Hammer of Angels Page 22

  Our Bimmer flies up the street and screeches to a stop. Brando jumps out. He DOSEs Geezer with knockout juice, and then he and Falcon dump the droopy result in the trunk. I tell my neuroinjector to throw me some Kalmers as Victor helps me struggle to my feet.

  Owl-eyed civilians on their way to church crouch for cover. The women have their hands over their mouths and their men’s arms around their shoulders. I nod and give them a shaky thumbs-up as Victor drags me to the car. The neighborhood is deathly quiet.

  Brando and Falcon jump into the front seat while Victor and I flop out in back. My partner revs the engine, and we speed away from the scene of today’s shocking gun battle in broad daylight.

  “You know what?” I say. “If church were always that exciting, I might go more often.”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-4414

  ANGEL SIT-REP: PROVINCE OF IRAQ. 3 March 1981

  The local German governor declared martial law last night to forestall anticipated unrest today. Regional Circle of Zion leadership ordered central army barracks burned anyway to maximize German retaliation. Massive public outcry predicted. Iraq should be in flames by next week.

  —Copernicus, IO / Raven, L7 Interceptor

  39

  SAME DAY, THREE HOURS LATER, 2:58 P.M. CET

  OUTSIDE REIMS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  Patrick shuts the trunk. “That should keep him out for a while.”

  The problem with captured Levels is figuring out what to do with them. Geezer has such powerful Mods and Enhances that we don’t dare let him out of the trunk. Hell, we can’t even let him wake up. Patrick has to DOSE him every hour to make sure the fucker stays unconscious.

  I pull out a stolen pack of Marlboros and tap a coffin nail into my hand. It slips through my trembling fingers and spins to the ground. The next one gets crushed flat. Deep breath. I jiggle a third cigarette loose and draw it out of the pack with my lips. I lean on the car to make my lighter stop shaking long enough for me to spark up.

  I’m not stupid. I know what’s happening to me and that I’ll have to ’fess up about it back home. The hallucinations are bad enough, but now my after-action emotional recoil is so pronounced that it’s a challenge just to light a cigarette.

  If Cyrus saw me like this, he’d bench me for sure. Cleo would probably threaten to disown me unless I retired. Patrick promised he’ll convince the doctors to keep me in the field, but he still had me back up my Day Loop. He wants the Med-Techs to review my vitals along with the external events that caused them. This’ll help the Meddies retune my neuroinjector to match my field experiences, which in turn may help suppress my zonkadelic mental wipeouts.

  We’re quiet. Patrick dolefully watches me smoke but doesn’t say anything. He sits on the trunk, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at the sky.

  After a minute he says, “So. Nice day, huh?”

  My eyes shoot daggers at him for trying to cheer me up. And yet—despite our chaos casserole in Reims, my imminent demotion to mall cop, and the crazed one-man wrecking crew stuffed in our trunk—I start laughing.

  Nice day, huh?

  The more I think about it, the more it makes me laugh. I smile at him and twirl his fingers into mine as we take in our surroundings together.

  This is champagne country, so every square inch of soil is meticulously cultivated. We’re parked well off the main road on a tiny cart path in the middle of an endless field of grapevines. The ride here was surprisingly easy. Our blunderfuck in Reims was so sudden and the setting so appallingly sacrilegious that we got away scot-free. Not many civic authorities anticipate firefights in their churches.

  Patrick bandaged the worst of Geezer’s wounds and patched up my dents and dings. Victor is stretched across the car’s backseat. He nearly got his neck broken outside the Cake. We all advised Vic not to move around too much, and the man didn’t argue.

  Falcon is perched on top of the BMW, keeping watch. He slowly pans his gaze across the striped green vineyards and gently hums to himself. F-Bird’s profile is strikingly similar to Dad’s, of course, but his manner is so relaxed and mellow compared to my father’s perpetual intensity that the resemblance is more like some incredible coincidence than the unnatural freak-out it ought to be.

  Maybe if Falcon were the same age as my Dad, it would be as weird as it was, well…actually, when I think about it, like it is, with Patrick. Trick has been dead for less than six months. I still have dreams about him. Then I wake up, and he’s been reincarnated right here. Sort of. But not really.

  God, this could drive me nuts. Comic books make it seem like sets of clones all think and act exactly the same way. Running around with Patrick and Falcon has taught me clones are definitely individuals. It’s like close siblings who have a lot in common but retain a separate sense of self. Maybe if someone raised a group of clones in identical environments for identical lengths of time they’d all come out exactly the same, but what do I know about biology?

  While Falcon and I chased Geezer all over the Cake, Patrick ran to see what the sport coats were doing at the altar. He found a false panel in the altar’s base. Inside was a small notebook filled with names and addresses. Patrick thinks it’s the recently deceased Michel La Jeune’s little black book of underground contacts and safe houses. This means we can sleep somewhere that isn’t—at best—the floor of a gun shop. It’s also a chilling reminder of how easily the Circle can be compromised.

  I lean against the car, nod my head toward the trunk, and hold my hands down so only my partner can see me sign, What should we do with our new luggage?

  Patrick signs, I’d love to give him to the Circle, but I doubt they can safely hold a Level. He tips his head from side to side, considering different possibilities. I don’t know. This competitor is no use unconscious, and he’s incredibly dangerous awake.

  I finish my smoke and stub it out on the car’s bumper. Want me to whack him?

  My partner shakes his head. No. He must have some good intel, but we can’t interrogate him out here in the open.

  Think we could turn him?

  I doubt it. He was ready to kill himself to avoid being captured.

  We mull in silence for a minute. Then Patrick rubs his chin and cocks his head to one side. You know what? I’ll bet Jacques could handle this guy at his place in Paris.

  The Paris safe house is one of ExOps’s busiest and most important European locations. The place is strictly off-limits to non-ExOps agents, especially agents deployed by a raving lunatic.

  I sneak a peek at Falcon. He’s still scouting the area. Do we trust Falcon enough?

  Yeah, I think so, Patrick signs. Here are our options. One: all of us go to Paris. Two: we kill Trunk Man and don’t go to Paris. Three: we bring Trunky to Paris and kill Falcon.

  Well, there’s no way I’m gonna kill Falcon. I could care less about the schmunk in the trunk except that he represents a lot of potential intel about the Purity League and the German response to the Jewish Rising. Of these three options, the first one is most challenging, breaks the most rules, and—if successful—will have the biggest positive impact on our mission.

  I extend my index finger.

  Patrick nods. Paris it is. He hops off the trunk, stretches his arms, and calls out, “Hey, Falcon, ready for the best food of your life?”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-4576

  ANGEL SIT-REP: FRANCE. 9 March 1981

  A notably destructive quartet of anti-German saboteurs tore through northern France this weekend. Based on their tactics and effectiveness, I could swear they were ExOps, but I was unable to establish comm-contact. I last saw them driving toward Paris.

  Luna, L6 Infiltrator

  40

  NEXT DAY, ELEVEN HOURS LATER, MONDAY, MARCH 9, 2:02 A.M. CET

  PARIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  My left hand clutches Li’l Bertha in my coat pocket. My right hand pounds on the apartment door again. Despite the cool
air in here, a trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades. I’m about to give up when footsteps approach the door and three separate deadbolts clack into their housings. My pistol is ready to shoot whoever opens the door if it isn’t—

  “Jacques!” I say. “Ça va?” How are ya?

  The French spymaster blinks his eyes and blurts, “Holy shit!” although it sounds more like “Olly sheet.” He pokes his head into the hall, looks around, then beckons me inside.

  Jacques leads me into his small kitchen. He doesn’t switch on a light, so we talk quietly and quickly in the filtered glow from the streetlights outside. He asks, “What are you doing here?”

  “My partner and I have a package for you.”

  Jacques stares at me.

  “What?” I say. “What’s the matter?”

  “When I asked what are you doing here, I didn’t mean here in my house. I meant what are you still doing in Europe? Haven’t you heard?”

  Now it’s my turn to stare at him. “Huh?”

  His brows rise like he just remembered something. “Mademoiselle Scarlet, before I forget, I am so much sorry to hear about Solomon.”

  It’s perfectly natural for Jacques to mention Trick’s death. After all, this is the first time we’ve seen each other since it happened. But it’s the last thing I expected him to say, and I’m so tired and stressed I burst into tears.

  “Oh! Je suis vraiment désolé. I am so sorry, Scarlet. I did not mean to upset you.”

  The tension of transporting our captured time bomb has my nerves as taut as a guitar string, plus I haven’t slept in two days. I choke out a couple of wet sobs. “It’s okay, I’ll be okay. Can…” I will myself to stop crying. “Can I bring my partners in here?”

  “Of course! How rude of me. They must be frozen, waiting outside.”

  Well, no, Jacko. Actually they’re hiding down the hall ready to help me fold, spindle, and murdilate anyone who gets in our way—including you, if necessary.

  I comm, “Guys, come on in,” as I dry my cheeks on the sleeves of my coat. The boys schlep a large, heavy body bag into the apartment. It’s too dark in here for them to notice how damp my eyes are.

  It’s not too dark for Jacques to recognize Victor. “M’sieur Eisenberg! Good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Jacques.” They briefly embrace. “Ça va?”

  Jacques shrugs and gives a lopsided smile. He’s accepted that part of his job description includes receiving a gaggle of surprise guests in the dead of night. What isn’t part of Jacques’s routine, however, is to receive visitors from beyond the grave. When Brando walks in, Jacques is rendered speechless. Almost.

  “Non…” Jacques sputters. “C’est impossible! M’sieur Solomon?”

  Brando’s eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens. He’s had to meet a lot of his late brother’s contacts, and their initial reaction is never easy on him.

  “Bonjour, M’sieur Jacques. It’s good to meet you. I’m Darwin.” He takes Jacques’s hand and shakes it. “This is Falcon, and this—” He drops the body-shaped package on the floor. “—is a live German Level.”

  Jacques forgets his shock at meeting Trick’s doppelgänger and steps away from the body bag like it’s radioactive. “Mother of God, why have you brought zat here?”

  Brando and Victor bring our French buddy up to speed while Falcon and I move to the windows to watch out for competitors. I keep one eye on Jacques. We have no idea if he’s been turned by Fredericks or what. Having already been smoked out of two places on this trip, we’re done with the whole trust thing.

  Rather than meet Jacques at the safe house he runs here in Paris, Brando thought it would be appropriately unpredictable to come to his residence. Less people, less chances for leaks. We’d rather stay off the grid—things have gone fine since we went offline—but we need help, and we’ve worked with Jacques before. Once my partner finishes giving our host the Reader’s Digest version of our recent adventures, it’s Jacques’s turn to fill us in on current events, many of which have been triggered by our ROAR Tour.

  The Rising has flourished into a full-blown revolt. Slaves have risen against their masters and escaped in droves. Berlin has declared martial law throughout the Reich to curb the violent three-way clashes between abolitionists, proslavery militias, and the government forces caught in the middle. Farms and factories have ceased production, and most civilian offices are closed.

  The rebellion is so out of control that the German chancellor reached out to the United States for help. The President countered with a most unexpected offer: release the Jewish slaves and send them to America.

  Jacques slaps his forehead. “Can you imagine? Shipping ten million people across ze Atlantic? It would take twenty years!”

  I comm to Brando, “I’m not sure if Jacko here understands how much stuff we have in the States. Would this really take that long?”

  “No,” Brando comms. “We could do this with…” whirr-whirr “…three hundred cargo vessels in ten months.”

  Brando then asks Jacques, “What did the chancellor say?”

  The Frenchman leans against his kitchen counter. “Ze chancellor has not replied yet, which tells me he is considering it.”

  It seems that Washington’s controversial proposal caught Berlin by surprise. The controversy centers around Greater Germany’s attitude toward Jewish people. The Reich’s liberal left wants to allow the Jews to return to German society, while the conservative right wants them back working on the farms and in the factories. The far right wants them all dead, and the Christian moderates are so conflicted that they have no fucking idea what they want. The chancellor has to deal with the fact that many citizens of Europe and the Middle East are as vehemently anti-Semitic as they were when Corporal Adolf’s Maximum-Butthole Circus was running things.

  The stunning depth of the Nazis’ racism was unknown in the States until 1956, when American intelligence agents uncovered the Wannsee Documents. Those papers, written in January 1942, showed the Nazis were planning to murder every single Jewish person in the world. Hitler’s timely assassination derailed this terrifying plot, although the Reich’s Jewish population still got utterly shafted.

  We silently mull this for a moment. Then I ask, “Jacques, what did you mean when you asked what we were doing in Europe?”

  “Ah, yes! I was distracted by zis, uh, gift you’ve brought me.” Jacques unhappily regards the bag o’ vipers on his floor, then says, “You’ve all been recalled. Well, almost all. Some Infiltrators stay, but all other Level classes were ordered to return to America four days ago.”

  Brando groans and flops into a chair.

  I say to Jacques, “Recalled?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle. The Rising has taken on a life of its own, thanks to you and your colleagues. But Washington feels negotiations for a cease-fire will not be made easier with your continued, uhh, shall we say…disruptive presence here in Europe.”

  Victor follows my partner’s lead and finds himself a chair. Falcon and I prop ourselves against the kitchen table. Brando takes out a small cloth and polishes his glasses.

  “We’d better go tonight, then.” My partner sighs. “So much for getting a decent meal.”

  Jacques crosses the room and crouches in front of a small cabinet. “Well, not so fast, my young friends.” He stands up with a bottle of Scotch and a handful of small glasses. “As I said, some of your Infiltrators are still here, and I know one who will be very glad to see you.”

  41

  SAME DAY, SIXTEEN HOURS LATER, 5:35 P.M. CET

  PARIS, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  I slap the blabscreen’s side. “Mom, can you hear me?” I’m in the vault at Jacques’s safe house near Saint-Sulpice, trying to talk to Cleo, but the satellite feed is borked out. “Jacques, it isn’t working!”

  Me and my road buddies crashed all day at Jacques’s apartment. I slept until 5 P.M., when our host came home and asked for my help with food shopping. Once we were outside, Jacques said he’d
received permission for me, if I wanted, to make a brief video call to my mother. I grabbed his hand and ran to his office.

  So far the only thing working is the call timer, which is counting down from ninety seconds. Jacques says a call that short is very difficult to trace.

  Cleo’s voice crackles through the speakers, “Alix? Are you there?”

  Finally the sound and image snap into sync, and there’s the red-haired top of my mother’s head. Mom is crouched down in front of her screen, frantically fiddling with the controls. She looks up to see if it’s worked. Her face is ashen.

  “Oh! There you are! Alix, can you see me?”

  “Yes! Hi!”

  Our first comments overlap: “Alixandra, you’re so thin!” “Mom, you look exhausted!” We each stop, then simultaneously say, “You go first.” Then we both giggle and cover our mouths with our hands.

  Cleo’s eyes are getting moist, so I take the lead. “I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry. The House said he’s going to fatten us up while we’re here.”

  Mom tries to maintain her composure. Her pink lips press together like a pair of battling butterflies. She stammers, “Well, make sure you…that you…” Finally she breaks down. “Honey,” she chokes, “I’ve been so…I’ve missed you…”

  This Job Number hasn’t left me with much time to think about home. But now, talking to my mother, I miss her so much that I start crying along with her.

  “I miss you too, Mom.” I press my palm on the blabscreen. She does the same on her end, and I swear her hand touches mine right through the glass.

  I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my shirt. Only my mother can generate the expression I see when she catches me being so uncouth. Cleo is about to correct me, then stops herself and laughs through her tears. I sniff in sharply, shrug, and smile at her.

  The call timer is down to fifteen seconds. The vault door glides open. Jacques leans in and whispers, “Keep talking. I’ll zay we had technical trouble.”