CHAPTER 39 – THE FOUR BOYS
Carterson understood spoken French moderately well, but was only middling fair at speaking it. In his attempts to communicate with his boy, he had many of the words right, or nearly right, but the grammar and tenses were escaping him, and he mashed or interchanged some of the vowels.
The boy wrinkled his nose and held it. "Your French stinks," he said.
"Oh, and I suppose you can do even this well in English?" Carterson asked, in French.
"Who wants to bother with a stupid language like English?"
"Oh, let's see. The Chinese, the Indians, the people of Latin America, Russians, Germans, anybody who wants to communicate internationally," Carterson said. Or tried to say. A man in a nearby seat laughed, leaned over, and translated Carterson's efforts into better French, adding such information he thought was needed to make it a proper argument in favor of learning English.
The boy, upset at drawing unwanted attention, scowled.
"I ran off at roughly that age myself," the helpful bystander said to Carterson. "Believe it or not, to join the circus. Trite, I know. Or do I mean clichéd? I was rather flummoxed when they asked me what I could do. It hadn't much occurred to me that I'd need any skills to succeed in the circus business. Hadn't thought of it as a business, to be honest. They finally put me to cleaning cages. That cured me. I make my living in groceries these days. What do you do when you're not retrieving recalcitrant boys? Or is this a full-time job? One wonders, the way youth is these days."
"I'm a wiretaps expert," Carterson said.
"Well! You could just say you'd rather not chat, and leave it at that," the man said.
"Some people have no manners, dear," the woman next to him said.
The man turned away and studiously ignored both Carterson and the stifled snickers of other passengers.
The boy gave Carterson a more appraising look. Men who could shut off nosy outsiders had at least something going for them, apparently.
"Let's get up and look around," the boy said, hopping up. "We might as well case the place, in case anyone ever wants to know where to place a bomb."
Carterson stood, and lifted the boy to eye level by his shirtfront. "Don't joke about it," he said. "Don't even think about it."
Eurotunnel staff stepped forward, but a couple of men behind Carterson waved them off. "Just a boy mouthing off when he shouldn't," one of them said. "It's under control." The staff waited until Carterson set the boy on the ground before moving off. The men who'd run interference grinned. Carterson did a double take. They were high profile professional football players (European style).
"Hey, kid," one of them said to the boy, "Learn to play ball. It's where the real men go to get rich and famous. Bombs are for sissies."
"Yeah," the other said. "And besides, the women that terrorists get aren't worth catching. We get the cream of the crop."
The boy stared at the players, almost unable to believe his eyes. He'd skipped meals to catch a favorite team on whatever television he could gain access to. He'd even run drugs for guys he didn't trust, just to get a chance to see players drive by on their way to a stadium. And here they were, his heroes, in the flesh. Not players from his favorite team, but from his second favorite team, which was more than good enough. Talking to him. Him. He had no idea what to do or say. In his dream world, he'd imagined meeting them, and fitting right in, sometimes even being a hero to these men, the biggest men he knew about or could imagine. Caught by surprise outside of fantasyland, he was paralyzed with awe.
Carterson ran options through his head, and came up with a long shot that he liked. "Hey," he said to the players, "What are the chances I could buy you two fellows something to eat when we get landed?"
"Thanks anyway, but we don't do that, sir," one of them said automatically.
The other player saw something in Carterson's eyes his buddy didn't. He decided that he wasn't a drooling fan hoping for bragging rights and a bit of name-dropping after. He accepted his offer out of curiosity, plus a sense that a capable, worthy man seemed to want their help on something serious. Most people discounted them as playboys or gushed over them for their muscles and fame. This man clearly saw them as equals, and he didn't come across as any sort of slouch.
His buddy, wanting to watch his buddy's back, and in the mood for a bit of a lark, also agreed to go along.
At the restaurant, Carterson insisted on a back room so they could close the door and not have adoring fans interrupting or eavesdropping.
He let one of the players escort the boy to the men's room, but motioned for the other man to hold back. As soon as the boy and his illustrious escort were gone, Carterson pulled out his credentials.
"Here's the deal. This kid knows about a murder, and I'm trying, first of all, to find out what he knows, and second of all, to keep him from getting killed. No, make that the other way round, although finding out what he knows will likely help us keep him alive. But we're pressed for time and we have a little communications problem as you might have noticed. If you fellows can help make him feel at ease, that would be great. If the topic goes bloody, try not to flinch too much."
The player pondered. "I hate to say this, but I actually believe you," he finally said.
"If you want to steer clear, feel free. I can stay off the subject until after the meal, just to give the boy a chance to relax, and to keep you two well away from any fuss. Not that I expect any fuss. We're hoping to sit pretty hard on this, for one reason and another."
"Do I look like a coward?"
"No, sir, but this game doesn't have any referees and not too many rules. Sane men can be excused for staying out of it."
"So I'm crazy."
Carterson studied his eyes.
"I'm not walking away from a kid in real trouble," the player said, seriously.
"Neither am I," Carterson said.
The boy and his escort came back a few minutes later. "I don't believe it," the boy said. "People actually ask for autographs in the toilet? He couldn't even go pee without people talking to him. Losers."
"Here, now. Some fans have more sense than others, but we can't be too hard on them," the man said. "We caught them off guard, you know."
"Well, I wouldn't do it," the boy said.
"Yeah, but you probably have more honor than most boys," the player who had been chatting with Carterson said.
"Boys? Boys?! What do you mean boys? Old men whose hair had all fallen out were the worst!" the boy sputtered.
"Shall we eat?" Carterson said.
"I can take it or leave it," the boy said, being careful not to squander a chance of looking tough in front of his heroes, now that he'd recovered his wits.
-
Darlene understood some French, but didn't speak it for all intents and purposes. It didn't matter much. She had the youngest boy, and he'd taken to her as some sort of grandmother.
He was tired, and wanted a hug, so she pulled him into her lap and let him lean against her. He reached up to touch the delicate chain around her neck. She smiled, and pulled out the cross she always wore under her shirt, near her heart. The boy fingered the cross, without showing that he understood it had any significance. When he handed it back to her, she tucked it back in. Within seconds, he was sound asleep in her arms, hanging on as if for dear life.
Darlene tried not to melt, but it was impossible not to. Tears flowed, some for the little lost boy in her lap, and some for her dead sons and husband, killed together in a car crash. Most people steered well clear of her sadness. The ones who walked up gently to inquire if she needed help were easily handled with a shake of the head, a subdued hand gesture, and a whispered, "thanks, but we're all right."
-
Felicity didn't know much French but wasn't worried about it. She'd managed with hand gestures and facial expressions with foreigners, although not generally anyone as young as this. Her main problem, she figured, was to not let the boy get it into his head to make a break for it.
The boy
yowled, sailed through the air, and tackled a man who'd just walked by them in the depot. Bystanders were astonished, but when the boy triumphantly fished Felicity's wallet out of the man's pocket, they got the picture. The kid had seen a pickpocket in action, and had nailed him. Good for the kid – although, to be sure, several folks murmured that it was more seemly, not to mention safer, not to mention more respecting of authority, to point out a suspected criminal to security guards instead of screaming and taking someone to the ground by oneself.
When officials came to investigate, Felicity suggested they check the suspect for other wallets not his own. When they found five, she pointed out that he appeared to be prosecutable without her input. With that, she took her wallet and steered her urchin forward, away from eyes that were noticing that she and the young man were mismatched and didn't know each other very well.
The kid was very proud of himself, but trying to look nonchalant. She bit her lip to keep from laughing at his strutting. She repeated her thanks and pulled him into a quick hug for good measure. This reduced him to a state of 'ah, shucks' for a minute or two. When he recovered, it was obvious that he was on the lookout for more trouble to fend off. Felicity stopped worrying about him making a break for it. Knights on white chargers don't abandon damsels who attract pickpockets.
-
Richard usually spoke French atrociously to get their goat, and his accent left something to be desired even when he was on his best behavior, but he could get by well enough for most circumstances. But it took two to chat, and so far he'd been treated to stony silence.
"You aren't used to children, are you?" the boy finally asked.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yeah. Well, we're even. I gave up on grownups a long time ago."
"What happens when you become one?"
"I'm not going to grow up."
"Right. Guard the car a minute, will you? I need to sniff around in the boot for something, and I won't be able to see or hear as well as usual."
The boy stood guard for seven long seconds, before latching back on Richard. "Why do you have the car, anyway? Everybody else left on foot. You guys have four cars? With the other three hidden, right?"
"The other three teams have vehicles they'll pick up after they get off the train. They're also utilizing public buses, for further confusion."
"Cool."
"We try to be careful, you know."
"Of course. It pays to be careful," the boy said, oozing knowingness. He faltered. He shifted back and forth on his feet. "Are we going through the Chunnel? Under the water?"
"The others are. I was thinking of going by ferry. That's unless you're going to panic on me, if we get that far from your fellows for that long? I don't much want to be stuck with a panic attack."
"Hah. I bet you're afraid to go under the water. That's the real problem, isn't it?"
"I don't much like it, but I could if I had to. But it's cheaper and smarter to go by ferry, if you're not in a hurry. The other three, they all have stuff they have to get done soon, so there was no getting around springing for Chunnel tickets. We're different. We're the brains. We can take our time if we want to."
"That'll make Mauger mad," the boy said, grinning. "Us getting to take our time."
"Mauger would be the older boy, who went with Carterson?"
"Whatever."
"Sorry, we didn't get introductions done, did we? I'm Richard Hugh. That's Mr. Hugh to you. Mr. Carterson was the other man on this mission. Get in. We're drawing stares."
The boy looked around to see who was staring. "Oh, they're just smarty-pants. They stare at street warriors all the time. We make them nervous. And for good reason, I might add."
"Oh, and you could take me out in three seconds, I suppose?"
"If that rat Nason hadn't taken my knives, I could."
Richard moved so the boy could see a flash of holster. "Know what that is?"
The boy froze.
"Come on, we're together on this," Richard said. "I just need for you to understand I'm not the pansy I look like, wearing clothes like this. The suit is to have a jacket. The jacket is to hide the gun. You want to be in my gang, or what?"
The boy nodded.
"So get in the car. We're going to go find a little fun."
"Cool," the boy said, clambering into the car.
Richard fought down a wave of nausea. If he'd been a bad guy with murderous intent, the kid would have been as good as dead by now. Why were kids so easy with their trust?
"Give me a name I can call you," he said, once they were underway.
"You can call me The Fox."
"Give me a name I can call you so people think you're my son," Richard countered.
"Grandson, more like."
"Not if I married a young piece of work, who likes older, richer, powerful men. I could have kids your age. Lots of them."
"Whatever."
"A name? Or should I call you Dudley?"
"Yick. My stupid mother hung the name Conan on me, but I'd rather be called Raoul."
"Raoul it is for now. Now let's go get you into some sort of disguise."
"Disguises are for sissies."
"Says who?"
"Whoever. I don't know."
"Look, kid, the information I have is that certain murderous thugs might be trying to rid the world of witnesses, and you're one of them. I'd rather keep you alive."
"Why?"
"What good are my gang members if they're dead? Besides, you have the makings of somebody with real flash."
"Funny."
"I'm not being funny. I'd look like you if I wore what you wore, and never took a bath."
"I hate baths."
"So do I. I prefer showers."
"Whatever."
"Speaking of showers makes me think of locker rooms. What sports teams should a betting man bet on this weekend?"
The boy grinned. "That'll cost you. I've got inside information."
"I'll give you a cut."
"You're the man with a gun," the boy mumbled.
"Speaking of which, tell me about what we're up against. Who am I likely to have to fight if I keep hanging around with you?"
The boy's color went bad and he drew inside himself. "You don't want to mess with Jean," he said.
"What's so bad about Jean?"
"Word on the street is that he killed his own brother. Didn't even hate him or have a falling out or anything. Just wiped him out because he owed somebody a favor, and that somebody wanted his brother's job. You don't want to mess with Jean. He's crazy. Whoever heard of killing your own brother so somebody else could have a stupid job?"
"I've got stuff for you to do that will keep you well away from Jean. But let's improve our chances until we're well away. Let's get you dressed up in a way he wouldn't recognize you. Are you talking about Jean Blondet or somebody else, by the way, just so I'm sure I've got the right Jean?"
"I don't know. Just Jean. That's all we're allowed to call him. The Jean. That's what he likes."
Richard pulled out a photograph and held it over, where the boy could see. "Does that look like him?"
The boy nodded. He went frightfully pale.
"Here, we're all right, and that's enough for now. Let's get you dressed up so he won't recognize you, even close up, eh?" Richard said.
-
The boy looked surprisingly sharp, once he got cleaned up and his hair was trimmed and he was in better clothes. In his new clothes, he sat and stood straighter, too.
"Here. Your own mother won't know you if we aren't careful," Richard said, examining his handiwork as they waited to drive onto the ferry.
"She's dead anyway."
"I guess I should have asked this earlier, but is there anybody left behind we need to go get out? Anybody who might get hurt because you disappear for a while?"
"Naw. The only family I've got is Mauger."
"Are you brothers, really?"
"We are now. Blood brothers."
"I had a blood brother when I was your age. He grew up to be Prime Minister."
"Go on. It's not a laughing matter."
Now that Richard thought about it, it wasn't a laughing matter in more ways than one. Emma despised blood pacts as occult. On the other hand, a man had to establish rapport with a kid before he could condemn cherished traditions. "I'm not joking. Not the present Prime Minister, by the way. The one before. You just never know what people are going to grow up to be."
"I'm not going to grow up, remember?"
"Right. Okay, tell me again the rules for on the ferry."
"Again?"
"Again."
"No talk about street gangs or Jean or jokes about sabotaging anything. We neither sit around docile like cows or run like horses, either of which would draw attention to our humble selves. The trick is to be friendly, but forgettable. Did I forget anything this time?"
"Sounds like you have the program down."
"I've been on tougher expeditions than this."
"We don't know that yet."
"I don't believe it about Russian labor camps."
"Good for you. You're showing some sense. Just don't go crossing me up in public, all right?"
The line moved, and Richard drove forward, finally getting onto the ferry.
The ferry ride was somewhat trying. The boy behaved well enough – for a street boy on his first ferry ride – but overall the situation bothered Richard. Durand had been uncommonly evasive (even for Durand) on why it was imperative for the British to provide these boys unofficial witness protection, where Richard, or someone deputized by Richard, could keep an eye on them.
The boy pulled him back to the present by tugging on his sleeve. Tugging on an undercover agent's sleeve is a very bad idea, but Richard maintained his composure.
"Are there really trolls in England?" the boy asked.
"I've never met one."
"How about giants?"
"I've met a couple of giants in my day. But they've asked me not to give out their names."
"It's no good arguing with giants," the boy said, oozing knowingness.
Richard gave up the fight to keep his heart out of the proceedings. Durand could make up reasons out of thin air for all he cared, so long as he got this kid and his friends away from certain slimy strata of French society.
Not Exactly Allies Page 39