Disclaimer: Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling and other characters contained in these posts were created by and are the intellectual property of Thomas Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit whatsoever. Anything you recognize belongs to Thomas Harris, anything else is CloseEncounters©2004.

This story set one year after the end of the book Hannibal. Remember, things are never as they may seem...

I would like to express my special gratitude to Lecter-in-love for the assistance and time provided while researching for some local knowledge for this fiction.

I hope you will enjoy reading the piece.

The Brilliancy of His Equations...

by CloseEncounters

Clarice Starling felt their presence as soon as she entered the cobbled courtyard of the rendezvous place. Even before her keen eye could single them out from an idle crowd, thronging around charming little restaurants and amiable souvenir shops, she sensed the unmistakable excitement of the closing in hunt. Suppressed eagerness on their oddly blank faces betrayed them, seated at the tables with coffee and morning papers; perched on the unpolished fountain granite in the middle of the yard; leaned against the stone walls, half-hidden by the lilac spread…

She chose an empty table on la terrasse d'un café and glanced at the menu.

This time her usual practice to arrive early and observe the meeting point from a distance failed to blend her in. She was spotted. Damnit… The hunters knew their prey. Starling acknowledged the moment. Her world was about to change. With the multitude of languages and attires swarming around her, with clacks of cameras and trills of titter rupturing the sun drenched air, she felt suddenly pierced and lonesome. The doldrums she'd long forgotten …

When she recognised the signs of a stake out she abandoned the schedule, and now, sipping coffee at the opposite end of the leafy courtyard, watched her contact, a lithe dishevelled man with foxy features, getting edgy and anxious as minutes passed the appointed time. She mused what was his payment.

Money? Life? Freedom? What would they offer her?

She wondered if she still had a bargaining power. If she ever had a bargaining power. You're Joe Blow, Clint Pearsall said to her once. She ought to remember it now…

Finally, the foxface's got up, dropped a few coins on the table and moved off to the side street, leading to the Cathedral.

She closed her eyes, soaking gentle morning sun, breathing in the aromas of a backstreet bistro. Ground coffee, vanilla and roasted almond, cigarette smoke, lilac blossom and… freedom. Her face upturned, behind the sunshades her eyes opened and looked into the blue cloudless infinity with a resolve of a condemned whose time is up, her nostrils flared as if for the last ever breath. She felt some fear, she remembered the taste, and it tasted like a penny under her tongue. Spring breeze stroked a gun-powder spot on her cheek, played with the strands of her hair, autumn red around the porcelain face. Starling closed her eyes again, leaned back and waited.

To the passing tourists that flocked into this medieval French town, attracted by its noble and bloody history, she appeared as just another beautiful woman, judging by her elegant appearance and demeanour, probably, Parisian, definitely French, lazing with a cup of coffee as the touring crowds went by. To the bounty hunters, readying in the shady chill of the old courtyard, she was a treasured prize. A sure double 00.

Starling considered her options. Running was not an option. She was overwhelmed and outnumbered. They came en masse, bold enough to notice…

Armed? Most likely… Moving people down and starting the framework for extradition as Crawford would've said… Crawford…Her lips tightened. She had nothing to thank him for, yet she was grateful for so much…

A shadow fell on her face, something's blocking the sun. Starling looked up.

A young couple, brashly dressed, cameras pulling on the necks, held to the backs of the wrought-iron chairs, "You mind if we join you?" The man with a mop of sandy hair and a soft jaw line spoke with a Northern American accent.

Upstate New York, maybe… Starling didn't change her pose, just opened her hand in a gesture meaning feel free, watched the man to seat himself and place his camera on the table.

His companion was a young woman, frosty pale eyes behind a dry smile, black hair hiding a wire. She dumped a bright textile bag with a flap on her knees, slipped her hand in, held it there.

Looking right into the blue mirrors of Starling's shades the man said. "Hello, Special Agent Starling. FBI. Keep your hands where we can see them. And don't make any sudden moves…" He brushed the side of his jacket open and Starling glimpsed a sight of the gun sling. She registered that the world immediately around her shifted closer.

"I know the drill." She said.

"Good, then we can avoid the un-pleasantries… I am Special Agent Matt Laurie." A nod towards his companion. "Special Agent Bouvier."

They flipped out their badges, the woman's other hand remained in the bag, her cold eyes fixed on Starling. She lifted the bag just enough for Starling to see a black eye of a silencer, peeping through under the flap.

"Webley G10 spring action, loaded with tranquiliser dart, trained at your stomach, ma'am." Bouvier informed, expressionless, and dropped the bag back into position under the table. Starling considered the female agent for a moment. Attractive and ambitious. Should be a winning combination. Don't spoil it with a smart mouth, girl…

"You are a long way from home," Starling turned her attention to Agent Laurie. "Honeymoon, is it?"

Agent Laurie pulled his lips into a smile. "Be assured, Starling, we have a full cooperation of the French authorities." He glanced over his shoulder at the small stocky black-haired man with the eyebrows knotting above his nose, holding the spread of "Le Monde" and fingering his moustache. "This is Commissaire Bénard, our French liaison."

You mean your French stooge… Starling looked into the dull olives of Bénard's eyes and remembered the white-haired Chicago cop she shot at Muskrat farm.

I bet you're wearing your off-duty pants, Commissaire …

"We've been looking for you, Starling." Agent Bouvier's voice tasted like sour milk.

"Have you?" Starling said without enthusiasm. "Now you found me."

"You are wanted for questioning by the United States Attorney in connection with the death of four people at Muskrat Farm including Mr Mason Verger and the disappearance of Deputy Assistant Inspector General Paul Krendler four years ago." Laurie waited for her reply and, when she didn't oblige, continued. "Also, we believe that you may have knowledge about the whereabouts of a fugitive felon Dr Hannibal Lecter."

Her trigger finger on her chin, Starling silently observed the agents around the courtyard that were scanning the passers by on the side streets.

They aren't taking any chances…

Suddenly she felt a peculiar sense of pride for the professionalism of the institution she once belonged to. How odd… For a moment she thought she was almost jealous of their structured low-ceiling lives on the right side of the law. Right side of the law… Well God fucking shit… Decade old resentment brought back unsavoury memories…

For another moment she felt shame as a forgotten longing to be appreciated and recognised by the authority, by the wearers of the badge sliced through her right to the tips of her Italian stilettos…

Appreciated and recognised… Not hunted down like mad dogs… Starling was now fascinated with the tip of Laurie's nose that moved as he talked. Is this a chance to stop running?.. Her regretful lapse into self-pity remained unnoticed. Would they have you back, you think? The FBI? She heard a mocking voice in her head… Fuck you, Doctor Lecter… This is it, isn't it?... Laurie's dancing nose was the point of her attention while she was making her mind up. She took a deep quiet breath like an Olympic swimmer before plunging in. Another road of no return…

"We have reasons to believe that Dr Lecter is here, in France and that you, Starling, had accompanied him here. In fact, we believe," Laurie was clearly getting irritated by her silence and impasse, he leaned forward, his eyes now unpleasant, repulsion in the corners of his mouth, "that you, Special Agent Starling, are now Lecter's consort… and the motherfucker's whore."

Without taking his eyes off her, he pulled out a pack of photographs and covered the table with a swift move of an experienced card player.

As she looked down at the spread of the pictures, Starling felt a knot tightening in her stomach. The images were blurred and grainy but easily recognisable, taken at The Opéra National du Rhin in Strasbourg a few weeks ago. All as damning as the foxface said

Creepo son-of-a-bitch… must've been quite close to take some of these…

Rage washed over her as she realized the extent of that pissant's intrusion into their intimacy…

Laurie picked up one of the photos and held it to her face. From the depth of the draped ornate box the scant light picked out her forehead against the imperious arch of the nose like that of Peron, eyes closed, lips caught in the eternity of a kiss… She remembered the fire that spread from her cheek then, the sudden engulfing backdraft of desire… She remembered where her hand was at the time… Her skin tingled under the silk of her jacket and she wished she could keep the photograph.

"You do know, Agent Laurie, that visiting operais not considered a criminal offence in France?" Starling said.

"Hmm." He bared his teeth. "I'd like to remind you, Starling, that at the time of your disappearance you were under the Inspector General's investigation accused of unlawful disclosure of sensitive material to a fugitive felon. The investigation was never completed and you are still facing a possibility of criminal charges brought against you by the Public Integrity Section of the Justice Department and, subsequently, a trial."

"You know It was a frame… The events that followed…"

"The events that followed, Starling, lead to the murder of Mason Verger and the ensuing disappearance of Paul Krendler. Dr Lecter, in a mean time, still remains at large. Don't you think that people will be asking questions? And with this," Laurie waved over the photographs, "don't you see that you are implicated enough for the courts to take a different view? What did they call you in Tattler? The Bride of Dracula? You'll go down, Starling, and for a long time – public doesn't like to think that FBI is just as fallible as they are, as they don't like the image of a trigger-happy crooked agent that shoots a mother holding a baby."

He saw her wince then and congratulated himself. "And when you do go down they'll make you the Bride of Frankenstein as down there in the nick they don't like federal agents even more, corrupt or not. Technically, by the way, you are still a federal agent on a rather prolonged administrative leave and…" he gathered the photographs, tapped the pack on the table, "in clear violation of your oath…"

Starling remained impassive as he said. "It's over. You can linger in a French prison for years while we argue your extradition or you can come with us now. One way or the other we are bringing you home – it's the end of the road for you, Starling…"

"What's the deal?" She said in a dull lifeless voice.

"You give us Hannibal Lecter, sweet and quiet, and in return you'll get discharged and enough to start anew some hush place. What is it going to be, Starling, thorns or roses?"

Jesus, another politician in waiting…

It turned her stomach to be reminded of Krendler's indulgence with catchphrases…

"Hey, an offer I can't refuse…" She felt dead. "What are my quarantines?"

Triumphant, Agent Laurie reclined back and in his kindest voice said. "We can discuss the details someplace else… Now, where is Lecter? Is he here now?"

"I don't know…" Starling shrugged, added, "I don't think so," as Laurie's expression twitched from quizzical to sceptical.

"So, the great Houdini keeps his assistant in the dark… Well. I am looking forward to your story." He stretched out his arm. "Pass me you purse and your jacket, Starling." He checked the jacket and rummaged through the contents of Starling's bag. "Are you armed?"

"No, sir, I'm not armed." She said.

He twisted his face in a smile. "No need to be so official, Clarice. Now that the formalities are out of the way, we are going to be good pals…"

"Go fuck yourself!" She said, noting a fleeting approval in Bouvier's eyes.

Agent Laurie grinned, stood up and motioned her to follow. The crowd around her suddenly thickened and as she was led away, sandwiched between the colourful shirts of the agents, tightly griped on her elbows, she caught a glimpse of shorthaired man in a business suit to fold his newspaper, take off the spectacles and look directly at her, a spectacle's arm pinched between his teeth.

I'll be damned… Bob Sneed… And she thought the shit couldn't get any deeper.

to be continued

Please, bear with me should you come across some grammatical mistakes, particularly, an incorrect use of "a" and "the".

I would greatly welcome your comments regarding my piece.

Thank you very much for your time,

CE