by C. M. Palov
The opening gambit had been played, a pawn sacrificed.
More resigned than shocked to learn that Fabius Jutier had died by his own hand, Ivo Uhlemann hung up the telephone. The latest turn of events could only mean one of two things – either Sergeant McGuire had got too close to the truth or Fabius feared that he might capitulate if the situation turned violent.
Dare il gambetto.
A Spanish priest in the sixteenth century coined the phrase to refer to an opening chess move. Roughly translated, it meant ‘putting a leg forward to trip someone’. However, the American had proved himself surprisingly nimble, managing to sidestep their trap.
But to what end?
Lost in thought, Ivo walked over and closed the green velvet drapes; at night, Paris, annoyingly, became the city of headlights. That done, he seated himself at his desk, the Rococo furniture at odds with the modern lines of the laptop computer and wireless printer. The old and the new. The perennial clash as each battled the other for supremacy.
Ready to commence his weekly game of chess, Ivo signed on to the computer site using the tongue-in-cheek moniker ‘German Knight’. His opponent, ‘Java King’, was already online. They played each Tuesday at twelve a.m., insomniacs, the both of them. Since there was nothing that he could personally do about the situation in Washington, other than issue new orders, he saw no reason to cancel the weekly bout.
Playing white, Ivo moved his pawn to E4. The French Opening. A fitting tribute to his friend and colleague, Fabius Jutier.
The Cultural Minister had been trained – they had all been trained – to swallow a cyanide tablet rather than surrender to the enemy. No different to what many SS officers had been forced to do at the close of the Second World War, the Reich in flames, the Allied army on a bloodthirsty manhunt.
Indeed, a brave man must always be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.
Ivo glanced at the computer screen. It had taken but a few moments for Java King to position his pawn at E6; the first move of what he hoped would prove a ferocious battle. Play. Counter-play. Attack. The weekly match kept his 76-year-old brain sharp; a weak mind was endemic to the lacklustre horde. His father, the noted physicist Friedrich Uhlemann, had been convinced that the mass of men, possessed of middling intelligence, required a guiding hand. Only then could such men meaningfully contribute to society.
As with all of the Seven’s founding members, Friedrich had been a brilliant scholar. Created in 1940 by the superintendent of the Schutzstaffel, Heinrich Himmler, the unit was envisioned as a seven-man think tank. Its members culled from the best universities in Göttingen, Vienna and Paris, the Seven bridged the divide between the humanities and the sciences. During the 1940s, interdisciplinary research had been a radical concept. In fact, the Ahnenerbe, the academic branch of the SS, had been subdivided into fifty different sections, each focused on a single narrow field of study.
With a click of the computer mouse, Ivo positioned his knight at C3, the diagonal now open.
As he waited for Java King to make the next move, he opened another tab on the computer, pleased to see that the two dossiers he’d ordered had been forwarded. He gave the photograph of Katsumi Rosamund Bauer a cursory glance before scanning the particulars of her life.
Hmm, a most interesting background.
Thirty-nine years of age, Katsumi Bauer had a doctorate in cultural anthropology and, until two years ago, had been a professor at Johns Hopkins University. According to the genealogy chart that a family member had obligingly posted online, the Bauer family emigrated to the American Colonies in 1710, part of a large contingent of Palatine German farmers who settled in New York. Her maternal line, which included several generations of samurai, arrived in California in the early twentieth century. Aiko, her mother, was a curator at the Pacific Asia Museum; father Alfred taught astrophysics at CalTech. As he read that, Ivo chuckled. How ironic.
He pulled up the second dossier.
‘Hmm, it would seem that our commando hails from a less stellar background,’ he murmured, again chuckling, amused by the pun. The parents, Patrick and Fiona McGuire, moved to Boston in 1972 from Northern Ireland. Typical of working-class Irish Catholics, the mother had been a homemaker, the father a day labourer until his untimely death in 1988. Perhaps it was bred into them. Whatever the reason, the Irish had a long history of being a subjugated people, always serving one master or another.
Ivo quickly skimmed the next few paragraphs, eyes opening wide on reading that McGuire’s twin brother, Mychal, was a member of Boston’s notorious Irish mob.
Seventy years ago, the McGuire brothers would have been a prize catch; German researchers were particularly interested in studying twins. To advance the burgeoning field of eugenics, all test subjects were thoroughly photographed. Tissue biopsies were then performed. If male, semen samples were forcibly collected; if female, gynaecological exams were conducted. Once the tests were completed, the subjects were euthanized with a single injection of chloroform to the heart, the collected data used to winnow out society’s undesirables.
As he finished reading the dossiers, Ivo clicked on the second computer tab. At a glance, he could see that his opponent had just moved his bishop to B4.
Well played, Java King. The move threatened Ivo’s white knight. While his Tuesday-night opponent tended to be passive, overly concerned with losing a major piece, Ivo played a more brazen match.
Again, he wondered at the American’s game, unable to determine if the commando was being passive or dangerously bold. What did Finn McGuire hope to gain in refusing the Seven’s generous monetary offer? And the woman, Katsumi Bauer – what role did she play in this recent turn of events?
Given her proud heritage and impressive education, Ivo suspected that he would have enjoyed the pleasure of her company.
A pity that Katsumi Bauer was not long for this world.
10
The serpent, the Cursed One, fouled the earth.
An orgy of blood, Paradise lost.
Kill the firstborn then burn in hell.
The serpent, the Cursed One, all covered in –
‘Pathetic.’
The assassin known as the Dark Angel disabled the iPhone in mid-song, bored with the shrieking vocals and discordant rhythm of the Black Metal music. Nothing but a pack of alienated young white men, their primal screams evoking a violent fantasy world.
So much better to live the fantasy.
Hitching a leather-clad hip against the wrought-iron railing, the assassin scrutinized the little green brick house on the other side of the walkway. The cream-coloured shutters looked newly painted, the brass door knocker was shaped like a pineapple, and the window boxes on the first floor brimmed with pink pansies. Too trite for words. Overlooking a placid stretch of canal, the row of brightly painted residences was more reminiscent of Amsterdam than Washington.
Oh, to be in Amsterdam on a hot, muggy night. With the lurid fluorescent lights and writhing bodies behind plate-glass windows. A red-light district second to none. A true outpost of the erotic frontier. Raw, raunchy and real. What’s your pleasure, bébé?
Annoyed to suddenly hear a tinny buzz, the assassin glanced down. It only took a few seconds for the intrepid mosquito to land on a patch of bare skin, oblivious to its fate. Unaware that the hand of God was two feet away, ready to strike.
How long should I let it live?
‘Hmm … I think that’s long enough.’
Intrigued by the sight of smeared blood and smashed wings, the assassin softly cackled. Do give my regards to Fabius Jutier. Who, no doubt, went to his grave snivelling and sobbing, the Frenchman having been an effeminate weakling.
Not like the two Delta Force commandoes. Fine specimens, the both of them. Real men, as the Americans are fond of saying. All bunched muscles, tightened sinews, eyes burning bright with hatred. Fighting against the restraints with every ounce of power in their big, muscular bodies. Right to the bittersweet end.
&nb
sp; Such a shame that stolen pleasures never last long enough.
‘But the night is still young.’
Smiling in anticipation, the assassin glanced at the address scrawled on a crumpled sheet of paper, verifying the house number.
Time to get to work.
11
‘Shit! ’ Finn hollered as the front end of the catering truck smashed into the fire hydrant.
Folding his left arm over his face, he slammed against the steering wheel with a bruising intensity.
Beside him, Kate faired no better, the force of the collision propelling her against his outstretched right arm. Flung forward, a split-second later they boomeranged backward. Like a pair of crash dummies. Except they didn’t have any airbags to cushion the impact.
His spine jangling, Finn turned towards Kate. ‘You okay?’
‘It’s raining,’ she murmured, a dazed look on her face. Then, an instant later, more lucid, she said, ‘No, it’s not raining. It’s the hydrant.’
On the other side of the windscreen a fountain of water gushed skyward.
‘The water main must have burst.’
Finn peered into the wing mirror; they’d had a lucky break. The Mercedes had overshot the turn. The bad guys would have to drive to the next block, turn left and come back around.
Meaning that he and Kate had thirty, maybe forty seconds to get the hell out of there.
‘We’ve got to bolt on the double quick. Those goons will be coming round the corner any second.’ As he spoke, Finn searched the truck cab for a plastic bag. Finding one, he dumped the contents – a half-eaten sandwich and a half-drunk bottle of Coke – and handed the empty sack to Kate. ‘Put the notebook computer inside that. We need to keep it dry.’
Blasted by spewing water when he exited the truck, Finn slogged around the back end and swung the passenger door wide open. Ignoring his co-pilot’s panic-stricken expression, he grabbed the plastic-covered computer off her lap and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers. That done, he cinched a hand around Kate’s upper arm and yanked her out of the truck. She swayed unsteadily on her high-heel shoes, water trickling down her face.
Finn quickly sized up his teetering companion. Five foot five, 115 pounds. Piece of cake.
Knowing she wouldn’t like what he was about to do, Finn decided to forego getting a signed permission slip. In a big-ass hurry, he shoved his left arm between Kate’s legs, wrapped his right hand around her upper arm, and unceremoniously hefted her on to his shoulder. Turning towards the nearest house, he ran across the soggy front yard. There was no car in the driveway and he figured the happy homeowners were out for the night. Good.
No sooner did he make it to the driveway than Finn heard the roar of a powerful engine at the other end of the block.
The unfriendlies in the Mercedes.
Had to be.
Not planning to stick around long enough to find out, he sprinted down the driveway. A wooden privacy fence enclosed the back yard. Finn stopped at the gate and reached for the latch. If they could just get through the gate before –
Yes!
He noiselessly shut the gate. Peering through the wooden fence slats, he saw a black Mercedes G500 SUV pull up next to the demolished truck.
‘Finn, what’s hap–’
‘Shhh!’
Two men with drawn weapons jumped out of the Mercedes.
Time to hustle.
Pivoting on his heel, Finn headed towards the back fence, sidestepping a kid’s swing. He opened the rear gate and quickly made his way into the alley. Kate started to squirm. Not ready to unload his cargo, he put a hand on her wiggling ass. She instantly stilled.
Passenger subdued, he took off at a fast clip. The alley reeked of urine, rotting garbage and an unidentified dead something. It was a muggy night and the stench hung thickly in the air. As Finn continued down the alley, he heard the rumble of thunder. On the far horizon, like a broken neon sign, streaks of white lightning flickered on and off.
Please, God, no rain, he silently prayed. We’re wet enough as it is.
Figuring they had enough of a lead, he came to a halt and set his passenger on her feet.
‘How far away is Wisconsin Avenue?’ he asked without preamble.
‘Umm –’ She glanced about. ‘I’m guessing it’s about a block and a half from here.’ As she spoke, her lips trembled. ‘We don’t stand a chance, do we?’
Hearing the terrified hitch in Kate’s voice, Finn mentally kicked himself. This was his mess, not hers. ‘If you want to get out of this alive, we need to get a move on it. Capiche?’
She managed a shaky nod.
Thatta girl. Wisconsin Avenue on any given night was party town central, one of those streets where the beer flowed and the denizens flocked in drunken droves. The perfect place to fade into the crowd. He set a quick pace, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. As they neared the cross street, Finn heard the distinctive roar of a German-made V-8 engine.
Kate heard it as well. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Quick! Get behind that dumpster!’ he hissed, placing a hand on Kate’s shoulder as he shoved her towards a large metal receptacle. Right on her six, Finn crouched as close to Kate as humanly possible, wrapping his arms and legs around her backside. Attempting to make his six-foot-four frame as small as possible.
Twenty feet away, the Mercedes slowed, coming to a complete stop at the entrance of the alleyway. Finn heard the soft whhrr of an automatic window being lowered.
In front of him, Kate shook violently.
Tightening his arms around her torso, Finn silently urged her to keep calm. To stay motionless. His every sense directed towards the idling Mercedes, he listened to the steady purr of the vehicle’s powerful engine.
Long seconds passed before the SUV continued down the street.
Doing a fair imitation of a deflated inner tube, Kate slumped against him. If not for the fact that he still had his arms wrapped around her, she would’ve toppled over.
‘Come on. We need to get clear of the alley before the bad guys make the return trip.’
Grabbing Kate by the upper arm, Finn hauled her upright. Neither spoke as they rushed to the street corner.
A few moments later, they reached Wisconsin Avenue, the pavements teeming with pedestrians. Finn steered Kate towards a rowdy bunch of males, many of whom had Greek letters emblazoned on their T-shirts. Shouldering his way into the middle of the pack, he hoped the frat boys were too drunk to wonder how or why a soaking wet middle-aged couple had suddenly appeared in their midst.
Kate clutched her bag to her breasts, clearly unnerved by the crude language and loud-mouth jostling.
‘Don’t worry,’ Finn whispered in her ear, his nose bumping against her cheek. ‘These guys are harmless.’ The real danger was the congested traffic on Wisconsin Avenue. The bastards in the Mercedes had only to lower a tinted window, take aim and fire. Target eliminated. Since the Seven had proved that they’d stop at nothing to retrieve the Montségur Medallion, Finn figured their henchmen would first take out Kate. Him, they’d keep alive. At least until they had their damned gold pendant.
Without warning, Finn yanked Kate away from the frat boys. ‘Time to cross the street,’ he said, jutting his chin at the nearby crossing.
To his surprise, Kate vehemently shook her head. ‘The quickest route to my townhouse is down Wisconsin Avenue to the canal. It’s only six blocks away.’
‘Maybe so, but I’m starting to get a hinky feeling about all this.’
Like we’re walking right into a trap.
12
‘Quite frankly, I don’t care how you feel. I need to go home.’
Determined to escape the terror of the last few minutes – Those men in the Mercedes wanted to apprehend them. Or worse! – Kate continued down Wisconsin Avenue. Ignoring Finn’s muttered expletive, she limped gracelessly, hobbled by her four-inch-high heels. Breathe deeply. Mind over matter. This, too, shall pass.
Finn manacled her elbow in a powerful
, one-handed grip. ‘I don’t think you comprehend the seriousness of our situation. The unfriendlies are still on the prowl.’ In commando mode, he constantly surveyed the environs, his gaze ricocheting from person to street to passing vehicle.
‘These being the same unfriendlies who incited the aforementioned hinkiness.’
‘Can the sarcasm, will ya? The guys in the Mercedes have not called it quits. They are gunnin’ for us.’
Taking exception to his rough tone, Kate pulled her elbow free from his grasp. ‘Just because I gave you a ride earlier, it doesn’t mean that I’m along for the ride. I’m through playing GI Jane.’
‘News flash, Baby Jane: this isn’t a game.’
‘As I am well aware.’
The deeply etched lines on his face relaxed marginally. ‘Okay. Just so we’re on the same page.’ Not breaking stride, Finn shrugged out of his ruined Savile Row jacket and draped it over her shoulders. ‘Here. You need this more than I do. You’re shaking like a leaf.’
The usual effect of terror, I believe. Although, for some inexplicable reason, she was as frightened of Finn McGuire as she was of the thugs in the Mercedes. Totally unpredictable, he’d transformed from Mr Nice Guy into a battle-ready war fighter with an intimidating take-no-prisoners mentality.
At the corner of Blues Alley, Kate gestured to the narrow passage tucked between a tight hedge of red-brick buildings. ‘The alleyway is the quickest route to the canal towpath,’ she informed him, sidestepping the queue of music aficionados waiting to get inside the famous jazz supper club.
Scowling, Finn scrutinized each and every patron. ‘How far are we from your pad?’
‘My house is two blocks away.’
While she routinely used Blues Alley as a short-cut and had trained herself to ignore the scurrying rats and occasional homeless huddle, Finn, his head methodically swivelling from side to side, scanned each and every shadow. Presumably making instantaneous threat assessments.
