by Winona Kent
Anthony.
Casting his eyes over the room, Ian had an idea. He picked up the little vial of tablets and dropped it into the front pocket of his rugby pants. He had to do something to help him out: he’d be less than a caring brother if he didn’t at least try.
“These guys just don’t give up, do they?” Robin said.
He could see them on the other side of the darkened newsroom window, Berringer and Grosch, sitting in their Buick at the far end of the parking lot. They had made note of Lundberg’s departure with Rolf, who, by that time, was semiconscious and rambling incoherently. They had elected not to follow; it was Robin they were after.
“You didn’t give them anything else to go on,” Evan said. “You’re their only lead.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one with the tape with the tone on it and the stupid microfilm. If you still have it.” He looked at his father. “You do, don’t you?”
“I do,” Evan confirmed. “Although I’d prefer everyone to believe otherwise. I shipped a dud off to Ottawa this morning on board Air Canada 138.”
“Clever of you,” said Robin. “A courier.”
“It was Scotch-taped to the inside of a musical instrument’s carrying case, actually. I bought it a seat—one wouldn’t want to risk putting such a valuable item in the cargo hold.” He thought for a moment. “Record Locator WH3624XR—Mr. R. Smith and Mr. A. Cello. Would you like the ticket numbers?”
“No thank you. I think I have enough on my mind right now.”
Evan smiled at his son. They were both on the floor, he on one side of the window, Robin on the other, crouching low so that they were invisible to those outside.
“I think I’ll join your little espionage network when I get out of school, Evan. They’re bound to welcome me with open arms. I won’t even have to go through basic training: I’m already a lean, mean spy machine.”
“If you don’t keep your head down,” his father replied, “you’ll be lean, mean, and probably seen.”
Robin drew back out of sight. “So when do we take them out with the pen that shoots poison gas, tranquilizer mist, sleep darts, and thirty-two caliber bullets?”
Evan looked at him.
“An exploding cigarette case?” Robin guessed casually.
“I rather think we’d be better off trying to find another way out of here,” Evan said. “Rolf put in a call to his Russian friends just before you arrived, and I for one don’t relish the thought of becoming a pawn in some East-West spy exchange five years down the line.” He cast his eyes around the newsroom. “Is there another way out?”
Robin thought. “There’s the roof.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“You don’t even carry a gun, do you?”
“Not if I can help it,” Evan said.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t turned up with my trusty fire extinguisher? Would you have let Rolf turn you over to the Russians?”
Evan shook his head. “No,” he said. “I imagine there’d have been some sort of struggle. A mild display of physical combat, which I, naturally, would have won.”
“Of course,” Robin said. “The Vulcan nerve pinch. The old karate slice to the back of the neck—”
“A well-placed kick,” Evan replied, sensibly. “Come along.”
They slid away from the window, crawling across to the shelter afforded by the desk belonging to the news director. Robin stood up at the same time as the door to the studio swung open. The DJ appeared, then stopped, a little surprised to find somebody lurking in a newsroom that should, by rights, have been deserted.
“Hi there,” Robin said, with a small wave. “Drew Phillips, right?”
“Uh, hi…”
“You remember me? Rolf Raymond’s kid? Robin?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Robin kicked his father, and Evan’s head slowly appeared over the top of the news director’s typewriter.
“This is a famous actor, Drew. Evan Harris. He was in Spy Squad.”
Evan glanced at the window and at the parking lot beyond.
“Evan played a secret agent,” Robin continued, hedging. “He was just showing me how all good spies stay out of sight while they’re under heavy enemy surveillance. We’re being watched. From the 7-Eleven.”
“Uh…sure,” Drew said. He pressed his hand to his stomach and walked slowly across the floor to the teletype machines. He ran his eyes briefly over the headlines. “I’ve got a gut-ache like you wouldn’t believe.”
Robin viewed his father with suspicion.
“I’d stop drinking coffee if I were you,” Evan said. Another car—a maroon Jag—had just pulled into the lot. He stood up, grasping his son by the collar of his shirt. “This way to the roof?”
“Gotta go,” Robin said, backing away from the DJ. “KGB.”
“Uh-huh.” Drew nodded. Peculiar gurgles grumbled up from his lower intestines. He clutched his middle, and, with a withering glare at the newsroom clock, bolted out to the washroom again, his hockey scores trailing behind him like a yellow newsprint tail.
In the rear hallway, father and son stared at the ceiling. There was a steel ladder bolted to the wall, leading up to a trapdoor, which was padlocked shut.
“I don’t suppose you have a key to that.”
Robin made a face. “Are you kidding? I used to have to be buzzed in by the jock when I reported for work. That’s how much they trusted me.”
“Ah, well,” Evan sighed, “when in doubt, rely on props. Take this.” He handed Robin the reel containing the tape and climbed nimbly up the ladder. He poked the padlock with a long thin metallic device that looked to Robin like a platinum toothpick, and the mechanism sprang loose. Evan pushed the trapdoor open with his hand. “Coming?”
Robin could feel the cold, damp night air funneling down the shaft. What other little gadgets did his father have stuffed into his pockets?
“Yes,” he said, grabbing hold of the ladder railing. “I’m coming.”
He crawled up through the narrow hole and crouched low on the roof’s surface as his father produced a very large tube of something from another concealed place on his clothing, squirted its contents around the door frame, and silently dropped the trap shut again.
“What’s that?” Robin whispered.
“Krazy Glue. Industrial-sized. Don’t leave home without it.”
He stuffed the tube into his pocket again.
“Stay close—and keep down.”
Robin shadowed his father as he crept along the far side of the building, well away from the edge. It was quite an interesting view from up here—a new perspective on the world, as it were. If he observed over his shoulder, he could see down Fairview Slopes between the buildings to False Creek, and all the way across to downtown Vancouver. Ian lived in that direction: he had a condo with bedroom windows overlooking the water.
“Robin.”
He turned around, quickly. His father was at the rear edge of the building, putting on a pair of gloves.
“There’s a garbage container down below, next to the car. It’s about a ten-foot drop to the lid.” He eased the leather over his bandaged right hand.
“You want me to jump?”
“Well…yes, that was the general idea.”
“I guess now isn’t quite the time to bring up my fear of heights.”
“One day,” Evan said, getting onto his knees and turning around, so that his back was to the alley, “I’ll tell you all about my fear of heights.” He checked over his shoulder, then lowered himself over the edge, grasping the gutter with his fingers and scraping the toes of his running shoes against the brickwork. “Please, God,” he muttered, “don’t let there be any Evan-sized gaps between the Smithrite container and the wall.” He let go, landing on the metal lid of the bin with a soft thud.
Robin peered over the edge.
“Nothing to it,” his father encouraged. “Come on.”
Robin tossed the tape down and, grabbing hold of the drain channel, tr
ied not to imagine what it would be like to tumble over backward and miss the container entirely. He teetered precariously on his knees.
“Get your legs down. I’ll catch you if you fall.”
“I’ll kill you if I fall,” Robin promised, through clenched teeth. He poked his left foot over the side, followed by his right, and then abruptly lost his balance and clung to the roof only by his fingers, his arms stretched taut. He let out a yell as the muscles in his back and shoulders rebelled. “Piss on this.” He let go, and crashed onto the top of the garbage container, landing feet first. His legs collapsed and he fell onto his rear end. “Shit.”
Evan laughed, extending a hand to help him up. “All right?”
“No,” Robin answered, indignantly. He slid down to the ground and Evan landed beside him, his feet crunching in the loose stones. Quickly, he unlocked the Chevette.
Robin dived into the back. “What’s this junk?” he said, shifting two boxes: one for makeup, and one made out of cardboard, full of clothes and paper shopping bags.
Evan slammed the door and gunned the engine.
“Stay on the floor,” he said. “Movie stuff.”
“What are you going to do about these guys?”
“Outrun them.”
“In this?”
Evan wheeled the car around and screeched toward the road. The Jaguar’s headlights snapped on, followed by the Buick’s. Leaning on the horn, Evan scooted out onto West Broadway, just ahead of a Number 9 bus, which was just ahead of a Number 10 bus, both of which effectively blocked the parking lot exit as they stopped to let passengers off outside the 7-Eleven.
“All in the wrist action,” he said, pulling a sharp right up one of the narrow, tree-lined streets adjacent to the hospital. “Which way to downtown?”
Robin’s voice filtered up from somewhere beneath the passenger seat, where he’d been pitched after his father’s last abrupt turn. “Granville,” he said, sounding rather ill. “Go right…go to Granville…go over the bridge…” His voice trailed off.
Evan shook his head. Poor old Robin. Those Harris inheritances were popping up everywhere.
The door was opening. Anthony heard the click of the lock, the turning of the handle. Exhausted, he struggled to bring himself back into a presentable position.
A pair of people came into the room. One of them was Mara—Lesley Towne. The other person seemed to be male; he was wearing a yellow robe, but the hood covered his face, concealing his identity. He paused—seemed to be thinking—then turned and quickly followed Mara to the stone fireplace, where two long-handled pokers glowed red among the embers.
Anthony’s heart started to pound. He’d tried to anticipate what it was going to be like, tried to imagine it: the searing hot brands sizzling into his flesh, the smell, the sound—He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. The worst he’d ever experienced was a burned finger from the kitchen stove. His mother had administered ice-cold water and a soft smear of butter to the ensuing blister. How the hell was he going to explain this to her? To anyone?
Mara left the fire, and walked across to the slightly raised platform where her captive had been chained. Folding her arms inside her sleeves, she gazed benevolently upon him, a small smile upon her face.
“Mandy,” Anthony said, trying to sound pleasant. It wasn’t easy. “Come to do the honors?”
“Mara,” she corrected.
“Mandy, Mara, Lesley. Whatever you’re calling yourself these days. You’re letting the side down. But I guess it’s better than a kick in the teeth. Marginally.”
Mara laughed. She herself had lovely teeth—large ones, all even, all white. “My dear child,” she said, rubbing him under the chin with her forefinger, as though he was Mrs. Peel, the cat. “You are so like your father.”
“Am I? I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
“He’s such a good actor,” she said, still smiling. “What courage in the face of adversity.”
Anthony swallowed. “I’ve had a couple of hours to reach down into the inner depths of my soul and achieve a state of pure meditative transience, as the Bagraj likes to call it. I won’t feel any pain. Sorry to disappoint you.”
Mara laughed again. “What utter nonsense,” she said. “You’ll feel it, my lad. That’s guaranteed.”
She gestured to her hooded companion, who hesitated, then slid the pokers out of the fire and carried them, carefully, over to the dais. Anthony studied the red-hot brands, blinking as the waves of warmth wafted into his face. They were identical—a matched set, one the mirror image of the other, filigreed and curled with strange intertwined symbols, each about a square inch in size. He could feel their radiance, like a portable heater placed too close to his skin.
“I wonder,” he said, a little ashamed that his voice had begun to waver. “Did they ever do this on Spy Squad?”
“I believe it was once threatened,” Mara replied. “But only that. Never inflicted.” She reached for the brands, positioning them over the soft, fatty pouch of skin between wrist and elbow, the smooth patch where there were no major blood vessels to get in the way.
The man in the robe moved around behind Anthony, stepping quickly in between his legs, bracing Anthony’s head against the midpost of the scaffold with his hands.
I am a Tree, Anthony thought, shutting his eyes. My arms are branches, my fingers leaves, my feet are rooted deep in the earth. My body is the life of the Tree…the Tree…the Tree…
He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, parting his lips, as the glowing irons sizzled into his flesh—icy, confusing—then hot, hot, hurt. A hand covered his lips, pressing, sweaty, tasting of salt. The other hand held his forehead, pulling him back against the wood. He tried to struggle free—he couldn’t breathe—couldn’t move—was suffocating—
A scream caught in his throat, dammed by something that had been forced onto his tongue by the hand. The hand stayed there, insistent, stopping his voice. He swallowed, gagged. The hand remained firm. The substance that had been poked between his lips crumbled, tasting green, herbal; he forced it down. The hand let go of his forehead. The other hand released his mouth. He dragged in lungfuls of air, choking and coughing. He tried to force his mind past the intense, throbbing pain in his arms.
A short while later, Anthony’s wrists were at last unlocked from the wooden frame. His left arm was freed first; he tried to hold his hand steady, but the muscles, imprisoned for that many hours, refused to cooperate, and his arm dropped to his side, utterly useless. The same thing happened with the other arm. As his ankles were released, he fell over, landing face down near the edge of the platform.
He was able to surmise from this odd state of affairs that something rather peculiar was going on inside his body. Neither his arms nor his legs would obey the command to move, to perform as arms and legs were meant to. In fact, they seemed to have grown quite pleasantly numb.
I must be dying, he thought.
The man with the salty hands was rolling him over, arranging him on his back like an anonymous sea creature being discovered in a tidal pool. Through a haze, he saw Mara, swimming out of the room, a sail made out of yellow canvas, billowing before the hot gales from the fireplace.
Bending over him, the man with the salty hands peered into his face, then gently examined the burned places on his arms. Anthony smelled something expensive and not altogether unfamiliar, pungent against the odor of scorched flesh. He opened his mouth again—tried to speak—and found that that part of him wasn’t prepared to behave, either. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter at all.
The last thing he saw was a pair of feet—the feet belonging to the man wearing the Drakkar Noir cologne. A pair of feet encased in gray suede shoes with gray laces. A pair of shoes he’d seen before. And then, it occurred to him that he was flying…
Except, really, the owner of the gray suede feet had picked him up and was dragging him out of the cave with the glaring blue light, apologizing under his breath and cursing him with
a certain amount of brotherly affection, telling him what an incredibly stupid idiot he was for following him to this highly dangerous place.
Giselle unlocked the door to the storage room, stepped inside, and assessed the woman sitting cross-legged on the packing crate before her. There were stacks of wooden chairs and portable blackboards, wastepaper baskets and large, square cardboard boxes. Nothing had been moved. Charlotte was scribbling notes onto her wad of paper.
“What do you want?” she said, looking at Giselle with suspicion.
“I have come to let you go. I also have your wallet.” She held it up. “I want you to go back to Canada as quickly as you are able.”
Charlotte noticed her accent and wondered where she came from. Was she a spy from Quebec? “Where’s Anthony?”
“He is all right. Don’t worry.”
“Is he coming with me?”
Giselle shook her head.
Charlotte stayed where she was. “I came here with Anthony. I’m not leaving without him.”
“Listen to me,” Giselle said. “This is not a good place. You shouldn’t stay.”
“Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I am a friend. I’m not one of the followers. I persuaded the Bagraj to let you go, but I won’t be able to help you again if he changes his mind. Do you trust me?”
Charlotte stared at her.
“Did you drive down in Anthony’s car?” Giselle asked.
Charlotte nodded.
“Do you want me to start it for you?”
Charlotte answered her with a small, stiff smile. “That won’t be necessary,” she replied. “I have the keys.”
“Good. Go.” She held the door open. Charlotte, however, still refused to move.
“Que veux-tu encore?” Giselle said, exasperated.
“I’m not leaving without Anthony,” Charlotte repeated, firmly. She had no idea what the woman had just said: foreign obscenities, probably. She’d needed only Grade Twelve French for her university degree; she didn’t necessarily have to understand anything.
Giselle shut the door again, leaning on it, clasping her hands behind her back. “Look,” she said. “I promise. I will take him out of here. But I cannot do it now. Please make my job a little easier. Please, go home.”