Black Madonna

by Carl Sargent

  “If it’s about last night–” he began.

  “Bugger last night!” the Earl said. “Not important. The Commissioner of Police hasn’t had to smooth anything over for some time, not since that idiot Earl and the scoutmaster, so it won’t cause many ripples. Not, however, that I suggest you involve yourself in such nocturnal alarums and excursions on a regular basis.” he finished in finger-wagging mode.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Geraint said fervently, making sure he got the “sir” into the conversation right at the start.

  “But it is about last night, in a manner of speaking.” The Earl stopped there, and began the ritual of lighting one of his implausibly large cigars. Even in Havana, nimble-fingered artisans must have been appalled at the prospect of rolling one of these monstrosities Bizet’s famous heroine would have had thighs like a Sumo wrestler’s had she been obliged to roll such cigars all her life. Geraint could do nothing but wait.

  Cunning old swine, he thought. It’s absolutely deliberate, leaving me to stew in my own anxiety until he chooses just the right moment to dump ten tons of stinking drek on me. Full-blown ministers need that kind of talent, I’ve learned.

  “There are certain foreign interests to whom HMG does not wish to cause unnecessary offense at this particular moment in time.” the Earl said slowly. Again he paused, using his free hand to check the time on the pocket-watch he fished out of his waistcoat pocket. Geraint waited further for the punchline.

  “Those interests are unhappy regarding the nature of certain enquiries you and a certain associate appear to be pursuing.” the Earl went on. “It gives them offense, I regret to say. And His Majesty’s Government does not wish that to happen. And of course I am a servant of HMG, even as you are.”

  And of course we both know the other hold you have on me, Geraint added to himself. But he chanced something anyway.

  “May I respectfully enquire as to whether you are familiar with the nature of the problem that has led to our undertaking certain enquiries?” he said, using the intractably long-winded language that was the lingua franca of professional British politicians.

  “I may or may not be.” the Earl said, “but I do know where the interests of King and country lie. So I trust I can rely on your discretion in this matter. Perhaps we shall take dinner at my club, then?”

  The invitation couldn’t be refused. It was like a gentleman’s handshake, a seal on the matter. To do so would implicitly reject the Earl’s demand. Accepting it, of course, would mean that Geraint could not go back to Michael and the others and engage in any more mischief. Despite his irritation, Geraint admired the aging Earl. He knows the rules of the game and how to impose himself, he thought. And best of all, he reassured himself, he has no idea why we’re doing what we’re doing. Which gives me one loophole. If we’re successful, I can argue that the end justified the means and he won’t be angry afterward. But if we’re not . . .

  “Delighted to.” Geraint said cheerfully. “Does Alphonse still do that wonderful sea bass?”

  The Earl’s face lit up with that expression of delight that can only be seen on a politician who thinks he’s just gained the submission of an underling. When he rose to his feet, he didn’t even fart, which he almost invariably did. Juniors at the Foreign Office had been known to refer to their minister as The Lemur, interpreting this behavior as some bizarre form of territorial scent-marking. Clearly the Earl was in excellent spirits, feeling entirely secure.

  You don’t know how wrong you are, Geraint thought as he picked up the phone to warn Michael of his impending absence while the Earl summoned his limo. Now I know that whoever’s against us can get to you, which means we really are on to something big.

  And if I can crack this one, maybe I’ll get the monkey off my back that you put there.

  * * *

  It had been a standard black taxi like any other London taxi cab. The trip from Oxford Street to Mayfair was through crowded streets, a short enough haul, a small fare, and it could have been any taxi. Michael had barely glanced at the driver. Dusting the last of the cracker crumbs from his mouth, he’d climbed into the first one in the queue waiting for fares in front of Selfridges. After giving the address, he sat back with a yawn, a bit sleepy after too few hours of rest the night before and the lingering effects of the drink. He hadn’t taken much, but it had been ferociously strong.

  But surely not so strong, he’d thought while looSerring his tie. He’d felt hot and sweaty, and light-headed, and then he registered that Kristen was tugging at his sleeve and looking at him with an expression of concern, an expression that turned to panic as the taxi began to run the red lights. After that it was a long enough stretch of almost-open road ahead to be able to pick up a little speed and minimize the chance of any passerby registering that two people were trying to clutch at the windows and not managing it, two people finally slumping back into their seats as the last of the gas billowed soundlessly into the sealed back compartment.

  Black taxi cabs are not so unlike the cars that follow the hearse in a funeral cortege, after all.

  9

  “They’re still out.” Serrin told Geraint when he rang the apartment. “Not back yet.”

  “Oh, well, never mind.” Geraint said. “I won’t be back until eleven or so, I don’t expect. Fortunately the old bastard usually nods off in his chair about half-past ten and the liveried servants carry him away to sleep it off. See you thereabouts.”

  Serrin was surprised that Geraint hadn’t asked him how his own searches were going. He was already intrigued, and after a few more phone calls had gotten even more so.

  While adding to his notes, he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and went to raid the fridge. He managed to put together some highly inept sandwiches from soft cheese and Parma ham, wishing the bread were a bagel, and went back to his writing. Finally, pausing at the last sentence, he caught the time on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

  Ten minutes to eight.

  He was astonished. Subjectively it felt around six at the latest, and with the heavy drapes drawn in the room–Geraint’s suggestion, since they had, after all, been subject to surveillance–he hadn’t realized that it had long since grown dark outside.

  Something was clearly wrong. Michael and Kristen had been gone for more than seven hours and they would surely have phoned in the normal course of events.

  There was a knock at the door, and a whole host of paranoid thoughts and images leaped into his mind. He found himself walking over to get the Predator from his jacket, and then realized this was only bloody England, after all. Even in this day and age, there was barely one licensed gun for every hundred people–about the exact reverse of the situation at home–and there weren’t that many illegal weapons on the street.

  And those that were usually didn’t make it north of the Thames all the way to posh Mayfair.

  Opening the door a crack Serrin saw a uniformed delivery man standing outside with his clipboard and pen. awaiting his signature.

  “His Lordship isn’t home. Detained on urgent government business.” he said.

  The delivery man didn’t look terribly impressed. “Has to be his signature.” he insisted. “Says so on the paperwork. Look.” and he demonstrated the fact with a thick, ink-stained finger.

  Serrin shrugged. “He probably won’t be back until midnight.”

  “Look, mate, this is well out of hours already. Special service extra delivery, know what I mean? Rakk me if I’m coming back at rakking midnight.”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” Serrin was irritated at the man’s foul mouth. “Look, I’ll sign and everything will be in order.”

  “Rakk off. You’re not a lordship.” the man said huffily. “You can’t even be one of his servants–you’re a bloody Sep. you are! I can’t let you have this, guy. More than my job’s worth.”

  Serrin fished into his pockets and located what he considered a reasonable sum in pounds sterling.

  The man looked at t
he bills rather dubiously.

  Serrin exchanged the sum for nuyen, and upped the ante fifty percent.

  The man shrugged philosophically. “Just sign as ‘im and no one will ever know the difference.” he said casually.

  Serrin did as he was told.

  “So where’s the package?” he asked.

  “Down in the parking lot. I’m not lugging it all the rakking way up here.”

  “Thanks.” Serrin said dryly, wishing he hadn’t upped the payment. Just as the delivery man turned to leave, a dark-haired elf dressed in black emerged from the elevator and fixed him with a stare by way of greeting.

  “Lord Llanfrechfa at home?”

  “Frag me, this is worse than Piccadilly Circus!” Serrin sputtered. “He’s out and isn’t likely to be back until midnight.”

  “Pity. It was urgent.” the elf said quietly. Serrin appraised him. He was muscular of build, but very lithe and in excellent physical condition. A street samurai or a physad, he thought.

  “You Serrin?” the other elf asked suddenly, to which Serrin nodded. “Streak. Maybe Geraint mentioned me?”

  Serrin recalled the name from breakfast and said so, making the mistake of mumbling some thanks for the help the elf had given his friends. Streak took the advantage.

  “Look, mind if I wait? It really is urgent.” he said insistently.

  “This isn’t my place.” Serrin began, but the elf cut him short.

  “Look, brother, last p.m. I had five terms working with me on a raid for his lordship. By the time we shipped out again this morning, I had three and a half, with what was left of one of the trolls. Now I’m down to two and a half. Maybe, some time soon, one of my terms is going to find out he’s down to one and a half.” The elf drew his right forefinger across his throat. It was melodramatic, but he was dead serious.

  “I reckon I could use at least enough explanation to keep from becoming another statistic myself. Frag it, brother, I’m not here to knock you on the head and take the family silver. Give me a sodding break, okay?”

  Serrin decided to let the other elf in, then locked the door and drew the chain bolt as well.

  “Not a bad idea.” Streak said. From his amply padded black jacket, he took the component parts of two folding-stock automatic weapons and began assembling them.

  “I don’t know if were going to need this kind of heat.” Streak told Serrin, who was studying him doubtfully “but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “I’ve got to go investigate a package and I’m not leaving you here alone in the place.” Serrin said.

  Streak looked at up him with an intense stare and then nodded. “Fair enough, term. Fortunately for you, I’ve done some bomb disposal in my time.”

  “Damn, I hadn’t thought of that.” Serrin said. “Thanks.”

  “Only some, mind you. Don’t get too grateful too soon. Anyway, the scanners should have picked up anything suspicious entering this building. They’ve got good security here.”

  “Let’s be grateful for that.” Serrin said with feeling, but Streak caught him out again.

  “Not good enough to stop me getting in, of course, and if it’s one of those experimental percussion-sensitive gel explosives that scans as biomatter, then we’d be buggered sideways whatever we did.” he said with a laconic chuckle. “But then, live life to the full, that’s what I say. Can’t worry about being blown into bloody fragments every day of your waking life.”

  Streak put down the assembled LMG and got to his feet, taking in the look on Serrin’s face. His own broke into a gleeful smile.

  “Serrin mate, you’re a worrier, I can see that.” he said, putting an arm around the other’s shoulder. “I like that in a bloke, but don’t let the bastards get you down.

  “Now, let’s go say hello to Mister Bomb.”

  * * *

  The wooden crates were bound only with rope. They were not, apparently, even nailed shut, with sliding tops restrained by the thick ropes around them. Streak’s diagnostics took a few minutes, and he looked reasonably content.

  “There’s a little metal content but very little indeed. Actually, I think it’s probably a watch, and a ring. Oh, and a portable computer and one or two other little extras.”

  “What extras?” Serrin asked.

  “There are two bodies in there.”

  “Spirits!” Serrin cried out. “How many dead people are we going to–”

  “They may or may not be dead.” Streak said. “Anyway I think we can risk this.” and drawing out an evil-looking survival knife, he slashed clean through the ropes on one crate and slid back the panel top.

  Kristen, apparently sound asleep, lay within. Serrin made a scrabbling attempt to lift her out, but it was impossible given the height of the crate. With Streak’s help, he gently tipped the crate onto its side and lifted her into his arms.

  “Know her?” Streak asked as he slashed at the ropes on the other crate.

  “She’s my wife.” Serrin said, hugging the inert body close to his chest.

  “Right, then I s’pose you do.” Streak replied. “So who’d Father Christmas put in this one, I wonder?”

  Serrin told him. Like Kristen, Michael was fast asleep and absolutely impossible to wake.

  “Oh, look, one of the reindeers dropped a message.” Streak said, extracting a waxed scroll of paper and handing it to Serrin. “Nicely done, eh? Dead authentic.”

  “Just stick it in my jacket pocket.” Serrin snapped. His arms full of warm, sleeping body, so mercifully alive, he could hardly take the paper and read it there and then. Streak looked at him, stepped backward a few paces, and broke the seal. Serrin was furious, not wanting the other elf to know who had been responsible for this.

  “No. I’ll do the town crier act here, I think.” Streak said imposingly. “Your terms are asleep, sep. Mine are dead.”

  Given the emphasis on the last word, Serrin couldn’t really argue. He could only wait and listen.

  “ ‘This is a reasoned warning’.” the elf read out. “ ‘We kill those who shed our blood, but we do not kill without honor. Desist from your enquiries. This reasoned warning is also a final one. Our honor will not be impugned.’ Phew.”

  “That’s it?”

  That’s it.”

  “No signature?”

  “What did you expect, the Spanish Inquisition?” the elf said with contempt. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Serrin had him absolutely trumped.

  “Well, actually, more or less, yes, that’s exactly what I expected.”

  Streaks jaw dropped and he just stood and gawked. “You’re fragging serious, aren’t you?”

  “You wanted an explanation and now you’re going to get it.” Serrin said with the triumph of an absolute advantage. “Just get Michael into the elevator and into the flat and we’ll talk.”

  * * *

  Geraint was entirely unprepared for the scene he encountered upon returning home sometime around midnight. Using his magkey to let himself in, he entered to find two elves sitting on his sofa so deep in discussion they barely even acknowledged his presence.

  “Well, excuse me, but I just live here.” he said tartly while hanging up his coat. “Where are Michael and Kristen?”

  “Sleeping.” Serrin told him.

  “They retired early.” Geraint observed casually.

  “They didn’t have much choice.” Serrin shot back, then explained for Geraint’s benefit. Whatever it was hasn’t worn off. Face slaps, cold water, we tried it, it didn’t work.”

  “But they’re fine.” Streak put in quickly. “I scanned ‘em. Not the same as a doc, but I didn’t know if you’d want one summoned here and Serrin didn’t either.”

  “What are you doing here?” Geraint asked. He hadn’t expected to see the elf again; he’d just been someone useful commissioned for a job, to be paid and then forgotten.

  Serrin told him that Streak had a right to know something, what with half his team either dead or incapacitated.

/>   “Since whoever we’re up against has it in for them as well as us, I thought we owed him something.” he finished.

  “Thanks for consulting me about it.” Geraint was obviously not pleased.

  “You weren’t here to ask. And, be fair, he checked those crates. They could have been rigged. He opened them and took his chances.”

  “So he knows everything?” Geraint asked. Serrin paused for the merest instant to let him know that no, the other elf didn’t know everything, but he could hardly tell the Welshman what he hadn’t divulged here and now. It would have to await Streak’s departure.

  “So, another warning.” Geraint concluded, after sitting down and reading the missive Serrin handed him. “This is getting ridiculous. They got to my boss as well; he warned me off. That makes three so far–this, him, and old Joan of Arc last night. These bloody Jesuits don’t do things by halves.”

  Streak asked him what he meant by referring to Joan of Arc, so Geraint told him about the commotion of the previous evening. Clearly, Serrin hadn’t gone into all the details on that score.

  “Well, whoever sent the spirit–if that’s what it was–it wasn’t the NOJ.” Streak said. “I’ve come up against these blokes before. Little job down in, oh well, never mind. But I had to learn some stuff about them, and I know enough to tell you that’s hardly on the menu. That wasn’t them.”

  “How can you be sure?” Geraint asked.

  “My sources say the same thing.” Serrin added. “Joan of Arc was, after all, a woman.”

  “Well, frag me.” Geraint said, “I never knew that.”

  Serrin ignored the sarcasm. “it’s just that, well, the NOJ thinks of her as a heretic. A bit too florid. Catholic politics, misogyny, rumors about Pope Joan, that sort of thing. Anyway, they certainly don’t care for her. They wouldn’t summon a spirit to take that form.”

  “Then you’re saying that at least two groups, or a group and an individual maybe, have been telling us to sod off and stop doing what we’re doing sharpish.” Geraint said incredulously.

  “It would appear so.” Serrin said.