The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Yves asked.

  “Yes,” Ellie said, and she meant it.

  “That’s why we couldn’t afford it,” Dominique quipped, snickering.

  “Alas, it’s true. When we started out, before the Tournament, we were just three brothers wanting to open a bar and do what we loved—”

  “—drink,” Tristan said, to which Yves nodded modestly.

  “We had to start smaller. Come this way.” He turned away from the gleaming view and took them down small streets and alleyways. Many in the crowd that still followed them took off ahead then, already knowing where they would stop. Another minute of walking and Ellie could see that a large crowd, much larger than the group that had followed them, was gathered outside a warehouse. As they neared, people spilled into the streets and formed lines along the sidewalks. Cars tried to traverse the small lane but were either rebuffed or mired halfway through, honking helplessly.

  Yves made a tsking sound. “I tell the city again and again to block the street for cars. It’s not safe.”

  “What is that place?” Ellie asked.

  “That,” Yves began, beaming, “is the Chat D’argent. Our club, and our home.”

  The place was a madhouse, awash with Gamers and tourists and press, but here, too, the crowd was different. There was none of the cloying, claustrophobic panic that came over Ellie when she was recognized at home, or in England. This was just a tourist trap, like the Louvre, or the Eiffel tower. The only difference was that she was walking alongside the main attractions. As they approached, a loud cheer erupted followed by a rolling chant and song that was practiced and that reminded Ellie of a football crowd. Clearly the triplets were expected this night and probably every night. Once the crowd caught wind of the three Americans, they fell to murmuring like a disquieted theater audience. A sea of mobile phones held high followed as Yves stepped forward, holding his hands up as if addressing them from a pulpit. He spoke in loud, clear French and Ellie heard their names mentioned. His speech was concise and Ellie didn’t understand a word of it, but moments later they passed easily inside.

  “What did you say to them?” asked Ellie.

  “I told them that you are here as our guests, that’s all. But that matters here, for the French. You will not be harmed.”

  With almost nothing in the way of décor or ambiance short of high ceilings and big windows, the Noels were running a smashingly successful bar and full service restaurant. Hundreds of eyes followed them as they walked past the hostess table where two beautiful young women managed the waiting list. Ellie noted with a wry smile that those waiting for tables carried pink pagers that buzzed when their number was called, identical to the one she kept clipped to the inside of her jacket. While the triplets glad-handed everyone, Ellie followed another line back behind the bar and into a crowded gift shop. The banter settled instantly as she pressed her way forward, Tom and Cy quickly flanking her. She stopped by a wall of hanging key chains and rolled French flags with emblazoned caricatures of the triplets. The photographers warmed to her slightly when she picked up a garish bumper sticker with the word NOEL! in glittering silver and cracked a smile. She plucked what looked to be a set of pilot’s wings from a big jar in the center of the shop. She eyed it questioningly, holding it out at arm’s length. In response, Dominique Noel took off his shirt, right in the middle of the store, surrounded by cheers and swooning cries.

  “It’s the mark of Silver!” he cried, thumbing his chest. There, in the center, was a tattoo of the same symbol: three inked bars stacked on each other, fanned out at the wings and intertwined in the center, right at his sternum. The impression was of a tribal version of pilot’s wings. Ellie shook her head, reddening, and Tom and Cy could only blink.

  “I see my dear brother has stirred the waters,” Yves said, raising his voice over the whooping crowd. “Upstairs we go, quickly now.”

  The six of them passed two beefy guards at the back of the gift shop. Yves gave them a friendly slap on the shoulder that elicited a noncommittal grunt as they walked up a stairwell to the second floor and passed through a thick iron gate and a tall wooden door.

  Here the sounds below were muted, although a hum could still be heard, punctuated by occasional whooping, soft and distant. The second, and top, floor of the building was an enormous lofted condominium, a huge open living area that corkscrewed off into three bedrooms and was the size of the entire complex below.

  “Wait, you live here too?” asked Tom.

  “Of course! That’s the whole appeal. People who want to see us can see us here, and if they buy a flag or a pin or a few drinks and some food at the same time, all is good,” said Yves.

  “The food is not so good,” Dominique whispered, still shirtless.

  “The food is fine,” Yves countered.

  Not so good, mouthed Dominique.

  “We’re working on it,” Yves allowed.

  “But the drinks!” Tristan said, kissing his fingertips as he moved over to an extensive wet bar set into a marble island countertop. “The drinks are magnifique.” He grabbed three tumblers in each hand and plopped them on the counter before he set about peeling a lemon.

  “You see,” said Yves, offering the Americans a seat at one of a number of leather chairs around the island, “we developed a story that the team was formed at that very bar downstairs.”

  “Is that true?” Tom asked.

  “Strictly speaking, no. We were recruited at a bar, but it was in Marseille.”

  “I don’t even remember it happening,” Dominique grinned.

  “It’s true,” said Tristan, pouring an opaque concoction from a silver mixer evenly into each glass. “We had to tell him the next day.”

  Yves waved the story off. “But they don’t need to know that.” He nodded to a wide, angled bay window that gave them a clear view of the bustling floor below. “For all they know, or care, Silver came together right there at the main bar downstairs. We actually installed a commemorative plaque at the far end where we say it happened.”

  “It makes a ... lot of money for us,” Tristan said, handing each a glass and taking a seat himself.

  “But what if you were attacked here?” Ellie asked. “Isn’t it dangerous for them?”

  “I think they like that too,” Yves said, raising his glass. “To welcoming danger.” He smiled, then they all drank. Ellie fought back a cough and Tom sucked in a large breath afterwards. Cy took the liquor straight down.

  Yves set the tumbler down with finality, pleased. “Now, Ellie. What is it that you want my brothers and me to help you with?”

  “Mazaryk.”

  At this the triplets said nothing. Yves watched her and waited.

  “Mazaryk has all but crowned himself king of the Tournament, and sole proprietor of the power that comes with it. He and the Black House have to be stopped.”

  “Why?” Yves asked.

  Ellie did not expect this. She’d read about what Mazaryk and Black had done to Silver in their own city of Paris in the last cycle of the Tournament. She knew that Tristan had gone temporarily blind with the force of their defeat at his hands. She expected nodding and snarls of approval, not strange smiling eyes and prodding questions.

  “You know what happened at Shawnee. And what happened to you at Frieze nightclub. You know better than I what kind of a man he is.”

  “Shawnee saw the right man killed,” Yves said.

  “He terrorized a high school.”

  “The world is our arena. The entire world.”

  “What?” Ellie felt her voice rising. “He’s judge, jury, and executioner. He blinded your brother. He nearly killed him because he felt he deserved it! Because he thought you three didn’t pay his vision enough respect.”

  Tristan looked away; his eyes were still slightly rouged from that encounter and the subsequent surgeries to fix his sight.

  “You must separate the man from his methods,” Yves said. “It’s true he is vicious, but he is also right
when he says the Tournament should be above the law.”

  Ellie swallowed. She felt the room growing dimmer. The background hum of the crowd below became a ringing. Without the French their prospects at taking down the Black House almost guttered out. Ellie pressed on.

  “Yves, right man or not, he’s a murderer. Nothing is sacred with him.”

  “The Tournament is,” Yves countered. “And he is growing its power. He’s good at this.”

  “Growing it and keeping it for himself!” snapped Tom.

  The room quieted. Ellie couldn’t help but notice that Dominique nodded approval at Tom’s outburst and that Yves darkened.

  “You don’t know that,” Yves said, although his voice rang hollow and he knew it. “Who knows how he’ll reward those who joined the Black House, if they become the global power he wants. I’ve heard that the table there is round, and each of the original eight teams has a place equal to the rest.”

  Dominique sniffed. Tristan gazed morosely into his drink.

  “You tell me, Yves,” Ellie said. “You think Mazaryk will give all the power back once his grand dream of unification is realized? You think he’ll make an even split between the countries? He’s deciding who gets the polarization formula already. You think he’ll just tap out once the crown rests on his head?”

  “Either way, I don’t think it’s worth risking our lives,” Yves said, and he sat back and looked squarely at Ellie, unabashedly. “What is it that you are trying to do here, really?”

  “I’m trying to take a stand—”

  “Against him? You would lead a charge against him? You?”

  “Now brother—” Dominique began.

  “Or perhaps you and the Irish?” Yves continued.

  “No,” Ellie said, and the sound of Ian Finn’s voice rolled through her head once more: Welcome to the party. The fun never stops. But he was gone and she and her team were at the party alone.

  “What?” Yves asked.

  “The Irish said no. They won’t help us.”

  “So now it’s up to you.”

  “You think I want any of this?” Ellie yelled, stilling Yves. “I was hoping you would lead us. You and your brothers. I’m not up to this. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now?”

  Tom and Cy looked elsewhere in the ensuing silence.

  “We would come with you. Help you however we could,” Ellie added sheepishly.

  “Mazaryk wants what is best for the Tournament. He wants to make it strong. I’m not sure how it’ll turn out, none of us knows for sure, but trying to stop him isn’t worth risking our lives,” Yves said with finality. He had rehearsed this answer for the question he knew would be asked of him; it sounded as flat coming out of his mouth as it had sounded in his head when he turned it over again and again after he heard the Americans were speeding towards them on a hijacked train.

  “So that’s it then? That’s your answer? No?” asked Ellie.

  Yves nodded.

  Ellie sought the eyes of his brothers but couldn’t find them. She abruptly stood. “Cy, Tom, I think it’s time we left.”

  “Where will you go?” Yves asked.

  “Mexico, not that you care. Maybe White have come to their senses. Clearly you haven’t.” She walked towards the wooden door and staircase again. Tom shook his head in disgust and pushed himself up. Only once the two of them were at the door did they notice that Cy hadn’t joined them. He was still sitting, watching the activity downstairs through the window.

  “Cy,” Ellie said, prodding.

  Cy remained still. Then his phone buzzed, on vibrate in his pocket, but still audible. He didn’t answer it or check who might be calling him. He already knew. It was the same number that called him every few days around this time. It had taken him weeks to get to the point where his hand no longer hovered over the answer button. Before that he’d answer but wouldn’t speak. Only listen to her voice. At the time he thought that better than nothing, but it became too painful. He pressed at it in his pocket several times before it stilled.

  “Cy, they don’t want anything to do with us,” Ellie said.

  Cy placed his hands on his thighs and slowly pushed to standing, but instead of joining his team at the door he moved over to better see through the window. He looked at it like a cat at a fish tank. “What do you think Mazaryk would say to all of this?” he asked, clearing his throat. His voice was hard and sounded out of place after his long silence. “Worthless French. They still think this is a game,” he mocked, voice dripping.

  Yves stood, but Cy never flinched or looked away from the fishbowl. “That’s what he’d say.” Cy nodded, pushing his hood back to bare his face as he turned towards them. “And how long do you think he’ll allow this once he owns all of us? This buying and selling of his beloved Tournament? Not long, I’ll bet. Kiss your bar goodbye, and your themed cocktails and bronze plaques and swooning grannies and your little fucking plastic pins.”

  Tom looked to Ellie. It was around this time when Ellie usually tried to rein Cy back in, but Ellie remained silent.

  “Drink up, boys,” Cy spat. “While you still can.” He pulled his bandana around to cover his face. “Pretty soon we’ll all be wearing black,” he said, speaking through it.

  Dominique and Tristan watched Yves as the Americans walked sullenly down the stairs in locked, weary steps. Blue stared straight ahead when they hit the crowd downstairs, exponentially larger than it had been when they first went up now that word of the meeting was out. They ignored the screams and calls, many of them jeers, and threaded through the gift shop and bar to the street. Ellie wondered how long the triplets’ protection stood for, and was just about to tell Cy and Tom to take their guns out once more when she heard her name called.

  “Ellie! Wait!”

  She turned, eyes flashing, to find Yves pushing his way towards them, his hand up to get her attention. His brothers were behind him.

  “Let’s see what the Mexicans have to say,” Yves said.

  “Does that mean—”

  “It means that I want to hear what Diego Vega has to say. That’s all. For now.” Beside him Tristan nodded and smiled, and Dominique winked at her. Ellie grinned herself and was glad that she’d pulled her own bandana up to cover her face before they left.

  “Come on then,” she said, “lead us to the airport.”

  The Noel triplets pushed their way into the street as the crowd buzzed with this newest turn. Yves whistled loudly and a big black SUV pulled to the curb. He opened the door and climbed in, followed by his brothers and then Tom. Ellie moved to get in, but first she let a hand linger on Cy’s shoulder, a silent thanks, but also something more. She had long ago guessed who was calling him. He looked at her and his face never cracked. There was no hint there of anything other than determination. He nodded almost imperceptibly. Then she got in the car. Cy was the last in, and he made six.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WALCOTT DROVE HIS DAUGHTER away from UCSD and out to Northern Heights where he lived with his wife Sheila in a gated community, Northern Point. They drove in near silence for a time, the radio on at a whisper, the fluorescent streetlights above flashing by in lulling time. He ran through the assault in his mind as if recounting a past television episode. It took time to come to terms with the fact that he was actually there, and that they were nearly abducted. When his mind confronted these realities, his hand—the hand resting lightly upon his daughter’s hand on the console—began to shake. As the adrenaline evaporated from his system Walcott was surprised at his fatigue. He knew Sarah must feel the same sapping effect, and for a time he thought she might be asleep until she spoke, her eyes still closed.

  “That was Alex Auldborne. I recognized him from television.”

  “Yes it was.”

  “What an asshole.”

  Walcott laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Yes, he is,” he nodded.

  “But you don’t work for him, right? You work for the new American team, the one with Ellie.
”

  “Technically I don’t work for any of them. I work for the Council of Administrators, the governing body of the Tournament.”

  “You made the diode.”

  “No, that was Bill Beauchamp, a colleague. He’s dead now. It killed him.”

  Sarah opened her eyes and turned to him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. He was a good man. It wasn’t even a year ago, but it seems like another lifetime now when we worked together. We had a lab together, and he and I and a young engineer named Sarah Foss who served as his research assistant. She got sent away somewhere after the wall of secrecy around the Tournament started to crack. I never figured out where.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I developed the polarization serum. The shot that they talk about. You need both for the diode system to work, the diode and the shot.”

  “And Auldborne wants the shot.”

  “Auldborne already has it. He just wants me not to give it to anyone else, like those Chinese men.”

  “Would you have given it to them?”

  “If I had my way, I wouldn’t give it to anyone. For a long time I felt very strongly about that. I hated myself for inducting the old Blue team, and then the new Blue team, and I felt trapped in this cycle of destruction that follows that damn formula around. I’ve told myself many times to walk away from everything. But then you walk into your daughter’s apartment one day and she’s got a gun to her head.” Baxter frowned and felt his hands begin to tremor again so he gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Yeah. I’d have given them anything.”

  Sarah nodded and turned back to the window.

  “Sarah, honey, I want you to know that what happened there had nothing to do with you and Northern. They came after you because they knew it would get to me. That’s how this Tournament works. It’s my fault, not yours.”

  “I don’t think they would have hurt me, the Chinese.”