3.8 What Targets Were Acquired
The morgue of Arrondissement Quinze - the district where the young man Gwen strongly suspected was Jack Mason had died - wasn't hard to break into, for a law enforcement establishment. Especially during late-afternoon daylight hours.
Not very busy. Not a whole lot of crime…
Just the one.
Gwen also suspected that there hadn't been enough time for them to classify the death as murder, even – she'd have heard a gunshot, and a stabbing would have looked different, in the reaction of the bystanders. She'd seen confusion there alongside shock, not alarm specifically directed at a fleeing assailant.
Which meant something like poison, surreptitiously inflicted. Maybe even as part of whatever message or object Mason had retrieved from the hidden dead-drop at the fountain.
It was a windy day, clouds scudding across the sky, bright sun and sudden gloom. She'd detoured to her hotel room to change from the casual-business pantsuit to sporty lounge-wear, and positioned herself near the employee entrance. All she had to do was wait for someone to exit in a careless hurry, and she could slip around the brick-and-evergreen corner.
Toe in the door before it closed.
Long empty hall tiled in beige, low lighting because brightness wasn't necessary here. Employee lockers and changing room on her immediate right, and any number of light-and-simple cotton uniforms for this level. There was an unseen tenor singing "C'est trop beau" softly to himself around a corner as she slipped into an abandoned pair of navy trousers and short-sleeved shirt, tying the waist-strings and otherwise no snaps or buttons or zippers present.
"…Dans tes yeux… dans ton sourire…"
And don't let the lyrics make her think of the smile that could show in his eyes, sometimes… The look she knew she'd see there if he was here with her, rubber-soled shoes silent on the chipped tile floor.
Intensity, purpose – a hint of youthful glee at getting away with it.
Past the autopsy suite, currently occupied if the faint sounds of a drill or some other equipment was anything to judge by.
Right up to the reception desk, which provided the barrier between morgue personnel and any visitors who might come through the main entrance of the gendarmerie building, a floor above and fronting the street. A pair of heavy doors guarded the corridor, probably needing the attendant to push the magnetic-release button from the desk, which itself was accessible from the hallway over a high counter and through a small shift-to-the-side window, currently standing half-open.
A bored girl with lank blonde hair loose over her shoulders twiddled a pen over a clipboard negligently. She had a paperback spread open with her thumb in her other hand – and body language and positioning told Gwen, the girl wasn't supposed to read on-duty, but without anything else more pressing or vital, she'd given in to temptation.
"Excusez-moi," Gwen said crisply, shoving the window fully open as the girl jumped guiltily. "Records of all deceased that have arrived since this morning. Quickly, now…"
Tucking the book clumsily beneath her thigh in the chair, the girl scrambled across the desk for the correct sheaf of paperwork without remembering to question Gwen's authority – or even ask to see an identification badge. Gwen tapped her fingernails on the window-ledge, turning her head to gaze away down the hall – exuding compelling impatience, but also keeping a lookout for anyone with more seniority themselves, who might question her presence and right to information.
"Ici, Madame," the girl stammered. "All those who have arrived since this morning, as you requested."
Gwen took the packet and turned her back to lean against the wall beside the window – still in the girl's view, but the angle and the crispness of her movements should convince the girl's subconscious that cooperation on every level was in order.
Only four deceased. One was female, and one was in his eighties, and of the other two, one had expired in-hospital of obvious causes, having been a patient of the terminal-illness ward for some time.
The fourth, then, was the one presumed to be Mason.
The preliminary report was understandably light on information - a civilian ID, a local address, and the name of the emergency contact, which was all Gwen really needed. Unless there was an opportunity to grab the sack containing all his effects – but it was a toss-up whether the object he'd slipped from the fountain's hiding place was genuine or not. Of use to her in her mission, or not.
This was enough, in the moment - Gordon Ramsey, and number vingt-neuf on the Rue de Faussete…
"Monsieur Rum-say, are you sure you're quite well?" a voice echoed down the hallway, mature and confident and solicitous, comfortable using Gwen's native language – and it caught her attention for that reason. And for the use of the name. Ramsey? "I apologize for the shock you've had, it can be quite unsettling-"
"No, my fault – I'm sorry, I thought I could – I thought I had to… bloody hells how awful this has all been…"
She lifted her head with contained curiosity, even as her pulse spiked and her muscles tightened in her slouch against the wall. Fingers clenched the pages she handled – fight or flight or fib? - and she watched a slender young man struggle out of the plastic apron she assumed was mandatory cover for street-clothing in a place like this. Jeans and a light-colored polo and she recognized him from the fountain-square.
A shorter man, balding and peering through a pair of glasses that looked like they could survive several natural disasters, followed him through the swinging doors of the autopsy suite, reaching to reclaim the plastic apron, twin to the one he wore. Otherwise he was dressed in the same navy-blue cottons as Gwen had found in the employee locker room, and whatever shoes he wore were clouded with gauze-and-elastic booties.
The coroner, she thought – and could she potentially pose as a student or transfer, question him about any further results he'd deduced from Mason's body-
The younger man, freed from the plastic apron, retreated toward her down the hall. "I'm sorry," he babbled, "I'm sorry…"
"Please make certain that Marie has your information, monsieur," the coroner called after him. "It may be that we will have questions for you…"
"Yeah, all right," the younger man said roughly, not slowing. He didn't even glance at Gwen as he leaned into the push-bar of the doors separating the main morgue corridor from the reception room where the elevator to other precinct floors and the main exit opened.
There was a pause before Marie realized she needed to hit the button to release the lock and let him out.
And in that moment, he grinned to himself.
The lock gave, and the door swung - and his shoulders straightened. His movements lost agitation – and gained purpose.
"Monsieur?" Marie called to him.
Gwen pretended to be absorbed in the paperwork; mostly hidden from his view by the doors – thick metal with a small glass window criss-crossed with inset wires for security, and she swayed to keep him in the corner of her vision.
"Sorry, not now," he tossed at Marie.
The elevator doors opened and he strode into the conveyance, turning to hit the button for his chosen floor, giving a glance upward as if impatient.
Not the impatience of a distraught friend still in shock over his companion dropping dead on the sidewalk in the middle of an outing. The impatience of a man… on a mission.
Bloody hells, had Mason trusted the wrong person? Or had he trusted in his ability to deflect suspicion in maintaining close contact with a target – and investigating a dead-drop simultaneously?
"Merci," Gwen decided, leaning through the window to slap the records back down on Marie's desk. "Please keep those available for me, I will need to reference them later, and I may decide to have copies made."
"Bien sur," Marie answered, shifting uncomfortably on the book under her thigh. "Whatever you need…"
Gwen turned and strode down the hallway, making no effort to hide her footsteps now. And, once past the autopsy suite where the coroner was presumably absorbed in his work again – electric-hand-tool noises issued gruesomely from within - she stripped the cotton uniform off the tighter nylon activewear she wore beneath it. Charcoal gray with subtle mesh cut-outs that were sexy and fashionable, but invisible in the dark and shadows.
Barely pausing to rumple the trousers over her running shoes, she bundled the navy uniform and leaned into the employee locker room to stuff it into a bin for laundry.
"…A present… je te desire… et tu m'attires…" The tuneful occupant of the room was still hidden, still lazily readying for the start or end of a shift.
Gwen let herself out the employees-only door, and directed her steps around the corner, up the incline toward the main street where the second-floor entrance would be streetside. Choosing a large cement planter growing an untrimmed rhododendron for cover, she slipped a shielded glance around the corner to time the young man's exit from the building.
Breathe – and breathe – and calm the anticipation and increased heart-rate… if he didn't show, she'd have to-
There he was, pushing through the tinted-glass doors – and turning to stalk toward her down the sidewalk.
Gwen froze, inhaling through her mouth, planning a retreat - would the rhododendron adequately hide her if he turned down the side street?
But he paused at a public comm-block connection, barely five paces from where she lurked unnoticed behind the corner of the building. He lifted the device, selected the identification of the recipient, waited through the alarm sounding on the other end…
"Yeah, it's Ramsey," he said. Confident – or arrogant – enough that he didn't even bother lowering his voice.
Gwen could hear about three words in five, but training and instinct supplied many of the connecting words – and the breeze was blowing toward her, from him. Better to be lucky than good… she informed her absent partner.
Why can't I be both? he demanded with a charming grin.
"Mason's dead. Nothing immediately suspicious, but I'll insist on the murder angle – Camelot will know their man was killed. I've got the drop, though… Instructions?... Yeah… Yeah, all right. Can do that… Yeah, tomorrow night."
Enough for her to establish Essetirian inflections? Enough to convince a fellow scout, maybe – not enough to put it in a report as more than opinion. Enough to know, whatever was going on – the young man who'd been killed at the fountain was indeed CPO Scout Jack Mason, and this Ramsey was involved, but not as an ally.
He disconnected, and strode out from the comm-block unit – in the same direction as before, toward her.
Gwen whirled to put her back to him, kicked one running shoe up to the concrete lip of the planter she'd been hiding behind, and bent over her knee like she was stretching mid-exercise, deliberately provocative. With any luck, he'd focus on her ass… and remember nothing else.
Footsteps approached – slowed – continued briskly.
Gwen stretched, leaning over her knee, straightening back out again slowly, til she couldn't hear the footsteps any longer. There was no reason, really, to assume that Mason had been killed because of any issue pertaining to her mission, but… still. She'd have to keep an eye on the personals in the paper in case there were other scouts of Camelot in Paris, trying to communicate – though of course her own mission took precedence – but as long as she had no leads there and no one else stepped up to investigate Mason's death…
She dropped her running shoe to the ground – and moved to follow Ramsey.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Malice tickled the short hairs just behind Merlin's left ear. Rifle at a casual almost-ready, the weight tugging at the carrying strap, he shrugged up the shoulder of his uniform jacket as if the sensation could wipe away, like sweat.
It wasn't wiping away.
Routine patrol, they said. No different than the last one, less than a week ago. They said.
Gravel-sand-dust gritted beneath his boot soles - worn long enough today that almost-healed blisters had relaxed into numb discomfort – and gusted up in sudden swirls. JT and Hector were scuffing along on the left flank as they passed one sand-colored stone building after another, denigrating yet another village on their route in terms meant to be hilariously obscene. Merlin found them juvenile and annoying, even if both men had half a dozen years and many more pounds of muscle on him.
Maybe that's why they did it. Spread their own annoyance at the situation around. Keep the emotion of the situation at a distance with crude humor.
Martine and Freya were around to the right flank. Any minute now he could turn his head and glimpse them between the square, double-story buildings fluttering colorful drapes at every window.
He had gotten to quite enjoy the sensation he felt when he saw her again for the first time. A jolt of excitement-warmth-anticipation, because she'd smile when she saw him, too. He felt taller, smarter, stronger when he was standing next to her, as if the way she saw him carried more truth than his self-assessment. He hoped she'd never realize that she was wrong about him – his weakness, his ignorance, his utter lack of anything lastingly worthwhile to offer her.
Malice whispered at the back of his ear and he flinched, tightening a sweaty grip on his weapon, though there weren't any targets for him to aim at in this village.
Gwaine, five paces in front of him, was speaking to an old man seated on the edge of the dry-looking village fountain, who was presumably an authority among the people. Dingy blue-and-white striped tunic under dust-colored jacket over earth-colored trousers and slippers probably older than Merlin was. Weathered skin that made age impossible to guess, and sareq like it had never been unwrapped from around his head.
The second sergeant had a similar look to the Aravian, actually. Worn boots, weathered uniform with the jacket cuffs folded up on his biceps as they all wore them, out under the sun – not Merlin, though, he'd burn strawberry in two seconds flat if he exposed that much skin – no rifle. Instead he wore a holstered weapon at his hip, and a sizeable knife on his calf. Dark hair curled over his collar beneath the back edge of the helmet, and when he turned to glance at Merlin, he wore the same look as the elder did – a weary determination to make the best of things for the sake of his people.
Malice stung like a hornet, just behind his left ear, and he flinched as a reactive warning blurted out of him – "Gwaine!"
The sergeant's tired grin dropped with dawning realization, and he bellowed immediately to the rest of the unit, "Get down get down getdown!"
Without hesitation or pause, Merlin's body bent, twisted, and flung itself for cover behind the crumbling stone wall of the dry village fountain as the hornets spattered a suicide flight behind him – but Gwaine had taken that extra moment to order his squad to safety. His body jerked around with the momentum of a bullet finding its mark, and he tumbled to the dust.
Plastered to the base of the stone well, Merlin shuddered so hard his helmet tipped forward, partially obscuring his vision. The carrying strap of his rifle was throttling him, and none of the angles for using the weapon were practical.
The village elder was down, too – eyes sightless, scarlet staining the sareq - women screamed, near and distant, and children sobbed and wailed.
Merlin checked his peripherals in swift panicky glances - JT and Hector crouched behind a corner of the nearest building; Freya and Martine were still out of sight; the truck idled further back behind them in the street, covered by other buildings. Other uniformed troops sheltered in doorways or behind corners.
"Anyone hit?" Hector bellowed, freeing one hand from his rifle to cup around his mouth as he scanned the town square. "Anyone hit?"
Merlin shifted – another hornet whined and ricocheted off the stone lip of the fountain just above his helmet. Stone chips pattered down on his uniform.
Gwaine's body was sprawled motionless in the open dirt of the town's central courtyard also, but his eyes were open, and fastened on Merlin. Blood oozed down his arm below the folded jacket cuff – the tough, dark material meant Merlin couldn't tell where he was wounded – could've been anywhere the flak-vest didn't cover.
Don't move, Merlin mouthed insistently.
Gwaine didn't nod, didn't look away. His expression was perfectly calm, and it was killing Merlin.
"Sniper," JT called, lower than Hector in his crouch and habitually quieter. "Can't see where he is…"
Merlin could, but his voice didn't want to emerge confident or sufficient til he cleared his throat. "Up the hill. There's a structure, looks like a water-tower, kinda? A watch-tower? That's where he is."
"Can't be," Hector disagreed hoarsely, his head swiveling between the view of the village square and a cautious peering out from the sheltering corner toward the distant tower. "Gwaine's still in his sights, then, and he hasn't-"
He thinks Gwaine's dead, Merlin knew – targeted because only their leader would speak to the village leader and the Isyad thought any Aravian who'd speak civilly to a dustman deserved to die – except this sniper wasn't Isyad, not exactly?
Before he had time to consider or take a second psychic look, another hornet kicked up dust twice – once as it nicked a fold of Gwaine's trousers, and again when it bit the earth several centimeters beyond.
Gwaine flinched like he'd physically halted whatever reaction came instinctively. His eyes were dark and desperate, and his one thought was-
"JT!" Merlin hollered out. "Gren-launch! Heavy ordnance! On the truck!"
"Are you crazy?" Hector bellowed back. "Sniper don't mean he's alone, choker! You want it so bad, you go get it!"
"He's pinned down," JT pointed out, shifting in his crouch like he was getting ready to dash to the truck. Hector clamped a bulldog hand over the shoulder of his jacket and vest to keep him in place.
"Sniper and spotter," Merlin said, because he could see them there on the hill, using the watch-tower building for vantage and cover. "Only two of them. You can get to the truck-"
"Huh-uh, man," Hector disagreed.
JT blurted, "Dammit, Martine…"
Merlin scrunched to see two uniformed figures dart out of an alley toward the trucks – who wouldn't come lumbering out into the open without orders or a clear emergency-evac situation.
He had no idea what they were doing, but he dared to shift again, deliberately kicking up dust – and another hornet chipped off a scatter of fountain stone. Don't wonder what we're doing to get out of your ambush, you bastards, you've got us pinned, no need to consider relocating…
They had smoke grenades in the truck too – but if the sniper started shooting indiscriminately into the square while they were trying to scramble a retreat, ten to one they'd hit someone…
Yet another round puffed dust mere centimeters from Gwaine's hand. He flinched and tossed out – You gotta get out of here! immediately eclipsed by Don't you dare move from cover! Merlin watched him swallow, and shift his gaze upwards toward the bleached-blue sky. His hand, streaked now with thick scarlet, trembled involuntarily.
How much blood was there, if Merlin could only see a trickle? How bad was it? Sticky red was pooling beneath the old Aravian; it occurred to Merlin how quiet it was, as if all the civilians were holding their breath in their hiding places.
Freya and Martine appeared, running in a crouch toward Hector and JT's position, boots audible and urgent in the eerie stillness. Launcher; impact grenade, booster – they knew what they were doing.
A sniper's strength was secrecy and distance. Once he'd discharged his weapon his position was revealed – this one had no troops to defend that position, and Hector at least thought the watch-tower was within the 700 metres range of the grenade-launcher. Mobility made more sense to Merlin; he knew they didn't think all the soldiers would cower in their own shadows indefinitely.
But they weren't moving. Both of them were focused on Merlin, binocs and sniper-scope, and- Merlin flinched with the intent to fire, a fraction of a second before the next bullet puffed dust.
Gwaine jerked his knee up before freezing again, eyes wide with controlled panic – Took a chunk out of my boot, holy hells can't feel my foot, did it get my foot-
"Your foot's fine!" Merlin enunciated without raising his voice.
The sniper wanted him to venture from cover, to scramble out and try to save his sergeant. The sniper wanted Merlin to…
The sniper wanted Merlin.
This is my fault, then. Gotta make it right.
He took his hand from the grip of the rifle to unclip the strap of his helmet.
Gwaine glared. Don't you dare – I'll roll and make a mad dash and take the killing shot myself before I'll let you-
Merlin glared back.
Martine had the loaded grenade-launcher over one shoulder, bracing herself to round the corner and take the shot. Might only have time for one. Might not even have time for that…
Freya urgently describing the sniper's placement with gestures, as the men applied their ear-protection awkwardly one-handed. JT and Hector readied to spin the corner with her, present a confusing three targets instead of one, and fire as many covering shots as their rifles could spit out; JT on his belly, Hector kneeling just below Martine on her feet-
Ready – ready – now.
Merlin lifted his helmet off his head, raising it in the air, clearly above the wall of the fountain, like he was lunging for Gwaine.
A sniper's bullet can take a finger, easy-
The helmet flipped out of his hands, tumbling over Gwaine. But he'd timed it a half-second before the other three moved into sight at the corner of the building, and there was no chance for the spotter to scream a warning, for the sniper to reload.
The concussive blast of the grenade-launcher slammed Merlin's eardrums and it hurt – 300 meters per second didn't really give him time to inhale - and then the ordnance blew the distant tower to flying shards. Anywhere between 5 to 10 meters radius of lethal damage, and-
Everything and everyone.
Merlin's vision whited out for a split second. His muscles collapsed beneath him, and he returned to consciousness gasping for air that echoed in his ears around a high-pitched note that pierced his skull and wouldn't stop.
He knew it had been direct enough. 10 percent accuracy, at that range. He'd have to say something congratulatory to Martine, later.
Merlin, someone said. "Merlin!"
"S'okay," he managed. "They're dead. We're okay." Brief disorientation – second shooter coming down the hall, Arthur – he looked for the same sort of intent malice in the stunned villagers, near and further… No. S'okay.
He put out a hand to grip the top of the fountain's low wall, but couldn't find the strength to haul himself upright til someone else shoved a hand between his helmet and the back-plate of his flak-vest and pulled him up.
It was Gwaine, hovering and worried about him.
"Your arm?" he said confusedly.
Gwaine shifted back, waving his right like it worked just fine. "Clear!" he hollered. "Psychic says we're clear! No further hostiles in the vicinity!"
The others came trotting up – "Hey boss, you okay? Martine, helluva shot!" – and the truck engines groaned an exponential increase of activity. Merlin decided he was fine to just sit for a minute, til he was ordered otherwise.
"Just creased me," Gwaine said, pulling at the jacket cuff over his arm and releasing a new trickle of bright blood from a gruesome trough plowed in the side of his arm. Troop medic pulled a wrapped bandage from his pack, flapping it open before applying it to Gwaine's arm, shoved up under the rolled cuff.
Bad shot.
Freya looked up at him from the body of the dead Aravian, and Merlin instantly wondered what he'd been telling Gwaine, as they two at the head of the squad ambled into the village square, visible from the watch-tower between those two buildings. He risked the shaft of lightning splitting his brain into two equal halves to ascertain, he hadn't been completely clear of the building's shelter when the first shot was taken.
When he'd anticipated the first shot, and Gwaine reactively shouted the warning to the rest of the troop…
So. Only one soldier of the troop in view, and the sniper had chosen to fire? Was that inexperience, or… design.
JT offered Merlin a hand, and he accepted being pulled to his feet. He swayed for a minute – but stayed in place when Gwaine called out his order.
"Corporal, take five men and a truck and drive up there, see what you can recover! Everyone else - load up the other vehicles! Back to base A-sap!"
Freya moved slowly, watching him over her shoulder even as their comrades moved past, and he knew her tension and worry for him behind minimal cover with a sniper scattering shot. He'd talk to her later, and hope that helped.
A round woman crossed to them, hands in the air and wailing behind her waja, followed immediately by two slimmer females and an older boy – two boys – and a young man – Merlin's perception blurred like he was spinning in a circle in the psychic neighborhood, and he couldn't see straight.
Gwaine's body language changed to consoling; he didn't touch the first woman and he didn't try to prevent her from falling to her knees beside the dead man. Others, in the obvious neutralization of the sniper threat, raised their voices in communal grief and loss, watching from the edges of the courtyard.
Merlin's pulse thumped at the center of his brain and he very much wanted to sit or lie down. Gwaine spoke to them and he could have been using Aravian for all Merlin heard or understood. Then the second sergeant was beckoning to him, moving out of the tightening knot of villagers, blocking the body from sight. Merlin obeyed mechanically, his ears still ringing, his unused rifle hanging heavily from where it was strapped to him.
"You all right?" Gwaine demanded. "What were you thinking – that last one might've been your head, you daft bloody choker!"
"Sorry," Merlin said without meaning it.
"Can you actually tell where the bastard is aiming, when he's that far away? Or were you just taking the chance?"
Merlin didn't try to word an accurate answer, meeting Gwaine's dark scowl. "It was worth the risk."
Gwaine snorted, relenting. "I suppose I should also tell you… well done. You handled yourself well, you didn't panic…" He turned and started for the trucks – two idling, while the third gunned its engine up the hill outside town - but he wasn't hurrying, and he kept his voice pitched for just the two of them. "It might interest you to know…"
"The ambush was meant for me," Merlin finished the thought without considering the advisability of it. And when How did you know didn't resolve into Oh yeah psychic swiftly enough in the sergeant's expression, he added, "The sniper. Too focused on… just me."
Not my first encounter with a sniper.
"Ikhmad was telling me," Gwaine said gravely; Merlin pictured the old Aravian with the weathered skin and the tired eyes, now darkened forever. "Someone's been talking. They've heard rumors about a new psychic in the ranks of the dustmen. He didn't know if that target on you was pre-emptive, or… retaliatory in some way."
Merlin stopped walking and shivered. How to know for sure, so preparations could be made for future safety? "If you want me to, I can go up to the hill. Up where they were when they-"
"When they died?" Gwaine said shrewdly. "That seemed to hit you harder than bullets snapping all around us."
"I was focused on them – on him," Merlin tried to explain; his lips felt stiff. "When it happened."
Gwaine swore in slow sympathy. "Hey – if you wanna go up there, find out what you can, I won't stop you. But otherwise-"
"No," Merlin decided instinctively. "No, it's-"
"Enough for one day," Gwaine said, shepherding him toward the waiting truck again. "Yeah, I hear ya."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The clerk at the turf-bike rental shop in Calais, Arthur calculated, probably kept a hopeful eye out for him all afternoon. Maybe even delayed closing shop. Maybe wasn't on duty the next day… or if she was, maybe delayed another hour or two.
But certainly, after a week, it had been reported stolen.
So in the early gray dawn, Arthur abandoned it behind a dilapidated grain silo, one of the last of its kind as city suburbs encroached upon agricultural countryside a little further every year.
A league and a half he walked, tipping his cap with a charming smile and Bonjour or sometimes Bon matin, and spent half of what remained of his funds at the local train station. One ticket to Paris, s'il vous plait… And Paris had so many train and trolley stations, there was no way any watchers for scouts from Camelot could watch them all, indefinitely.
His leg felt fine, and he stretched it experimentally as he waited on the bench, as he rode and watched what there was to see passing by outside the window.
Inclined to stiffness for the first thirty seconds of the day, and reminding him of its existence after prolonged strenuous activity. Not with pain, just… a certain alert tension in the healed muscle that wasn't present in the other leg.
And then, Paris.
Dressed as a native, he didn't duck and crane for glimpses of famous landmarks – he already knew when and where he could expect those sights, and his destination wasn't anywhere near any of those.
The station where he disembarked echoed with the noise of the train, raised voices of passenger and railway personnel alike, footsteps and luggage and heavier cargo dragged over the concrete, whistled alerts and the deep chugging of the engines. Overhead the windowed canopy showed plenty of a gray-cloud sky like smoky-opaque glass, even though it was closer to lunchtime than petit-dejeuner.
So, first things first.
Arthur handed over a few more coins for a croissant and a steaming cup of thick aromatic chocolate. Another series of charming smiles and an earnest Avez-vous… and he seated himself at one of the two-person café tables with clear and casual lines of sight for arriver and sortir and a week's worth of old news from the Paris Daily Journal.
Police Investigate Fatal Shooting. 3 Pedestrians Injured When Driver Loses Control of Delivery Truck. 7 New Construction Projects at the Heart of Paris.
Casually he turned pages, dirtying his fingertips with old ink and cheap paper, and scanned the personal columns for messages or ads to decode.
He'd never been stationed anywhere permanently, but it was his impression that one of their messages ran at least weekly in the major cities of Europa, for situations like his – an unheralded arrival needing information and provision, a mission free to come and go as necessary, following leads.
There – three days ago. He studied the lines, memorized the lines, analyzed and translated and reformed and shuffled and… fountain square at the Rue de Trale.
Well, it was a start. Not too far from here, either.
Arthur swallowed the last of the lukewarm chocolate, washing down the crumbly croissant, and folded the paper to leave the stack as he'd received it, revealing nothing to the next person who happened along, whether customer or server at the train-station café.
And something caught his eye. Front page of today's paper, first in the stack because it was most recent - a three-inch column at the top left, not the central story but still important enough to print above the fold. Death at the Rue de Trale Fountain.
The grainy black-and-white print showed uniformed personnel hovering over an indistinct victim, the distressed expressions of onlookers – and a corner of the fountain.
Coincidence merited scrutiny. In his line of work.
Arthur scanned the story to the background noise of train whistle and shout, the huff of engine and the clink of serving-ware in the café, the fluid syllables of French conversation.
The victim was a young man, Arthur's own age or thereabouts. A vacationer from Camelot, according to the witness, an old school friend. The crime itself a possible mystery – mugging, posited the authorities grudgingly, reluctant to make any admission that might hurt the tourist trade. But less problematic than the deliberate murder insisted upon by the witness – nothing demanded, nothing taken. An amateur frightened by their own actions, very soon to be caught, police responded. Verysoon.
A professional, offered the witness – or the paper, possibly, generating excitement for the sake of sales. Too fast for clear identification, a long needle in and out and the victim dead before the body had stilled on the pavement.
Arthur could have told them which theory was correct, just by the victim's name. Given because the witness was a distracted friend, not a bereaved family member preserving privacy.
Jack Mason.
Not a coincidence.
Arthur relaxed back in the springy-wire café chair, deep in swift thought, mind shuffling possibilities and contingencies.
If Mason had been discovered by an enemy, followed to the drop at the published location. If Arthur should make a trip to the morgue to discover more information – what Mason was carrying on him at the time, contact info for the witness, the address of where Mason had been staying…
This was yesterday, though, which changed things. And of course the death occurring in the same district square as the coded dead-drop.
If the communication code for Camelot scouts in foreign countries had been cracked… Next to impossible, because it wasn't a single device, a one-to-one transfer for every letter or digit or space. Or even a double-encoding, or keyword significance. It was a construct. A dimensional grid-puzzle. An evolving language of code…
Merlin could probably pick it up in an hour or so. If he focused, and his memory was good.
Arthur rubbed inky fingers contemplatively over the fountain-still and wondered how much the psychic might have picked up, just from the picture in the paper.
The color of the socks the reporter wore. Or that one emergency responder in profile.
If. Another of the scouts had been apprehended, and forced to code or decode… also unlikely, since false cooperation and a coded warning might logically go unnoticed.
If Mason had run into an enemy psychic by mistake or by design… Morgause was in Camelot. The boy in Urhavi was dead. But that didn't mean…
Arthur inhaled, letting his face tip up to the station's windows overhead. Raindrops were beginning to fall, making pale gray spatters on the outside of the glass. Why did his mind connect those two? And why did he also think of Merlin's Institute, and the Man?
Because of the similarity of the boy's accent to Merlin's. Because of the pointed attack which had discredited and neutralized Merlin the defector.
For now, what to do next?
Any information Mason might have given him was lost – if it had been in a report, he could have gone to HQ at Fort Fuller to get eyes on a copy. Therefore it wouldn't be found on Mason's person or in his rooms, either.
Maybe it was time to get a little closer to the source, then. Stop running and let them catch him.
Arthur pushed up from the café chair with a scratch of wire feet on concrete, and headed for the public-use comm-block. Lounging against the wall, he glanced about instinctively, noting the brisk garcon cleaning his table with barely a thought for the stack of newspapers to be removed.
"Allo, c'est Le Journel-Quotidien de Paris…"
"Oui," Arthur said, continuing in fluent French. "I want to place a personal ad…"
Time, and place. Clumsy and maybe a bit juvenile. Rookie scout on a first or second mission alone, a bit panicky at Mason's assassination, clutching at straws, hollering into the void for contact from any of his fellows within range.
They had to come for him.
Tres bien, monsieur. The ad will run tomorrow… splashing his cry for help all over Paris.
He wasn't good at waiting – but there was plenty to be done in the meantime.
A/N: "C'est trop beau" is a song on the soundtrack of the movie French Kiss, which I recommend. Lyrics as follows: ""…Dans tes yeux… dans ton sourire…" in your eyes, in your smile; "…A present… je te desire… et tu m'attires…" now I want you, and you attract me… Otherwise, I think the French words and/or phrases are self-explanatory.