Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

‘Oh no!’ Quickly, I stepped in front of him. ‘No killing!’

  ‘Why?’ The Mohammedan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you believe that man has not killed before? He is nothing but a paid thug in the service of a power-hungry maniac!’

  ‘Yes. Which for me makes him rather easy to relate to. Besides, think for a second! This isn’t a firefight in the middle of the godforsaken desert. This in Paris, in the middle of France, and killing him would be murder. A chargeable offence. Do you really want to put that kind of advantage in Dalgliesh’s hands?’

  ‘Mr Linton is right, Karim,’ came Mr Ambrose cool voice from behind me. ‘About both parts.’

  Karim stood there for another long moment—then slowly lowered his sabre. ‘Very well. What do you suggest we do with him?’

  I let my gaze travel across the courtyard, looking for anything that could be used to restrain the man—until my eyes landed on something lying on the ground only a few feet away.

  ‘I think I have an idea.’

  Five minutes later, the unconscious guard was wrapped up in a red, blue and golden dress and gagged with a pair of similarly patriotic gloves. I had even placed a red and blue bonnet on his head to complete the picture.

  ‘Doesn’t he look adorable?’ Grinning, I admired my work.

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as stony as a slab of slate. ‘Let’s go.’

  With a sigh of regret, I followed as he stalked away in the shadow of the wall. I would have loved to have been there when the other soldiers discovered their comrade. But, I told myself, you can’t have everything in life. Preventing an intercontinental war would have to be enough for tonight.

  Suddenly, Mr Ambrose held up a hand. I stopped in my tracks and, at another gesture, ducked behind a fountain. A few seconds later, two soldiers emerged from the shadows and marched past us, backs straight, rifles up in the air.

  ‘Now!’ Mr Ambrose whispered when they had passed. ‘Before the next patrol comes!’

  Quickly, I unwound the rope from around my waist. Karim lifted me as he had before, and I clutched the wall to steady myself. I looped the rope over the nearest spike and—

  ‘Hey, you! What are you doing there?’

  Crap!

  Twisting around, I glimpsed a figure in red, blue and gold, who had just stepped out of the back of the house. I didn’t hesitate a second. Without even using the horse blanket I pulled myself up and flung myself over the spikes. The sharp metal tore into my hand, but I clenched my teeth and ignored the pain. This was no time to be a ninny!

  ‘Stop! Stop, and put up your hands!’ came the shouts of the fast approaching soldiers.

  An instant later, Karim appeared atop the wall. In a move that was pretty risky for his manly parts, he crouched down over the iron spikes and extended a hand.

  ‘Come, Sahib!’

  ‘Move, Karim! You’re a sitting duck! I’ll be up there in a second.’

  ‘Not until you’re up here with me, Sahib.’

  Bam!

  The shot ripped through Karim’s turban, scattering bits of cloth left and right. The Mohammedan didn’t even blink an eye.

  ‘Come, Sahib. Now!’

  Yes, come you bloody stubborn idiot! Move your tight, money-shitting derrière! I need it! And the rest of you, too!

  An incredibly long second passed—then Mr Ambrose’s hand appeared above the crest of the wall. Karim clasped it and tugged.

  Bam!

  ‘Aaarh!’

  I heard a dull thud, and out of the gloom above me, a few wet droplets of red hit my face.

  The Peaceful French Countryside

  My heart stopped beating.

  Just like that. It froze up. I froze up. Nothing worked anymore. Not my arms, not my hands, not even the smallest finger on my hand. There was only a single thought in my head, over and over again.

  Please, no! Don’t let him be dead! Don’t let him be—

  ‘Damnation! That hole will cost a fortune to mend!’

  Thank you, God! He’s alive and well!

  A familiar, tall, dark figure hit the ground beside me, and before he’d even had time to straighten, I swooped down on him, crushing him to me.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I am all right, Mr Linton. Cease this exuberant display of emotions. Knowledge is power is time is money.’ A shot sounded from beyond the wall. ‘Especially when people are firing at you. Move!’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘And hand me a piece of cloth. I have to stop the bleeding before it ruins my whole tailcoat.’

  Muttering something not very polite about skinflints, I tore a strip out of my shirt and thrust it into his hand. My feet never stopped moving. ‘Here!’

  ‘Adequate.’

  ‘Would it kill you to say “thank you”?’

  Behind us, more gunshots sounded.

  ‘No, but the bullets might. Run!’

  We dashed away, across the pitch-black street. A few moments later we heard the loud thudding of footsteps behind us, and suddenly Karim was at our side.

  ‘They’re right behind us, Sahib! Some have run to open the gate and pursue us on horseback. Where now?’

  ‘Down here! Come!’

  Veering off to the side, Mr Ambrose dashed down another street, and then another. Behind us, the sound of pursuit grew louder and louder. I was just about to demand where the hell he thought he was leading us, when he slid into an alleyway that even the grimiest beggar in Paris would have considered below his standards. Coming to a stop in front of a door, he knocked, four times quickly, two times slowly.

  ‘Jacques, laisse-moi entrer!’[40]

  A moment or two later, the door was pulled open a gap, and a suspicious eye appeared. When it recognized Mr Ambrose, it widened, and so did the gap. The man beyond, whoever he was, grinned from one side of his face to the other.

  ‘Mon Dieu! C’est toi! Entrez, entrez!’[41]

  The door flew open, and the fellow on the other side practically dragged us inside, while he let loose a flood of French so convoluted probably not even Napoleon would have been able to understand it. I scrutinized him, trying to figure him out—with absolutely no success. He didn’t look as if he were Mr Ambrose’s agent, or employee, or in any way connected with him. Dressed in baggy trousers and a shirt with enough holes to qualify as a fishing net, he looked like….well, I wasn’t exactly sure what he looked like. I could only be sure what he was not: a Parisian fashion designer.

  The rest of the people in the room didn’t look any better. There were sailors smoking cheap clay pipes, factory workers with stains all over their clothing, children tumbling around on the floor and on each other, and a general chaos of looks, smells and people that would have been enough to make most fine ladies back in London faint with horror.

  Lucky me, I wasn’t a fine lady.

  One thing I did notice, though. Despite the fact that their clothing was pretty drab all around, nearly everyone was carrying some bits of clothing in the bright colors red, white and blue.

  I leaned over to Mr Ambrose. ‘Who,’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth, ‘are those people?’

  ‘Revolutionaries.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, perhaps it is not quite correct to call them that at the moment, seeing as there currently is no revolution in progress. But these are what the French generally refer to as sans-culottes.’

  ‘Err…naked butts?’ I translated.

  Mr Ambrose threw me a look. ‘While sans-culotte does indeed mean “without breeches”, that does not mean they run around with bare posteriors, Mr Linton. It simply means they wear long trousers instead of the breeches which, at one point, used to be the fashion among French aristocrats. These are the poorest of the poor. The most desperate, decrepit people you could find in Paris.’

  ‘Ah. I see. So…why are we here, exactly?’

  ‘If you must know, back when I first came to Paris, I was looking for a reasonably-priced place to stay. I ended up here, at Mon
sieur Jacques’ boarding house for the economically disadvantaged. For some reason I cannot explain,’ Mr Ambrose said, glancing down at his ten-year-old mint condition tailcoat with its decorative scuffed sleeves, mended holes and bloodstains, ‘they seemed to assume from my appearance that I was one of them. Since they offered me room and board at a very reasonable price, I saw no reason to disabuse them of their misconception.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You can rest easy, Miss Linton. Dalgliesh will never consider looking for us here. We are as safe as houses constructed by a competent architect.’

  ‘Unless, of course, these nice people here find out who you really are and decide to slit the throat of the dissembling capitalist pig.’

  ‘There is that possibility, yes.’

  I made a face. ‘Besides, staying out of sight won’t do us any good. We need to find some way to stitch up that wound of yours, and then we’ve got to move! Like you said earlier, by going after a guard we’ve drawn attention to ourselves. Dalgliesh will soon figure out what we need the uniform for, and then he’ll send a messenger to intercept the governor-general. If the messenger reaches him before we do….’

  ‘True. But don’t worry. Hiding people who don’t want to be found isn’t Jacque’s only specialty.’

  Turning to the scraggly Frenchman, Mr Ambrose started speaking rapid, concise French. It was quite amazing how, even when speaking in the language of love, he made everything sound like an ultimatum chiselled in stone. My worried gaze staying on the slowly growing bloodstains in his shirt, which neither Jacques nor any of his guests seemed to find particularly disquieting, I leant closer to Karim.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  The big bodyguard eyed me for a moment. I could tell he was struggling with whether such an outrageous demand for classified information from a nosy female was worth answering. Finally, he caved.

  ‘He’s asking for clean bandages and horses.’

  I glanced around the room, which appeared to contain only one thing free of dirt: a small spot about three inches above the door lintel. Everything else was covered in various layers of…substances. Even on the cobwebs, there was growing mold. ‘There are clean things in this place?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Jacques clucked his tongue and nodded at Mr Ambrose’s shot wound in a universal ‘bad luck’ gesture. A few quick words in French followed.

  ‘He asked who’s after us,’ Karim translated.

  Mr Ambrose’s reply was characteristically concise. ‘Des Aristos.’

  It suddenly went very quiet in the common room. Even I didn’t need a translation for that one. Jacques’ face, grimmer than before, shifted to sympathy as he placed a hand on Mr Ambrose’s uninjured shoulder and squeezed. A few more quick words of French, and he marched out of the room.

  ‘He says he’ll bring bandages. He’ll have horses for us in a quarter of an hour,’ Mr Ambrose told us.

  ‘And what was that last bit?’

  ‘’Free of charge. Anything for the enemies of the aristocracy.’’

  ‘You told him we were being hunted by aristocrats!’

  ‘We are. Remember the “Lord” in “Lord Dalgliesh”? He is an aristocrat, is he not?’

  ‘Yes, but so are you!’

  ‘Details, Mr Linton. Details. Besides, as they say: never look a gift horse in the proletarian mouth.’

  It was probably better not to look it in the mouth. The horses Jacques provided might have been fast, but pretty they were not. I didn’t want to get a closer look at their dental state. As for the bandages—Mr Ambrose had tried to put those on himself with his one functioning arm. I told him to hold still, and that I would get Karim to knock him over the head if he didn’t do as I said. Amazingly, he did. So I sat there with a bowl of surprisingly clean water and wrapped Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s arm tightly in bandages while Karim saddled our mounts.

  ‘The minute we get back to the opera house,’ I ground out between clenched teeth, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, ‘you’re going to call a real doctor, and you’re going to have him look you over, no matter how much it costs, understood?’

  ‘Mr Linton, I really see no need for—’

  I squeezed his injured arm, causing a hiss of pain. ‘And I see no need for torturing you,’ I told him with a sweet smile, ‘but I might just do it if I feel like it. You will take care of yourself, understood? You are not allowed to die!’

  In the shadowy corner where we sat, no one noticed as his eyes darkened, and he reached up to caress my cheek.

  ‘You will pay the bill, of course.’

  Placing my fingers gently over his, I squeezed. My eyes didn’t leave his for a second. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Adequate. Are you finished? We must be on our way.’

  ‘Nearly,’ I told him—and quick as a flash leaned forward to place a featherlight kiss on his lips. When I leaned back again, his eyes were swirling maelstroms of dark ocean, threatening to pull me under.

  ‘You know, Mr Linton…I don’t know whether I’ll need that doctor after all. I suddenly feel quite energized.’

  ‘Good.’ I stood. ‘Then let’s go kick Dalgliesh where it really hurts.’

  ‘Admirable suggestion.’ Rising to his feet as well, he marched out the back door. Outside, the horses were waiting for us, along with an impatient Karim and a joyful Jacques. As soon as he saw us, he thrust his fist into the air.

  ‘Mort aux Aristos!’[42]

  ‘Yes, yes.’ I gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Moron Aristo, absolutely.’

  ‘Vive la révolution! Vive la liberté!’

  ‘Yes definitely! I love going to the library.’

  ‘Come on, Mr Linton. Let’s go.’ With incredible ease for a man who wasn’t supposed to be able to use one of his arms, Mr Ambrose swung himself onto the back of his horse. I followed suit, with not quite as much ease.

  ‘Where to, Sahib?’ Karim enquired. He had a glitter in his eye that, not for the first time, made me wonder whether delivering a message was all he would like to do when he met the governor-general.

  ‘Northeast, Karim. I’ve received reports Auckland is approaching from that direction.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘If all goes well, he’s still a good distance from Paris. Keep your eyes open for his crest, three bales of hay on a red field.’[43]

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  And we were off. Karim rode in front, because nobody would be stupid enough to get in his way. Mr Ambrose came right behind him, and I brought up the rear. I knew that Mr Ambrose thought that was because the rear was the safest place for me. But, really, I kept back because it was a place from where I could keep an eye on his bandage. A bloodstain had once again started spreading there, and although Mr Ambrose still sat in the saddle as steady a rock, I wanted to be close behind. If the worst came to the worst, I would catch him—or at least try, and be squashed underneath him. There were probably worse ways to go.

  Winding our way through alleys and backyards with crisscrossing washing lines, we headed in a meandering line towards the Porte de la Chapelle. When we finally reached the city gate, Mr Ambrose glanced back, his stone face implacable.

  ‘We’ll be out of Paris in a minute. The moment we are, we’ll speed up. We have to get a head start. It won’t be long before Dalgliesh’s men report back to him and he figures out what we are up to. We’ll have to ride hard.’

  ‘But Mr Ambrose, your shoulder—’

  Somehow, his face grew even harder. ‘No argument, Mr Linton. We ride hard.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  We passed under the arch, and the darkness of the countryside enveloped us.

  ‘Now, Mr Linton. Ride! Ride, and don’t stop for anything!’

  I gave him my best smirk. ‘Not even if I find see a purse full of gold lying on the road?’

  ‘Shut up and move!’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  Let me tell you—when Mr Rikkard Ambrose says ‘ride hard’ he reall
y means ‘hard.’ I nearly broke my teeth from the staccato my horse’s hooves played on the harsh cobblestones. We did, however, make excellent time. It didn’t take long until the first coaching inn appeared in the distance. Mr Ambrose reined in his horse.

  ‘Karim, stay here while I check the stables for the earl’s coach.’

  Karim’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Sahib, that is not something you should do, especially not in your injured state. Let me—’

  ‘Use your head, man! What if the earl sees you approaching, then riding off again, and then coming back dressed differently? You don’t think he might find that slightly suspicious?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Precisely. Now stop fussing over me. I’m fine.’ And, tugging his horse around, he rode off towards the inn. I watched him go. When he was out of hearing distance, I leaned over to Karim and asked: ‘How long have you been with him?’

  The big man hesitated for a moment, then…

  ‘I have been in the Sahib’s service for more than half a decade.’

  I considered this for a moment.

  ‘How on earth have you managed not to strangle him?’

  Karim nearly fell off his horse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Really, I’d love to know your secret. Seeing as I’m probably going to be around him for quite a bit, it could come in handy.’

  The Mohammedan gave me a haughty look. Not a hard thing to do when you’re two heads taller than everybody else. Three heads, if you counted the turban.

  ‘I would never even dare to contemplate physical violence against Ambrose Sahib.’

  I raised an eyebrow, and just waited. And waited.

  Finally….

  ‘I count, all right?’ Karim admitted in a low grumble. ‘Satisfied? I count to ten!’

  ‘And that works?’

  ‘Ten imaginary punches to the gut.’

  ‘Oh.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, that would work. Thanks for sharing your experience with me. I’m glad we had this little talk and got to know each other better.’

  Karim gave me a look that said, ‘if anyone asks I’m going to deny this ever happened’, and turned his massive back on me. Wasn’t he a sweety?

  Just then, Mr Ambrose rounded the corner and came galloping back towards us.