Jack Be Nimble: Gargoyle (27 page)

Patron Saint of the Unlikely

Gare du Nord station, Paris

7PM

Jack stood in a quiet pocket of air, just beyond the reach of the Parisian rain, alternately flexing and relaxing his hands. He stood by himself at the train station, as alone as he had ever been. Left solitary, a man can become as wretched as a sailor shipwrecked on a frozen, silent sea. Jack held the laminated photograph away from his body, catching enough light from the sodium vapor lamp a hundred meters away to make out the image smiling up at him. The rain beaded quickly on the hard, plastic square, sliding off too quickly to imagine it as tears on his wife’s face.

Was he
ready?

Jack stood unmoving, barely in the shadows, barely inside the semicircle of dry ground defined by the overhanging roof of the Gare du Nord. Parisian rain fell solidly on the low buildings around him, thrummed against the skin of the steel train he stared at so intently. If not for the barest hint of steam as he breathed, if not for the occasional fleeting blink, he might never have been there. No one else stood on the deck beside him; this was a departing train, and the departure platform was one story below. The five men and one woman alone in the cabin had no inkling they were being observed. Jack studied each in turn, watching expressions, taking note of body positions and angles, of gestures both intentional and otherwise. He knew these men as well as anyone could, as well as they knew him. They were family of a sort.

Alonzo, hands clasped pensively before him on the table, sat next to the British woman he had met earlier in the day. The major was no doubt bringing the rest of the group up to speed on the latest kidnapping information; at least they were paying attention as she handed each a dossier. She looked fit enough. Not the kind of woman who’d ever need to wear much makeup, or want to, for that matter. Strong, obstinate jaw. Auburn hair cut in a short fashion like uncounted businesswomen and bureaucrats the world over. She sat rigidly, almost uncomfortably, on the edge of her seat, not resting her elbows on the table as she elaborated on the sheets of data each of the men had before him. The major never smiled. And why should she, Jack asked himself, considering the nature of the mission? Most likely she had her own set of personal misgivings about the little group before her.

Brad, for once without his ever present Stetson, sat across from her. With the opening of the mission folders he’d given up his mild flirtation with the major and lowered his eyes to the information before him. His black case of catburglar tricks lay at his feet. Jack watched his eyes as they flitted down the page. He was also on the edge of his seat, but more relaxed, calm. Brad was ready. He looked once at the huge man next to him, pointing at something in the document.

The other man smiled and flexed one enormous hand as dark as the mahogany on which it rested. Solomon, the bald giant, looked slightly out of place in his canary yellow jacket and red bow tie. He was listening keenly to the woman. Jack stared at his face. Solomon’s eyes were shimmering and alive, even in blank repose, the eyes of a wanderer, both geographically and intellectually. Was the man ready? Jack caught himself in the question. With Solomon, he never had to ask.

The man seated between Solomon and Alonzo shook his head at something the major said and pointed to a line on the page before him. Ian had grown a goatee since Jack had last seen him. The eyes of the stout, hard man were bright behind gold-framed glasses. Ian wore a plaid chambray shirt and jeans, contrasting sharply with the two men on either side. Jack bet he was wearing boots. Ian was not only ready, he looked to be already on his way.

The last man, Steve, sat apart from the others, typing almost feverishly at a modular computer. He never changed. For the past ten years the heavyset fellow had looked to be on the verge of going bald. A half-eaten Snickers bar lay wrapperless, melting beside him next to one of two nondescript black boxes cabled to his main computing unit.

Jack watched as the major excused herself and left the men to pore over the documents on the desk. She retrieved a polka-dotted umbrella from a nearby window seat and stepped offstage.

The lone man on the balcony glanced at his watch. About two minutes until the train was due to depart. Jack’s eyes sought out each man’s face a last time, then he turned deeper into the darkness. He found his small knapsack without any trouble, and stowed the photograph inside.

Jack swallowed, suddenly chilled as a wind gusted across the stairs he descended. A middle-aged woman, one of the many vendors on the lower platform, offered him a biscuit or something from a covered basket which smelled delicious. Jack silently refused.

The major stepped down from the train, umbrella raised against the gusting rain. She looked ridiculously like a circus performer who’d run away to join the army. Her government insignia was mostly obscured by a dark green rain slicker. “We’ve gone over all the material we discussed earlier in your flat.” She spoke loudly so as to be heard over the hum of the train and the gusting wind. “They seem surprisingly capable fellows. Not what you’d expect from, ah—”

“Mercenaries, Major?”

“Let’s say ‘walk-ins,’ shall we? That’s how you Americans put it, is it not?”

Jack shook his head. “Those men inside aren’t with CIA, Major, A couple of them work for the U.S. government, but for the moment, we’re all on vacation. We’re just here to help.”

“Yes, well. At any rate, if you yourself are prepared, Mr. Flynn, we’ll be off. Your computer man, Fisbeck, and the Chinese (it wasn’t’ particularly obvious what Brad did for a living; Jack could see this irritated her) have come across something interesting; combined with what that mysterious fellow told you this afternoon, we could actually have an idea about the little girl’s whereabouts. If we might board?” The major stepped back and held the umbrella up against the rain.

Jack hesitated, then glanced to his left, down the length of the depot’s platform. Simultaneously the wind brought the sounds of scuffling feet and a woman’s muffled cry. The major breathed in sharply as Jack seized her umbrella.

The older woman with the basket was struggling against an unkempt youth barely out of his teens. The major watched as the young man took a firmer grip on the woman’s handbag and heaved it out of her mittened fingers. Laughing, the young man ran a few steps with the bag, then turned to yell something deprecating in French. He spun back to make his getaway complete, then shouted in fright at the rushing explosion of polka dots that blossomed suddenly a few inches from his face.

“
Moi viola!
” said Jack, his face grim. He darted the major’s umbrella at him a few more times, working the catch and lunging like a swordsman, until the young man dropped the bag and swore. From his ragged pocket the would-be assailant pulled an old-fashioned switchblade, instantly bringing it around between himself and the American.

Jack spun along with the young man’s arm, catching his wrist and bringing the blade past himself with one hand, the other hand knifing in and under the mugger’s chin. The young man instantly gagged and sagged halfway to his knees. The switchblade fell with a clatter, and Jack kicked it under the train.

The young man found himself spun around instantly, his free hand clutching his throat, as Jack seized him by the arm and scooped up the purse. Jack dug his fingers into the soft flesh behind the youth’s elbow, squeezing viciously. He handed the purse to the woman, who smiled.

“
Maintenaint, donne-la ton portefeuille, gamin.”
said Jack to the young man.

He switched to English. “You took hers, now I want yours
. Depeche-toi
.” Major Griffin watched as the young man reluctantly handed over his wallet and loose change. He started to whine, but Jack only tightened the grip on his elbow. “
Viola, madam. En fait, j’aimerais bien du pain.”

Jack took his time digging a few bills out of his pockets, pointedly ignoring the squirming youth next to him. He pressed the euros into the woman’s grateful hands, and took her basket in return. He waved as she retreated into the depot, spouting thanks in the name of several legitimate saints and a few the major wasn’t sure of.

The sound of muted cheers reached them. Jack turned to the train and found several men and women in the adjacent cabin all standing behind the glass, clapping. Further back in the train, Brad gave him a thumbs-up as Alonzo grinned and pounded against the glass.

Jack turned and marched the young man down the platform towards the major, who suddenly realized the rain had nearly soaked her to the skin. She stepped back into the train, watching as the American bent his head low and said something to the young man, who grimaced and nodded. Jack released his arm, and the young man ran down the platform, disappearing into the darkness beyond the lights.

Jack retrieved the umbrella, then vaulted the distance between the platform and the train, stepping up beside the major as the train began to pull away. “I think I’m ready now, Major.”

The two of them stepped up into the gangway as the major said “Where did you learn that? If not in the CIA.” Her tone was curious, but not accusatory.

“Oh, the elbow-grip thing? Red Cross Senior Lifesaving Certificate. Releases the grip of a drowning man, but I’ve never had to use it.” Jack shook the rain from his hair, shifting the basket to his other hand. “I was a lifeguard in high school, Major. Lucky thing I remembered it, yeah?”

She stared at his back as he turned to enter the cabin. “Hey guys. Want some bread?”

London

“Really my child, you can have anything you want to eat.” Raines said, smiling broadly at the young blond girl sitting inside a miniature toy castle. She hesitated, tapping one patent-leather black shoe on the floor.

“I want my mum,” she said again, resolutely.

“And you’ll see her tomorrow morning, right after breakfast. Just as we planned.” Raines intoned assuringly. “But tonight you really must eat. Really, all this screaming. What do you think your mother will say if she finds out you’ve been blubbering all afternoon?” He waited, watching her eyes grow larger at the thought. “Now, what does she always tell you to do when she talks to you on the phone every night?”

The little girl responded instantly. “She tells me to be good and eat my greens.”

Raines’ smile grew even broader. “That’s right! And aren’t you a good girl who does just what her mother tells her? Of course you are!” He turned to go.

“And then I’m allowed to help feed the pony Jack gave to me! He’s coming to get me so we can go riding next week.” Raines looked back at her, catching the eye of the guard on the other side of the toy-strewn room. The other man shrugged.

Leaving the room, Raines paused long enough to speak to the guard in the hall. “See that she’s dressed in her special new clothes by eleven o’clock.”

“Sir, what was that about someone coming to ride with her?” His grip on the submachine gun never relaxed.

Raines waved his hand in dismissal. “Nothing of importance. The man she refers to is in no position to help anyone. The patron saint of the unlikely.

“Give all our little guests a shot of ketamine with their meals. Only a half-dose. We want them docile, but still breathing.” He smiled once again, that sly, eerily compelling grin, and strode off down the hall.

*

The Eurorail shot through the falling darkness like a steel comet. Rising pastures, liquid green oceans in the twilight, slid by on either side as the train neared Calais and the tunnel. Dinner was being served inside. Seven of its passengers, however, were too busy to even consider the gourmet meal.

Jack turned to the heavyset man behind the computer. “All right, Steve, what have you got?”

The chubby man was completely in his element. “Most of the files on Aleks Stefanovich are public domain. Got the rest from a buried file. Some spook analyst back in the States wrote it up and it got sent to the info vault as worthless intelligence. Stefanovich. Name means ‘son of the crown.’ U.S. emigration shows him and his parents getting out of Eastern Europe in late 1980, right when the Cold War was turning crispy. Official record shows his father as a high school janitor, but this guy never banged any erasers. According to the CIA central net at Langley,” He ignored the raised eyebrows, “his parents Stefan and Tereza were Tesla scientists before they jumped the Wall.”

“How’s that again?” Brad said.

“Tesla,” said Ian “A genius in the field of electromagnetism, lived around 1900. I read where he once caused a controlled earthquake in an abandoned section of New York City. Leveled nine square blocks.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Stefan and Tereza were pioneering the field of medium- and high- energy weapons. Directed radiation. You know, focused microwave beams that can knock out a satellite, ultra low- and high-frequency explosions that can burst internal organs at extreme distance. Armageddon stuff. It looks like CIA got the family out just in time. Their Soviet sponsors had decided that the couple’s research had achieved its end, and the project was to be terminated.” He paused long enough for everyone to understand the implication. “They got out with most of their research, but hell, what the Soviets slapped together afterward managed to keep them in Afghanistan for another seven years or so.