Angel City

by Jon Steele

  “Inspector Gobet requests that you join him presently.”

  “Would you come with us, please?”

  Mutt and Jeff hadn’t lost their talent for speaking in double-tap.

  “Where?” Harper said.

  “He’s waiting for you outside the protected zone.”

  “His motorcar is just around the corner.”

  Harper made his SIG safe, holstered it.

  “Sorry, lads, I’m on mandated medical leave. In fact, I was just on my way to GG’s to fill a prescription. So if you’ll excuse me.”

  Harper took a step. Mutt and Jeff’s guns followed his head.

  “Am I missing something?” Harper said.

  “Just a precaution. We were told you’re not quite yourself these days.”

  “Now get the fucking lead out and get in the fucking motorcar, s’il vous plaît.”

  The Merc was parked on Place de la Riponne. Jeff opened the rear door for Harper, then took the front passenger seat. Mutt climbed in behind the wheel, gave Harper the brief.

  “We’ll be leaving the protected zone at Pont Bessières and join real time.”

  “How far back are we?” Harper asked.

  “Standard five-minute lag.”

  “Time to destination?”

  “Twenty-one minutes.”

  Harper thought about it.

  “And what is our bloody destination?”

  “You’ll find out when you get there,” Mutt said, turning over the engine.

  “Of course I will.”

  Jeff reached down and lifted a Brügger & Thomet machine gun. It was fitted with red dot sight and sound suppression. He looked back over his seat.

  “Fasten your seat belt, Mr. Harper.”

  “Sorry?”

  “All passengers, including those in the rear seat, must wear seat belts. It’s the law in Switzerland.”

  Harper pulled the shoulder strap and locked himself in.

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want to break the seat belt law as we blast our way through the streets, would we?”

  The Merc headed to the traffic circle at Avenue de l’Université, rounded onto Rue Viret, and passed under Lausanne Cathedral. Mutt pressed one of the control buttons mounted in the steering wheel. Jeff’s side of the windshield became a heads-up display of Lausanne in 3-D. A shimmering blue dome marked the protected zone around the old city and the cathedral. Jeff touched the windshield at Pont Bessières, and a series of blips and beeps sounded as the image spun around to display a POV shot of the bridge. A red line plotted a point at the far end. A woman’s voice filled the car:

  “You are attempting to exit the protected zone on a heading of one hundred and sixty-three degrees. Please render your access code.”

  “Baker-six-Sierra-Golf-Zulu-five,” Jeff said.

  “Access code accepted. Please select time differential equation for your present GPS coordinates.”

  A stream of equations that would’ve made Einstein’s head explode appeared on the windshield. Jeff tapped one of the shorter ones.

  “Thank you. Please engage time warp modulators.”

  Mutt pressed a switch that would’ve turned on the air-conditioning in a normal car. In the Inspectormobile, it generated a subharmonic frequency Harper couldn’t hear, but he could feel it vibrating through the car.

  “Time warp modulators engaged,” Mutt reported.

  The Merc rounded the Lausanne Museum and lined up with Pont Bessières.

  “Bridge and intersection cleared. Required speed for exit: one hundred ten kilometers per hour. Please stand by.”

  “Standing by.”

  Mutt eased off the accelerator, giving the traffic lamp across the bridge time to flip to green. When it did, he tore over the bridge at speed.

  “Gate activated in five, four, three . . .”

  The Merc followed the trajectory plotted on the heads-up display.

  “. . . two, one, contact.”

  For a moment, nothing moved. Silence. Then came a ripple of light and rush of wavelike sound, and Harper watched the slow bending of buildings and streetlamps till the Merc caught up with real time and things snapped back with a jolt.

  Mutt shut down the heads-up display, and Jeff checked in with HQ in Berne.

  “Berne, we are clear in real time. Package on board. Proceeding to rendezvous with Dragon Six.”

  “Roger. Will advise. Enjoy your evening.”

  Harper settled in his seat, lamenting the fact he could’ve been well into his second vodka tonic by now. Then again, with Monsieur Dufaux’s description of the screwup that was the Paris job, Harper wasn’t surprised he’d been summoned by the cop in the cashmere coat.

  The Merc cruised out of Lausanne and through the small towns along Lac Léman till Mutt turned off the main road and the Merc’s headlights were swallowed in the dark up ahead. A train flew across the sky and a long stream of illuminated windows whipped by in a blur. Harper thought it a swell trick and was somewhat disappointed to see the earthen embankment supporting the railroad as they drew closer. There was a tunnel through the embankment, and it opened to a shadowed somewhere. Instinctively, Harper sat up. His eyes followed the headlights along a narrow road bordered by stone walls, and beyond the walls he saw row upon row of ascending vines. The headlights caught a road sign—APPELLATION DU VILLETTE—and when the Merc rounded a turn and climbed a steep hillside, he saw the expanse of Lac Léman curving to the west and her dark currents running in willowy streaks. France rose on the south shore, and looking east, the blue-white peaks of the Alps sparkled with moonlight.

  The road wound its way higher and cut through vineyards and skirted cliffs. It ran through the village of Aran before winding higher still. The Merc’s headlights panned the hillside and lit up the stone terraces. Harper saw clusters of green and red grapes glistening on the vines. The Merc rounded a bend, and the headlights caught some stone houses gathered on a cliff, then another sign at the side of the road: GRANDVAUX, CANTON DE VAUD. At the turnoff to the village, a metal fence blocked the road. Two men in reflective vests stood behind the fence. They watched the approaching car slow to a stop. Mutt shut down the engine, Jeff secured the Brügger & Thomet. They both turned back to Harper.

  “You’ll need to get out here and walk. Inspector Gobet is waiting for you at les caves Duboux.”

  “We apologize for the inconvenience, and the guns in the face thing. Nothing personal.”

  “No worries,” Harper said.

  He reached in his sports coat, pulled his SIG.

  “You won’t need your weapon, Mr. Harper.”

  “We failed to mention this is a social occasion.”

  Harper flashed Montreux, two years back.

  “You boys remember the last social occasion the inspector invited me to? In Montreux? The guest of honor was a hotel night clerk who’d been nailed to the wall and left with his guts hanging out.”

  Mutt smiled with the sincerity of an insurance salesman.

  “Rest assured, this is nothing of the sort.”

  “Besides,” Jeff said, “the village is surrounded by a tactical unit of the Swiss Guard.”

  Harper took another look at the men at the fence. The both of them with MP5 machine pistols under their reflective vests.

  “Of course it is. Thanks for the lift.”

  He got out of the car. The men retracted the fence without a word, and Harper walked toward the village. The buildings were old stone things from the fifteenth century. They had flower boxes and painted shutters at the windows, and the doors were marked with names. Crausaz, de la Grille, Léderrey. All the names were followed with “Vignerons et Encaveurs.” Seemed Grandvaux was a winemaking village.

  “My sort of town. Where’s the bar?”

  He came to a fork in the road where the closest thing to a bar wa
s a stone fountain topped with a bronze spout. He leaned over for a drink. The water ran clear and it was cold. He straightened up, wiped dribbles from his mouth. He rounded a corner and walked down a curving lane. Blocking the way were six stainless steel vats as tall as him, all of them filled with freshly cut grapes. The grapes were green and moist and they made the air smell sweet. Harper squeezed between two vats, saw three locals in a wine cellar. They wore blue overalls and were shoveling clumps of grapes onto a treadmill that went clank, clank, clank. The grapes bounced along the treadmill to an auger, where they were crushed and separated from their stems. The men took frequent breaks to sip at their vin blanc. Each time raising their glasses to the light to admire the wine’s color. One of them noticed Harper, then they all noticed him. They didn’t speak, they just stared.

  “La cave Duboux?” Harper asked.

  “Nous sommes Palaz et Fils, monsieur. La Famille Duboux c’est tout droit.”

  “Merci.”

  He walked on, heard a slow waltz in three-quarter time.

  He followed the music to where light poured from a cellar door and fell upon a handful of locals dancing in a narrow street. More people were gathered around watching the dancers, all of them with glasses of vin blanc in their hands. In the window just above, an old man operated a hand-cranked Victrola. He’d turned the fluted horn toward the street and it filled the night with music. Harper backed into the shadows and watched. Something struck him as odd. Not the Victrola, not the dancing. It was the gentleness of the scene. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a thing in paradise. The waltz ended, and the couples stopped dancing. Harper stepped from the shadows, and all the locals turned their eyes to him.

  “Bonsoir,” he said.

  The locals didn’t speak. They stepped aside, watched him pass. At the open door, Harper saw more locals sitting at tables made of wine casks. And at the edge of the crowd, sitting alone, was the cop in the cashmere coat.

  “Ah, good evening, Mr. Harper. Would you care to join me?”

  SIX

  HARPER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF THE LOCALS STANDING as if someone who mattered just walked through the door. The inspector pointed to the empty stool next to him.

  “I’m so pleased you could come, Mr. Harper. Do sit down.”

  The inspector’s tone said there wasn’t a choice in the matter, anyway, so sit and enjoy it. The locals settled in their own seats, continuing to stare at Harper.

  “You must wonder why I asked you to meet outside the usual haunts. As it happens, today marks the beginning of la vendange in Grandvaux.”

  Harper stared at the inspector, trying to make sense of the words.

  “The harvest . . . the grape harvest?”

  “The very thing. There’s always a fête at the end of the first day. I never miss it and thought you’d enjoy seeing it.”

  The inspector’s explanation didn’t help.

  “You dragged me out of the protected zone to talk about grapes?”

  “Indeed, I have. Allow me to introduce Monsieur Duboux. His family, like all families in the village, has tended the vineyards of Grandvaux for six hundred years. He also tends a section of vines I am fortunate enough to own.”

  Harper turned to a man in work trousers and a blue flannel shirt. He wore an old Swiss soldier’s cap on his head. Midsixties, face tanned from a life of working in the fields. The man set a bowl of freshly picked grapes on the table along with two glasses and a bottle.

  “C’est la dernière bouteille de 2010, Inspecteur.”

  Inspector Gobet bowed his head.

  “Vous êtes trop gentil, Monsieur Duboux.”

  “En fait, I would like to offer it to your guest.”

  “Néanmoins, my dear sir, I will partake of the honor. And perhaps, now, you might ask old Fournier to play a bit of le Ranz. I’m sure Mr. Harper would enjoy hearing the villagers serenade the cows.”

  Monsieur Duboux tapped his nose and winked, gathered fresh bottles, and invited the happy crowd into the street.

  “Mes amis, il est temps de chanter!”

  Harper watched the locals collect their glasses and follow Monsieur Duboux out the door. He heard Duboux call to the old chap with the Victrola.

  “Allez, Fournier. Donnez-nous une pour les vaches!”

  When the music played, the locals sang a lullaby that echoed down the street and into the night. Harper looked at the inspector.

  “They’re out in the street, singing to cows?”

  “Very old Swiss tradition,” the inspector explained. “Keeps the beasts calm and happy.”

  “There’s nothing in these fields but vines.”

  “Mr. Harper, the cows may have moved farther afield, but in Switzerland, traditions linger. Passed down and cherished from generation to generation like the family watch.”

  Harper thought about it.

  So far, Inspector Gobet was batting for six on the no-bloody-idea meter. The inspector smiled, opened the bottle, poured.

  “I must say, Mr. Harper, you’ve made quite the impression in the village. It’s quite the honor to be presented with a bowl from the first day’s harvest, not to mention the last of the 2010. A near perfect vintage.”

  “Raises a question: What have I done to deserve it besides show up?”

  Inspector Gobet set his nose in the glass and breathed the bouquet.

  “Simply put, the good citizens of Grandvaux have an awareness, shall we say, of who and what you are. Try it.”

  Harper picked up his glass. Nice color, good nose.

  “It’s swell, and what the hell do you mean?”

  “The wine, of course.”

  Harper scanned the cellar. There was no one around.

  “Look, Inspector, I just got out of the tank yesterday. My timeline’s well scrambled. I’m really not in the mood to follow-the-leader till he gets to the bloody point.”

  The inspector picked a grape from the bowl, popped it in his mouth. He slid the bowl across the table.

  “Try one of these, Mr. Harper. They were picked this very morning at dawn. From my private vineyard, as a matter of fact. You may find they have a particular zing. Good for what ails you.”

  Harper pushed the bowl away.

  “What’s ailing me is your lads in the white coats seem to have been a little heavy-handed with the memory scrub. Took me an hour to find Café du Grütli tonight, and it’s around the bloody corner from my flat.”

  The inspector returned the bowl to Harper.

  “Please, do have a grape.”

  “No fucking thanks.”

  A pale fire burned in the inspector’s eyes.

  “Mr. Harper, I gave instructions that you were to be told this was a social occasion. If you’d prefer me to remind you that you are not a creature of free will, then I’ll be more than happy to do so.”

  Yes, fucking sir, Harper thought. He picked a grape, tasted it. The skin seemed to melt and a sweet liquid washed over his tongue, then came a rush of light to his eyes. Warmth, weightlessness.

  “Radiance?”

  The inspector nodded. “The very thing.”

  “It comes from grapes?”

  “Not just any grapes; these grapes, picked at dawn on the first day of les vendanges. A bit of distillation, then a blending with the leaves of certain Moroccan tobaccos, et voila. A pleasant smoking experience necessary to the well-being of our kind in human form.”

  Harper looked outside, watched the locals swaying and singing still. He flashed coming into the village, seeing the curious looks on their faces. Half joy, half wonder.

  “It isn’t supposed to affect them.”

  The inspector pulled another grape, bit into it, and savored the taste.

  “In its raw form, a little goes a long way. So much so that after eating a few handfuls, the locals are induc
ed into a transcendental state that allows them to see, in a manner of speaking, the light that dwells in the eyes of our kind.”

  “What about you? Do they recognize you?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m something of an old hat in the village. You, however, are quite the new boy.”

  Harper popped two more grapes. The inspector was right; good for what ails you.

  “Christ, no wonder you’ve got a tactical unit surrounding this place. Keep the locals under lock and key.”

  “More along the lines of mutually assured security. The villagers present us with the first day’s harvest, as they have for thousands of years, and we see to it they are not disturbed by any unpleasantness during this happy time.”

  Harper held his glass against a candle, saw particles of perfect light shimmering in the wine.

  “How long does the effect last for them?”

  “Only for a few nights. Then they’ll begin the fermentation process and carbon dioxide will be released into the air. Among other things, the process causes them to forget about the likes of you and me, till the next vendange comes around. Another glass? I’m afraid it’s another of those quaint Swiss traditions that an opened bottle must not be left unfinished.”

  “Quite right, too.”

  Inspector Gobet poured.

  Outside, the Victrola played another waltz, Viennese this time. The locals shaped into couples and began to spin themselves silly. Harper saw the inspector’s fingers tapping in time to the music. For half a second, Harper thought, the cop in the cashmere coat looked positively human. Harper plucked a few more grapes and popped them in his mouth . . . ziiiinnng. The music wound into a dizzying coda, and the locals laughed and applauded and shouted to the old man with the Victrola: “Encore, Fournier! Encore!”

  The inspector finished his glass and stood.

  “Well, this has been pleasant. Care for a stroll?”

  Harper knew the social occasion portion of the evening had concluded. He took a last swig from his own glass.

  “Sure.”

  They went into the street and walked into the shadows.

  They turned down Rue de l’Église, walked past the Riccard and Bougnol cellars. More locals making merry over bowls of grapes and glasses of wine. At the Genévaz cellars, some locals sat at a long table in the middle of the road, raising glasses and singing a tune about a fair young maiden who kissed all the boys from Fribourg to Lausanne and back again.