The Way of Sorrows

by Jon Steele

  “Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon.”

  It was from a poem. Something he had read somewhere. He ran his timeline, came up with nothing. He shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and dried himself. He tossed on the robe and slippers. He thought about shaving, but the mirror was well fogged. He almost wiped the glass but didn’t, and he watched a face emerge from behind the fog. The face had blond hair, patrician features, blue eyes. Its expression was one of sadness. So was the sound of its voice.

  Remembering again that I shall die,

  And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks,

  For washing me cleaner than I have been,

  Since I was born into this solitude.

  He blinked and wiped the mirror with his towel. It was only Captain Jay Michael Harper, late of Her Majesty’s Special Reconnaissance Regiment, looking back at him now.

  “Right.”

  Harper grabbed his kill kit, slung it over his shoulder, and walked to the kitchen table. He picked up a section of the club sandwich and took a bite. Odd. He laid it on the plate and opened it. Instead of ham in the middle, there was a healthy slab of Norwegian salmon. Not bad, he thought. He opened the pinot noir, poured a glass. He sipped. He looked around the sitting area for the TV remote. On the floor, under the scratched-up footstool. He grabbed it, pressed the power button, and the TV screen came on. He selected the programming guide. One hundred thirty-nine channels were listed, but on his TV only one channel came in: the History Channel. Too bad, he sometimes thought, looking at the forbidden fruit of choices. He read through his one working channel’s offerings for the night. Two programs grabbed his attention. A Walk Through Hell: Dante and the Shaping of Human Consciousness at midnight. That one was followed by British Poets of the Great War.

  “What a surprise.”

  He heard steps climbing the stairwell of his building. The steps stopped at the threshold of his flat. He reflected on the nature of surprises in Lausanne. Most of them weren’t surprises at all. After all, how can there be a surprise when nothing in this town was by bloody accident? But in his two years of living in this flat, he had never heard anyone come up the bloody stairwell.

  Knock, knock.

  Harper pulled his SIG Sauer, put a round in the firing chamber. He walked to the door and set the gun barrel against the wood, chest-high.

  “Who’s there?” Harper said.

  “Just open the door and don’t go all Léon the Professional on me.”

  It was a voice he didn’t recognize, but it registered as not a threat.

  “Sorry, who is Léon?”

  “A French hit man in a Luc Besson flick. He falls in love with a twelve-year-old girl. He also shoots a bad guy through the door. Great scene. But as this isn’t a movie and I’m not one of the bad guys, you would be wasting your time.”

  Harper stepped back, kept his SIG aimed as he opened the door. There was a tall guy in black leathers. He had a monocle set over his right eye.

  “You’re with Krinkle’s band,” Harper said.

  “No, I’m in the band. I’m the drummer. There’s a huge fucking difference, sir.”

  Harper ejected the round from his SIG. The drummer plucked it from the air, rapped the hollow-point tip against the door.

  “For the record, this door may look like a cheap piece of wood, but it’s bulletproof. Had you pulled the trigger, you would’ve blown your face off.” The drummer offered the bullet to Harper; he took it.

  “So how did you know I had a gun behind the bulletproof door?” Harper said.

  The drummer pointed to the monocle on his face. “New kit from the Swiss cop. It reads body heat and detects metal shapes through solid surfaces up to nine inches thick. It also works as a night sight, downloads and processes data at nine petaFLOPS per second. Which means I can keep an eye on the cathedral, work on my doctoral thesis on palindromic prime numbers, order a pizza, and read through the complete works of Tolstoy all at the same time. Which is what I was doing in the crypt before I got a message to find you. I was reading War and Peace aloud to the skeletons. We’re at the part where Bezukhov is force-marched out of Moscow with Napoleon’s Grand Army. One of the skeletons told me he was a sergeant in a company of Swiss Grenadiers back then and that Napoleon’s army wasn’t so grand. And he says the Russian winter of 1812 was an absolute bitch. Any more useless questions, sir, or can I get to the point?”

  “Go ahead,” Harper said.

  “Karoliina needs to see you. She’ll meet you after the three o’clock bells on the cathedral esplanade. At the fountain under the chestnut. Be there or be square. Nähdään.”

  The drummer turned around and headed down the stairs.

  SEVENTEEN

  i

  Marie-Madeleine rang for three o’clock.

  Harper stepped back into the shadows of the chestnut trees. He watched the belfry’s south balcony, saw a crack of light in the timbers as someone came out of the loge. It was le guet de Lausanne making her final rounds of the night. She passed through the southeast turret and was gone from Harper’s eyes. He waited, heard her call to the east: “C’est le guet. Il a sonné trois. Il a sonné trois.” Then to the north, then the west. When she returned to the south balcony, Harper saw her clearly: a small form wrapped in a black cloak, blond hair topped with a black floppy hat, raising her lantern into the dark and calling out once more over Lausanne: “C’est le guet. Il a sonné trois. Il a sonné trois.” She held the lantern steady and did not move. It wasn’t until Karoliina came onto the balcony and touched the girl’s shoulder that she lowered the lantern and reentered the loge.

  Harper looked around the esplanade. Nobody. He stepped from the shadows, walked to the fountain. He leaned down and drank from the spout. The water was cold. He straightened up and wiped dribbles from his mouth.

  “Long time, no drink.”

  He walked to the rampart overlooking Lausanne. He sensed he was at the target-acquired end of a sniper’s night sight. He noted positions offering a line of sight within an effective firing range of nineteen hundred yards. The Bel-Air building above Flon, the belfry of the Catholic church in the Riponne quarter, one of the thirteenth-century row houses along Rue du Rotillon. Each position was far enough away that Harper wouldn’t hear the shot when taken. He’d only hear the buzz of a .416 brass bullet drilling through the air at more than three thousand feet per second. Lights-out, then comes the crack. But just now any snipers holding him in their sights were under the command of Inspector Jacques Gobet.

  “We hope.”

  A bank of coin-operated binoculars stood next to him. Two Swiss francs for five minutes’ viewing, the notice read. Why not? he thought. He dug through his trousers pockets; no luck. He’d have to settle for his eyeballs. He looked down over the sleeping town and down the hill to the crescent-shaped lake. The five-hundred-foot drop to the water gave him a rush of vertigo, and he wobbled under the weight of his form. He was carrying more than usual tonight.

  “Here we go again.”

  He leaned against the rampart and dug through the pockets of his trench coat, searching for his electronic fag. The new coat was like the smoker; it took some getting used to. The pockets split into bigger pouches at either side of the coat, and things had a way of getting lost. He dug deeper, fumbled with his keys, some scraps of paper, and the silver-striped tie he had yet to put on. He found the fag and pulled it out. Press here, little blue light there, inhale. The vapor seeped deep into his form and he stabilized. All’s well for now, Harper thought. He flashed the new one, Ella, and her message from the dead lad a few nights ago. Don’t fall for a third time, monsieur, or you won’t get up, was the gist of it. He had yet to track how that imagination was planted in her mind, or by whom. Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe all that mattered was the truth of it: Harper’s episodes of vertigo and crushing weight were occurring with increasing intensity. His mouth went dry thinking about it. He looked at the fountain.

  “Actually, wine would be better. Any
color will do.”

  Kaclack.

  He turned around. The narrow red door at the base of the belfry tower opened and Karoliina walked out onto the esplanade. She saw Harper and smiled from under the hood of her sheepskin coat. Her japa mala beads were swinging from her right hand, and promisingly, her left hand held a straw-wrapped Chianti bottle. Harper watched the way she moved. She was as delicate and quiet as a cat. She stopped at the fountain and pulled the hood from her blond hair.

  “Hyvää iltaa.”

  “Good evening, mademoiselle. And good timing.”

  “Good timing?”

  Harper pointed to the fountain. “I was just thinking I could use a bit of wine.”

  The dream catcher smiled. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s no running water in the loge. I told Ella I needed to come down for some. If you’re thirsty, you need to stick to water for the moment.”

  It had been years since Harper had visited the belfry, but the line about fetching water from the well sounded familiar.

  “How is she?”

  “It was a difficult evening, but she is resting now.”

  “Good,” Harper said.

  “Sometimes she wonders when you’re coming to hear her play the cello for Marie-Madeleine.”

  Harper glanced up to the belfry. He sighed, looked at Karoliina. “I’m afraid I got rather busy.”

  “You want me to tell her that?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to make it happen.”

  “Sure.”

  Karoliina eyed Harper from head to toe. “The clothes look nice on you,” she said.

  “Cheers. They’re from a thrift shop.”

  “I know, I picked them out. And for the record, only in Lausanne would you find a perfectly fine Burberry in a thrift shop.”

  “You picked them?”

  “Krinkle sent me a test message on a back channel. He said you needed new clothes. He told me to go to the thrift shop, pick some up, and drop them off at the Palace to be cleaned in whatever magic soap it is they use on anything that touches your skin.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Apparently you have sensitive skin as a result of your undefined metaphysical condition.”

  “You’re joking me.”

  “Really? Which of us is the one wearing the magic gloves?”

  Harper looked at the bionic skin covering the seeping wounds on his palms.

  “There is that,” he said.

  “Where is the tie? It’s an antique. I thought you would like it.”

  Harper reached in his coat, dug through the pockets. He pulled out the tie and held it up. “You mean this one?”

  “Joo.”

  “I was having difficulty with it. The tips either came out too long or too short.”

  Karoliina rested the Chianti bottle on the edge of the fountain, walked to Harper, and took the tie. She laid it around her own neck. She made a couple inverted loops and formed and tightened a well-crafted knot. She pulled it from her neck, handed it to Harper.

  “It’s a Kelvin knot, named after Baron William Thomson. He was a British physicist, June 1824 to December 1907. He had a wild theory about knots and atomic structure. He also figured the temperature of absolute zero at minus 459.67 degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Se on totta. Here, put on the tie. Let’s see how it looks on you.”

  Harper took the tie, fitted it under his shirt collar, and tightened the knot. The tips were perfect. He looked at her. “Verdict?”

  “Nice,” she said. “I have to say, it’s easier to spruce you up than Krinkle and the boys in the band.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Krinkle’s got twelve pairs of denim overalls and twelve pairs of black steel-toed boots, all identical. I once got him a nice woolly jumper. It’s still in the box. And the boys? If it isn’t black, they don’t want to know about it.”

  Harper didn’t quite know what to make of the intel. “Right.”

  He watched Karoliina walk back to the fountain, grab the Chianti bottle, and uncork it. She held it under the spout and filled it.

  “Where is Krinkle?” Harper said.

  “What do you mean, where is Krinkle? You know where Krinkle is. He’s at the clinic in Vevey trying to get Astruc to spill.”

  “What I mean is, mademoiselle, why am I talking to you alone? There are comms procedures and clearances, not to mention chains of command.”

  “I never took you for a stickler on chains of command.”

  Harper stared at her. “Why isn’t he here, mademoiselle?”

  Karoliina recorked the Chianti bottle, let it float in the basin.

  “He said if you asked to tell you he’ll see you this evening in Lausanne. He’s setting up for the band’s concert at La Cave du Bleu Lézard later tonight.”

  “A concert.”

  “You disapprove?”

  Harper took a long hit of radiance. “Not long ago, in Alaska, he was babbling about fearful sights and great signs.”

  “I know.”

  “He told you?”

  “Joo.”

  “What did he tell you about it?”

  “That it looks like it’s coming down.”

  “So he’s going to set up for a music festival.”

  “What do you want him to do, weep? The gig is going live on the Net. It’s important. Millions of souls will be tuning in. Besides, when I told Krinkle I needed to talk to you and what it was about, he said I should go ahead because the cathedral was your patch.”

  Harper shrugged. “Seeing as this is my patch, who will be pulling security while your boys are at play?” Harper said.

  “A crew from New Zealand. Call sign Jakob. They’re in Berlin this week, but Krinkle has booked them to play Lausanne the night after Locomotora.”

  “One more post-rock band with guns, I take it.”

  There was an expression of ouch on Karoliina’s face.

  “I don’t think Jakob would care to be described as ‘one more post-rock band,’ guns included or not. Other than that you are spot-on. Three musicians up front, one sound mixer, one lighting tech, and two roadies behind the scenes. They’re an experienced squad and more than capable of holding the ground around the cathedral as things stand. Between us and them, we make a platoon. Over the next few days two more bands will make the scene: one from Sweden, another from Copenhagen. Add in a couple thousand followers and we will be a brigade capable of holding the old city for as long as we can.”

  Harper took a hit from his electronic fag and huffed on radiance while turning over the dream catcher’s words.

  “Are you telling me partisans are being redeployed to Lausanne because the shit is about to hit the fan here?”

  “Did you hear me say those words?”

  “Words have lots of meanings, mademoiselle, depending on which side of the mouth they’re spilling from.”

  Karoliina swung her japa mala beads in a circle. “Then let me be perfectly clear, monsieur. The meaning of my words is that there is going to be some great music in Lausanne over the next week, all of it going out live on the Net. Of course, if you want to imagine an alternative meaning, such as partisans being redeployed to Lausanne to stand between the cathedral and whatever fearful sights and great signs might be coming down while you’re in Jerusalem, then go right ahead.”

  “Am I going to Jerusalem?”

  “You might be.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “Depending on whether you believe what I have to tell you.”

  Harper smiled. “You two are a lot alike.”

  “Who?”

  “You and Krinkle.”

  “How so?”

  “You both know the state of play better than I do. And you both know more about me than I do.”

  She smiled again, from a deeper place this time. “Kiitos paljon.”

  “You’re welcome. But before I believe another word out of your mouth, you need to answer
some questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did Krinkle know you were a dream catcher? How did he find you?”

  “He didn’t. I found him. Long story.”

  Harper had another pull of radiance. “Tell me.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “If need be.”

  “Or what? You’ll take me down?”

  “If need be.”

  “Et luota minuun?” You don’t trust me?

  Harper touched his perfectly tipped silver-striped tie. “Mademoiselle, this is the regimental tie of the 28th Artists Rifles, a Special Forces reserve unit in the British Army from 1859 through 1945. The regiment was made up of volunteers including architects, painters, writers, and poets. Eight members of the regiment received the Victoria Cross during the Great War. Earlier this evening a second lieutenant named Edward Thomas got into my head to pay me a visit. Which was odd, as he was killed Easter Monday, 1917, while serving with the Royal Garrison Artillery at the Battle of Arras. Thing is, before Edward Thomas became a soldier, he was a poet. And when he first enlisted in the army in 1915, he joined Artists Rifles.”

  Karoliina folded her arms across her chest. Her manner suggested she was not the least bit surprised at the turn in the conversation. “And what did the poet in your head have to say?” she said.

  “He told me my days are numbered. He said it poetically, but that was the message.”

  “‘Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon.’”

  “That’s right. And now I’m wearing an antique tie you picked up in a Lausanne thrift shop. What are the odds of this tie having belonged to Edward Thomas? What are the odds it was given to me to hotwire my brain and reconnect me to a form I once occupied?”

  “If I were you, I would bet the farm on both counts.”

  Harper stepped closer to her. “I already have one dead soldier in my head, mademoiselle. Now there’s one more. Granted, the latter came, dropped the good news about my days being numbered, and left. But I can barely stand under the weight he left behind.”