Allegro 9
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Lloyd, Moore and DC, among others.
Special thanks to Red and Vean for their extensive Beta help (this was another hard chapter) and to VillainousVexation for her French corrections.
Finch locked up his file cabinets. He wiped the hard drive on Dominic's computer. Then he sat down in front of his own monitor. Format C: He typed two-fingered. His index finger hovered over the enter key. His computer popped up a critical stop and asked him incredulously, "Format C: will format the hard drive. Do you wish to continue?" He tightened his jaw and pressed the key. The screen flashed, a progress bar appeared at the bottom and he watched as his screen went dark. A moment later white words appeared on the monitor. "No drive detected." He pushed his chair back, picked up his Mac from the coat rack and walked out his door.
XXX
Dominic had been grateful for his University French for the last two months. I have actually improved considerably. He could function fairly well in French, and when he could not it was relatively easy to find an English speaker. He flipped open his notebook and re-read the last entries. Two hotels had staff who remembered a pregnant woman staying there in the last month. They remembered because she was alone, and because she would not allow them to carry her satchel. Dominic felt a twinge in his guts, thinking of Evey in her eighth month carrying her satchel. He shook his head imagining the frustration of the bell boys watching a pregnant woman carry luggage. He flipped the little book shut and walked into the next hotel lobby, reaching into his suit for his badge and his passport. Evey, slow down; I am almost there.
XXX
Finch locked the door to his townhouse and checked his post for the benefit of the cameras he was certain were trained on him. I will look like a man ready to leave for the office. He turned around and went down the three steps to the walk. In his mind, he flipped through the various hotels that would be affordable for long term. Or not long term. I may have a tail on me right now. Finch suspected Wilson would try to take him down. Three days ago he had defied a direct order from the Commander. Wilson had "requested" that Finch show up at the Ministry of Health for his "vaccination". Finch and other government Department Heads would be part of a carefully orchestrated media event. The film crew had the shot set up hours in advance. But not all the "actors" arrived. Angry messages were left on his mobile. And a threat. Where can I go? He glanced up at a camera as he turned the corner. I will disappear at the next block, then take a cab. The blue ones accept cash. No trace. Then where? Piccadilly. I want to be there when Dascombe broadcasts the report. I want to see their faces as they look up at the huge screen. I need to get a feel for their reaction in the moments after the broadcast. Do I stay in London, or will I be more effective in France? The people will tell me. I have to know.
Finch stood near a light pole, watching the screen that dominated Piccadilly Circus. He glanced at his watch. Dascombe said 6 PM, when everyone would be home for tea. Somewhere in Jordan Tower a low-level employee was looking at his watch too. Waiting to follow instructions from the General Manager. Waiting to put a disc into the drive. Finch watched the screen. The news scrolled across the bottom. All good news. "More food in the shops". A lie. The embargo was strangling the country. "Crime statistics down". A more vicious lie. Shops all over London were boarded up, their owners hoarding their goods in their homes, defending their belongings with cricket bats and kitchen knives. The scrolling lies continued, "St. Mary's spread halted by new vaccine." This was the worst of all. Queues a mile long snaked their way along sidewalks all over London, and desperately frightened citizens waited as long as two days to get their shot of saline solution. Finch's cheek twitched. This new idea of Wilson's had been the last straw. This Government-sponsored lie is the one that finishes my career.
He had left his badge on his desk.
XXX
Roger Dascombe watched as the mid-shift employees picked up their bags and briefcases and coats. Everywhere around him computer monitors were winking to black and the sounds of their keyboards diminished until he heard only the clicking of one machine. His secretary's.
"Hailey, go home," he said to her. He had to repeat it before he heard her shut down and come out of her office. He waited by the elevator, and she paused as the doors opened for her.
"Aren't you leaving?" She looked up at him, then shrugged her mobile out of her purse and flipped it to her cheek. "I'm calling Robert. Do you want to go to dinner with us? He got the promotion and is treating everyone at the pub to a round."
"No. Thank you. Tell Robert I will toast him later tonight." Dascombe held the doors until she stepped in. When they slid together he was alone. The evening shift now began their preparations for the 6 PM news. Dascombe turned on his heel and entered the studio, pulling a DVD from the inside pocket of his Armani. Surprised faces greeted him; he did not meet their eyes. He stepped to the control booth and said, "Everybody out."
XXX
The Chief Inspector looked at his watch. 6 PM. The screen flickered. The image of Roger Dascombe three stories high appeared, calm, impeccable. The scrolling stopped. Dascombe stared intently into the camera. Where is Dascombe now? If he has any sense he will be in the Outer Hebrides. The handsome face on the screen did not smile his media smile. Finch looked around the intersection. People were stopping to watch. Cars were pulling over to the curb. It became eerily quiet in the center of town. The huge image spoke.
"This is Roger Dascombe, General Manager of the BTN. The last six months have been turbulent, difficult and often frightening. You have been told that events of the past November Fifth have caused these troubles. You have been told that terrorists and subversives and seditious troublemakers have been the source of the nation's chaos and turmoil."
Finch flipped the collar of his Mac up over his ears and hunched a little. It was unlikely that the average citizen would recognize him, but his face had been on the telly many times. And I am associated with the Government. Maybe a public place isn't the best choice after all. He slipped his hand into his Mac and touched the grip of his service revolver.
Dascombe continued. "You have been told many things over the years. Most of them untrue. A great many of you have known this from the beginning. The system required that you be told and that you pretend to believe. That system is gone now. It destroyed itself. The system did not need a terrorist, a subversive or a seditious troublemaker to bring about its downfall. Any system built upon a foundation of lies cannot sustain itself. This Government reached critical mass when it announced that a vaccine for the St. Mary's mutation has been developed. That lie, so simple, so appealing, is the most monstrous of them all. I am here to tell you tonight, that those of you who have received the vaccine are not safe and those standing in queues for it are wasting their time."
Finch turned slowly to observe the crowd. They were eerily silent, but none seemed to be poised for violence. They stood, like he was, barely moving. Their eyes focused on the screen. He took his hand out of his coat.
"Unfortunately, my friends, this is not all. All big lies are preceded by others. The foundation for such a big lie is built upon an even greater one. I come to you tonight to inform you that the initial outbreak at St. Mary's fifteen years ago did not originate with religious extremists. This disease was developed here in our own country as a biological weapon, supposedly to be used against our enemies.
"And it appears that the enemy of our government is us. The government of Adam Sutler determined that we were more of a threat to Britain than any foreign power. The weapon he developed was used against British citizens. And it was an effective weapon. Used in the right hands it was supposed to bring unassailable power to a few and stringent order to the many. It has been proven that there are no 'right hands' within the realm of Nature."
Beside him a man coughed. Finch tipped his head just a fraction to see him from the corner of his eye. His fingers twitched; eager to feel the revolver again. But the cough had been a real cough, not a signal for action. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. The face on the screen continued to speak the truth.
"As I speak, no doubt, Commander Wilson will attempt to mobilize the troops. His power, resting precariously upon this lie, must teeter and fall. His tanks will not protect you from this threat. His army cannot keep your children safe. The very men he commands will fall dead before this unstoppable virus. It is my hope that the Military Chain of Command will listen to the Voice of Reason, and respond like responsible Englishmen. Throughout our country's history there have been brave men who step into the line of fire to do what is honorable and right. Cromwell, Nelson, Wellington, Churchill,…and the Liberator known as V. It is April 17th, but I urge you to remember the Fifth of November."
Dascombe's image was replaced by that of three university scientists, a virologist, a physician, and a very nervous representative from the Ministry of Health. The three men began to unfold a dry explanation of the mutating virus including charts and graphs, maps and color-coded body counts.
Finch scanned the crowd. They were subdued. Some of the women were weeping. Some of the men too. A lorry driver knelt beside his vehicle, his face in his hands. Finch waited. They would recover soon. And they did. When the scientists had finished communicating the truth, cars started up again and drove away, people resumed walking to their destinations. A few remained staring at the blank screen. He was aware he was impeding pedestrians and backed against a building. I have survived the unveiling of the truth. Someone jostled him; he turned to apologize for blocking the sidewalk and stared into the face of a man he recognized. One of Creedy's men. Johnson. A second later he felt the sharp sting of a needle in his back.
XXX
Dominic braced himself imperceptibly against the concierge's counter. I have found her. Four months of anxiety seemed to drain from his body, leaving him weak in the knees. He turned his face away and pretended to read his notebook. When he regained his composure, he turned back to the young man and asked, "Ou est elle?"
The bellboy waved toward the door "Elle fait des courses."
"Merci." Dominic flipped his pad shut and nearly flew through the doors.
On the street he looked left and right. She had not checked out. She had told the doorman she was going shopping. "S'il vous plait. Femme seule enceinte? The doorman pointed to the right. Dominic tipped him generously and then asked, "Quand?"
"Une heure."
Dominic strode down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. The weather was beautiful, warm and sunny. This was terrible. There must be hundreds of people out shopping, strolling, enjoying the sun in sidewalk bistros. He stopped to scan the crowds. He was taller than average and could see over their heads, but Evey is smaller. She could easily be hidden anywhere in the crowd. But she is very pregnant. She will not walk too far or too fast. What would she be shopping for? Not food. She takes her meals in the hotel. Not gifts. No. Not wine. Clothing? Perhaps. Maternity. He tried to remember the French word for maternity. Failed. Baby clothes? Ah, more likely, and he knew those words. Instead of scanning the crowd, he scanned the shops, looking at the signs above, scanning for the word "bebe" and "layette". There. Two blocks away. Not too far for a pregnant woman to walk on a sunny day. That is why she chose this hotel. Yes. He dodged a fat man in Bermuda shorts, then sidestepped a young woman leading two children by the hands. He paused, watching the lights before running across the street. A woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a shopping bag was standing by the light pole a block away adjusting her dress. Dominic held his breath. Turn. Turn around. She did, looking up and down the street. He saw her belly. It is Evey. I found her. He leapt without looking, knocking a man off the curb, "Pardon," he called out over his shoulder as his shoes hit the pavement.
XXX
Evey frowned. Maybe I am paranoid, but it seems like I am being followed. She stopped, leaned against the light pole as she adjusted her purse and dress. She casually looked behind her, noting the pedestrians, the street vendors, the police, businessmen, tourists…there. That man looks familiar. I saw him yesterday when I went to the market. As soon as she saw him he ducked behind an awning that hung low over a bistro. Now I know he is following me. Why? She smoothed the dress over her belly and held tightly to her bag. He is not trying to steal something. That would be too easy. I cannot chase him like this. I can barely walk without waddling. Why? Evey could not think of a reason, but her uneasy feeling increased as she made her way to the curb. Her plans to shop for baby clothes would have to be cut short after a visit to just a single shop. A cab which had been driving slowly behind her stopped for her immediately and she got in the back. "Hotel Bompard, s'il vous plait."
The driver did not acknowledge her request. Evey leaned forward, perhaps he did not hear. She opened her mouth to repeat her request when she heard the ominous sound of door locks clicking shut around her. The cab made a sharp turn to the right and accelerated down a side street. Evey was thrown backwards and to the side, her packages strewn to the car floor. All her conversational French left her. In English she shouted, "Stop! I want out! What are you doing? Are you insane?" She clawed at the wire screen that separated her from the driver. "I am calling the police! Do you understand? Police!" She knew that word was the same in both languages.
She picked up her mobile from the floor, no dial tone. How can that be? She banged the phone against the wire in frustration. "Stop, you crazy bastard!" The car barreled through a neighborhood, scattering pedestrians. We are headed out of town. Oh no. She pressed her face against the screen, holding on with her fingers. She saw a scrambler on the front seat. So. What the holy fuck is this about? "Who are you? And why do you want me?" She shouted at him. He made no indication he heard her. It was useless to scream at him. I am trapped. Why? Why? Am I being robbed? "Do you want my purse? Here! Take it. Let me out. You can have it all. I can get you money from a machine. Is that what you want?" Evey pressed her purse against the wire. No response. Am I being kidnapped? There is no one to pay my ransom. The baby kicked her hard. She sat back. Oof. The baby.