Bristol, 6 March, late afternoon
Where do you look for a man with only a name? D'Artagnan thought himself pretty handy with Google, but after a supper of coffee and chocolate digestives - the only food in the flat, as neither D'Artagnan nor Trace were skilled housekeepers - he had succeeded only in establishing that Athos was a picturesque place in Greece. Holidays could be booked instantly for very reasonable prices, apparently.
He was contemplating putting a Chinese takeaway on his credit card when the front door juddered under a battery of hefty knocks.
He opened it, to see a man he vaguely recognised as Trace's landlord, and a police officer in a high vis vest and black uniform. "Can I help you?"
"I told you," said the landlord to the policeman, ad pointing at D'Artagnan. "Subletting!"
Ah. This was awkward. He was unofficial and Trace had obviously never cleared it with the flat owners. "I'm just staying a couple of nights," D'Artagnan said. "I'm a friend of -"
"Are you D'Artagnan?" asked the police officer. D'Artagnan nodded. "Then I'm afraid I have to ask you to vacate these premises immediately. You were seen getting involved in the fracas outside the Rose and Crown this lunchtime. There's been a complaint from another resident of these flats, that a criminal was seen taking refuge here."
"And subletting," added the landlord nastily.
"But -"
Something was wrong here. 'Taking refuge?' 'Involved in a fracas?' The phrases just did not ring true.
D'Artagnan caught sight of the policeman's jacket. The badge on the breast, though shiny and silver, was a little on the small side, and seemed to be made of plastic. Also, it read Toytown Constabulary.
"I'll just get my coat, officer," said D'Artagnan, then slammed the front door, and ran into the flat.
He snatched up his leather jacket, and Trace's outdated phone, and wrenched open the French doors into what the landlord no doubt called the balcony: a narrow shelf outside the living room with a twenty foot drop to the communal garden. D'Artagnan hesitated, then heard the landlord's key in the door. "Bye then," said D'Artagnan , and vaulted over the rail.
He knew enough not to jump straight off, but clung by his fingers to the bottom edge, to give himself less of a fall. All the same the impact, when it came, was enough to jar his legs and spine and leave him stunned on the ground in the dim late afternoon light.
"There he is!" cried the landlord, leaning over the balcony.
D'Artagnan dragged himself to his feet and stumbled away.
Get Athos, Trace had said. There was obviously a connection to D'Artagnan's phone, and therefore to PiP, and the messages. Presumably also, to Milady, since she had seen the end of the struggle at the Rose and Crown, and then, observing that the phone was with D'Artagnan, contrived to get it herself. But who was Athos, and how was D'Artagnan to find him? What revenge could he even wreak on someone with resources like that?
D'Artagnan went to the hospital, but Trace was in intensive care and could not be visited.
He googled on Trace's phone. The tiny screen made it awkward, and a passing nurse gave D'Artagnan such a glare that he flinched. "Mobiles should be switched off," she said.
D'Artagnan tried a winning smile. "I only want to -"
"Outside!" said the nurse.
He went.
The nearest place with a reasonable signal was the station. D'Artagnan loitered on the concourse. Above him great brick arches soared to enclose the array of tracks and platforms; beside him, pasty sellers proffered gravy-scented genuine Cornish delights. D'Artagnan ignored this and used the miniature keyboard to type in search terms.
How had Trace ever used this phone? It could barely get the internet. If D'Artagnan had it much longer he'd be holding it up at arm's length and asking young people to read the display for him.
Aha. There was a thought.
Trace was pretty aged. If Athos was someone from Trace's past, chances were that he was ancient too. What do old folk do online? Facebook.
The Athos page came up straight away. Not a person page, a group. We Heart Athos, and posts from many young-girl names.
Hmmn. D'Artagnan clicked on a post from the group itself, which affected a more sober tone. Is this Athos? it asked, and linked to a news article about masked men breaking into a power plant.
D'Artagnan frowned. Around him, seagulls yelped and swooped down to snap at abandoned chips. The tannoy blared indistinct platform alterations. It was surreal to be searching for Trace's attackers, and a connection to the messages in PiP, surrounded by such mundane sights and sounds.
There was a link to video. He tapped it, and saw footage from a surveillance camera, monochrome but high definition. The location and datestamp in the bottom right corner had been roughly pixellated and was unreadable. D'Artagnan leaned in, blocking out distraction.
The scene was of a night-time, floodlit brick wall. In front of it was scrubby grass and litter. Beyond it were an army of metal boxes, each the size of a Ford Transit. The boxes had wires linking them to each other, and to a control tower just visible on the right hand side of the view.
As D'Artagnan watched, three shadows grew on the patchy grass, and resolved as three men in dark clothes, with bulky jackets, boots and belts suggestive of tools or weapons. The video footage froze and a word flashed up in extravagant font: Musketeers!
Then the footage rolled again. A river of Bristol commuters jostled past D'Artagnan on their way to the London train, but now he was hooked. He peered at the screen.
The first man moved with the unblinking confidence of a cat, springing onto the wall, heedless of the dark, and holding out his hand to his companion. This slighter figure climbed gracefully from the shoulders of the third man who stood staunch, taking the weight of his friend as if it were nothing.
Light from the watchtower striped the side of the first man's cheek and mouth, throwing his scar into relief.
The first two men walked the top of the wall and their companion kept pace at ground level. The image on the screen dimmed and faded, brightened again into a view from a different camera, high up. On the watchtower itself, perhaps? D'Artagnan did a quick screencap and set an image search running while he watched the rest of the footage. Sure, any amateur could do what he was doing, but that didn't make it foolish.
The men on the screen moved swiftly into a fenced area filled with complicated wiring and substation paraphernalia. The slightest of the men leapt down and opened the gate. It took him no time, yet D'Artagnan had to assume the gate had been locked. The slender figure gave a careless wave as if acknowledging his own greatness, then was stilled by the leader's sharp gesture. The man outside now joined them and they stood back to back, scanning the scene.
There was a flicker on the screen and the camera wobbled.
All three men drew guns from their jackets.
The nearest substation began to spark. Two new, masked figures sprinted from the flare and were tackled to the ground by the leader of the three men. His friends sprang forward too.
A shot aimed at them went wide, seeming to outrage them, and then the three friends flattened the saboteurs with calm efficiency.
The film was grainy but D'Artagnan saw the leader pull out a handheld device and tap at it. The screen whited out for a moment as floodlights came on, and when it cleared, the three men, and the masked saboteurs, were gone.
D'Artagnan stared. These men were soldiers. There could be no mistaking the smooth coordination of a trained team. Yet why were soldiers sneaking into a place they were guarding? And what had happened to the masked men after the lights flared on?
He wandered around the concourse without seeing it, reading through the other posts on the page (none were as exciting) and following links to forums of endless speculation as to the location of this incident, the purpose of the attempted sabotage, and, most pressingly for many forumites, which of the men was Athos.
D'Artagnan snorted at this. He scrolled back to the footage's opening scene, and the first man poised on top of the perimeter wall, his scarred face and set expression speaking of cool capability. In D'Artagnan's mind there was no doubt. If any of these three were Athos, this was the man.
The trouble was that nobody knew anything about him, and the phone was too crap to bear much more googling.
D'Artagnan was frowning in irritation at this when another thought struck him. This was Trace's old phone. Trace had named his attacker with confidence - therefore he knew him personally. Therefore, the simplest way to find Athos -
D'Artagnan called up the contacts list on Trace's phone, and there it was. Athos, and a London number. "I am such an idiot," he said out loud, and pressed Call.
"Louis Headquarters Carlton Place, what extension do you need?" A woman's voice, crisp and efficient.
"Is Athos there," D'Artagnan asked, feeling a fool.
A pause. "He's in a briefing right now, would you like to speak to someone else?"
"No. No, thank you. I'll try later."
D'Artagnan ended the call and stood clutching Trace's phone, his heart racing. As simple as that.
He searched for Carlton Place, and found it - an address in central London.
The tannoy announced a last chance to board, and D'Artagnan's head snapped up. He shoved the phone into his jacket, and sprinted for the London train.