Larissa looked at him with wide eyes. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “I wonder if you have ever spoken at such length. You are very passionate about this, I see.”
“I guess,” Brian shrugged. “I’ve been a fan for a long time.” Embarrassment rushed in, compelling him to parry. “Haven’t you ever felt a connection with a fictional character?”
“Yes,” Larissa said without hesitation. “Riff Randell.”
“Who’s he?”
“Riff Randell is a she, not a he. The heroine of Rock ’n’ Roll High School. Don’t you know your own culture? It is one of America’s great contributions to cinema! Riff Randell worships the Ramones and persuades them to perform at her school. Then they blow it up.”
Larissa’s eyes glistened with fervor in the lantern’s glow. Brian said, “Look who’s getting passionate about a movie character now.”
She nodded. “I have always envied Riff. I dream about getting the Ramones to play at my school, even though it is impossible now with Joey gone, and Dee Dee. But it is a wonderful thing to fantasize—the Ramones at your school.”
“So do you understand then, at least a little, why I love Foster Blake?”
“At least a little, yes,” Larissa replied. She moved closer. “But you are better than Foster Blake. You are not a chauvinist, and you are real, and you also know what to do to survive.”
Brian snorted. “I know what to do because I’ve read so many spy novels.”
“No, you know what to do because you are smart. You have the wisdom to use your knowledge.”
“Well, so do you. You knew how to get out of Toulouse. And you are the one who knows about Dédée de Jongh and the Comet Line.”
“Then we make a good team,” Larissa said, and she kissed him.
Larissa probably didn’t intend the kiss as anything more than a sign of encouragement, Brian thought later, but as soon as their lips touched he felt a jolt he knew was mutual because the kiss intensified immediately. He pulled her tight; awkwardly aware of the bulky sleeping bags between them, yet deliciously aware Larissa was reciprocating his embrace.
He didn’t know how long the kiss lasted before Larissa gently pulled away. “Brian,” she said, her forehead to his cheek, “it’s not that I wish to stop, but if we continue it may get … dangerous.” She looked up, smiling. “And you already have brought beaucoup danger to my life.”
Brian chuckled. “But surely I can handle the peril.”
“What?”
“It’s from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. One of Britain’s great contributions to cinema.” He kissed her forehead. “But you’re right, this isn’t the time.” Caressing her chin, he added, “I do want another kiss like that, though. Soon.”
“I promise you that,” she said as she retreated and switched off the lantern. “Goodnight, cher Brian.”
“Goodnight, Larissa.” Brian rolled onto his back and rested his head on his pillow, knowing it would be some time before he fell asleep.
CHAPTER 23--CURRENT
Shoots from the undergrowth traced early morning dew across Brian’s bare calves as he and Larissa walked into the forest, their campsite behind them.
They had left the tent and sleeping bags in place, an idea that sparked a brief but fiery disagreement. Brian reasoned that taking down and repacking the tent would waste time. Furthermore (he actually used the word), they could move faster without the extra weight in their backpacks. Larissa protested they must not violate the camping law of “leave no trace.”
“What’s more important,” he asked, “finding your father or leaving no trace?”
That had won the argument.
Still, Larissa was sullen in defeat. She remained silent for a full half hour as they hiked through corridors of poplar and fir, heading south by southwest to the Spanish border. Finally, she spoke, “Have you decided what we should do when we see my father?”
“Sort of,” Brian said. “I have a Plan A. Hopefully I will come up with Plans B, C, and D by the time we reach Zaragoza, because Plan A hinges on a mighty big if. But I think it has the strongest chance of working.”
“Which is?”
“We keep a watch on the front of your father’s hotel—staying out of sight ourselves—until we see him come out. Then you go up to him on the sidewalk while I hail a taxi.” Brian stepped over a large dead branch and then continued, “Hopefully the three of us will be able to get into a cab right away. This should catch anyone watching your father—Skyrm’s men, the CIA, the DIA—by surprise, and we ought to be able to find a safe place to talk to him before they figure out where we went.”
“But what if we do not see my father in front of the hotel?”
“That’s the mighty big if and the reason I have to come up with Plans B, C, and D.”
“It is a good plan, though,” Larissa said. “Very clever.”
“Thanks.” Brian smiled, happy they were friends again. “But it’s only clever if it works.”
Larissa returned his smile and marched ahead to take the lead. They stayed within the forest, where high branches mottled the light of the rising sun. The woods smelled of damp mulch and, if Brian remembered his liquid soaps correctly, lavender.
Trudging upward through the woods, Brian realized the value of the hiking pole he did not want to buy. With the extra weight strapped to his back, the pole helped him keep his balance on the hilly trails. Mostly they headed upward, but their path sometimes jagged into a shallow gully. Whenever Brian skittered downhill, the contents of his backpack clinked and clanged. His concession during the argument was agreeing to carry the cooking equipment.
Their breakfast, consumed while dawn broke, had consisted of granola bars, coffee, and scrambled eggs. The eggs, like the coffee, were freeze-dried yet surprisingly tasty once mixed with boiling water.
After he had eaten, Brian slipped into the tent and changed into a pair of beige hiking shorts and a light gray UnderArmour shirt. He pulled on a pair of thick wool socks (“You do not want blisters,” Larissa had said at the camping supply store when Brian objected that he already had socks), tied the strong, reinforced nylon laces of his hiking shoes, and tugged on his Brewers cap.
Larissa had bought her own cap, hunter green and free of team affiliation, in Hendaye. Her outfit matched Brian’s except that her shorts were black and her UnderArmour shirt pale blue. Not that Brian could see her clothes now. As Larissa walked before him, her three-foot-tall backpack hid her torso. To Brian’s eyes, she had become a green canvas sack with nicely toned legs. The canvas sack began to hum “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker.” Brian whistled along.
An hour later they came to a level clearing. Larissa pulled off her backpack and handed Brian a protein bar. “We can rest here and admire the view.” She pointed to a distant town below them. “That is Hendaye.”
Brian looked down on their last port of call and the blue Atlantic beyond it. “I can’t believe we’re this high in the mountains.”
“The slope was gradual, but between last night and this morning we walked uphill for two hours,” she said. “And I hate to disappoint you, but we are not high in the Pyrenees at all.”
Larissa took his shoulders and turned him away from the sea. Brian’s head tilted as he looked up at the craggy wall. Green at their base and gray-blue with white striations near their peaks, mountains filled his field of vision. Brian knew then they were still near the great range’s ground floor.
“How much higher do we have to climb?” he asked, fearing the answer.
“Actually, from here we go mostly downhill to the river.”
Brian nodded and took a swig from his water bottle. Larissa explained that they would wade across the Bidossa River, which marked the border between France and Spain, just as more than eight hundred Allied airmen had done during the Second World War.
They rested another ten minutes before reentering the woods. As Larissa had predicted, their path soon sloped downward. The incline was gentle at first, but sudden
ly steepened. Brian had to use tree roots as steps like he did years ago playing in ravines near the Menominee River. Only then he didn’t have a cumbersome backpack skewing his balance. Leaning against a tree to catch his breath, Brian looked down and watched with envy as Larissa nimbly descended the gully and disappeared behind a clutch of pine trees.
Brian sighed and followed. He quickened his pace, sometimes sliding on the damp soil but remaining upright. He heard a rush of water as he emerged onto a rocky floor. Larissa stood before him, her arms akimbo as she assessed the Bidossa River. Brian came alongside and was not happy to see Larissa scowling.
“There must be rain higher in the mountains,” she said. “I did not expect the Bidossa to be so deep in July. I thought the water would come no higher than our knees.”
“How deep is it?” Brian asked.
“To the waist, I think. Maybe a little more.”
“That’s not bad.”
“Yes, but the current will be strong.”
Brian looked across the swiftly flowing water to Spain, a mere thirty yards away. “Should we walk along the riverbank until we find a safer spot to cross?”
“No,” Larissa said with a shake of her head. “We are now a few hundred meters from the traditional Comet Line crossing. If we go north, toward Dédée’s true route, we might be seen from the highway bridge or one of the newer roads.” She looked the other way. “If we cross any farther to the south, I am not certain I can find my way once we are in Spain.”
“All right then,” Brian said. “We cross here.”
“We must be very careful.”
“We will be.”
Sitting on a boulder by the river’s edge, they switched their socks and hiking shoes for rubber-soled wading shoes (another sporting goods purchase Brian had questioned). They tied their hiking shoes together by the laces and draped them around their necks. Larissa lashed her hiking pole to the side of her backpack, so Brian copied her. Without saying another word, they stepped into the Bidossa’s chilly waters.
Larissa led, and Brian followed five feet behind. A quarter of the way across, the water was barely to their knees and Brian thought this would be easy after all. Larissa took two more steps and squealed as she fell into waist-high water. She pushed ahead. When Brian dropped to the same spot he felt the current, a roiling wraith bent on sweeping him away.
Larissa, now mid-river, turned her head. “How are you doing?”
“Just fine,” Brian said, “but I should’ve worn my swim suit.”
Larissa laughed and Brian stepped on a slime-covered stone that shifted beneath his foot. His knee buckled and he went down. He landed on his knees, his chin dipping into the water. Frigid wavelets lapped at his lower lip, and he shivered. His Brewers cap dropped into an eddy and sped downriver like a hydrofoil racer before he could grab it.
Larissa sloshed toward him.
“Stay right there,” he said. “I don’t want to pull you in. I’m OK. Just give me a second.”
As soon as he stood, Brian sensed he had done it too quickly, failing to compensate for the surging water that buffeted him off balance. He twisted at the waist to regain his footing, and the current hit Brian square in the back and plunged him headlong into the cold river.
CHAPTER 24--SMOKE
Brian reflexively clamped his mouth shut as he submerged. He heard Larissa yell his name above the liquid maelstrom baffling his eardrums. Through the clear water Brian saw a thick branch jammed between two large stones just ahead. He twisted left to grab for it, but he missed and the undercurrent grabbed him lengthwise and rolled him like a log. The river’s rocky gray bottom and the blue sky above its surface swirled in his vision. The backpack pulled him down, and Brian feared a strap would snarl on a branch and trap him on the river’s floor. Or he would crack his head against a rock and lose consciousness.
Brian’s eyes bulged as something grabbed his neck and throttled him.
His fingers automatically went to his throat to determine this new threat. It was, of all things, his shoelace. It had wrapped around his neck as he tumbled down the river. He looked back to see that one of the hiking shoes had snagged on a branch and was yanking the noose tight. The second shoe was pressing against his ear and cheek. The pressure in his lungs pounded at his ribs, and Brian’s brain sounded a warning he would either drown or be strangled if he didn’t act. He snatched at the shoe beside his head and tried to unwind it. The garrote tightened. Wrong way! He twirled the shoe in the opposite direction. The pressure on his neck loosened. His lungs wanted to explode with relief, but instinct stopped Brian from inhaling gallons of water.
Larissa’s legs, phantom pale beneath the surface, moved toward him, and only then did Brian realize the nylon cord had turned him around when it seized his neck and, acting as a tether, now held him in place. He got his knees beneath his chest and pushed his head above water.
Brian gasped spasmodically, pumping blessed oxygen back into his lungs. Larissa hollered his name, and Brian lifted a hand to show he was all right even if he could not yet talk. When normal breathing returned, he raised himself slowly until he stood, the waterline above his navel.
Larissa was on the verge of tears as she approached, and Brian wanted to assure her the danger was over. “I’m glad you insisted on the waterproof backpacks,” he joked hoarsely. “At least my socks are dry.”
Larissa held Brian until his legs steadied. She supported him as they moved toward shallow water and waded to the opposite bank. Brian collapsed onto flat, sun-warmed stones.
Larissa, still dry above the waist, crouched in front of him. “Are you all right?”
“I am now that I’m on land,” he said. “And thanks.”
She surprised him with a radiant smile. “Bienvenue à l’Espagne.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome to Spain!”
Brian looked up and down the empty riverbank, surveying the new country. It appeared no different from the country they had just left. He tipped a hiking shoe and poured a stream of water into the puddle spreading from beneath him. “Olè,” he said.
Larissa tossed him a camp towel, and he dried off the best he could. As Brian pulled the wool socks and hiking shoes back on, Larissa said, “We have to climb that.” She pointed at a wooded gully that matched the one on the French side. “At the top, we can go behind trees and put on dry clothes. We won’t be able to hitchhike like this.” She pulled at her wet shorts.
“How kind of you not to mention this,” Brian said. He waved his hand along his body, indicating his dripping outfit.
Larissa grinned, a sight that cheered his spirits. “I was being polite,” she said.
The hill was steep, but tree roots again served as natural stairs. “The Irùn-Pamplona highway will be close by once we reach the top,” Larissa said.
The sky darkened during their ascent. When they came to the crest, rain began to fall. “Where did this come from?” Brian asked, panting from the climb. “That sky was pure blue no more than fifteen minutes ago.”
“I told you the weather changes quickly in the mountains,” Larissa said. “But this is fortunate. It excuses our wet clothes and will make hitchhiking easier. Motorists will not question why we are giving up on hiking so early in the day.”
How early, Brian wondered. He glanced at his watch. 8:48 blinked back at him.
They pulled forest green rain ponchos from their packs and slipped them over their already wet clothes before proceeding north. “We are heading back toward the site of the true Comet Line crossing,” Larissa said. “We will reach the highway soon. No more than ten minutes. Follow where I walk because there are steep drops alongside the trail.”
The rain was steady but not driving. It was a cleansing downpour that tamped down the smell of the soil and released the rich fragrance of the woods. Brian inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of sap, of pine needles, of lavender.
Of tobacco.
Brian clutched Larissa’s wrist and pulled her to a stop. He put a finger to hi
s lips to silence her question. Her confused look changed to surprise when she, too, caught the intrusive odor.
The wind carried the scent from the direction of the river. Brian slowly turned his head to the east, scanning the gaps between the trees for the telltale orange glow of a cigarette. Instead he saw a motion.
Ten yards away a man’s arm rose and lowered. Taking a puff, Brian thought. The man knelt next to a tree with his back to them. He wore dark green clothes, but no rain gear. A plume of smoke drifted above his head. The man turned his face to wipe water from his eye. A pinprick of crimson flashed from his earlobe like a danger signal.
A ruby stud, Brian remembered. Merz!
CHAPTER 25--MISSTEP
Brian tipped his head and shifted his eyes to indicate Merz’s position to Larissa. When she spotted the man, her eyebrows shot up and her mouth formed an O of surprise.
If they could see Merz, Brian reasoned, Merz could see them. Their rain ponchos provided camouflage, but Brian wanted to play it safe and put another line of trees between them and their stalker. Brian jerked his head toward a row of birches behind them, and, moving two crooked fingers across his other palm, gestured what he hoped was basic sign language for walking. He mouthed the word slow. Larissa nodded her comprehension.
As the pair inched backward, raindrops chattering on their poncho hoods, Brian continued to watch Merz. To Brian’s relief, Skyrm’s man kept his face toward the river. An eternal sixty-eight seconds later, Brian and Larissa ducked safely behind a pair of thick birch trees.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much Page 13