The Timekeeper Conspiracy

by Simon Hawke

  "That's what I thought," said Lucas. "I can see why you're so fond of these people, Finn," he said sarcastically. "He's setting us up. We're the bait to flush out the Timekeepers."

  "Well you can fucking well forget that noise," said Finn, rising to his feet angrily. "That wasn't part of the deal. This is supposed to be your ballgame, Mongoose, or whatever the hell your name is. You seem to forget that we're not company men. We're soldiers. And damn expensive soldiers, at that, too damn expensive to be used as judas goats in your espionage games. This is supposed to be a TIA show. I didn't like it, but those were the orders. We're here just in case you people blow it. We're not even supposed to be involved in your investigation."

  "That's where you're wrong, Delaney," Mongoose said. "You're already involved. You stepped into the game when you interfered in Meung and involved yourself with D'Artagnan. That was your mistake, not mine. It was your responsibility. You're going to have to live up to it."

  "No way."

  "You haven't got much choice, Delaney." The agent got to his feet. "You either do it my way or I'll blow your cover myself. The Timekeepers are here, there's no question of that, and knowing the way they work, I'll stake my reputation on the fact that they've manuevered themselves into positions that will enable them to strike at key figures in this scenario. My job is to intercept them and I can't do that unless they reveal themselves. I'm not about to have a couple of commandos come in to clean up my mistakes. I don't make mistakes."

  "Listen here," said Lucas, "what do you think this is, some interagency competition? Some sort of intramural game? We've got a potential timestream split here and you're worried about your record?"

  The agent headed for the door. "Let's get one thing clear," he said. "This is my show and I call the shots. And I'm going to call them as I see them. I'd appreciate your cooperation, but remember one thing—I don't need it. You either work with me or you work for me, it's up to you."

  "Or we work against you," Finn said.

  The agent held up his laser casually. "I wouldn't advise that. These are perilous times. Keep in mind that adjustments are your specialty, gentlemen. Assassination's mine."

  * * * *

  There was a soft knock at the door. For the second time that day, Andre panicked. She was not normally given to that emotion, but her emotions had been strained to the breaking point. Earlier that day, there had been another knock at the door to the apartments and her heart was in her mouth as she answered it. It was only a messenger from the tailor shop, delivering her clothes. She had been able to keep him out of the apartment, but she had been afraid that the boy would still sense that something was amiss. Hunter's body had been lying in the bedroom for two days. There had been no chance to get rid of it, no way of removing it without being discovered. It had been all that she could do to keep the maids out of the room. The lie was that "Monsieur Laporte" was very ill and could not be disturbed.

  For two days, she had been in something like a state of shock. Who had killed him? Why? Nothing had been stolen. Had Hunter enemies in Paris, in this time? If so, why had he not warned her? Or perhaps he had, when he told her to remain in the hotel unless he accompanied her. What had happened? And worse than the shock of finding him dead, worse than not knowing why he had been killed or by whom, was the realization that she was now entirely alone, trapped in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar time, with no way of escape. She literally had no place to go.

  Cautiously, her nerves ragged, she went up to the door.

  "Who is it?" Her voice seemed shrill to her. She swallowed hard, trying to calm herself.

  "Doctor Jacques Benoit," came the soft reply, "to see Monsieur Laporte."

  She leaned against the door with relief. It was a name she knew. Jacques Benoit—Jack Bennett—Hunter's friend. The man who was the reason for their journey to this time. Surely, he'd know what to do. She had no one else to turn to. Quickly, she opened the door and pulled him inside.

  The old man looked confused. He had come to see an old friend and he now found himself facing an extremely agitated young woman dressed in nothing save her undergarments. His eyes took in the harried look that spoke of little, if any, sleep. He noticed the uncharacteristically short blonde hair, worn in a male fashion, the flushed cheeks, the nervous perspiration on her forehead. Then his professional senses took over and he saw deeper, or rather, he observed more closely. He noticed the woman's bearing, her unusual muscular development, her slightly bowlegged stance that spoke of years spent in the saddle. He saw her hands, which were not the hands of a pampered Parisienne, but the hands of one who worked at hard and possibly brutal labor. The calluses and scars told a tale of violence and survival.

  She, in turn, saw a withered, kindly, avuncular old man with gray hair and crow's feet, wrinkled skin, and slightly stooped posture and her heart sank. How could this grandfatherly old man be of any help to her? Then her years of soldiering took over and she saw something else, which the casual observer might miss. His eyes. They were alert, sharp, distressingly blue, and deeply observant. He was taking her measure even as she took his.

  "What is it?" said Jack Bennett. "Where is he?" He spoke in English.

  She shut the door quickly, locked it, then jerked her head toward the bedroom. Before he reached the door, the old man knew. The knowledge stopped him in his tracks like a hammerblow.

  "Oh, my God," he said, softly. "How long?"

  "Two days."

  "Sweet Jesus." He pulled back the sheet and his eyes became filled with pain at the sight. "It was because of me," he said, his voice hollow. "It was all my fault. He couldn't have known."

  "He couldn't have known what?" said Andre.

  "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," said Bennett. "And they killed him for it. Because of me."

  "Who killed him? Why? What had you to do with it? Speak, and be quick about it!"

  Bennett turned and saw her standing in the door, a rapier in her hand. Under other circumstances, it might have been a comical or maybe even an erotic sight, a striking-looking woman in her underclothing, standing in the doorway to the bedroom with a sword in her right hand. But it was neither funny nor erotic. The soldier in Jack Bennett, though he had not fought in years, knew at once that this woman was extremely dangerous.

  "Who are you?" he said, gently.

  "Andre de la Croix."

  "You speak English very well, but it's not your native language. And your French, from the little I heard, is less than perfect. Are you underground?"

  She frowned for a moment, then remembered. "That was the purpose for our journey here. Hunter came to seek you out."

  "You're a recent deserter, then. I thought as much."

  "You thought wrong," she said. "I was never a part of the armies of the future. I am a Basque whose time is over four hundred years distant."

  "Good Lord. You're a D.P.," said Bennett, astonished.

  "What?"

  "A displaced person. And Hunter brought you here to join the underground, to receive an implant?"

  She nodded.

  "You must be an extraordinary young woman," Bennett said. "I can imagine what you must have been going through these past two days."

  "I need your help," she said.

  "You have it. It's the very least that I can do. God. Poor Hunter."

  "Who did this?" Andre said. "Why was he killed? You say it was on your account?"

  "I'm afraid so," Bennett said. "It must have been an accident. A horrible misunderstanding. There was no way he could have known. They must have thought that he was someone else. Yes, there could be no other explanation. They—"

  "Who?" shouted Andre. "What kind of misunderstanding could have led to this? What could he not have known? Tell me, this instant!"

  Bennett stared at her. "Yes, I'll tell you. I can't condone it any longer. They've gone too far. I've made a terrible mistake and now my friend of many years has paid for it. I'll tell you, but I don't know what in God's name we can do about it n
ow."

  "Precious little, I'm afraid," said another voice. Andre saw Bennett's eyes widen even before the man spoke and she was already spinning around to face the threat, but she was too late. She felt a sharp blow to her side and she fell into the bedroom, off balance and carried by the momentum of the kick to land at Bennett's feet. The rapier fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. She lunged for it, but Bennett stopped her.

  "Don't!" he said, stepping on the sword with his foot.

  "Are you mad?"

  "I'd listen to the good doctor if I were you," the man said. She saw the little tube in his right hand. It was a weapon, one she didn't understand, but she knew what it could do. Hunter had shown her once. A deadly light that could cut through steel. The same light that had burned through the lock on her door could burn through her flesh as easily as a hot knife passing through fresh butter.

  "A good thing Adrian decided to keep tabs on you, Doc," the terrorist said. "Seems like your commitment's slipping. We can't have that."

  "Let the woman go, Silvera," Bennett said. "She doesn't know anything."

  "But you were about to fix that, weren't you?" said Silvera. "No, you're expendable, Doc, but I'm afraid she's not. I got her partner, but Adrian's going to want this lady alive. We need to find out how many more of them there are, and where they are, and what they know."

  "She's not an agent!" Bennett said.

  "You'll have to do better than that, Doc."

  "She's not, I tell you! And neither was he," he said, pointing at Hunter's body. "He was a friend of mine! He was in the underground!"

  Silvera nodded. "That's what he kept saying. It makes for a good cover, doesn't it? He was good, I'll give him that. He didn't talk. But I think the lady will. Adrian's a little better at persuasion than I am."

  "Silvera, listen to me! You're making a mistake, I swear it! Kill me, if you must, but let her go. She doesn't know a thing, she's a D.P., she's harmless to you!"

  "Then why were you going to tell her everything?" Silvera said. "If she's not an agent, what good would it have done? Sorry, Doc, I'm afraid you're not very good at this game. It's too bad, really. You've been very helpful—"

  For a moment, his eyes were not on Andre. That moment was all she needed. She reached behind her quickly, to the back of her neck, where hung a slim dagger in a sheath suspended from a thong. In one fast motion, she drew the dagger and hurled it. It buried itself in the terrorist's larynx. He fell, gurgling horribly, the laser beam cutting a crooked swath across the ceiling. She leaped to her feet and ran over to the fallen terrorist, kicking the deadly tube out of his hand. Then she kneeled by him, grasped the knife, and gave a vicious, sideways slash. Hunter was avenged.

  Bennett stared at her, his jaw hanging slack. Andre went over to him and shook him, getting some blood on his shirt. "We cannot stay here," she said. "I understand none of this, but I understand the danger all too well. Collect your wits, Jack Bennett. We must flee."

  Bennett came out of it. "Yes, you're quite right, we must. I have friends who will hide us. But we can't simply cut and run. We can't leave two bodies to be found in your apartment. We'll have troubles enough without being sought for murder."

  "What do you propose?"

  "That we leave quietly, normally. That we pay your bill and move out, with all your things." He thought a moment. "Hunter has arranged other quarters for you. You'll be staying with friends, something of the sort. We'll have to clean up the mess as best we can."

  "And what of the corpses?" Andre said.

  Bennett bent down and picked up Silvera's laser. "It is both a weapon and a surgeon's tool," he said, "although I dread the use to which we must put it now." He pulled one of the clothing chests into the center of the room. "Use the sheets to line this chest," he said. "And we'll sprinkle lots of perfume on . . . the contents. It should help to hide the smell. I hope. Perhaps it would be best if you left the room. The sight will not be pleasant."

  "You'll need help to pack the pieces," Andre said.

  "Will you be able to stand it?"

  "I've seen blood before," she said. "I will try not to think whose body we're dismembering. If it must be done, then let's set to it. The sooner we quit this place, the better."

  "I was right," said Bennett. "You are an extraordinary woman."

  * * * *

  Finn and Lucas moved to one side to let the porters carrying the heavy chests pass. Lucas wrinkled his nose as one chest went by. It reeked of perfume and the smell was powerful enough to make his head swim.

  "God, what a stink!" he said.

  "It covers up the body odor," Finn said, chuckling. "And there's one lady that must smell like something died inside her."

  "Christ, Finn, that smell was bad enough."

  "Shhh, I think here comes the perfumed doll herself," said Finn.

  They moved to the left side of the stairs, allowing the old man and the young woman to pass by on their right. His clothes were shabby compared to her ornate and obviously very expensive dress.

  "There goes one father whose little girl will send him to the poorhouse," Finn said, turning to Lucas.

  Lucas was standing on the stairs, looking after the old man and the young woman.

  Finn chuckled. "Yes, she's very pretty, but can you stand her fragrance?"

  "That's not it," said Lucas, thoughtfully. "That woman. ... I've seen her somewhere, I'm certain of it."

  "Probably reminds you of some old flame," said Finn.

  "No, I've seen that face before," said Lucas. "But I just can't...." He shook his head.

  "Are you sure?" said Finn.

  "I'm almost positive. But it just won't click. There's something. ..." He frowned.

  "Must be a coincidence," said Finn. "Hell, who do we know in 17th-century Paris?"

  "Not in 17th-century Paris," Lucas said, "but somewhere else. I just don't remember where."

  "You're not kidding, are you?"

  "I'm telling you, Finn, I know that face!"

  "That's good enough for me. Come on, we'll follow them and find out where they go. But just to play it safe, let's keep our distance. Worse comes to worst, we'll just waste an afternoon."

  "What if worse doesn't come to worst?" said Lucas.

  "You're asking me? You're the one who can't remember faces."

  "I never forget a face. That's why this one bothers me. It hasn't been a long time, either." They watched the chests being loaded into a carriage, the old man and the young woman getting in. "Horses," Lucas said.

  "What?"

  "Horses. That face belongs with horses."

  "Well, that should narrow it down," said Finn. "We haven't ridden horses in more than ninety percent of our missions."

  "Something doesn't fit," said Lucas. "It's the right face, but somehow, it's all wrong."

  "Well, I'm glad you cleared that up," said Finn. "Shall we see which way your right-wrong face is heading? I'd hate for this to keep you up all night."

  "I have a feeling that it will. I'm not sure what memories go with her face, but I am sure that none of them is good."

  6

  "Vacated their rooms, you say?" said Adrian Taylor. "And no sign of Silvera?"

  Jimmy Darcy stood uneasily before the terrorist leader. Only a short while ago, Adrian Taylor had been a small, whipcord thin young man with violently blue eyes, a sharp, slightly crooked nose, and a thin, cruel mouth. He knew that Taylor was considerably older than he was, though by how much, he could not say. Taylor had appeared to be, judging by the standards used before the advent of antiagathic drugs, eighteen to twenty years of age. He was, Jimmy knew, at the very least three times that age. Now, however, Taylor was transformed.

  The skills of Jack Bennett had reshaped his face, shortening and straightening out his nose and giving it a slight, delicate upward turn. His jawline had been restructured, more gently curved, the sharp planes of his face smoothed out, the cheeks rounded, the soft flesh around the eyes surgically altered to eliminate the beginning
signs of age. His mouth was full and soft now, the lips were those of a voluptuary. The ears were small and shapely, without the pronounced lobes they had earlier possessed. A small beauty mark now graced Taylor's right cheek. His adam's apple had been removed and the skin of the throat smoothed out. Taylor's hairline had been depilated to give him a higher forehead. He had round, full breasts now and decidedly and unsettlingly feminine hips. The exten­sive operation had been a masterwork, complete right down to the very last detail. Taylor even had Milady's brand, the harlot's fleur-de-lis, burned into his shoulder.

  Transsexual operations had been reversible for many years. The purpose of the procedure had simply been to enable Taylor to become a "woman" for the purpose of the mission. When it was over, Adrian Taylor would be able to have his male organs back, either exactly as they were or redesigned to his own specifications. But it had become much more than an elaborate disguise. Taylor took a perverse pleasure in being as he was now. With each succeeding day, he fell more and more in love with his new aspect.

  Of all the Timekeepers, Taylor was the best known. The TIA had an extensive dossier on his activities. He was re­garded as an expert in his field, ruthless, cold, and extremely dangerous. The one thing that no one outside the organization knew was what Taylor really looked like. Few people within the Timekeepers had ever glimpsed Taylor's real face. He changed his appearance almost as frequently as most people changed their style of clothing. Taylor was a true chameleon, but to Jimmy's knowledge, he had never gone so far before. It wasn't Taylor's sexual preferences that bothered Jimmy Darcy. There was nothing unusual in that. What frightened Jimmy Darcy was that Adrian Taylor appeared to have two personalities now. He was both Adrian Taylor and Milady. Sometimes he spoke as Adrian Taylor and acted like a man surgically disguised as a woman. Sometimes he spoke as Milady de Winter, living out the role. And sometimes, he spoke as Milady, referring to Adrian Taylor in the second per­son, as though Taylor existed elsewhere, as a separate and distinct being. He did so now.

  "No sign of Silvera," he said once again, fingering his throat absently. "Adrian won't like that. I think we can safely assume that Silvera is no longer with us. Pity. He must have underestimated the opposition. You checked? You're certain? There was only Bennett and the woman?"