by Jack Conner
One of the guards ran after him -- he could hear the footfalls -- while the other remained by the door. As soon as the one who had taken up the chase rounded the corner, Lynch was waiting for him with a painting he’d grabbed off the wall. Lynch swung it, edge on, and the heavy frame cracked right across the man’s nose and cheek. The guard sprawled across the floor, his nose crumpled and bloody.
Lynch scooped up the man’s gun -- discarding the painting, a nice oil of a boat on an idyllic lake, not a masterpiece, but better than Lynch could do -- and stepped out into the main corridor. He stalked toward the remaining guard, the gun outstretched and pointing.
The guard paused with his hand on the butt of his own pistol.
“Lift it out with your thumb and forefinger and toss it,” Lynch said as he closed the gap. He had to get close if he was going to shoot in any case, because his depth perception was really quite bad. He didn’t intend to shoot if he didn’t have to. He didn’t want to alert wee Michael.
The Royal Guard tossed the gun and put his hands behind his head.
“On your knees, then belly,” Lynch said. “Say nothing.”
When the man was prostrate on the floor, Lynch kicked him, very hard, in the side of the head, and he went limp. Lynch felt a trifle bad about it, but only for a moment. The man would have tackled him or simply shot him as soon as he stepped through the door.
The ornate brass knob turned, and Lynch marched into a huge sitting room that must be used for visiting officials to relax in. A huge fireplace blazed and crackled, and a group of fancy chairs stood in a semi-circle before it. There were tables, a divan, even a small bed for a visitor to lie down on if their trip had exhausted them.
Queen Fontaine lay down on the bed now, or rather she was pinned to it by the huge, thick-skulled brute that had pummeled Lynch, and Prince Michael himself held a pillow over the great dame’s face. Queen Fontaine struggled and issued muffled cries. The brute looked like he was surprised by the amount of force he had to exert to keep the monarch down. A hateful snarl locked Prince Michael’s face, and Lynch fancied that he could see ancient hates and jealousies play out on his countenance.
Lynch cocked his gun.
Prince Michael looked up. “You!”
Lynch smiled. He stepped forward, adjusting for his poor depth perception, and shot Michael in the chest. The Prince flew backward. The great brute was already around the bed, rushing Lynch. Lynch shot him twice in the chest and once in the skull. The brute continued to lurch forward for a moment, then toppled, brains and blood spreading across expensive rugs and ancient hard wood.
“A pity,” Lynch said.
Queen Fontaine gasped and wheezed. Stuffing his gun in his belt, Lynch went to her. Her face was red and the pillow creases had left marks on it. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot. She clung to Lynch when he sat beside her.
“H-he tried to kill me!” she gasped. “M-my son!”
He stroked her hair. “I know, my pet. He really was a rotter. No fault of yours, I’m sure. Some are just born bad.”
Still gasping, she turned to see the body of her son lying on the floor, blood pooling around his torso. “Michael . . .” She sobbed, a single, harsh hitch, then closed her eyes and turned away. At last she looked up at Lynch. “You saved me.” Her voice sounded steadier now. “D-did you know?”
He frowned. “Yes. I was told their plan by Eliza de Courtney.”
“Eliza!”
“I am Lynchmort James -- I believe you knew my grandmother.”
“Agatha! Of course. James. My God.” She rose from the bed and straightened her hair, which had come loose. Silver strands snaked all about, and her diamond pins were out of place. “What news from Eliza?”
“The Society is more dangerous than was thought. As you can see, even your own son has become corrupted by them. They have the Prime Minister, too. God knows who else. They’re Abwehr, or some sort of German organization. They mean to bring down your government or take it over, but that’s just part of it. They have some other, stranger, more occult agenda, something to do with Atlantis.”
“Atlantis?” A strange look entered her eyes. She turned away. “Surely not . . . “
“You know what they’re about? If so, old dame, I’d appreciate some enlightenment. I’ve been running blind long enough. Well, half blind.”
She looked at Michael’s corpse one more time and shuddered. She wrenched her gaze away, gathered herself, and looked at Lynch guardedly. “There are . . . legends. Family legends. And there is . . . something in the basement.”
“A wine cellar? Here’s hoping.”
“I do not know what this is all about, and I do not know if I myself believe the legends, but . . .”
“But what, dearest?”
“A family legend. We are supposedly descended from the survivors of ancient Atlantis. They had escaped, set up some fabulous city underground, but were found by their enemies, former slaves of theirs, and slaughtered. Only the royal family and some servants escaped, thanks to an escape route beneath their palace, but for all intents and purposes their race had ended. Except . . . except that, according to my family’s legends, the surviving royalty went amongst the general population of humanity. They pretended to be native, and by dint of their wisdom and techniques quickly gained popularity. Power. They became kings and queens. Founded this country. My line is directly descended from them, or so I was raised to believe, not that I do.”
“What’s in the basement?”
“When they fled their city, they supposedly took something with them -- the sarcophagus of their greatest queen. I don’t know why. Religious reasons, possibly. For whatever motive, they installed it in the lowest levels of their new palace and it became the centerpiece for the royal catacombs. That’s where it is today. The Palace has changed greatly over time, but that section of the catacombs is largely the same.” Her eyes moved inexorably o the body of her son. Michael’s blood looked very red. “He must have believed.”
“Believed what, exactly?”
“When I was a little girl, they would take us down there, to pay homage to our ancestors. Of course, greatest honor was paid her, and we were told the story, how we were special, different from mere mortals. And we were taught that someday, in our country’s darkest hour, the Queen would return to life and save us all. I thought it was all a pretty fairytale.”
He blinked. “The Queen is in your basement?”
She nodded. “If the Society is bent on Atlantis, then perhaps -- ”
Air raid sirens pierced Lynch’s ears, and he slapped his hand over his right ear and pressed his left stump over the other. Still, he could hear the savage, teeth-rattling peels of the air-raid sirens.
Queen Fontaine’s face paled.
He lowered his hand and stump and guided her toward the door. “Come, my sweet. We’re being bombed -- and right on schedule, too.”
***
“There! There they are!”
Lynch looked up. He and Queen Fontaine were making their way down the halls, people screaming up ahead.
The Grand Vizier, his face scarlet, blocked off one avenue.
“Thank goodness,” the Queen breathed.
“Don’t thank anything yet,” Lynch said.
Two of the Royal Guard stood beside the vizier, and Lynch despaired. How many of the Royal Guard had been corrupted -- or, more likely, simply replaced by members of the Society’s pet SS unit? The Prince would have appointed them specially. The Grand Vizier must have taken some -- hopefully only these two -- to hunt for Lynch while Prince Michael dealt with his mother. They must have been behind schedule due to Lynch, which is why the bomb raid had caught them before the Queen was declared dead.
The Grand Vizier’s eyes hardened. “Get him!”
Obeying, the guards moved forward while air raid sirens peeled in the background.
“Run, mum!” Lynch said, guiding the aged monarch down the hall. She went, as fast as she could, which was not near as fast as he would have liked. He
raised his gun and fired once -- twice -- at the approaching soldiers. Plaster dust billowed from the walls. Two misses. Damn his depth perception!
They raised their own pistols even as he fired his, but hesitated to shoot. Their line of fire passed directly through Lynch to Queen Fontaine; their leaders had instructed them not to shoot her, evidently. They meant to kill her, but she must appear to die naturally, or at least by bombs. Bullets found in her corpse would rather give the game away.
Lynch fired again, catching one in the upper right chest, spinning him about. The other fired at Lynch, but he aimed high, and plaster dust sprayed the back of Lynch’s head.
“Run, old girl!” he shouted.
Queen Fontaine rounded a bend and he followed, turning to fire again. The guard that still pursued him ducked, fired. Both missed.
Lynch passed a huge window covered by blackout curtains, but at its edge he saw the dark of night outside, not a single gleam of any window from any part of the city. A blackout. The Palace was lit, possibly by direct feeds to the power station, but every window was covered. Lynch assumed that even this illumination was temporary and would last only until retainers could find the Queen and ascertain her safety. Guns spat fire from rooftops and great dark shapes cut the skies overhead. Searchlights swept the heavens, picking the bombers out against the charcoal clouds. The bombers dropped payload after payload. Lynch both saw and heard the explosions that rocked the city. It was only the briefest glimpse he was afforded, but it was enough to heat his blood.
He and Queen Fontaine turned down another hall. The Royal Guard’s footsteps sounded loudly down the hall they had just left. Lynch was about to lean past the corner and open fire when suddenly the whole palace shook. There came a great roar, and dust drifted down from the ceilings. Screams floated down the halls, and a nearby thunder of breaking wood and debris.
“We’ve been hit!” Queen Fontaine cried, staggering.
Lynch steadied her. Outside, the sounds of anti-aircraft guns boomed repeatedly.
“It could have been worse,” he said.
He held his breath and whipped his upper body around the corner, meaning to plug the bastard chasing them. Part of the roof had collapsed and a mound of rubble heaped in the hallway, dust billowing off it. Lynch hoped it had crushed the son of a bitch but knew he had probably been too far up the hall. The guard had been cut off from them, but somewhere he and the Grand Vizier still hunted them.
“This way,” Lynch said, ushering Her Majesty toward the sounds of people. They rounded another bend and met up with a stream of party guests bound for the bomb shelter.
“This is just so awful!” he heard one woman say. “And on the Queen’s birthday!” “Whatever shall we do?” “I hope the Queen’s all right.”
Queen Fontaine drew Lynch close. She held his right arm tightly, as if for protection, and he was obliged to shove the gun back through his belt. The old lady gripped his arm like a vice, and her face looked very tense, her eyes watchful. There was too much tumult in the hallway for there to be an outcry at her reappearance, but several people obviously recognized her and called to her. One bowed. She kept walking, only affording them the briefest of nods.
“Who else is involved in the conspiracy?” she said to Lynch. “Who else wants me dead?”
“The Grand Vizier, for one.”
“But he and I have known each other for years. His father and I were good friends.” She shook her head, disturbed and afraid. “How? How could the Society wield such influence?”
“They’re offering superhuman abilities, for one. Speed, strength, immortality. Quite seductive. Plus membership in the winning side, as they see it. It’s a good sales pitch.”
“Bastards!”
He had never heard a queen curse, but he was obliged to say, “I am unsure of their patrimony.”
“Who else?” Her voice was sharp.
From somewhere there came another roar, and the floor jumped. Lynch felt it in his knees. He and Fontaine steadied each other.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I recommend finding the Grand Vizier and putting him to the question. I have a few techniques if your boys are squeamish.”
Her face was hard. “Oh, I’ll put him to the question. I’ll put them all to the question.”
“That’s my girl! That’s the lass that’s been holding back the Hun.”
The tide of people poured downstairs, and soldiers directed them into the bomb shelter beneath the Palace. Lynch passed a thick layer of concrete and then entered halls that seemed more or less of a kind with the Palace above. There were fine carpets, ornate scroll-work, and beautiful paintings on the walls, if not quite as beautiful if those above. It was quieter here, and Lynch could hear the bombs through the thick concrete. The shelter was vast and multi-storied.
He found Gwyneth, and they hugged, but Lynch did not have time for a reunion. “She liked the puppy,” he said. “Rottweiler.”
Shortly Queen Fontaine’s people closed on her, cooing. They cleaned her and plied her with drink to calm her, or tried to. She would drink nothing, only looked at the glass suspiciously. They showed her to a special area of the bomb shelter, a private suite within the larger complex -- Lynch saw ornate divans, gilded chairs, and many desks mounted with phones and typewriters: a sort of command center. The aids sat her down and saw to smoothing her ruffled feathers.
“He comes with me,” she said, whenever anybody tried to give Lynch the heave ho.
“Maybe we can have that dance later after all,” Lynch told her.
The ceiling rumbled overhead.
Queen Fontaine met his eyes. “Tell me everything you know.”
He glanced at her retainers. One combed her hair. Another brushed dust off of her dress. A doctor checked her blood pressure. Two of the Royal Guard stood at the doorway.
“Only in private,” Lynch said.
Reluctantly, they left, but not before Lynch had one pour him a nice strong brandy, some of the best Lynch had ever had. It burned the back of his throat and warmed his belly, and he made sure to locate the bottle and helped himself to more while he gave Queen Fontaine his report. He kept mainly to what he had learned, not how he had learned it, though he realized in the telling that he knew precious little. When he finished, the Queen was very white, and she did not turn down a glass of the brandy Lynch poured for her.
“I don’t know where Eliza is,” Lynch finished. “Or even if she’s okay. I think I gave her enough time to get out of the air, but beyond that -- ”
Queen Fontaine nodded. “She is a remarkable young lady. If anyone can survive, it will be her.”
He rattled the ice in his glass. “May I ask -- why her? Why did you choose her?”
Queen Fontaine eyed him shrewdly. “She means something to you. I think I remember that, from her dossier. I chose her because she was precisely the sort they were looking for, and she was willing to fake her own death to join them. That was their requirement for her, though they don’t make all their members do it. But they wanted her fully invested.”
“What’s the purpose?”
“Who would suspect treachery from the dead? It’s the perfect cover. There’s more to it, of course. They must liquidate their funds, give it over to the Society, and devote all their time and resources to the Society’s goals. They must give their lives, in short, and they cannot be expected to make social visits. They must in effect disappear. Why not make it official? In any case, I will not apologize for placing her in danger. If this information proves able to bring down the Society, then her efforts will well be worth it.”
“They already are. You’re alive.”
She took another sip. “If only that were enough.”
“Just the same, I want your permission to go after her.”
“You ask for permission now?” She seemed amused.
“What I mean to say is, I may need the Intelligence Bureau’s resources.”
“I’m not sure of the wisdom of extracting her yet.”
“What else can she give you? She knows all the key players, how and where they work. We can bring them down without any further risk on her part.”
“We had been waiting to catch Lord Wilhelm.”
“I will catch him for you.”
She studied him hard for a long moment, her gray brows drawing together. At last she seemed to make up her mind, but she did not reveal it.
“Come,” she said. “Let us comfort my guests. I fear this has been the worst birthday party ever, and as the hostesses I must do what I can for them.”
The nobles of the country sat and smoked, talking quietly and listening to the bombs pound overhead. Someone had found a radio and turned it on, and they hunkered forward, listening to a crackling voice:
“And now, just receiving word, yes, it looks like the Grisham Factory is gone, gutted by Luftwaffe special delivery. Fire trucks are en route, but [muffled boom] . . . oh, that was a close one, did you hear that, folks? . . . getting another report . . .”
Faces started up as Queen Fontaine circulated, and she spoke calmly, doing her best to pacify her guests and retainers until finally an aid whispered in her ear, and she whispered back.
Guards hauled the Grand Vizier before her, his hands cuffed behind him. Lynch was not surprised, as the Queen had put out the word to apprehend him on sight. He looked larger than Lynch remembered, not just corpulent but tall and arrogant, full of pride. His back was straight, his eyes level -- dangerous. His fiery robe and conical hat flashed in the lights of the room, and his sheer size dominated.
This one is far from broken, Lynch mused uneasily, and wondered why.
“We brought him to you as requested, Ma’am,” said the captain of the guard.
“Take him to the interrogation rooms,” Queen Fontaine said. The Grand Vizier’s arrival had caused a commotion, and people were looking and talking. “I will deal with him there.”
“I’ll help,” Lynch said, rubbing his jaw where the Grand Vizier’s fist had caught him.
The Captain of the Guard did not go anywhere. He stared at the Queen seriously, and when he spoke his voice held a grim tone. “He has made some serious allegations, Ma’am. He claims that you and your paramour shot the Prince.”