Caution! Contains cliffhanger. ;-)

Chapter 10

Breakup

Five minutes later the three remaining Inseparables had gathered in Athos office, each man a cup of fresh coffee in his hand, d'Artagnan slouching on the couch. Silently they listened to Porthos' summary of the phone call.

"I'll fly to Spain as soon as possible," Porthos said matter-of-factly once he had finished his report.

His friends could see how conflicted Porthos was. Torn between trying to find and save Aramis, and flying to Spain to save said friend's family. Porthos knew what Aramis would want him to do, but it was a hard decision nonetheless.

Athos nodded. "You know it's what Aramis would want you to do. I'll speak to Tréville, he must make sure Anne and Henri stay hidden and safe. Maybe he can scale up police protection for them and even arrange something similar with the Spanish police for Aramis' family. You go to Spain and we'll continue the search here. Come back as soon as Aramis' family is safe."

Porthos nodded. "There's a midday flight to Seville, if I hurry I'll be able to catch it."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. He had already lost his father at the beginning of this year; he couldn't bear losing his mother, too. "I'll have to see my mother! What if Grimaud or any of his helpers has already got to her?" He fished his mobile out of his pocket, dialling his mother's number. The call went unanswered. "I need to go to Lupiac."

Athos shared a short, troubled glance with Porthos. This was getting worse by the minute. "You should go immediately. See to it that she leaves Lupiac for somewhere safe, where it's unlikely Grimaud or Marcheaux will find her. Not her sister in Marseille, that's too obvious."

"I could fly to Pau and hire a car there. Depending on when I can get a flight, it would be the fastest route."

"What about your family?" Porthos asked the older man. Athos had been very reluctant even with his closest friends to share information about his family. What Porthos knew was that the relationship to his father was difficult.

"There'll be no problem. My mother died years ago, and my father is a military man. He never shied away from danger, and he won't nowadays. I'll advise him to be cautious, but if Grimaud is planning anything towards him, he had better remember my old man's saying If you're going to shoot the king, don't miss. My father is a tough man and still armed to the teeth. In fact, his cold stare alone has killed tougher men than Grimaud."

Porthos and d'Artagnan left to book their flights, d'Artagnan in between repeatedly trying to reach his mother without success. Both men managed to book flights for midday, which left them less than half an hour until they had to leave for the airport.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"What if this is Grimaud's aim? That we're scattering and leaving Paris? Abandoning Aramis." Porthos asked after d'Artagnan had left to pack a few things.

"We're not abandoning him, Porthos. And yes, it's most likely exactly what he has planned. But there's no way around it, you both have to go. Just come back as soon as they're all safe." Athos didn't voice another thought he'd had in this context, namely his suspicion that Grimaud would try to lure him to wherever he was hiding Aramis as soon as Porthos and d'Artagnan were out of town. And Athos was most willing to do just that. He, too, had no other choice. He was convinced it wouldn't be long until he would receive a message one way or the other.

Studying Athos face intently, Porthos said, "You will not do anything on your own. Understood?" When Athos failed to reply immediately, Porthos pressed on. "Athos, I know quite well what's going on in that head of yours. Promise here and now you won't face Grimaud on your own. Wait until we're back. Wait at least until I'm back. Or, at least, ask Tréville for backup. As much as I want to find Aramis, if you're going alone, the pup and I will probably have two friends to worry about."

"Don't worry. Among the four of us, I've always been the only one who thought things through before acting, haven't I?"

"Yeah," Porthos muttered. "That's what worries me most."

They said goodbye and Porthos made his way to the airport, too.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It was late and already dark when d'Artagnan rang the bell of his family home.

He had continuously tried to get his mother on the phone, always without success and the one and a half hour drive from the airport in Pau to Lupiac had taken unnaturally long, making him all the more jumpy and restless. When no one answered the door, he let himself in with his key.

"Maman!" he called through the house. The lights were on in the kitchen and the living room, he saw the light's soft glow seeping through the crack in the door at the bottom, illuminating the oaken parquet floor. When he got no answer, an uneasiness started crawling up his spine. He looked up along the stairway leading to the upper floor where his and his parents' bedroom were, these days only occupied by his mother. It was dark up there. He called out once more, loud enough that his mother should have heard, even if she was in the bathroom with the doors closed. He listened for any sign of life in the house, water running in the shower, the flush of the toilet, anything, but there was none.

Slowly he started walking towards the closed living room door, passing the open kitchen on his way. He let his eyes roam over the well acquainted, small room. The coffee brewer on the kitchen counter sputtered and hissed, pressing the last amount of water through the filter, the last drops of freshly brewed coffee trickling into the coffee pot. Someone must have started the process less than ten minutes ago. The coffee machine was new, purchased after their return to France, and d'Artagnan remembered it was much faster than their old one, which had hissed and sizzled for more than 15 minutes to produce a full pot of coffee. Someone was here, and had put coffee on a short while ago.

His heart picked up speed, pumping his blood faster through his veins, driven by the sudden rush of adrenaline. His hands turned cold. Fearing the worst, he crept along the aisle towards the living room, slowly pushing the door open after he had composed himself with a deep breath. The sight he was greeted by was one he would most likely never forget in all his life. After a moment of stunned amazement he wanted to call out to his mother, but instead of maman, all that came out was a choked "Mam", the word crumbling to pieces somewhere between him and her. He had recognized the human heap in front of the fireplace immediately, the fire coating his mother's skin with a warm glow, giving her black hair a shine of deep blue. Her limbs stuck out from the body in a grotesque way, those parts not touching the ground pointing in opposite directions in a way that was not natural. D'Artagnan's eyes widened another fraction in lack of understanding.

Suddenly his mother opened her eyes and shrieked as blood-curdling as the Nazguls' winged creatures on their way from Mordor.

D'Artagnan jumped and shrieked back, flailing a little with his arms.

"Good heavens, boy, you gave me a real scare," his mother said, "I didn't hear you coming." She untangled her limbs and took off the headphones.

"Jesus Christ, mum! What are you doing?" d'Artagnan was sure his face must have lost all colour the moment his mother had opened her eyes and cried out. He could hear his heart pounding unnaturally loud in his ears, like the drums of Drumcree in July.

"Yoga," Madame d'Artagnan replied nonchalantly, rising from the floor. "I didn't expect you."

"I rang the doorbell and called out for you. Several times. It's not my fault if you don't hear anything with these headphones on. And, by the way, when in the Lord's name did you start using headphones? And doing yoga?" D'Artagnan's voice, shaken as he was, carried a tone of subtle reproach. And rightfully so, the young man thought, his mother had scared him to hell. "What kind of yoga position is this anyway?"

"I use headphones since old Remy from across bought himself a leaf blower. You can't hear yourself speaking in your own home if he is running around with it."

D'Artagnan looked sceptically out of the window into the dark. "Mum, it's December, there's hardly a leaf left on any tree!"

"Go and tell this to Remy! He's using this blasted thing for much more than just blowing the last leaf from side to side. He even uses it to push his grandchildren on the swing, would you believe it!" Madame d'Artagnan shook her head thinking about her neighbour's crotchetiness and then smiled. "It's called Dying Swan."

"Who? The grandchild?"

"No! Don't be silly, the yoga figure I was trying. I'm sure it should look different, but I just can't bring my shoulder round any further and it's a mystery to me how one should balance on two toes and half a kneecap. Anyway. Do you want a cup of coffee? Should be through by now." Madame d'Artagnan walked over and embraced her son. "I'm glad to see you. What are you doing here? You didn't say you'd come. Not that I'm complaining," she added with a wink.

D'Artagnan sighed. "It's complicated. I'm glad you're okay." He kissed his mother on the cheek, which made her look at him in surprise. Then he followed her to the kitchen. "It seems we're in trouble again, especially Aramis. And there's another threat now."

D'Artagnan talked and talked while his mother filled cups of coffee and started cooking dinner. Finally, she sat down with him at the table, only commenting now and then on the things he had to tell. When he had finished with his report she sighed, grabbing his hand. "You know, I haven't told you yet, but I got an invitation from Odette and Yves asking to spend Christmas and New Year with them in Quebec. I'd really like to go, but it would leave you alone for Christmas, unless you would come with me or would go and see your aunt in Marseille for the holidays."

A smile spread on d'Artagnan's face. "I'm not alone, maman. I've got family in Paris."

"I'm so happy to know you've found friends. It was a hard year for both of us." D'Artagnan's mother squeezed his hand before letting go of it. "I would really like to meet them all, especially Constance. She seems to be a wonderful young lady, if the sparkle in your eyes when you speak about her is anything to go by."

D'Artagnan blushed. "She's the best thing that happened to me. Come to Paris with me and meet her. I'm sure Odette will be happy to have you around even before Christmas. You could come to Paris with me now and book the next available flight to Quebec. Till then you can stay at my place. I would really feel better knowing you're out of France for awhile and Canada is far enough away for my liking." The young man grinned at his mother.

Madame d'Artagnan sighed. "I'm not fully convinced if this new job is such a good idea, and I know you're not telling me everything, especially about the more risky parts. I'm sure it's much more dangerous than you let on." She rose to get the dishes and lay the table. "But I can also see that it makes you happy. Just promise me you are cautious in everything you do." She looked down at her son with a fond smile, well acquainted with her son's rash nature .

"I am. I promise. Really. So, how fast can you pack and get the house ready to leave for a while?"

D'Artagnan's mother shook her head, laughing lightly. "You're crazy. I'll need some time. I'm not even sure if my passport is still valid. And I'd need to ask Brigitte if she can look after the house while I'm away. The shrubs are not yet winterised and the water and heating needs to be..."

D'Artagnan rose, halting his mother's stream of words with his raised hand. "All right, all right. Let's at least try to get ready as soon as possible, I need to be back in Paris as fast as I can and I won't leave without you. Just tell me what I can do."

Madame d'Artagnan reflected the question for a moment, looking here and there before clapping her hands once. "Okay. Let's eat and I'll tell you with what you can start while I speak with Odette later."

When d'Artagnan fell into his old bed hours later he was utterly exhausted, but happy that his mother would finally come to meet Constance and furthermore soon be out of any possible danger once she had left France.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The next time Aramis woke it was because he was lifted from the ground in a rude and painful way. Grimaud slapped him in the face to awake him. "Come on, let's start the next round. Do you have anything to say?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Aramis slurred. "Don't know nothing of a key. Why did you kidnap Autriche?" His hands were hauled up again, tied to the rope that still hung from the ceiling. Keep talking to him, his mind whispered, keep talking. Engaging Grimaud in conversation would give him time to stall the inevitable, but his mind was sluggish, his wits dulled by thirst and pain. He had problems keeping his eyes open. "Why did you keep him alive?"

Grimaud secured the end of the rope to the iron ring again and turned to face Aramis. "Kidnapping Autriche was neither my idea nor my concern. You know better than me why Rochefort did it, don't you?"

Aramis opened his one good eye, carefully watching Grimaud. "Why didn't you kill him after Rochefort died?" he croaked, his throat parched to a point that made it hard to speak. "Why let him live?"

Grimaud eyed him suspiciously, eventually making a decision. Casually leaning against the wall, he answered. "Rochefort was utterly mad and I couldn't care less why he did what he did or if Autriche lived or died. But Jussac was also a great strategist, and he seldom did things without purpose. He left orders how to deal with Monsieur Autriche and his wife should anything happen to him. And something happened indeed, as you know. It was a piece of cake to follow his instructions, I simply had to check on the faithless husband now and then and pay the keepers. And it paid off in end, didn't it?"

Aramis remained quiet and waited for the other man to carry on.

"Even after his death he can cause you hassle and pain. I like that. He was really a man of great far-sightedness," Grimaud gloated. Cheerfully he clapped his hands together and started rubbing them. "But as entertaining as this all is, I need the key. And you will be the one to deliver it to me."

"I don't know what key you're talking about. Rochefort left no key, at least not with us. I have never seen such a key."

"No, I guess you haven't. If anyone is in possession of this key it would be Athos. It would be like him to keep it hidden in his safe, without telling someone."

Aramis gasped, rapidly blinking away the tears that gathered in his eyes as he shifted his weight and his ankles protested painfully. "Athos has no such key, I would know. There is no key. Why do you think any of us would have it at all? Everything in Rochefort's possession was seized by the police."

With two quick strides Grimaud came face to face with Aramis. "Because the police report lists no key in Rochefort's possession after his death. Either one of you stole it while you were alone with him at the Louvre or Tréville took it. However, I don't think the latter is the case, Tréville has always been too honourable to break any law. This leaves the four of you." Grimaud slowly unsheathed the knife from where it was attached to his belt.

"And what if Rochefort didn't take it with him to the Louvre? What if he hid it somewhere? What's so important about this key anyway?"

Grimaud stared at Aramis for a moment. "That's none of your business, but I'm in the mood to tell you anyway. You won't live long enough to tell anyone." He slid the tip of the knife along Aramis' jawline, cutting him lightly, but deep enough that the gash started bleeding. "Rochefort foolishly accepted funds from some terrorist group in return for blowing up the Louvre. A task he didn't manage to accomplish, thanks to you. And now they want the money back and they've started bothering me. And I want my share of it; Rochefort owes me. The money's due to me! That's why I need access to the damn safety deposit box and the papers there. And you're the one to give it to me."

Aramis was stunned. "And Autriche? How does he fit into all this?" he rasped.

Suddenly, Grimaud's face was taut with anger. "Autriche was Rochefort's project, not mine. I don't care about Autriche! I only want what's mine!" Grimaud placed the tip of the knife against the soft skin just beneath Aramis' Adam's apple. A tiny move and Aramis' windpipe would have an additional exit. "Where is it!"

"You can cut me to pieces, and I still don't know it. We don't have it!"

Grimaud lowered the knife and cut Aramis' upper arm, deeper now than the previous incision.

Aramis hissed.

"I need this key. Islamic terrorists are not ones to be trifled with. They want their money back."

Aramis could hear desperation behind the words, he felt the great pressure Grimaud was under and realized the deadly peril he was in, greater than he'd originally thought. Grimaud was as malicious and dangerous as he had been back in Louis' time. But now he was under enormous strain, too. "I don't have it," he whispered.

"No, but one of you has. Call Athos. He'll come to rescue you." Grimaud fished a mobile out of his pocket.

"No." Aramis felt a tremble running up his legs, spreading until his whole body shivered. It was from exhaustion and the beginning of a fever, not from fear.

Another slash was added to the flesh. "Call him."

Aramis remained silent. He had been tortured before and would endure this, too.

Grimaud continued cutting through skin and flesh and not once did a groan escape Aramis' lips. Nevertheless, he was relieved when Grimaud's mobile rang and the man left the cell to take the call. Aramis was still bound with his arms raised high over his head, a posture continuously sending spikes of pain through his body. In the dim glow the low light bulb offered, he watched his blood tripping from various wounds, leaving trails of glittering dark on his clothing. He wasn't in danger of dying of blood loss, not yet. But the rising fever wasn't contributing to his chances of survival either. The harsh climate and lack of food was doing the rest. He wasn't so sure any more if he would ever leave those walls alive again.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He was startled out of semi-consciousness when the door opened with a loud bang, bouncing back from the stone wall. The brutal force hinted at Grimaud's anger and impatience. Aramis had lost all feeling in his hands and arms, but his body's ailments were brought back to his mind with cruel harshness now. He didn't know how long he had hung there in a state of drowsiness, barely able to support his body's weight with his too-tightly bound feet. What had been numbed by the state between wakefulness and sleep came back to him with relentless clarity.

"All right, Musketeer, I'm fed up with your stalling tactics!" Grimaud drew a pistol from the holster and chambered a round. "No more lies. Where. Is. The. Key."

While Aramis was still pondering whether or not he should reply, Grimaud fired.

The bullet hit Aramis in the left thigh. The force of the gunshot yanked Aramis' legs around and, losing what meagre footing he had had, his body weight pulled jerkily and heavily at his bound hands, arms and joints. He fainted from the sudden, multiplied shock waves of pain. A slap to his face brought him back to the present. Aramis groaned. "That really wasn't necessary," he panted, trying to get his feet under him again.

"I'm done with your lies. You should know I've other ways and means of making people talk. Dying here without telling me what I want to know doesn't help anybody. Especially not your family."

Aramis' head jerked up, with glassy eyes he stared at Grimaud. "What do you mean by that?"

"It means that you still have a choice. Either you or your Musketeer friends give me what I want or your family will suffer, one by one. I'm not only speaking of your beautiful sister and her pesky children." Seeing the expression of horror in Aramis' eyes, a sadistic grin spread on Grimaud's face. "Did you really think I would face you without leverage? Imagine the devastation d'Artagnan would experience losing his mother in the same year he had to bury his father. Think of your own poor mother. Anne and little Henri."

Aramis breathed heavily, now that the first rush of adrenaline and shock had started easing off and the pain spread up his leg like flames licking through dry brushwood. "I don't know anything, Grimaud, you must believe me. I've never seen a key in Rochefort's possession. If you ever so much as lay a finger on my family, you'll wish you'd never been born."

Grimaud laughed sardonically. "You are hardly in a position to threaten me. Plus, you'll be already dead by then." He drew a cheap mobile from his pocket. "I'm running out of time. Call Athos and tell him to come and bring the key." Grimaud looked at Aramis expectantly, his fingers hovering over the keypad. "His number."

Aramis slowly shook his head, gauging the other man's reaction. Hearing Grimaud threaten to harm his family was more than he could bear. He thought of his sister who would have no idea what was going on until it was too late. His mother who would never suspect harm from anyone. He hoped at least Anne and Henri were safe, watched over by Tréville who would hopefully be aware of the danger they were in. Anne would be worried sick by now, not knowing what had happened to him and where he was. But despite all that, he would never betray one of his brothers. "No."

Grimaud stared at him, a smirk spreading around the corners of his mouth. "You're pathetic. Do you really think I wouldn't have his number already?"

Surprised, and unable to choke his curiosity, Aramis mumbled, "Why haven't you called him already then?" His sight was clouded as if mist had suddenly risen from the ground in the small dungeon and he tried to blink it away. The pain was pulsing through his body like rivers of lava. He could not remember ever having experienced such agony, though somewhere in his mind he knew he had been shot more than once in his old Musketeer days. He just had to focus on staying conscious and suppressing the pain.

"The game, my friend. The game. Where'd be the fun in it?" Grimaud's fingers danced over the keypad, pushing buttons. "I have a knack for torturing, I just can't help it." He held the mobile towards Aramis, his other hand coming up with the weapon. The dark and deadly muzzle pointed at Aramis' face, only inches away from the bruised brow. "Now, tell him to come and bring what I want."

The call was answered and Athos' muted voice sounded through the speaker. "Hello?"

Aramis glowered at Grimaud, his pale, maltreated and sweat-covered face glistening under the dim light. Holding the other's gaze, he said, without blinking, "Fuck off, Grimaud."

A second later, another shot rang through the small prison cell, its echo resounding deafeningly from the cold and damp stone walls.