Allegro 6
Adagio and previous chapters here:
Disclaimer: characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and others.
"Chief Inspector. Very good. You are very prompt, sir. The General will appreciate that. Please, go right in." The smiling receptionist pressed a button on her keyboard.
Finch pulled his hat from his curls and shrugged his overcoat from his shoulders. The receptionist pointed politely toward a coat rack by the elevator doors. He hung his hat and coat up and straightened his tie. General Wilson. Finch seemed to remember that there was a pay grade between Major and General. Five, actually.
The General half rose out of his chair behind his desk as Finch entered. Finch nodded before closing the door behind him.
"Please sit down, Inspector." The General indicted a comfortable leather chair in front of the desk.
"Thank you, General." Finch kept his voice even, no emphasis on Wilson's new rank.
"I owe you no explanation, Finch."
I thought I kept my voice even. "No sir." Finch looked around the office, took in the awards, trophies, framed photographs and other paraphernalia of a man who felt he needed to display his prowess. He's defensive. The big desk, the large chair. But he will always start with the offensive. Be careful. Finch remembered that after the explosions, the military took control of the streets. The rioters were arrested. The looters shot. Within three days there was order. Order, but not normalcy. Now the military was calling the shots. And I am shooting.
"I called you in to discuss this business with Ireland."
"Yes."
"I have been told that you have discovered evidence of the original carrier."
Of course, the General would have level ten clearance. "Yes, sir."
"We need that man. We need him now. I want you to get him for me." The General picked up a pen and tapped the tip on his desk, emphasizing the word 'me'."
Finch paused, impassive. He chose his words carefully. "I cannot get you that man, General. He is dead."
"Then get me his body. The lab rats can use whatever they can find to create a cure."
Or a new virus. "I can't get you his body. He has been cremated." Finch tightened his mouth, anticipating Wilson's next sentence, his mind whirling with possible answers. It has to be the truth. Anything else will devastate the victims. We need to focus on finding a cure, not chasing a dead man.
"What? Cremated? How can you know? The Lab told me you did not have an ID for him."
Finch noticed Wilson's face went alternately red then white. Careful. Careful. "I do not have an ID. However, I saw his immolation, as did 200,000 others."
"You mean…?" Finch watched Wilson's face contort as the realization hit him. Easy, now. Wilson stood up, dropped the pen. "You mean to tell me there is nothing we can do to stop this mutating virus in Ireland? Nothing?"
"I can't say. I am not a medical technician nor a virologist."
"Goddamn it, Finch. We needed the host." Wilson began pacing before the large window. "There must be more we can get."
Finch remained silent. There is Delia's diary, but you do not want that document in the laboratories, do you? You don't want your 'rats' to see that.
The General stood before his window, his hands behind his back. Finch watched Wilson's shoulders. When they began to sag, he sighed. So. The government doesn't have a handle on this like they said they did. That announcement was merely propaganda to control panic. Now I know. Will Ireland be lost? Finch tightened his hand on the arm of the chair. How soon before a case turns up in Wales? Scotland?
Wilson stared out his window, but Finch heard him clearly. "Inspector. I want you to find out who this man was. Where he was. Find his parents, his brothers, his sisters, and his children." Wilson turned around and leaned over his desk. "You will do nothing else. You will have all the support you need. Johnson will ring you tomorrow and go over your budget submissions. Use all the men you need, all the resources. A close relative's DNA will give them the boost they need to get ahead of these mutations. We need their blood. This assignment is a State Directive, do you understand, Finch?"
Finch met his eyes. "Yes, sir, I understand completely." And he did.
…………
Finch woke with a start. Dominic. He reached for his mobile and pressed the speed dial. It doesn't matter what time it is. It didn't ring. He was connected immediately to Dominic's voice mail. A wave of nausea washed over him. It's happening now.
XXX
Dominic buttoned his Mac all the way up to his chin, but left the space over his chest unbuttoned so he could tuck his right hand inside. The bandages made it impossible to wear a glove on that hand. He had to pull the other glove on with his teeth. It was snowing and the winds were brutal, but he did not want to call a cab. Too short a distance to bother with a cab, but long enough to make a walk in this weather uncomfortable. It was too late for the buses. He didn't want to talk to anyone, not even a cabbie. His hotel was nice, but certainly not the Metropole. It was a mere three blocks away. It was dark, but the sidewalks were well-salted and well-lit. He wished he had his hat; the snow drove his hair into a forelock of wind-whipped hanks that got into his eyes. He bent his head against the weather.
South of France. It will be warm there. I hate the cold. I will leave tomorrow. Fly. It will be faster. I will start in Nice. Chances are she could have changed her mind. She could be in any resort on the Riviera. Long time. It might take a long time to find her. Oh, Evey. Why? Why did you run away? And Massey. He stumbled, turned his ear to listen behind him. Yes. Finch told me to look out from behind. Dominic glanced up at the lamppost as he walked by. He said that when the attack came, there would be a lamppost nearby. Shit. This must be it. It must be now. Dominic stopped and turned around to look behind him. Nothing. No pedestrians. No place for someone hiding to jump out at him. Who even knows I am here? Why would someone care? It didn't make sense. He turned back towards his hotel and started his walk again. But Finch is never wrong. Dominic slowed down. He listened behind him instead of looking ahead. Why would someone trailing Evey want me dead? Unless he thought I would get to her before he could. Maybe I am closer than I think. And if he is tracking her, best to confront him. Maybe take him out right now. One less thug on her heels. He stopped. Oh no. He pulled his right hand out of his coat and stared at it. For the first time since he started his walk he remembered he was crippled. The confidence he had felt melted away even in the face of the frigid wind. Apprehension replaced his certainty. Since his injury, he had not been required to do anything more challenging than writing left-handed. Maybe shaving left-handed. He removed his inured hand from the warmth of his Mac then slid his left hand into his coat and fingered the butt of his .38. He turned around, scanned the buildings, the alleys. He was in a dark place, between the lampposts. Shit. The wind whistled loudly around wrought iron gates and the awnings that hung over the sidewalk. Too loud for him to easily hear anyone who might be shadowing him. He turned forward again, walked a little faster, his gloved hand on the comforting steel of his revolver. Perhaps Finch is wrong. Or tonight is not the night. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes.
One more block to go. He turned his head to the side. He had heard something. Keep walking. Don't let on. A lamppost loomed ahead. There. That will be where he will try. A pile of dirty snow left by the plow formed a gray base for the post. He could see the thick flakes swirling around the light. There's a rubbish can. A drain grate. The road is clear. He flexed the fingers of his left hand. This hand is still good. The .38 might be useless, left handed. Hand to hand. It might come to that. He has a knife. I have practiced unarmed combat against a man with a knife. Left handed, I can do it. I can. I must. If I fail he will get Evey. He cocked his head slightly, slowed down as he approached the lamppost and made sure he was balanced on both feet. He straightened out his right arm as a counterbalance against the swing he planned to make with his left.
It came swiftly; he heard only one crunching footfall before the intended blow. Dominic pulled on the revolver, but the barrel caught on the holster. Too slow. I can't draw left handed quickly enough. He released the weapon, twisted his shoulders, pivoted on his foot and came around to the side as his assailant made the attempted strike, blowing past him, obviously surprised his target had moved so fast and evaded his knife. Dominic saw the big blade glint in the lamplight. That would have got my kidney for sure. Dominic spun around in the snow, swung his right arm out to give his shoulders the extra power of inertia as he brought his left hand down on the man's wrist, forcing the knife to fly out and slide along the snowy sidewalk.
Now disarmed, his assailant lowered his head and aimed his attack on Dominic's midsection. There was not enough time to dodge away or try to grab for the .38 again. Dominic went down, his enemy on top of him, reaching for his throat. Dominic felt the strong hands on his windpipe, but thought only how relieved he was that the knife was gone. His air was choked off, but not for long. He brought his knee up and twisted his back, throwing the man off and into the snow. Dominic got to his feet, his left fist ready for strike, right arm ready to block as the man righted himself and shook off the snow. It was Massey all right. Dominic recognized him immediately.
Massey foolishly wasted valuable seconds scanning the ground for his knife. Dominic launched himself at his enemy. He connected his shoulder with the other man's solar plexus, knocking him flat on his back and into the street, where both men slid on the icy pavement and came to rest in the center of the road. Dominic made sure one knee was in Massey's groin and his other across his arm, pinning him firmly. His left fist smashed Massey's nose, then his cheek. Massey twisted beneath him, Dominic felt Massey's fist in his ribs and he pulled back for another strike. That punch never connected. A heavy blow to his shoulders knocked him forward and he slid into the gutter. He rolled quickly to his feet and assumed a crouch, this time his revolver was unsteady in his left hand, ready to take on this new attacker.
He dropped the .38 into the snow. Then he raised both hands slowly over his head. His new attacker wore a uniform and had a partner with a Luger P08 9 mm aimed at his chest. His eyes then went to Massey who was kneeling, his hands behind his head, blood flowed from his nose over his mouth and dripped down to cover the buttons of his coat. Dominic pointed his left hand at him and said, "Verbrecher…Ich bin ein Polizist"
The two men lifted Massey to his feet. The one without the Luger nodded towards him and said in English, "Your badge, then."
Dominic still had both hands in the air. He nodded meaningfully at the man with the Luger before slowly using his left hand to remove his badge and passport from his pocket. The policeman with the truncheon took them from him and stepped to the lamp to examine his badge while the other spoke into his comlink. The Luger remained trained on Massey. Good. Dominic heard the sound of sirens in the distance. At the sound of the claxon Massey bolted. The Lugar fired. Missed. The Swiss policeman was off chasing him down the sidewalk and into an alley. Dom made a move to join the chase, but a Luger, aimed steady at his chest, replaced the truncheon in the hand of his captor.
"Halt."
He realized he was out of breath. Then he felt a chill. I am soaked to the skin and this wind is brutal. Then he felt a white hot flash of pain shoot up his arm. He looked to his right and saw that the bandages on his hand were bloody. He stumbled against the curb as a wave of dizziness knocked him side to side. Too much too soon. But I am alive. His next thought chilled him more than the frigid wind. Massey is gone.
XXX
Evey unfolded the letter and smoothed the white paper against her thigh. I am ready to read letter number two.
She had thought she would be ready as soon as she checked into her hotel. But she wasn't. She thought maybe after a stroll on the beach, but she wasn't ready then either. Even after a shopping excursion and lunch in a sidewalk café with a copy of a book she bought…"Maximizing your Riviera Vacation", she was still not ready.
In a strange way, by refusing to open the letter, she was not speaking to him. It seemed rather foolish to her now, looking at his fine handwriting, sitting up in the soft bed with thick comforting pillows behind her. Rather foolish indeed, that she could somehow hurt his feelings by ignoring him. He is dead. I am still not ready.
She turned her eyes away, looked at her suite. It was beautiful, but sterile and empty. Years ago she had honestly believed that being warm, safe, dry, and well-fed meant happiness. In those years she might be one or the other, but never all four at once. Here I am. All four at once. And I am as miserable as I have ever been when I was cold, wet, hungry and afraid.
She dropped her eyes down to the script. Am I ready? Maybe just the first line.
"My dear Eve,"
Good start, a good beginning. What else?
"I am dead."
Bastard.
"And you are probably waiting for me to come back. I will not, Eve. This time I can't."
That was the first line. I do not have to read anymore until tomorrow. But she heard his voice in her head as her eyes moved across the spidery script. As much as she did not want to hear his words, she desperately wanted to listen to his voice. So she lifted the letter, propped it up on her thighs. Oh, a couple more lines. That's all.
"I tried to tell you tonight that I must prepare you for the Fifth. You interrupted me. You started telling me about Paris. Eve, you have to listen to me now. It occurred to me that you deliberately cut me off. You do not want to hear what I have to say. Yet you must. If you do not, you will be reading this letter alone, somewhere, cursing me. I know it."
Evey felt herself begin to smile, then stopped her lips from curving. He isn't always right. No one is. It is not fair. No one should be that perceptive. I will read on. He will probably make a mistake, assume something, tell me how I feel and be totally wrong.
"So I am writing this now, in the morning, before you wake up and come looking for your breakfast. You refuse to listen to me in person; therefore you must read my letters when I am dead, Eve. A wise man once said, 'Death cancels everything but truth.' I will lay the truth out for you, my love, and now you must listen."
Yes, go on. Show me how your death has made things better. Show me how it was so inevitable. Tell me you cared not for me, my feelings, my plans. I made plans too. Evey wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. We were going to go to Paris.
"I told you about Larkhill. I told you about the fire. I told you almost everything. In your innocence you said that none of that mattered anymore. It was all in the past. You are wrong. It matters, Eve. You have not the power to erase those hurts. Your love cannot undo what has been done.
"They took my body from me, Eve, and they created a weapon. If they find me they can do it again. When I am finished, I have to destroy the weapon. As long as I breathe, I am a threat to thousands, if not millions, of innocents. There is only one way to be sure. One way to be certain. It was my solution a decade before I met you. It is my solution now. V."
Evey sighed. She reached for the tissues beside her bed. He says he will tell me the truth. She remembered holding him as he died, how in the midst of his suffering, he made her listen. He told me then. He needed to tell me. I heard him then. After it was too late. She reached back in her memory for a place, a time where she might have given him another solution. A different solution. Stay with me. Live with me. Kiss me forever. We didn't have to go to Paris. We could have gone to Katmandu. They would never find you there. She blew her nose. You didn't have to die.
Evey folded up the letter and set in next to the lamp. But he would not have listened to me.
"Death cancels everything but truth… William Hazlitt