by Janene Wood
“It should make tailing them easy,” said Jake.
Jake eased out into the sporadic traffic, keeping a generous distance between the two vehicles. The journey was predictably sedate. The limo came to a halt after 20 minutes, disgorging its passengers in front of an elegant, five-storey Art Deco apartment building in Montmartre. Jake waited until the limo moved off, then drove forward and parked in front of their destination.
As they strode briskly into the foyer, the night concierge stepped out from behind his desk to intercept them. Wearing a plain, dark suit, he had the deferential manner of a man used to kowtowing to the privileged classes. “Good evening gentlemen, you must be the policemen Madame Bouvré is expecting,”
Jake and Strider exchanged a look of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mme Bouvré rang down just a moment ago to let me know you would be dropping by. She said she was sorry to have missed you and could you please lock up when you’re finished.” Reaching with stubby fingers into his pocket, the concierge withdrew a key and held it out expectantly.
Accepting the proffered key, Strider asked, “Are you saying Mme Bouvré has already left the building? Is there another exit apart from this one?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” the man assured him. “The only way in or out is through the lobby.”
“So she must still be up there,” contended Strider.
“As to that, I couldn't say,” replied the concierge evasively.
“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Jake.
The little man shrugged unconcernedly. “Mme Bouvré comes and goes as she pleases.” Strider glared at him but he was unperturbed. “It's the penthouse apartment.” He turned abruptly and returned to his desk.
The Guardians stepped into the waiting lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. The upward ride was silent; there was no need for discussion, certainly no point speculating what they might find when they arrived; this was what they did, what they trained for. Strider’s hand moved to the reassuring weight of the schiv at his belt, but he left it in its sheath for the moment. He felt under-dressed without Retribution strapped to his back, but it wasn’t like bygone times when a Guardian could walk around in public armed with a sword. Qutars were still de rigueur when hunting, but hunting hadn’t been on tonight's agenda.
The lift doors opened onto an empty corridor, carpeted with an expensive patterned runner. The door to Bouvré's apartment was directly opposite. Strider knocked loudly on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked again. When there was still no response, he took a deep breath and inserted the key the concierge had given him. Jake entered first, followed by Strider. Spreading out, they went through the apartment, room by room, forcing themselves to ignore for the moment the disturbing sight of two black-clad bodies lying immobile on the living room floor.
Upon entering the master bedroom, Strider was immediately taken aback by the lurid, life-like mural of fornicating couples on the wall. Bizarrely, each and every one of the women depicted wore the face of the Russian's dark-haired companion, leading Strider to conclude she must be the owner of the apartment, Mme Bouvré. Above the mural, a large, ornate mirror was scrawled with the message: I'm coming to get you Maya!!
Even more disturbing than the bloody medium it was written in, was the awareness that this was truly an Alliance matter now. By threatening a member of the Council – the Matriarch of the Alete no less – Bouvré had effectively declared war. Her status and motives were less clear, though. Was she a shadowbinder? Perhaps the one who taught the Russian his fire conjuring trick? Who else but a binder would have reason to revile both the Alliance and Lady Emberley?
After ensuring the apartment was unoccupied, the Guardians returned to the living room and the two men lying neatly side by side on the floor. They were very clearly deceased; their eyes were wide open in a macabre death stare and blood oozed from identical wounds to their chests. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, as well as the riper smell of urine, sweat and voided bowels.
Taking shallow breaths, Strider knelt beside the closest man to check his vital signs. It was a pro-forma check; he didn't expect to find any sign of life, but when he pressed his fingers to the man's neck, he was shocked to feel warm flesh and a steady pulse. “That’s impossible,” he muttered to himself.
“I've got a pulse!” called Jake excitedly, looking up from where he was hunched over the other body.
“Me too,” said Strider in a strangled voice. Wasting no time, he pulled the two sides of his man's shirt apart to gauge the severity of the wound, ripping buttons off in the process. There was an abundance of blood and his hands were soon slick with it, but once again he was shocked by his findings. “There's no wound,” he declared. “It's not his blood!”
A rapid check of the other body yielded the same astonishing result. Jake and Strider looked at each other, confused.
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Jake dazedly.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” frowned Strider.
“He blinked!” said Jake excitedly. “Did you see that, Strider? He blinked!” Jake patted the face of the man in question, trying to elicit a further response but he continued to stare blankly at the ceiling.
Strider searched the man whose shirt he had ripped apart and found a wallet in his trouser pocket containing the credentials of a BoJ field agent. “This whole scene has been staged,” he muttered harshly. “If not for our benefit, then for the Bureau's. They must have been drugged with some sort of paralytic; God only knows how long they've been here.”
“A couple of days, I'd say,” said Jake. “They're extremely dehydrated.”
“Well, at least they're alive. I imagine that Russian bastard's having a good old laugh right now, wherever he is,” said Strider bitterly.
“How do you think they managed to get out of the building without going through the lobby?” wondered Jake.
“That's a damn good question,” said Strider thoughtfully.
After calling the BoJ to inform them of the situation and arrange treatment and transportation for the two unconscious agents, Strider and Jake made a more thorough search of the apartment. Unfortunately, they found nothing to shed any light on the bizarre situation they had stumbled into; they had just as many unanswered questions at the conclusion as they did at the beginning. It appeared their quarry and his two female companions had planned their departure well ahead of time, and executed it seamlessly. There was nothing out of place, nothing to point to where they had gone or how. An inspection of the half-empty wardrobes suggested only the two women lived there, and that they had packed for an extended absence. Nothing of a personal nature remained. It appeared they had been ready to leave as soon as they returned from dinner. It made Strider wonder if he and his colleagues had perhaps been led back there deliberately.
“This case is getting weirder and weirder,” remarked a disgruntled Jake. “First there was the fire the Russian conjured up, which still hasn't been explained to my satisfaction, and now he and his two psycho girlfriends are playing mind games with us. If they knew we were tailing them, why lead us back here?
“I expect they wanted us to find these guys,” replied Strider. “For whatever reason, they wanted them alive.”
“Yes, but why go to all this effort? It's nuts! What the hell are they up to? I have a nasty feeling this whole situation goes way beyond simple smuggling.”
“They're showing us how clever they are,” replied Strider. “Although how they managed to subdue and drug two Bureau agents, or why, I've got no bloody clue.”
“And we still have no idea who the damn Russian is… though at least we know the identity of one of his associates now. With luck, this Bouvré woman might lead us to him, if we can find out more about her.”
“Maybe the agents will be able to tell us something useful.”
“Assuming they recover,” said Jake sombrely.
Jake had a point, realised Strider grimly. They had no real idea
what had been done to the men to put them in such a state, and even less if they would recover. He was still mulling everything over when the Bureau’s various medical, forensic and investigative personnel started to arrive. The Guardians were soon busy answering questions, though they weren’t too preoccupied to notice the arrival of the head honcho of the Paris bureau, Deputy Director Amos Griffith, who must have decided the situation was serious enough to warrant a personal appearance. The deputy director kept his distance while he waited to speak to them, observing the proceedings with a gimlet eye and showing a great deal more patience than usual. Strider had dealt with him on a case before, and wasn't looking forward to doing so again.
“A nasty business,” remarked Griffith, when they finally had a free moment to talk, once the two agents had been taken away by the paramedics for further evaluation and treatment. The forensics team had collected fingerprints and other trace evidence and was in the process of finishing up. Strider and Griffin eyed each other warily.
“Mr Webb. You can imagine my surprise when I learned your lot was involved in this unfortunate...situation,” said the DD, clearly put out. “Care to explain?”
“It's perfectly straightforward, sir,” Strider began. “My team and I were out having a quiet dinner when I recognised a suspect in an unsolved case from a few weeks ago. You might remember it: one of our men was shot and the suspect fled after setting fire to–”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” interrupted the DD impatiently.
“The suspect, a male Caucasian of Russian or Baltic extraction, about five eight with shoulder length, silver-grey hair, was accompanied by two women. We followed them to this location, entered the apartment and discovered your men, seemingly shot to death. The culprits had fled the scene...we're still not sure how, perhaps via a rooftop exit. As soon as we identified the men as BoJ, we called your duty officer.”
“I see.” Griffith’s default expression was a pugnacious scowl and it was turned up to maximum intensity now. The silence was heavy as he looked back and forth between the two Guardians, weighing his response. “I'll expect a copy of your detailed report on my desk asap.” He seemed annoyed by his inability to find fault with their actions.
“Yes, sir,” said Strider evenly, “just as soon as it's signed off by our chief.”
The DD glared at him for a long moment, then turned to inspect the blood-smeared timber floor. Strider and Jake waited him out, knowing better than to assume he was done with them. While he had no real authority over them, it was important to maintain cordial relations between their two organisations; they wouldn't be doing themselves any favours by pissing him off any more than he already was.
“I just got off the phone with head office in London,” said Griffith, once again favouring them with his attention. “Director D'Raegan is most disturbed by this evening’s events. He informed me – and this is not for general consumption, you understand – that this Anastazia Bouvré, has close ties to his family. They are, in fact, related, though they've been estranged for many years. Apparently, his lordship has been keeping tabs on his recalcitrant relation and our two unfortunate agents were part of a routine surveillance job he was personally overseeing. They had been out of contact for 36 hours when you stumbled upon them. Lord Emberley has asked me to pass on his sincere appreciation for your prompt action, which undoubtedly saved their lives.”
Strider and Jake exchanged a glance. Clearly those sentiments did not mirror those of the man in front of them. From his attitude, the DD would have preferred the men to perish rather than be beholden in any way to the Brotherhood.
Griffith cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Bouvré has a long history of violent, erratic behaviour and the Director believes this might be an escalation of some bizarre personal vendetta against his family. He has made her apprehension, and that of the Russian, the number one priority of this agency.”
He paused and Strider could tell he was about to say something else he regarded as unpleasant. “Mr Webb, his lordship has specifically requested your assistance in identifying and apprehending the Russian and his two conspirators. If, in the process, you happen to find evidence of any other illegal activity, all the better. I trust you have no objection.”
Strider kept his face carefully blank. “I'd like nothing better, sir, but it's not my decision to make. You would need to speak to–”
The Deputy Director scowled, not bothering to hide his irritation. “I've already spoken to your Mr Zende, and he has given his provisional approval. You will copy him in on all reports and communications and he will review your status on a weekly basis, although I'm sure you’ll want to confirm his instructions for yourself.”
“Very well then,” said Strider, keeping the elation out of his voice. He was being given another chance to bring Errol's killer to justice! “I'm yours to command.”
“I suppose we’ll make it work somehow,” the DD said with ill grace. He hesitated a moment, but his curiosity finally got the better of him. “May I ask how it is that you and his lordship are acquainted?”
“It was a long time ago, sir,” replied Strider unhelpfully. His tone was polite, but the look in his eyes told Griffith to mind his own business.
The DD grunted. Strider's reply left him with no place to go, unless he wanted to embarrass himself further. “Very well. That will be all,” he said ungraciously. “Report to headquarters first thing Monday morning.”
Part 2 – London
Dinner and Dancing
Friday, 23 November, 1979
A light drizzle was falling as the taxi came to a halt beneath the covered portico of the Savoy Hotel in London. A single passenger alighted from the vehicle, wearing the black and white Vivienne Westwood suit she had bought a week before to celebrate the arrival of her latest – and largest by far – royalty cheque. It was unlike Kate McDermott to be so wildly extravagant, but the unexpected windfall had put her in such a good mood that she’d thought simply, to hell with it, and handed over the cash.
The skirt was short, revealing three inches of shapely leg above the knee, and the asymmetric jacket with its draped collar fit her curves like it had been made for her. Catching a glimpse of her reflection as she walked through the hotel lobby, Kate couldn’t help thinking that the suit was worth every penny. She didn't scrub up too badly, even if she did say so herself. Her thick blonde hair was behaving for once and hung down her back in a sleek, shimmering waterfall, held in place by a black velvet band. Her eyes were accentuated with mascara and black eye-liner – not that they were strictly necessary since her eyes were always the first thing people noticed about her anyway – and her lips wore a light covering of dusky-rose lip gloss. Sheer hose and patent leather heels completed the look. The overall effect was smart, youthful and classy, exactly the look she was striving for. It wasn’t every night you were invited to dinner at the Savoy.
The restaurant was filled with elegant diners, all expensively dressed. Kate wished Ryan was by her side as she navigated the crowded tables in the wake of the tuxedoed Maitre’d, but he'd been called into work at the last minute and had no choice but to cancel. Keeping her head high and her back straight, she reminded herself she was the equal of everyone here; nevertheless, she felt a hundred pairs of eyes watching her every step. She hoped they were admiring her outfit, not staring because she’d laddered her pantyhose getting out of the taxi.
Harry Ressic was waiting at a table set for two, a glass of Sambuca in his tanned, perfectly manicured hand. Of average height, he was fit for his age and wore an habitually inscrutable expression, along with a dark grey suit that fitted perfectly. As it should, considering the outrageous sum he would have paid for it, likely five times the cost of her own more modest ensemble. The severity of his’ bald pate was relieved by a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee and the welcoming smile on his face. It was hard to think of him in such a way, but he was an attractive man...sexy even, if older guys were your thing. The majority of women present seemed to agree wit
h her assessment, if their less than discreet glances were any indication.
“Darling girl, you get more beautiful each time I see you,” he greeted her, pulling her close and kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
Kate smiled at the compliment, though he was hardly an objective judge. “I hope you haven't been waiting long,” she greeted him. “I was late getting home from work and the traffic was dreadful.” And she spent longer than usual doing her hair and makeup, wanting to look her best for him, but she didn't feel the need to mention that. The Savoy wasn’t the sort of place she normally frequented, and though she was loath to admit it, she was a little over-awed by the rarefied atmosphere. The air was thick with the redolence of money, power and prestige. Or it could just be the overpowering confluence of French perfume and cigar smoke that made it smell that way, she mused, forcing herself to relax.
“Not at all,” Harry assured her, waving away the Maitre’d and pulling Kate’s chair out himself. Once they were seated, he enquired, “What will you have to drink? If you're in the mood for something exotic, I believe the bartender is a whiz with a cocktail shaker.”
After a moment's deliberation, Harry conveyed her order of a gin and tonic to the hovering drinks waiter, and requested another Sambuca for himself.
“It’s so good to see you, Gramps,” said Kate as soon as they were alone. “It’s been ages.” She regarded his dear, familiar face across the table, examining it for new signs of age or infirmity, and was pleased to see he was unaltered from the last time they were together.
“Ages indeed,” agreed Harry. “I did plan to be in London for your birthday, but fate had other ideas. I’m sorry I missed it; I was stranded on the continent at the time – Pakistan, of all places – which put my entire schedule out for weeks afterward.”
Kate was touched by the sentiment, which she knew was sincere. Gramps always remembered her birthday, and she had been surprised not to hear from him at the time. “I forgive you,” she smiled, “it sounds like you've got a good excuse. What on earth were you doing in Pakistan?”