Low Flight of Angels in the Benelux

by Ed Hurst

  “It’s Gordy!” Preston exclaimed in a loud whisper.

  “Who is Gordy?”

  They both kept their eyes and cameras trained on the activity. “Gordon J. Bishop. Back when I was in the military, we had a cluster of serious college basketball fans in my unit. There was one player the mentioned who had enough size and strength, and pretty athletic, too, but he never seemed to find his niche. For a few games he was a busy guard, the next a hatchet man...” Angie could see a dark-skinned man considerably taller than the others people milling around the limos. “Among the players, he was only average height, still pretty tall, though. He was drafted kind of low, didn’t adjust well to the pros, and finally ended up playing on some team here in Belgium.”

  One of the odd things to Americans visiting Belgium was the Wallonian obsession with basketball. Every tiny village had at least one basketball goal mounted somewhere in an open area. There was as much basketball as there was soccer. Somewhere out around Spa in the Ardennes, Preston once stumbled on a tiny hilltop village where the central open plaza was one big circle. Around the whole perimeter were at least a dozen basketball goals and some of them seemed busy almost any time of the year. At some point, the Belgian professional ball clubs began drafting pro players from the US who couldn’t make the cut back home. For awhile it was so common that the English-speaking international schools in Belgium always had a few kids whose dads were professional basketball players from America.

  Preston explained, “Apparently he never really got comfortable playing here, either. He dropped off the radar. He always was a thug; he’d make the perfect fixer.”

  “What’s a fixer? Not a repairman of any kind, I assume. Is he a bodyguard?” Angie asked.

  “No, more like chief thug. It’s not so much doing physical violence as threatening it, along with other ugly consequences. They take a high paycheck for the high probability of being arrested on a regular basis, keeping their boss out of trouble. It keeps the lawyers busy, too, but remains an essential part of dirty business.”

  They held their location in the trees until sometime after two dozen limos had pulled into two lines and things slowed down a bit. Angie was looking through the back of the small camera at the activity off to the right, near the gate leading into the citadel, when Preston said, “Uh-oh.”

  She lowered the camera and turned to see someone walking straight toward their position. At about the same time, there was some noise off to their left from the direction they came. They quickly stuffed their cameras into their fanny packs and started looking for a way of escape. It was pretty thick underbrush to the right and behind, but they began pushing that way. The bluff wasn’t quite so terribly steep here and Preston whispered something about avoiding any ledges. Part of the rock formation formed a wall that forced them down-slope. Somehow, they ended up facing a fence about three meters above the street, but somewhat close to the roof of a building. It was ancient stonework, and Preston guessed it was one of the shrines, squeezed between a business and the sheer stone bluff.

  The noise in the brush above them continued, though no pursuit was yet visible. “We’re out of options, Babe.” Preston climbed the chain-link fence and lowered himself down to the clay-tiled roof. Angie came right behind him. They clambered down the slope and Preston took advantage of the wire mesh tightly clinging to the rock face, designed to prevent loose rocks from falling. He engaged in a little impromptu assisted rock climbing to get down. Angie was a good bit better at it. While a few onlookers in the open square there expressed a little surprise, no one seemed too excited. That is, except for the sound of cursing voices above and still out of sight.

  Still, the adventure had roughed up their hands, and Preston began digging for their little first aid kit as they walked quickly away across the busy square and past the Sicilian cafe they had enjoyed just the other day. Next to it was a narrow cut between the buildings, which led them back down to the busy quayside. They were daubing antiseptic on their cuts as they walked.

  “That’s enough adventure for one day. Let’s go back to our dark lair, Babe,” Preston suggested as if bored. Once across the bridge, they stopped just long enough to grab some carryout from a friture and hurried up the hill, across the tracks, followed by a sharp right up the hill toward the boarding school. The long hike back was uneventful.

  “We need to remember to carry gloves,” Angie said looking at her hands. Preston’s were worse because the same amount of skin bore a heavier load on his hands.

  Chapter 41

  “I think it’s time to remove this hair coloring,” Preston suggested as they started filling the tub.

  He looked at the small on-demand water heater common in most of Europe. “This has to be the smallest one they could find.” They had to turn down the flow a bit or it passed through too quickly to be warmed much. Preston decided it was also time for another hair cropping. Angie was glad to help, having already declared a preference for the shorter look on Preston.

  They rolled into the hammock that night looking very much like their passport photos again.

  The work of processing the images and videos had never been so hard, and with only one computer at that. They reviewed their results again the next morning. Aside from Gordy, they picked out about three dozen people they felt were most likely candidates for attention from the association. Preston loaded a selection of images on his cellphone for quick reference, using humorous pseudonyms for those they couldn’t actually place with a name.

  On a hunch, Preston suggested that they pre-pack their stuff. Then they put on hats and left their hideaway north bound. A narrow track eventually brought them onto a slender paved road leading into a village. They passed through along the main route eastward. On the eastern end of the village stood a very old monument that served as the bus stop where they caught a ride down into the northern end of Dinant. Only as they left did they find a sign pointing back into the village with a name: Sommière.

  They had donned for the day their hiking gear and broad-brimmed hats against the summer sun. With sunglasses, they both appeared completely different from the previous day, aside from their relative sizes. The bus turned right onto the main route and chugged up a slight incline, stopping to let them off next to a large parking area. At one end was a low, narrow arched passage under the railroad tracks, letting them onto a paved walking path along the riverbank. At the water gate they took the walking bridge across and found themselves almost in front of the grocery shop. They wandered over to where the tourists clustered on the north end of a large parking area just off the riverbank.

  A large tree offered shade at the entrance to a tiny round building. Through the windows, it looked like a library or information booth. Angie and Preston rested a few minutes, discussing their plans for the day.

  “What would you bet they moved the limo parking for today?” Preston offered.

  “You would win,” Angie countered.

  There were far more boats than usual, including several with police markings.

  “Maybe we can squeeze into the crowds on the bridge again,” she suggested.

  They eventually wandered over to a sandwich deli and got some ham and egg sandwiches with coffee to go. They strolled slowly back toward the walking bridge over the canal lock, eating as they went. Both times across, the lock was pretty busy, as was the pedestrian traffic, so catching the narrow walkway over one gate or another took some patience. They strode slowly along the quayside toward the main bridge in Dinant. They engaged in plenty of lallygagging and acting like tourists.

  Space on the main bridge was at a premium. Eventually, Preston handed Angie the better camera and hoisted her up on his shoulders. This worked well enough, giving her a better line of sight over the crowd. The pleasure boats had already tied up just south of the bridge. One was obviously the center of all the attention, very fancy with multiple decks. The other was slightly less opulent, but receiving no less attention. It was this second one that Angie focused on the
most, while Preston scanned for interesting photographers.

  This time the limos were closer together, in three convoys with the usual police motorcycle escorts. With all the boats crowding the water, there wasn’t all that much water visible to the casual observer. Preston had no trouble recognizing Gordy. When he realized Gordy had not boarded with the rest of everyone’s entourage, it made him a little nervous. It was the final excuse he needed to bring Angie down and head west off the bridge. Preston glanced back a few times but lost sight of Gordy, despite the man’s height.

  They went back the way they had come and sat on the west bank itself for awhile, feet hanging down on a grassy slope that dropped quickly to the water. They reviewed the footage and still shots for quite some time, matching faces to their previous list. Preston made note of a few new faces. He decided to upload everything via his cellphone broadband connection.

  When it appeared things had settled back to a less intense pitch on the other side of the river, they wandered back over the bridge. There were a couple of cafes featuring live music, so they tried to pass the time. They ate some lunch and wandered around a bit, never getting too far from the open plaza near the bridge. As it got warmer, they shed the outer shirts, exposing matching gray tank tops underneath. They rolled up the t-shirts and stuffed them in their fanny packs.

  Eventually some of the smaller boats began to return. Cameramen were disembarking and vying for good shots to catch the barges approaching from upriver. The police boats cleared some space against the quay, while the officers on the shore started blocking traffic. It seemed the conferees were going to disembark and walk up the street to the Hall of Justice again.

  Meanwhile, the entourage boat edged against the quay first and tied up. The well-dressed occupants got off quickly and swarmed the quay where the fancier boat approached. Preston decided to tether his camera this time and stream the footage live to their upload link. It was downright hot, so the crowd wasn’t quite as thick this time. Preston was hoping he and Angie could get some footage with both cameras without bringing attention to themselves by her riding his shoulders again. They managed to get some very good line of sight on the entourage.

  Once the VIPs disappeared down the gauntlet toward the Hall of Justice, and the supporting staff thinned out, Preston walked over to the last of the huge stone flowerpots sitting on the walkway at the east end of the bridge, on the northern side. He was holding the camera down where they both could see it. They were discussing quietly who was visible.

  Suddenly Angie was shoved roughly aside, off the walkway and into the street, where she fell on one knee, the other leg splayed out to catch her from going face down.

  Chapter 42

  From behind, large brown hands grabbed Preston, lifting him slightly off the ground.

  Purely by instinct, Preston simultaneous thrust the camera out at arm’s length while kicking where he thought the legs should be on whoever grappled with him from behind. The next instant he was bent over with a huge weight pressing him down as one hand reached for the camera. Preston knew instantly that the arms were covered in the fancy suit he had seen Gordy wearing that morning.

  Even the best trained fighters were seldom as skillful in combat as they hoped. Preston was barely keeping the camera from the grasping hands. His hat was gone and forgotten. They must have spun around two or three times. Things happened too quickly for him to tell.

  Meanwhile, Angie recovered. For just an instant she watched in pain and horror as the dark-skinned giant wrestled with Preston. Suddenly she felt anger, as if all the things ever done wrong to her boiled over all at once. Worst of all, this brute was attacking her man, a capital offense in her world. She could have ripped his head off with teeth and claws if necessary. Hardly conscious of her actions, she simply acted on pure fury. Sprinting a couple of steps toward the flowerpot, she jumped up, planting her left foot smartly on the edge. She wasn’t sure what to do next, but getting up closer to the man’s head seemed an obvious necessity.

  At that moment, Preston realized Gordy’s face was behind his head. He pushed back, and then snapped his head forward and backward again with all his might. The crown of his head connected to something not entirely hard. Suddenly the grip on him loosened just a bit. He had planned to spin around and add an elbow strike, but the man had backed off out of reach, standing almost upright, with one hand instinctively rising to touch his face where the mouth and nose began bleeding profusely. The attempt still spun Preston around.

  It was at this instant that Angie launched herself at Gordy. She drew her feet up together and stomped at him with all she had. Her right foot impacted on the joint between his chest and left shoulder. The left foot hit him full in the sternum, driving his tie tack through the fabric and into his flesh. Already stunned from the hard head-butt to his face, he rose up full length and flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance as he back-pedaled.

  Preston was already turned and instinctively caught Angie as she rebounded from the impact with Gordy. They watched for the split second that it took to see him back forcefully into the railing. On most folks, it was almost chest high, but for Gordy it was just below waist level. Instead of arresting his backward momentum, the high aluminum bar only redirected it. His hands continued arcing back over his head and he flipped over the railing. His body managed to somersault once completely, landing him flat on his back with a very loud smack into the murky water of the Meuse.

  Instinctively, Preston grabbed Angie’s hand as they sprinted off the bridge. There was only a slight hesitation as they dodged between two vehicles where they crossed the street. Glancing back, Preston saw a couple more nicely dressed men behind them. Straight ahead was the foot of the ancient stairway up the bluff to the citadel.

  Neither he nor Angie hesitated. The entrance to the cable car ride was packed and spilling into their path. They managed to dodge through without hitting anyone and began sprinting, two steps at a time, threading past the tourists not nearly so hurried on the steps. With Preston’s hand pulling her, Angie was able to match his giant strides. Some part of Preston’s mind realized this moment alone justified all those times they had sprinted up the sandy hills of the Brunssumerheide for the past few weeks, repeating it until he nearly puked. He was just a bit faster on the hills than Angie, but she could repeat it more times. With such a lazy morning so far, they had plenty of energy to spare this time.

  A bit of yelling behind them signaled the necessity of driving ahead full speed. Apparently none of those in pursuit were in any kind of shape at all. At the top of the first long run, Preston turned to glance back as the well dressed men were struggling to merely walk up the steps quite some distance behind. Preston whipped out his camera and took a quick shot of them, then grabbed Angie and sprinted up the next section. They hit the landing two-thirds of the way up, and without slowing, sprinted around the crowded photographers there and up the final run in the opposite direction. The men in fancy suits had either stopped or were simply too far behind to have any hope of catching them.

  Preston got a couple more shots and followed Angie inside the fort. They climbed the interior stairs at a slower pace, and then entered the interior courtyard. With so very many tourists and photographers already crowding the place, they simply bypassed the shops and ticket window and walked out the arched tunnel on the far end. They found out how to get out of the place. Hesitatingly they approached the gateway up the terraces, scanning to see if they recognized any trouble ahead. There were no suits and no limos in the parking lot.

  They walked at a good hiking pace, already recovering their breath from the run up those four-hundred-plus steps. It was a short walk to the trails and Preston led the way off to the right. Just a short way into the woods, Preston pulled Angie off the trail to one side. He fished out his first aid kit and began dressing her skinned knee. “It’s a good thing you were on my side. Poor Gordy never had a chance.”

  Angie nearly collapsed with laughter. Preston kept working
as best he could. Then she recovered and asked, “Did he hurt you?”

  “Just some bruises and sore spots. Lost my hat, but he apparently didn’t damage the camera any. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have done him any good. We had uploaded it all and I was live streaming at the time. He didn’t even unplug it from the tether. I did that when we got inside the fort.”

  In essence they retraced their hike in the opposite direction from the day they had taken the kayak ride. There were a lot more hikers, so they were never quite alone this time.

  After crossing La Lesse, they went farther upriver to another set of sluice gates and lock. This was a very broad path zigzagging over an island in the river. Only the part where they crossed the actual gate was narrow. Here the Meuse bent hard around, the far bank ran east and west. Just a short hike downstream toward the city brought them to a low underpass on one set of railroad tracks, then up a narrow lane where a trail permitted them to cross another set of tracks. They were careful to avoid touching any metal parts because this one was electrified, with heavy cables overhead suspended by metal and concrete frames. In the trees on the far side was a trail. Quite steep in places and slippery, they eventually gained the high ground next to the autobahn. There was a grassy cut through the trees along the south side of this all the way down to a farm road running into the backside of a village called Onhaye.

  Passing through, they stayed on the small lanes and woodland paths, coming around behind their erstwhile quarters.

  It had been a long and beautiful hike, and it was time to go home.

  Chapter 43

  Grabbing their bags, they made sure to check that everything was as they had found it. Returning the key to the tiny enveloped, they hung it on the door handle, closed the lock on the hasp and strode off into the woods.

  They had taken longer volksmarches, some lasting all day. Somehow, this felt like more work. Still, it was more beautiful woodland, hills and valleys. They found their way to the village of Foy. Once again, they wished they could have brought their bikes. Not because hiking was so hard, but they had entered a valley in which the railroad line had long ago been turned into a paved bike route. Instead, they had some dinner at the cafe that also served as bus stop. Eventually a TEC bus came along to take them back down into the Meuse Valley. On the way, they chuckled about passing the château where most of the conferees had been staying.