Hammer of Angels Page 23

  I nod and turn back to the screen. Cleo is drying her eyes with a tissue to keep her makeup from running. She places her hand on the screen again.

  “Mom, are you all right? You really do look tired.”

  “We’ve been so worried, sweetheart.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Well,” she says, glancing away, “no. Not for a few days.” Her eyes return to mine. “But neither is Cyrus. Every morning I ask if he’s heard from you.” She starts to cry again. “Alix, when your comm-signal disappeared, the Info Department thought you’d been captured. But Cyrus and I know how much you’re like your father, and when you didn’t come home with all the other Levels, we thought…”

  She thought I was dead.

  “Oh, my God! Mom, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t call. But I never would have wanted you to—” Now I choke up. “I couldn’t call, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, angel. I know you couldn’t.” Mom wipes her eyes with her handkerchief. “You’re safe; that’s what matters.”

  I choose not to remind her I’m in enemy territory during a plague of violence. Cleo knows my current situation is classified, so we catch our breath and briefly chat about small things. The Redskins have hired a new head coach, and she had to fix the porch light after the paperboy broke it one morning with an especially vigorous throw. It’s trivial stuff, but I don’t care. I’ve never missed her voice as much as I do now.

  Jacques apologetically leans into the room again and gently draws his finger across his throat.

  “Mom, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Okay, sweetheart.” She takes a deep breath. “I love you, and be careful.”

  “I will. I love you, too.”

  We stare into each other’s eyes.

  She’s brave and goes first. “Bye, angel.”

  “See you soon, Mom.”

  The blabscreen disconnects. The call timer indicates we talked for three minutes and ten seconds.

  Jacques opens the vault door again. He lets me blow my nose once more before he asks, “Okay, Mademoiselle Scarlet?”

  I nod.

  “C’est bon.” He pats my shoulder a couple of times. Then he says, “Time for la boulangerie discrete. Will you accept this critical mission?”

  “All right, Jacko.” I dry my eyes with my hand. “Let’s see this secret bakery.”

  Back in D.C., Cleo and I—like the citizens of any civilized society—shop at a zillion-aisle mungamarket with abundant quantities of every product on earth. Here in France, the natives gather their food from a series of tiny, crowded shops that each sell one kind of item. Butcher, baker, other stuff maker.

  Jacques knows all the shopkeepers, to whom he bitches about his hometown soccer team and from whom he receives street-level intel about everyone’s favorite foreign occupier, die Teutsch.

  As we shop, it becomes clear why Jacques had me accompany him.

  “Scarlet, can you hold zis bag while I pick out some wine?”

  The bag is added to the seven I’m already carrying. “You know, Jacques, if you’d said I was going to be your damned pack mule, I would have told you—”

  “To shut off ze blabscreen ninety seconds earlier, when I was supposed to?” he interjects.

  I clench my jaw and frown at him. “Fine, whatever. But no more jibber-jabbering. Buy your stuff and let’s go home. My arms are falling off.”

  Later that evening, Patrick, Falcon, Victor, and I sit in Jacques’s kitchen and consume a humongous home-cooked dinner. It is easily the greatest meal in the history of eating. I gobble so much food, I barely feel the bottle of wine I suck down.

  “Jacques,” Patrick asks, “when are we meeting with Grey?”

  Our host answers from the stove. “Tomorrow morning. He’ll meet you here.”

  I swallow a mouthful of Jacques’s roasted chicken, then ask Victor, “You gonna come with us, Vicberg?”

  The lean-faced old soldier wipes his chin with a napkin and quietly stifles a belch. “Sadly, no. I have some urgent business to attend to in Italy.” Victor lifts his wineglass and says to me, “But fate would not keep a beautiful fighter like you from my side for long, Scarlet. I am sure we will meet again.” He winks at me and adds, “Mein Füchslein.” My little fox.

  Falcon and Patrick both stop chewing and gawk at me with amused glints in their eyes. The wine has all our faces a little flushed, so I look down at my lap and hope nobody notices as I blush like a schoolgirl.

  Jacques noisily scolds Victor for flirting with his agents, then the Frenchman circles the kitchen table and dispenses heaps of desserts. As he piles cookies and petit-fours onto my plate, I lean back and hold my hugely full tummy.

  “Ugh, no, Jacques,” I groan. “I can’t eat any more.”

  “You must! My poor dead grandmother taught me how to make these when I was a boy. If you do not eat zem, she will rise from her tomb and haunt you forever.”

  I reluctantly lean toward my overloaded plate. “Do you Frenchies eat like this all the time?”

  He shrugs. “Mais oui!” Of course!

  “Then why aren’t you all a bunch of blubbery hulks?”

  “Zat.” Jacques points to his ancient tanklike bicycle ensconced next to the front door of his apartment. The two-wheeled relic could have survived the Battle of Verdun.

  I cock my head to one side. “You French are thin because you all love prehistoric modes of transport?”

  “No, we exercise! Unlike you flabby Americans. Sit around, do nothing.” He pauses to take in all of our tightly ripped and fat-free bodies, then adds, “Present company excluded, of course.”

  I stuff a cookie into my mouth. Crumbs fly back out as I yell, “Ha! Mais oui.”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-BB-RECOVER-001

  TO: Grey, L13 Infiltrator

  FROM: Front Desk, German Section, Extreme Operations Division

  SUBJECT: Carbon Snatch Job

  Attached you will find intel acquired last month from the Tower of London. Of particular interest is the Carbon installation in Carentan, France. The attachment indicates this secret facility is part of the German Veterans Medical Center, which is located next to the town’s church.

  You are requested and required to investigate this installation, specifically the roster of Originals, and report on what you find. If they have who we think they do, you are preapproved to employ any means necessary to extract him.

  —Cyrus El-Sarim

  TO: Front Desk, German Section, ExOps

  FROM: Grey, L13 Infiltrator

  SUBJECT: RE: Carbon Snatch Job

  Sir,

  As requested, I have reconnoitered the German Veterans Medical Center in Carentan. I confirmed the existence of an entirely separate group of medical personnel and also noted the constant presence of an SZ security detail. These troops are well equipped with weapons and armored vehicles from the Staatszeiger barracks in Saint-Lô. I infiltrated the restricted research area and acquired documentation confirming the presence of our man.

  While inside I discerned that the Carbon installation exists entirely under the hospital and the neighboring church. In fact, the Carbon labs and offices were expanded into what were once the church’s medieval catacombs. The old entrance from the church’s undercroft is covered by a wall in the staff’s break room. This led me to examine the church next door, which I found has no security presence.

  I submit that a team could enter the church’s cellar, break through the wall into the Carbon facility, and extricate our target before the security forces in the hospital can react. Per your directions, I have already begun to assemble the necessary assets to accomplish this mission. Please advise if you have further direction.

  —Grey

  42

  TWO DAYS LATER, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 11, 10:30 A.M. CET

  OUTSIDE CAEN, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  “Outrajuff!” Falcon blurts through a mouthful of baguette. “Loof a’all tha cowfs!”

  �
�Gah!” yawps Grey. “Falcon, you just spit food on me!” He makes a face and brushes bits of half-chewed bread off his shirt. “Take it easy, okay?”

  Our young sniper swallows his apple-sized bite of bread. “I’ve never seen so many cows all at once.”

  Grey grumbles, “You’d think you’d never eaten bread before, either.” The Infiltrator looks out the car’s windows at the passing scenery. “Welcome to Normandy, kid. Cows, cheese, and the biggest damn hedges you’ll ever lay your eyes on.”

  Speaking of big, our latest car—a bargelike white Cadillac—is immense, even for Greater Germany. Motor vehicles in the U.S. are efficient little things because fuel is so expensive. The Reich controls half the Middle East, so their gas is cheap and their cars are enormous.

  Brando sits up front with me, navigating while I drive. The bench seat is so wide that I can’t even reach him. Grey and Falcon sprawl in the rear cavern. The Caddy’s size, weight, and color inspired me to nickname it Saint Peter’s Heavenly Barge.

  We had a good couple of days in Paris despite all the rioting in the streets. Staying at Jacques’s place gave us a chance to catch our collective breath. Our French host hooked us up with bread, beds, a couple of new gadgets, and, most important, ammunition. I press my right arm against Li’l Bertha as she hums to herself in her holster. She’s happy to be full of genuine Lion Ballistics Multi Caliber ammo instead of that peasant fixed-caliber crap I’ve been stuffing in her for the last few weeks.

  The day before we appeared on Jacques’s doorstep, Grey was ordered to recruit a team for a special Job Number. Since ExOps had withdrawn all their Interceptors and Vindicators, he asked Jacques to find some local people. When Jacques told him about his unexpected American house guests, Grey was delighted.

  “Well,” he told Jacques, “Scarlet will be motivated, that’s for sure.”

  Grey has been nosing around one of Carbon’s nine cloning labs. It’s in a small town called Carentan in Normandy. The Carbon techs there are cloning a former ExOps agent. That agent is the baddest-ass Level 20 Liberator in the world.

  His name is Philip Nico.

  Yeah, I’m pretty friggin’ motivated.

  Grey reported to ExOps that Brando and I needed a new encryption code for our commphones. Once the new code was installed, Falcon reconnected us to the ExOps network. Cyrus hosted a conference-comm to brief us.

  The massive heap of Carbon intel we swagged from the Tower of London triggered a flood of revelations and developments. The Information Department used it to trace my father’s location, and it allowed the Med-Techs to prepare a three-part life-support strategy for him. The first part is a hand-carried ventilator kit so Dad won’t suffocate if we have trouble extracting him from his Original tank. The second part is a medevac helicopter to spirit him out of Carentan. Part three will be flying him home in an A-3 Skywarrior converted from electronic surveillance to ambulance duty.

  When I asked Grey where these aircraft will come from, he said, “The Squids.”

  As a show of support to Greater Germany, the U.S. Navy has stationed a task force off of Europe. One of these ships is the aircraft carrier Indefatigable. When we call for it, the Indy will dispatch a helicopter with an ExOps Medical-Technical team and a portable life-support system. After they return to the Indefatigable, the Med-Techs will tuck Dad into the modified A-3 for his flight back to the States.

  All we need to do is bust him out of the lab in Carentan. Normally, a foursome of modified and enhanced field agents like us would make short work of this job. These aren’t normal days, though. The Rising has every German in uniform watching, harassing, and too often shooting anyone who even remotely seems like a troublemaker. Our forged papers from Garbo have held up so far, but the amount of scrutiny they’re being subjected to keeps increasing. It’s only a matter of time before one of these checkpoint-watching, stick-up-his-ass ding-dongs asks too many questions and I have to blow his cockamamie head off.

  Brando keeps an eye on the road signs. “Okay, we’ve passed Bayeux. We should be clear for a while now.” He looks around. “Anybody feel like a game of chess?”

  Grey opens his window and says, “Yeah, man. I’ll play you.” He lights a cigarette.

  “Hey, Grey,” I say to his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Got one for your driver?”

  “Sure thing, Red.” He passes me a cigarette. I stick it between my lips and turn my head to one side so Grey can light it for me.

  “Thanks.” I open my window.

  Falcon and Brando switch places. My partner takes out a little magnetic chess set Pericles gave him back in England. He and Grey whip through a game in less than three minutes.

  “Nice.” Grey nods. “You like the Russian players, eh?”

  Brando resets his pieces. “And the Chinese. Everybody studies the Europeans and the South Americans, but fewer people follow Asian players.”

  The two whiz kids begin another game. Falcon quietly sits next to me. He swivels his head around like he wants to see every single thing we pass.

  “Hey, F-Bird.” I blow smoke out the window. “What are you gonna do when we get home?”

  He takes a minute to answer. “Not sure. I’d rather die than go back to the lab.” He turns to me. “Maybe I can work for ExOps.”

  I glance over at him. Now that he’s fatigued and road-weary, he looks a lot more like my dad. His skin is smoother and his teeth are a lot better, but Falcon’s eyes have acquired the same silent intensity Dad’s eyes had.

  Do. The same that Dad’s eyes do.

  “Yeah, we’ll vouch for ya,” I say around my cigarette. “You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks. Do you think ExOps will have a problem with my…resemblance to your father?”

  “Hell, no.” I take one last drag and toss the butt out the window. “They’ll think you’re manna from heaven.”

  Falcon shuts his eyes and doesn’t say anything. Then, softly, “Scarlet, I’ve been meaning to…to ask you something since we met in Brussels.” He stares at his hands. “Do you have a problem with my resemblance to your dad?”

  This question has already cost me a few nights’ sleep. The fact that Falcon is a clone of my father should weird me out as much as Brando used to, but for some reason it doesn’t.

  “Not really. I mean, it’s not like you asked for it.” I roll up my window. “It might be strange when you’re older, but for now it feels kind of like you’re my brother.”

  Falcon’s reaction surprises the shit out of me. His features quiver, and his skin flushes red. He spins his face away, but before he does, a teardrop flows down his cheek and drips onto his collar.

  I keep an eye on the road, but after a moment I sneak another peek at Falcon. He holds his head in one of his hands.

  I comm just to him, “Hey…Falcon, what’s wrong?” I reach over with my right hand and put it on his arm.

  He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. He quickly checks that the two boy geniuses are still engrossed in their chess game, then turns his tear-streaked face to me and comms, “Thanks, Scarlet. I don’t know if someone like you…can have any idea how much that means to me.”

  “Someone like me how?”

  “Like that you have parents, and grew up in a house, and had holidays.” He lets go of my hand and wipes his face on his sleeve. “That you don’t care I’m a…fucking lab rat, copy of someone else…” The young version of my father takes a deep breath and whispers. “That you don’t care I’m a clone.”

  “You’re right, Falcon. I don’t care about that.”

  * * *

  CORE

  MIS-ANGEL-5203

  ANGEL SIT-REP: BERLIN. 10 March 1981

  Countrywide slave revolt and sympathy strikes have thrown country into absolute chaos. Our work here is done.

  —Tiger, L17 Infiltrator

  43

  SAME DAY, TEN HOURS LATER, 8:45 P.M. CET

  CARENTAN, PROVINCE OF FRANCE, GG

  Carentan is cute
. Not that I want to move here, but of all the towns with top-secret mad-scientist laboratories, this one isn’t so bad. Gotta give the Krauts credit. Hiding one of the nine Carbon cloning labs in this sleepy little burg is like hiding a 100-karat diamond in a bread box.

  We’re parked across the street from the German Veterans Medical Center, which squats next to the town’s main church, the Notre-Dame de Carentan. Grey silently smokes a cigarette and watches everyone entering or leaving the modern, brightly lit hospital. Most of them are civilians visiting patients.

  Then there are the husky Staatszeiger apes. A pair of them are always posted at the entrance, and two more patrol the hospital’s perimeter. We saw a twelve-man squad enter the building. A few minutes later two of them walked out and drove away in an officially marked Staatszeiger car.

  I say to Grey, “There isn’t much competition. Why don’t we just F.U.C.K. ’em up?”

  Grey taps the ash off his cigarette. “We need to keep the con after we’re done.”

  I frown in confusion.

  He elaborates, “We don’t want Fritz to know ExOps pulled this job. The plan is to make it look like it was the Circle of Zion. So, to do it like the Circle would, we’ll sneak in through the church to avoid the hospital guards, snatch Big Bertha, and make a discreet getaway.” He pauses. “Unless you feel like killing every potential witness in that hospital.” He gives me a steady stare. I say nothing. “Right.” He turns back to the car’s window. “We do it the sneaky way.”

  Notre-Dame de Carentan is much smaller than Notre-Dame de Reims, but it’s still cluttered with statues, stained glass, and carved stone knickknacks. It’s like a really fancy cupcake except for the tall, spearlike central tower that stabs a hole into the night sky.

  I tried to use Li’l Bertha to comm my dad. I’d hoped being so close would put me in range again, but it hasn’t worked. Patrick quietly keeps an eye on me when I hold my pistol next to my head.

  The decision about when to begin a mission falls to the senior Level in charge. In this case, that’s Grey. He exhales smoke through his nose and says, “I think it’s time to get this show on the road.”