The Midnight Falcon

by Graham Saunders

  Chapter 19

  From every angle he seemed to exude the very essence of a minister of the church; a priest or a vicar, maybe a deacon or any of the other arcane ecclesiastical ranks – the specifics were less certain. It was perhaps the slightly threadbare suit that belonged to a different age, the diffident slightly affected stoop of his shoulders, the trim but somehow unkempt beard, the wire framed bi-focals that perched on the end of his nose. Maybe the smile that although a constant companion was somehow lacking in sincerity; but the absolute give-away was the dog-collar that seemed to constantly etch away at the redness of his neck. He made his way along the train looking for a place that might offer some quiet solitude befitting a man of his station.

  At last he found a nearly empty compartment and moved down the ranks of seats to the least occupied section at the rear and sank with the weariness of an unwilling traveller into a window seat. Perhaps he wished to spend the journey in quiet contemplation or study. But on closer inspection the book he had pulled from his worn leather satchel was not the Bible nor indeed any work of theological scholarship. It was a well thumbed paperback edition of 'Revival' by Stephen King. He opened the book and leafed through the preface until the words 'chapter one' greeted him like an old friend.

  The appearance of a young woman and her companion, a boy of maybe twelve, seemed to offer him no comfort. She stood at the far end of the carriage looking with a keen eye at the faces of the other passengers. When her eyes found his she seemed suddenly transformed into a hunting dog who had scented a trail. With the boy close on her heels she moved arrow-like towards him. He diverted his eyes hoping she might continue past to the end of the carriage. It was not to be. She stopped and he had no alternative but to acknowledge her presence. The young woman pointed to the seat facing him. "Je peux?" She said.

  "I'm sorry... I have little French." He said as a last defence of his solitude.

  "Ah you are English, I thought you might be... I wonder if you would mind if we sat here?"

  "No of course not." He removed his gnarled leather satchel from the now shared table that separated them and gave the pair one of his smiles. Even that was not enough to drive them away so he withdrew into the pages of the book." Chapter One.

  "I see you are a priest." the woman said.

  Another non-committal smile. But the young woman's words seemed to require some verbal response: "Sort of... a vicar actually, the vicar of St Stephens in Bude... That's in Cornwall."

  "Cornwall, I've heard of this place I think; the famous Cornwall pies. You are returning back to there?"

  "Pasties... Cornish pasties." He corrected. "I will return there eventually; but I have business in London first."

  "Ah good London..."

  The young woman seemed to settle herself into her seat, planting herself as a permanent fixture. "My name is Mireille and this is Tommi."

  The sigh was not audible as the vicar was drawn unwillingly into deeper conversation. "Alexander Partington." He said as he rose slightly from his seat and offered the woman his hand.

  "I am pleased to meet you Mister Partington." She pronounced his name Par-ting-ton in a sing-song voice that was far from unattractive.

  "Are you going far?" Alexander said more in hope than expectation.

  "Tommi is going all the way to St. Pancras but I must leave the train at Paris."

  "Ah... all the way... Is Tommi being met at St. Pancras?"

  "Yes my sister will be waiting for him; Tommi is my nephew."

  Alexander shifted his eyes to the boy who appeared lost in some inexplicable game on his mobile phone. It seemed to involve the not infrequent generation of musical chimes. Not of themselves annoying of themselves, but the constant repetition... The boy had close-cropped hair and wore a quilted nylon jacket over a baggy yellow sweatshirt with 'LAKERS' and the number '24' printed on it in bold square face lettering. The words meant nothing to Alexander Partington. He had seen may kids like this in his time, self absorbed, not interested in any engagement with grown-ups; most had turned out just fine.

  "So you're going to London Tommi?"

  "I'm afraid he doesn't speak English very well, Mr Par-ting-ton." Mireille said. The boy did not look up from the game but seemed to sink a little lower, tortoise-like, into the secure bulk of his clothing.

  The TGV was moving now, inexorably gathering speed like a low flying aircraft. So different from the trains Alexander had ridden on as a boy in England; he seemed to remember them as steam trains, shrouded in white billowing clouds with the 'chuff' of the engines and the shriek of the steam whistle as they entered the black hole of Collingsford tunnel. But he knew that the vivid memories came from a romantic notion that probably owed its reality to the TV or cinema. Back in the eighties he must have been transported to school by nothing more romantic than diesel power; the last passenger steam trains were removed from service in the sixties he seemed to remember... Even he was not quite that old. He checked his watch... they should be in Paris by mid-day a little over three hours. Then after a delay to change trains there would be another two and a quarter hours from Gare du Nord to St. Pancras. It would be a long day. He sighed.

  Apart from the boy's game, there had been silence from across the table for several minutes. Alexander picked up his novel. He had borrowed it to read on the way down to the south of France but had by some twist of fate left it in his suitcase, retrieving it during the downward journey proved to be an obstacle too far. So he intended to read it, or a good chunk of it on the way back... Chapter One he read, all considered a good place to start.

  "Mr Par-ting-ton..."

  Mr Partington looked over the top of his wire framed glasses; his smile was persistent but weakening.

  "I wonder if you would like a coffee... I was just going to the buffet... you have this word in English?... Buffet?"

  "Oh yes... Er well that would be very nice." He paused briefly but then his sense of English chivalry prodded sharply at him. "But you must let me go..." He said rising from his seat.

  "Oh how kind..."

  "Would Tommi like something?"

  From under the muffle of clothing came the single word – Coke.

  "A Coke please, chèri s'il vous plait."

  "Coke-Please."

  Alexander cleared his throat. "How do you take your coffee Mireille?"

  "Black please no sugar... You really are very kind."

  Alexander felt a glow of pleasure as Mireille smiled at him. She was indeed quite a pretty thing he thought.

  The journey to find coffee and a 'Coke-Please' was an arduous one. The first intervention was simply the laws of physics; a centrifugal force which caught him unawares. He stumbled as the TGV leaned through a high speed corner and overbalanced against a rather severe looking man. A young girl possibly of a similar age to Tommi was clinging to his arm as if her life depended on it. She looked up at him with what he could only describe as terror in her eyes.

  "Oh do excuse me..." Alexander said.

  The man seemed to stiffen, his hand slipped into his jacket as if feeling for his wallet or... maybe a gun. Apart from the collected works of Stephen King, Alexander also had a life long fondness for spy novels. An interest which did tend to colour his imagination. The man who was, not unreasonably, a Smirch agent, lifted his eyes to Alexander.

  "Oh no that's quite all right Vicar." He said in a rather reassuring home-counties voice. Possibly not Smirch then Alexander thought. He finally returned to his seat with the drinks after encountering more difficulties involving an embarrassing exchange with the waiter. It was really a trivial matter concerning his inability to produce anything other than English currency. The problem was eventually resolved by an accommodating passenger who offered to exchange his twenty Pound note for a twenty Euro note. A most obliging Frenchman. The embarrassment at the time disguising the inequity of the exchange until much later.

  The coffee was rather good. Alexander took up his book.... Chapter One.

  "Mr Par-ting-ton..
. I must admit to having an ulterior motive for sitting with you in this mostly empty carriage."

  "Really?...Do call me Alexander." He said... for God's sake.

  "Excuse me Alexander, but from your appearance I guessed that you might be English and noting from your dress that you were a man of the cloth..."

  "Yes?.."

  "I felt that you would be a person I could trust. As I mentioned before, Tommi is to continue to London without me and I was looking for a responsible adult that might be able to accompany him on the Eurostar for last part of his journey."

  "I see... Well Mireille, I would be delighted to accompany Tommi to London." From the sound emanating from Tommi's phone, the boy seemed to have accomplished some outstanding achievement on the way to stacking falling blocks or rescuing the fairy princess or outwitting some hoards of angry birds – or whatever other intrigue the game might involve. In any case Tommi was smiling and so was Mireille and so was Alexander.

  He managed to doze for an hour or so and was wakened by Mireille who had just retuned from her own expedition up the north face of the buffet car. She bore cans of drink and sandwiches; trophies of her intrepid expedition.

  "I thought you might like something to eat Mr Par-ting-ton... er Alexander." She said.

  "Oh yes how thoughtful."

  Mireille handed him a can of apple juice and a plastic triangle of sandwiches. The sandwiches – white bread with something that may have started life as cheese and now oozed into soggy tomato seemed so un-French. He wondered if the buffet management stocked up on these in London to feed to the peasant English on the return trip – A final pay-back for Agincourt perhaps; the French are known to have a long memory in such matters he understood. Alexander bit into the sandwich and found his suspicions to be confirmed. He smiled at Mireille. "Quite delicious." He said.

  He checked his watch, there appeared to be half an hour left before arriving at the famed Gare du Nord and he took up his book once more. Chapter One...

  "Mr Par-ting-ton... er Alexander. I was just curious about what you were doing in the South of France... Was it perhaps a holiday?"

  For Christ's sake... yes it was a fucking holiday. He said inwardly. "Just spending a few days with friends." He smiled.

  "Oh how nice... But please don't let me interrupt your reading. You enjoy Stephen King?"

  Alexander closed the book and lay it on the empty seat beside him.

  "I get so little opportunity to read fiction these days." He said through a weakening smile.

  "You don't consider the Bible fiction?" Mireille said with a wicked twinkle.

  "I'm not sure now is the time for an in depth theological discu... Ah you were joking. You must forgive me the French sense of humour still catches me off guard from time to time."

  Mireille laughed. "You are such a funny man Mr Par-ting-ton."

  "Am I?"

  "Yes of course... now please don't interrupt me Mr Part-ing-ton I have a magazine to read." She pulled out the latest copy of something called 'Marie Claire'. Not a publication that Alexander was familiar with.

  The arrival at Gare du Nord Paris marked a significant mile-stone in the journey. It required that Mireille take her leave of them and Alexander and Tommi change trains. The changing of trains under any circumstances is always something fraught with trepidation but in a foreign county without the required fluency of language, it is apt to become a nightmare. As they edged along the corridor to the exit an observant passenger might have noticed the Stephen King paperback left behind forlornly where it has slipped under the table. No doubt someone would find it.

  The station was filled with the sound of barely decipherable messages echoing from the loudspeakers; the words bouncing back from various distant walls becoming out of phase with each other and in the process confused and meaningless to any but the seasoned traveller who had studied station-speak. People were bustling around like members of a disorganised ant colony in flight.

  "Tommi you'll be OK now... You'll soon be in London; just stay close to Mr Part-ing-ton." Mireille hugged her young nephew close. "As soon as we can we'll make phone contact."

  The boy nodded, eyes rimmed with moisture, it was clear he was intensely sad to see her go. He clutched her jacket unwilling to release the warmth of her embrace. Alexander watched them, this couple of foreigners that he had just met. He felt touched by their obvious distress at parting; he became suddenly aware of the strength of the bond that these two people shared. Perhaps stronger than any he could lay claim to himself.

  "OK young man we'd better find our way to the Eurostar, its due to board any minute." Alexander looked towards the boarding gates through which focussed passengers were already starting to stream. The boy looked up at Alexander as if in bewilderment. "You understand?" Alexander asked.

  "Oui, je comprends." Tommi mumbled. He turned back and waved at Mireille one last time as Alexander edged him through the boarding gate.

  "Thank you Mr Par-ting-ton." Mireille called across the sea of heads; her arms waving a last agonising farewell. But she was too far away to be heard, already anonymous among the crowds. She turned through her curtain of sadness and walked away towards the exits.

  Alexander let Tommi take the window seat while he occupied the one by the aisle. The train journey was more like taking a flight, the cabin was very much like that of an aircraft and the service the passengers enjoyed also seemed to be inspired by that 'elevated' mode of transport. They edged out of Paris and as the speed increased the scenery melted into a blur. The train could push up to 300 km an hour while the passengers were cocooned in comfort blissfully unaware of their precarious velocity. They were brought a meal which Alexander found to be of adequate standard; the vicar enjoying a glass a wine with his. Tommi picked at his coq au vin with little enthusiasm but seemed to enjoy the chocolate mousse.

  When the meal was over Alexander looked around the carriage and up front he was sure he recognised the man who was possibly not a member of Smirch. He was still with the girl who continued to hovered close to him. It was not all that surprising that a pair of fellow English travellers would also be going to London he mused...

  He patted his jacket pockets and delved into his satchel. Somehow he seemed to have annoyingly mislaid his book. Holding a conversation, except at the most elementary level, with Tommi was impossible due the impenetrable language barrier. Tommi was in any case back with his game; thankfully this time he was using earphones. Alexander decided to doze and did not rouse until he felt the train slow. Through the window he saw the familiar sight of the BT Tower situated in, according to Alexander's memory of trivia, a place with the unlikely name of Fitzrovia. Fitzrovia, he thought, sounded more like an obscure eastern European country than a small London district nestled between Bloomsbury and Marylebone. It was undoubtedly a place riddled with Smirch agents.

  It was late afternoon when they emerged from St Pancras into the pale London light. The sky seemed drab after the vivid light of the south of France. They walked a little way then Alexander pulled off his dog collar; it had been a constant discomfort for the whole day. He bundled it together with the wire-frame glasses and disposed of them into the nearest bin. His stature seemed to grow as he stood up straight and pulled back his shoulders.

  The child was watching him dispense with Mr Par-ting-ton, a half smile on the pale face, a shared look of acknowledgement as their eyes met.

  "So how are you Cup-Cake?" He said. "I like the hair cut by the way." Natasha smoothed her fingers across her bristly scalp. "It will grow back won't it?" She said. "Anyway I could say the same about your beard... and that suit where did you get that?"

  Colby opened his arms... "Come here." He said. Natasha could no longer restrain herself and she launched herself into Colby's open arms.

  "I've missed you." She said.

  "Me too... I'm so sorry about not keeping you safe; I promised that I would and I let you down."

  "Don't worry... It was sort of an adventure."


  "You must have been terrified; I would have done anything to spare you that Natasha."

  "I know... it wasn't your fault... it was me they tricked not you."

  "Valentina explained everything after I got back on board the Falcon."

  "I can't imagine how frightened you must have been... "

  "It all happened so fast... I was sure I was going to die. I always hated Andrej, he was cruel to me when Valentina was away. I knew he was evil... Then as he aimed his gun at me..." There was a pause as Natasha seemed to rally her strength. "I saw Sophie on the catamaran watching Andrej in horror, she seemed shocked that he might want to kill me... I don't believe she ever really wished me harm; she just wanted money. I'm not sure what Andrej wanted, he was just full of hate for everyone and everything... Suddenly Sophie had a gun of her own and in an instant she fired... Just one shot... she hardly seemed to take time to aim. Andrej's head just exploded... "

  "Oh Cup-Cake..."

  "I'm sure she saved my life in that split second. But it's something I never want to experience again. I think I was in shock, they lifted me onto the Falcon and wrapped me blankets in Valentina's cabin. I think I just slept for hours."

  Colby lifted her until only the tips of her toes were still in contact with the pavement. He kissed the top of her bristled head.

  "Don't think about it... You're safe now. We will make sure that you will never have to go to Sachovia now; you won your freedom in that moment in the shadow of Valentina's ketch."

  "I've longed to hear that Colby, I told you when we first met that I never wanted to go to Sachovia... Is it true that they think I'm dead?"

  "It's what Valentina told them, I'm pretty sure they believed her. In any case our little undercover train journey means that no one will know where you are now, no one will be looking for you ever again."

  Colby lowered her back onto her feet.

  "Colby... What's going to happen to Valentina now? Katrina told me that you and she had argued."

  "We did..." Colby paused not sure what on earth he could tell her. "Whatever you might discover about her, about what she did... I think you can be certain that she grew to love you and still loves you now. Nothing can ever change that."

  "What do you mean... What did she do?" Colby was struck dumb, he had no idea how to tell the child that the woman she thought of as the closet she had to a mother had sent her off to be killed. "I think it should be Valentina who tells you." he said.

  "No Colby you've frightened me now, you must tell me."

  "Look... Valentina was being blackmailed... What she did was to save her brother..."

  "So what did she do?"

  "It involved the sacrifice of someone."

  "Me?" Natasha said and she gripped Colby's arm so tightly that it was painful. "She was going to sacrifice me?"

  "It was not you Natasha but what you represented. She loved you... Looking back I can see that it tore her apart when the moment came to say goodbye to you."

  The grip on Colby's arm softened. He looked down at Natasha, watched as she seemed to lose control of her legs and sank down. Before she hit the ground he swept her up in his arms and held her tight against his chest. "She loves you Natasha, don't forget that. You have to find it in your heart to forgive her." As he spoke the words intended as a comfort to her he felt the bitter irony: he was expecting Natasha to forgive Valentina when he could not even bring himself to do it.

  ...

  Katrina had left the Gare du Nord without looking back; to do so might have left her tearful. She had a room booked in a small hotel within walking distance of the station and hid in her room until the morning. She had a flight booked that would, for the first time in her life, take her onto British soil. Her destination was a small Island nestled 50 km off the coast of Normandy where she had been invited to take the modest cottage that Valentina had surreptitiously managed to acquire. Katrina had decided that, once installed at the cottage she would try and find a job, maybe in the hospitality industry, until she found her feet. She had experience as a waitress in Sachovia and Valentina had furnished her with, mostly legitimate, references which might help. She had also given her a little money on which she could live for several months. Guernsey was a place of safety, well off the radar of any Sachovian agents. A place where Katrina might start to weave a new life like a normal person. A simple country girl who just wanted to find a little peace... and possibly, who knows, someone to share a life with. Katrina decided that she would make something of this new opportunity and patiently wait for Valentina to come back into her life. She knew with total certainty that one day soon, on some violet dusk, Valentina would surely sail over the horizon and find her own new life on the smiling little island.