Allegro 11
Rated R
Disclaimer: characters belong to Lloyd, Moore, DC and others.
XXX
Dominic pulled his fingers through his hair. The Chief had not answered. The Chief always answers. Maybe he is in the shower. He looked at his watch. Not at this hour, unless he is going out. Unlikely. But the Chief would not have mentioned it if he had met a woman. No. Dominic knew Finch too well. There is no woman. Why didn't he answer? He frowned at his phone, then tucked it into his inside pocket, thinking.
"Madam Abernathy, s'il vous plait."
Dominic froze. Carefully he tipped his head so he could see who had spoken. A man in a courier's uniform was standing at the concierge's counter with a package in his hand. The desk manager picked up his phone and dialed. Dominic held his breath. After a moment the manager hung up and said, "Madam n'est pas ici, je l'appelerai a son mobilophone." Again he picked up the phone and dialed. After a moment he shook his head and said, "Il n'y a acune reponse." The courier looked like he was going to leave with the package. Dominic was behind him in seconds, blocking his retreat.
In French he said, "Pardon," he pulled out his badge, "I am investigating Madam Abernathy. You have a package for her?"
Both men became agitated. The desk manager called for his supervisor. Dominic set his badge on the counter and pulled out his passport. "Please call Monsuier de Vermer at InterPol," he told the desk manager. After the Hotel Manager arrived it was a matter of just a few minutes before all introductions and confirmations of authority were settled. Dominic examined the package. It was from R. Perry, London. He showed no expression as he read the return address. He flipped open his pad. "And the mobile number?" He wrote down Evey's number as the desk manager read it off. "Merci." He gave the package back to the courier. His instructions were that it be delivered into Madame's hands and no one else's. Dominic didn't mind. He suspected he knew what was inside. Perry is sending her copies of his research. The courier told them he would be back tomorrow. Dominic shook hands all around and thanked the Manager. He took the precious phone number out through the front doors with him.
No answer. I didn't expect one. He didn't leave a voice mail for Evey. He wasn't sure what her reaction might be to hearing his voice. Dominic called London next. "Put me through to Bernard, please," he told the operator at Scotland Yard. He waited impatiently until the night shift supervisor picked up the line. "Bernard, it's Stone.
"Stone. What can I do for you?"
"I need the registration for a mobile with this number." He read off Evey's number, then listened as Bernard typed it into his computer.
"Purchased in Geneva in January."
Dominic wrote down the registration number. "Now I need you to transfer me to Operations, thank you, Bernie." The line clicked as his call went to the heart of Scotland Yard's information-gathering center.
"Operations."
"This is Stone. I need to track a mobile transponder."
"One moment."
Dominic got into his car as London responded.
"Detective Stone, enter the registration number, please."
His thumb pressed the thirteen digits, then linked his mobile to his laptop on the front seat. I'm coming, Evey.
No moon helped him as he sped out of the lights of Marseilles, north into rural darkness. The tiny laptop on the seat beside him flashed Evey's GPS signal from her mobile transponder. She was more than seventy kilometers away. Dominic made the small car hum on the pavement, going as fast as he could without damaging the undercarriage. The road was paved, but in need of repair. Every few minutes the car took a pothole that shook his whole body. Too many of them and the tires would fail, or the shocks. He could not see well enough at that speed to avoid them. InterPol back-up would be at least an hour behind him. I am not waiting for them. He pressed harder on the accelerator. Beside him on the seat his laptop beeped. He glanced down at the glowing map. Evey's signal had disappeared.
"No!" he pulled off the road and turned on the interior lights. His laptop had told him the truth, but had saved the data from the last transmission. He tapped the keyboard to call that up again. I will be able to get to that last transmission site, but back-up won't. They need the signal. Is the phone dead? Or worse? His mind raced. He put the car in gear again and increased his speed, estimating it would be an hour before he arrived at the phone's last known location. And back-up…delayed even longer now. There was no telling how many men Massey had with him. He averaged five to eight in his personal guard when he was in London. In France…no telling. Dominic considered his .38. He had taken it apart and oiled it, cleaned it, then fired it at the range with disappointing results. His trigger finger was stiff. The tendons in his hand were weak. He had completely missed the target at least twice when his hand had spasmed when he pulled the trigger. He flexed all his fingers against the steering wheel. A lot of good those trophies are doing now.
The hour dragged on, Dominic slowed down as he neared the last known location of the phone. He turned off the headlights and coasted in neutral until the car rolled to a stop. He disabled the interior lights so they would not come on when he opened his door, but left the engine running. It was a cool night for April this far south. The bright afternoon had soon dulled to grey and the starless sky suggested rain later on. He put his arm through his Mac as he paced along the shoulder of the road, looking for an intersection. The green blip on the map was ninety degrees and half a kilometer from this location, but he could see nothing; no road, no house, no streetlight. There must be a road that intersects this one. They would not have taken her across country on foot. These are planted fields. He swept the dark countryside with his eyes, listening with his ears. A dog barked; he heard the wind in the trees. Below him frogs were croaking in the ditch that flanked the road for miles. His mother had told him that frogs croaking at night meant rain. He looked up at the sky. Maybe. But Mum is from Brighton. Croaking might mean something else in France. He turned his head, listening. Eyes won't help me in this darkness. He waited. There it was. A door slamming. Sounded like a car door. Not a house door. He focused his eyes in that direction. Sure enough, a tiny flash of light and another slam. Someone had opened and closed a car door. He fixed the location in his memory and got back in his car. He crept along the road, headlights off; until he was opposite the place he had seen the light.
A gravel lane connected the main road to his right. He stopped and got out again to test it. How loud will it sound? He stepped off the gravel onto the dirt. The shoulder was narrow, but firmly packed. Tractors have been here. He knelt and traced the tractor tread with a finger. Firm enough for a tractor, firm enough for a little car. A low rumble of thunder made him look up at the sky again. Rain is bad for the road, good for cover. They won't hear me coming.
He drove on the shoulder, creeping closer to where he had seen the flash of light. He saw the white stucco of the cottage and stopped the car about ten meters away. Very carefully he turned it around, making sure not to allow the tires to touch the noisy gravel. The rain was too light to cover him completely. The flashes of lightning were too far away to illuminate his car or his path. He left the engine on, he had plenty of petrol, and a fast getaway might make the difference between life and death. He crept closer to the house, his pistol drawn, each wary step placed deliberately until he was close enough to see the dark cars in the yard. This is it. The cab is right there, the bonnet open. He moved closer and looked inside. The battery is gone. He quashed the surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. I will feel later. Think now. His shoe crunched. He froze. Under his heel was a piece of plastic. He knelt, looking around as he dropped to his knee to pick it up. The broken cover of a mobile phone.
Dominic gripped the pistol harder as he stood. He side-stepped to the corner of the cottage. Where is the guard? He led with the barrel of his gun around the corner, his ears straining to hear something, anything. The rainfall increased, its noisy drumming hindered his ability to hear. He waited. Ahead of him, around the side of the cottage he saw a tiny flicker of light. He recognized a butane lighter flicking on and off with a click. There's the guard. He is standing under the porch roof to get out of the rain. That is why he did not hear me drive up. He would rather be dry than alert. Good. Dominic looked up at the eaves. The cottage was thatched, but the dormers and the porch overhangs were made of tin. Very noisy. He crept closer, tucking his revolver back into the holster under his Mac. The rain dripped off his hair and ran down his cheeks. This is not the place for a shot; this is the place for a slice. He lifted the leg of his trousers to expose a sheath strapped to his calf. He kept his eyes on the glowing cigarette as he slid the long knife from its leather home. Seconds later the cigarette sizzled in a puddle of blood. Dominic pushed open the door.
XXX
Evey closed her eyes. It was easier if she didn't have to look at him. They had taken her to the basement and tied her to a chair. The cords around her arms were tight enough to make her hands tingle. She tried to think. She heard the voices of the six men around her, a variety of dialects, all working class, all rough. They all stank. Her stomach threatened to revolt every time one of them bent over her.
"You want I should hit her, Boss?"
Evey's eyes flew open with alarm. One of the men had a truncheon raised behind his head.
Massey answered, "No. We don't' want to break the skin, Mick. Wilson won't pay top dollar if she is damaged. That's what he said."
Mick lowered the stick. "What, then?" He asked.
"We'll start with her fingers." Evey couldn't help but think of Dominic. Her own fingers looked so fragile. It wouldn't take much to break them. But that is "damaged" isn't it? Surely they won't break them.
Mick used the truncheon to lift her middle finger and bend it back. "How far, Boss?"
There was a thud upstairs. Everyone stopped and looked up at the ceiling. Massey frowned. "Carson, go up and see what that was about." A lean blonde man nodded and disappeared from her field of vision. She heard him thumping up the stairs behind her. Massey jutted his chin at Mick. "Go on. Bend it back until she makes a noise." Before Mick could touch her, Evey made a noise. Massey chuckled. "Very clever. This is going to be fun."
Mick slowly raised her finger until it hurt, then made it burn, and finally Evey squeezed tears from her eyes as she imagined the joint in her knuckle tearing in two. Massey made a motion with his hand and Mick released her finger. It sprang back, aching. "That was just in case you forgot what pain feels like, Miss Hammond." The baby kicked her. Evey took another deep breath, getting ready for the next twist. I can do this. I have done it before. Upstairs there was another thump. Massey had a decidedly annoyed look on his face. "What the hell is going on up there, for Christ's sake." He looked at one of the men; the one who looked like his nose had been broken more times than he could count on his fingers. Massey pointed upstairs. "Go up, leave the door open and tell Smythe and Harding I want them down here right now."
Mick tapped the truncheon on his palm, waiting patiently. While Massey was looking up the stairs after Broken Nose Man, he used the end of the truncheon to poke Evey in the belly. Then he laughed. "Must be 'ard to get around like that, like a punkin strapped t' yer stomach. Massey, you ever fuck a pregnant woman?"
Massey turned back, "No. Never had to. Not going to start now." He came back to Evey and bent over her, his huge hands on her arms. "Where is the key code, Hammond?"
Evey thought about telling him. She had a quick fantasy about telling him where the comlink was and how nice he would be, how he would drive her back to the hotel, buy her a new phone, apologize for messing up the baby clothes. She snorted. She could tell him, but he wouldn't let her go. He would have to keep her until he got his hands on the comlink, then would keep her longer while he took it to London. After the Gallery is opened, there is no reason to keep me at all. Will he put me on a train and just let me leave? The bounty on me will be gone. Or will it? Do they want me for crimes against the State, or for those key codes? She frowned. There was no way she was going to escape by getting loose and running away. If she was going to save the baby she would have to out-think them. That should be fairly easy. Massey nodded to Mick who drew closer. "Mick here, is curious. He wants to know what it feels like to fuck a pregnant woman. I can't see how that could damage her much. What do you think, Mick?"
"'ave to do it from behind. Can't get much traction on top wi' that belly." Evey shuddered. Goon. But you will have to untie me first, won't you.
Another thump from upstairs made both men swear. Evey jumped in her chair when she heard a gunshot. Then another. Massey's eyes widened in surprise. He jabbed a hand at Mick, who drew a pistol from the back of his pants and leapt up the stairs, the other three men looked worried and drew out their own pistols, but none of them made a move to leave the room. Massey pointed to the coal chute. One of the men put his pistol away and climbed up on the bin and opened the double doors. Massey kept his eyes on the stairway as he said, "Climb out, all of you. It could be the police. Could be Haversham and his men. Secure the cars." The men disappeared one by one up through the cellar's coal doors. Water poured down into the bin, the sound of a thunderstorm filled the cellar. Evey watched as she was abandoned by her tormentors. Massey was the last to leave; he looked down at her from the top of the chute. "No way can you climb up this chute Miss Hammond. You had better pray it is the Police upstairs, Haversham is not as kind and gentle as I am."
Almost immediately Evey heard the door to the stairwell slam open behind her and heavy footsteps came pounding down. One set of footsteps. Only one. If it were the police, there would be many of them. Her throat tightened. What now? She braced herself for the worse. A shot on the back? A blow to the head? Rape? Instead of a blow, she felt the cords released and her hands fell limply from the arms of the chair. She looked up.
Dominic.