s and a wide sensuous mouth that curled upwards with humour as she spoke. “You aren’t meaty enough for a cop. Why, it looks like a utility belt would tip you right over.”

  Sandrine laughed. “You’re right. I’d never have the strength to carry all that equipment around with me.”

  Karen bumped her hip against the edge of the booth and looked out at the car park.

  “My boyfriend, we’re engaged to be married, he’s out there somewhere. He’s a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department.” She scanned the crowd. “He said there’s something happening at the old French place, but he won’t say what.” Her attention snapped back to Sandrine in an instant, searching her face for confirmation. “You know anything about that, hon?”

  She knew how to work it, Sandrine decided. She was good but not that good. If a man had been sitting before her, Sandrine had no doubt that Karen would prise the relevant information free in seconds by just turning up the wattage of that sexy smile.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been told much at all.”

  Karen’s disappointment flashed by quickly but she had someone to talk to so she wasn’t letting go quite so easily.

  “I know that old place well. When I was growing up, my daddy worked odd jobs there and during summer holidays I’d take his lunch to him each and every day. The main caretaker, who’d been there forever and was a bit creepy if truth be told, would let me play in the gardens. Sometimes I’d even get to wander through the house but all the rooms were empty. The furniture was long gone.”

  “It looks like a pretty amazing place,” Sandrine said, attempting to draw out any information she could. Two can play at your game, she thought.

  “Pretty awful if you ask me. The caretaker would tell me lots of stories, especially about Rocky Marcello, the gangster who lived there in the 1950s. He’d made all his money from gambling and, when he retired, he turned it into a fortress because he thought his old competitors wanted him dead. Bit of a fruitcake. Apparently there were secret passages everywhere and a special area hidden away that he could hide out in if he needed.”

  “Like a panic room?” Sandrine was now getting interested. She wondered if Jack knew anything about this.

  Karen’s laugh was a high tinkling affair, as pleasant as a wind chime on a humid night. Sandrine thought there’d be many men willing to do just about anything to hear that laugh or spend some time making it happen.

  “Panic room? More like a panic apartment, it was so big. With bedrooms and kitchens and all sorts of things. Funny thing is, nobody knew exactly where it was. The caretaker never said, he told me he’d been sworn to secrecy by the family, and nobody I’ve ever talked to since could ever tell me where it was. Most of us townies just think it’s an old folk tale.”

  A bell sounded from the kitchen. Karen walked off and came back with a large plate heaped with all the fixings Sandrine needed to feel human again as well as another with buttered toast. It smelt heavenly. On the table was ketchup and other condiments along with paper napkins and a stainless steel container crammed with cutlery.

  Sandrine started in on the meal, occasionally looking out at Jack who was now inside the communications van, closely watching a wall of monitors and talking to a number of other men. She still had plenty of time, she surmised, and took her time eating.

  After about half an hour, Jack emerged and scanned the crowd. Sandrine waved but it took a few minutes before he noticed her and joined her at the booth.

  “Good idea,” he said. Karen had bounded up to the table at the first sight of Jack, who quickly ordered coffee, paying little other attention to her. “We’re ready to go. It’s strange but we’ve run the readings from the drones over and over, and sent them in again to double-check, but it doesn’t look like there are very many people inside the estate. Hopefully, though, Marcus is there.”

  “Can I come, too?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Too dangerous, baby. There’s still a lot we don’t know. I’ll go in with the main group through the front gates. Another will breach the property from the rear dock on the Sound and mop up the few opposition we’ve managed to pinpoint. We’ll secure the house and grounds, make sure everything is safe and then, if and when we locate Marcus, I’ll send for you.” Jack reached across and snatched a bit of toast, taking a big bite. “Yum. Certainly better than the donuts.”

  It was disappointing but nothing she hadn’t anticipated. Jack wouldn’t place her in needless peril. She wanted to be with Marcus as soon as possible but she’d just have to wait a little longer. He stood and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  “Stay safe, darling,” he said.

  “You, too. Don’t take any chances.”

  “I don’t intend to. There are lots of bigger guys with bigger guns and better training to do all that. I’m pretty much just along for the ride.” His smile was wide and a little goofy, his very best little-boy aw-shucks act to put Sandrine’s mind at rest.

  She watched him walk to an armoured personnel carrier where a small crowd of black-clad figures waited around the rear loading door. Jack turned and waved as he climbed in.

  It was then she remembered she hadn’t told him about the conversation with the waitress.

  Oh, well, she thought, plenty of time for that later.

  Chapter Forty

  A soldier in full fatigues drove Sandrine from the diner to the front gates of Versailles. Like the Sheriff’s deputy earlier, he looked barely old enough, with scrubbed pink skin that flushed crimson whenever he flicked a glance towards Sandrine and a scattering of acne, a buzz-cut so recent it left only a shadow on his scalp and an air of humourless gravity that suggested a long career in the Army.

  Their transport was a camouflage-painted Humvee, a vehicle she had seen on television and in the movies but not up close. It was low and squat, utilitarian and quite unattractive but, she imagined, useful in difficult terrain. She knew there was a version available for the general public, favoured by limo companies catering for proms and school socials and by hip-hop performers.

  Inside, it was so crammed full of gear, screens and boxes and gadgets, switches and dials of all kinds (for what Sandrine had no idea), that there was little room for people. She was in the front passenger seat, little more than a basic vinyl upholstered bench, but she had trouble seeing the driver. The rear seats were a little clearer but she wanted to ride up front where she could ask the soldier questions but the lack of clear sight-lines and the noise of the engine as it sped towards Versailles, made conversation difficult.

  As the vehicle neared the elaborate front gates, she shouted out to the driver to stop. Distracted, he slammed on the brakes and it slid to a halt on the gravel drive.

  “I’ll get out here and walk,” Sandrine said, her voice almost hoarse from the effort.

  “I’m supposed to drive you to the house, ma’am,” the soldier said uncertainly.

  “It doesn’t look far and I‘ve always wanted to see this place.” Before he could argue further, she opened the door and stepped out. The Humvee was half through the gates. With a roar of the engine, it jerked forward, turned to the side of one of the gatehouses and stopped. The engine died and the soldier stepped out, looking flustered and confused.

  “I’ll walk with you, ma’am. It’ll be safer.”

  In the bright sunshine, under a cloudless blue sky, the air crisp but not cold and with a crackling of dew on the nearby flower beds, danger seemed far away. But the soldier obviously had his orders and h
e hurried up to her, studiously avoiding eye contact, fumbling with a long lethal-looking automatic rifle. He aimed to the ground and to one side, away from her, and his eyes scanned the middle distance as he approached.

  Sandrine took in the gatehouses, mirror images of each other, straddling the wide iron gates. They were large enough to be residences, one probably intended for the gate-keeper. The doors of both were open. Three soldiers, in the same drab fatigues and body armour as Sandrine’s driver, stood in a doorway, relaxed but alert and just a little bored by having little to do. One stocky male made a low, inaudible comment to the others, and they laughed quietly.

  Sandrine looked totally out of place amongst the uniforms but the soldiers didn’t seem to mind. Their eyes hungrily lingered over her body, as if to urgently recall life as a civilian. The boldest of the group, still a teenager but with the chiselled fresh features of a Calvin Klein model, had a cocky smile which broke wider as he winked at her. Her face impassive, she turned and followed the driveway towards the imposing bulk of Versailles. The gravel crunched noisily as the driver hastened to catch up.

  “Do we need to be careful?” Sandrine asked as they walked.

  “Didn’t seem to be many people around. Six combatants were neutralised before our main groups entered the property but the house was empty. They found the hostage, safe and sound in one of the upstairs bedrooms.” The soldier was now walking shoulder to shoulder with Sandrine.

  She stopped in surprise and the soldier walked on a few steps before turning back, equally surprised.

  “Really? No one else around? That’s strange,” she said, elated that Marcus was all right but uncertain about the circumstances.

  He nodded and his helmet, the chin strap unfastened, slid forward on his forehead, almost covering his eyes. He nudged it back with a flash of embarrassment.

  “Darn strange, ma’am. It’s like they disappeared into thin air. Somehow knew we were coming and ran off. But the even stranger thing is that they left so many cars behind. My captain thinks they must have had a boat moored at the dock and took off that way.”

  Sandrine watched the young soldier closely, waiting for more information but none came. He shuffled uneasily.

  She walked on, more purposeful now, eager to see Marcus and confirm that he was indeed safe and healthy. She had been imagining all sorts of misfortunes and she wouldn’t really have her fears laid to rest until then.

  As the main house loomed larger, Sandrine had an opportunity to examine it closely. She was pleased that Versailles didn’t actually look in any way like the real Versailles, which was, although elaborate and quite over-the-top, actually a little tedious in its expansive repetition. This building was huge, three storeys with another hidden within the steeply-slanted mansard roof, but more imaginative while remaining in the French baroque and rococo styles.

  It doubtless drew from numerous real-life influences but Sandrine, who had little knowledge of architecture, couldn’t identify any. She did have a feeling, though, that this Versailles was more chateau than palace. Although far too big for her tastes – what could all these rooms be used for? – it was certainly imposing and, if the outside was any indication, the interior was sure to be something to see.

  Sandrine and the soldier walked on in silence, dodging around State and local police cars, Army transports and anonymous dark sedans belonging to equally anonymous Government agencies like Jack’s, drawing stares from a wide range of uniformed personnel. A grand staircase led up to what appeared to be the main entrance. A lone SWAT team member stood at the top, a squat and futuristic automatic rifle held at ease, still wearing his helmet but with the visor angled off a rugged, unshaven face. Steely, unsmiling eyes watched them approach. As Sandrine raced up the stairs, she noticed the SWAT’s trigger finger poised along the trigger guard and wondered if he was always quite so careful. From where he was standing, on an elevated landing big enough to hold several dozen people, able to scan a couple of hundred yards into the distance, there was little chance of a surprise attack.

  That’s how he stays alive, Sandrine thought to herself. Never letting his guard down.

  “Where’s your vehicle?” he demanded of the young soldier.

  “At the gatehouse,” the soldier stuttered. “The lady wanted to walk.”

  “Negative. You don’t have the seniority to make that decision. You were instructed to bring her straight here immediately. There’s no wriggle room in a direct order,” came the growled reply.

  Sandrine stepped up to the black-clad SWAT member.

  “Don’t bully him. It was my decision. I wanted to walk.” Sandrine turned to the young soldier and thanked him for his kindness. He looked confused, nodded briefly then bounded down the stairs and away from trouble.

  “Now, please, take me to Mr Lucas.”

  When they stepped into the entry vestibule, Sandrine was overwhelmed by the visual overload. It was enormous, extending up to the first floor where a wide mezzanine overlooked a space big enough to play football on. The floor was parquetry, intricately patterned and buffed to a bright shine and, in the far distance, a wide staircase led upwards. Thick marble columns supported a ceiling that swirled with murals and gold leaf detailing.

  Restrained was not a word she’d use to describe it. Marble of different types, patterns and colours fought for attention with the contrasting wallpaper, panels of patterned fabric, huge glittering crystal chandeliers, wall sconces that imitated candelabras, mirrors of all shapes and sizes. It was the very definition of excess. Even Liberace would have considered it over the top. Sandrine certainly couldn’t say she liked it, it almost hurt her eyes and concentrating on any one detail too long would be just asking for a headache of monumental proportions.

  Nuanced this is not.

  But there was something so completely bizarre about this, of stepping from a small East Coast vacation village into the world of King Louis XVI of France and Marie Antoinette, that was strangely invigorating. This was real, it wasn’t a museum, it was a private home, which made it all the more other-worldly.

  The heels of Sandrine’s boots clacked noisily as she followed behind the imposing dark-clad bulk of the SWAT team member. A few dozen men were scattered throughout the entry hall, flopped on enormous velvet-clad lounges or leaning against marble columns, bare-headed, their weapons holstered, looking bored.

  Sandrine paid little attention to them. She was far too interested in examining her surroundings, committing to memory as much as she could without tripping over her feet.

  Up a flight of stairs, along passageways, they walked on for what seemed forever before she spied a group of uniforms in the far distance. They passed closed doors but Sandrine had no idea whether they were bedrooms or not. As they neared, she saw Jack.

  She rushed into his arms and hugged him tight. There had been no time to shave before their departure and his cheek bristled and scrapped her soft skin. She felt his hot breath on her neck.

  “Marcus,” she said breathily, disconcerted now that she was so close to Jack, her heart hammering. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine. A few cuts and bruises but well looked after. He’d been given a sedative and was sleeping soundly when we arrived.”

  Jack led her through an open doorway into a large wood-panelled room that resembled an old-fashioned Paris apartment. A double bed with an intricately-carved headboard was against one wall and Marcus was sitting up, wearing white pyjamas, while an Army medic fussed over him.

  The old man smiled as they neared.

  “Sandrine, it’s very good to see you. Jack has been telling me what happened. It’s terrible, the bomb, the store so badly damaged. I’m just so happy that everybody is OK.”

  The medic stepped away and Sandrine rushed up, sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging him hard enough to draw a short gasp. She looked deep into his bright, clear eyes. A stray wisp of grey hair straggled across his forehead and she smoothed it back across his pink scalp.

  “Did
they harm you?” she asked urgently.

  Marcus shook his head.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. But I feel fine. I have no memory at all. The last thing I remember is all of us in the store, after those beastly Russians left. Then nothing until I woke up here with Jack.”

  “He has a few cuts and bruises but they were treated quickly, probably when he first arrived here,” the Army doctor remarked. “There are puncture marks in his arm from a syringe and the ampules in the wastepaper basket indicate he was given antibiotics, vitamins and a tranquiliser. Mr Buckingham is well-rested and in remarkable shape, considering yesterday’s trauma. He was well looked after. We’ll take him to the base hospital for more tests and rest.”

  Marcus looked imploringly at Jack.

  “Could I go to Marcella’s hospital, Jack. Would that be OK? I’d like to see her.”

  Jack took the doctor aside for a hurried chat in tones so low nobody could hear them. Marcus and Sandrine watched intently. The doctor’s arms were folded, Jack gestured expansively, there was much nodding of heads, glances back at the patient, nodding again. The doctor relaxed, Jack smiled and it seemed the matter had been settled in Marcus’ favour.

  “All good,” Jack announced. “You’ll be transferred to Mercy General. Hope you don’t mind sharing a room?”

  “I’ll have someone to talk to.” Marcus beamed broadly.

  Sandrine promised to see him at the hospital as soon as she could. She joined Jack and they walked back to the entry hall. He appeared tense and his mouth was a narrow slash on a face darkened with concern. His security ID was attached to the front of his body armour, the only splash of colour on the expanse of black.

  “What happened, Jack? Where is everyone?”

  “Good question. We came in fast and quiet. There were some guards in the grounds who were neutralised without incident. There shouldn’t have been any warning at all but, when we breeched the mansion, we found it empty. We’ve searched every inch of this place but nothing. There are plenty of vehicles but it’s like Sylvester and his men went up in a puff of smoke.”