Frankenstein's Legions (22 page)

Save in dire need, it wasn’t Foxglove’s style to gainsay his mistress, but there remained a range of euphemisms he could deploy.

‘Possibly, milady, possibly...,’ he said. ‘But a battlefield’s an unlikely port of call for a nuptial pair, don’t you think?  Hardly what you’d call romantic...’

‘The couple are just cover,’ Frankenstein confirmed. ‘Others remain inside. I saw sunlight flash upon a perspective glass...’

Acting like he’d had enough for one outing, Frankenstein casually sauntered back to their own coach driver. He was going to ask if the newcomer was known to him, but the man’s nervy demeanour resolved the matter without words.

By the time Julius returned Lady Lovelace had considered and concurred.

‘Who would have thought,’ she said in wonderment, ‘that the Belgians even had a secret police?’

Frankenstein was amused.

‘The
Ancien Regime
is over,’ he informed her. ‘The State now stands in for God. What other choice do the poor Belgians have but to conform?  Welcome to modernity, madam.’

Lady Lovelace took that compressed lesson away to digest in silence. For once she didn’t mind being lectured. The broad sweep of history be damned: the main thing was that she’d got her way. There’d be no more caveats from Ada—not till the next gap between want and have opened up anyway.

So, Luxembourg it was. And urgently, before the Belgians’ fully justified curiosity evolved into something worse.

‘Mr Tell’ and company set off and, a token while after, the second coach set off after them.

*  *  *

When he heard of it some days later, Talleyrand was delighted that his corps de ballet of spies, some deliberately conspicuous like the ‘Belgian’ coach, others invisible as air, had restored contact. Up till then he’d feared that circumstances beyond control, such as that inconsiderate stormy sea, might have taken Lady Lovelace and entourage from him. To hear otherwise made him clap two lace-fringed hands together and bestow such a charming smile upon the messenger. Later that same evening and for the same reason, a roadside beggar had his life changed forever by a bag of golden guineas cast from Talleyrand’s carriage.

That the (comparatively) innocent Belgian Republic got blamed for his scheming would have been sweet sugar icing on Talleyrand’s cake of deep joy—but sadly he never knew that.

Nevertheless, the Prince was well content with his present level of informedness. To aspire beyond that was to trespass into territory reserved for the Almighty alone: wherefore he humbly withdrew. The excommunicated former Bishop and serial turncoat had many mortal sins on his charge sheet (including those the Church said ‘Cried Out to Heaven for Vengeance’), but blasphemy was not amongst them. The man Emperor Napoleon had described as ‘shit in a silk stocking’ was far too fly to offend the Omnipotent.

‘Tell our people to play them out a little more rope,’ he instructed his agent. ‘There’s not quite enough to hang themselves yet.’

Chapter 21: WE CAN SEE YOU

Surveying another cathedral (save this one was still open for business) Frankenstein and Lady Lovelace and Foxglove behaved like they were family plus flunky passing through on a ‘Grand Tour.’  Devotees of high culture ticking off inspirational architecture on their list.

In Luxembourg the disguise was quite plausible—albeit these particular ‘tourists’ somewhat less so. A unscrubable whiff of ‘post-apocalypse’ hung about Julius and co., whereas residual pre-Promethean War normality lingered in the City. The French hadn’t incorporated the place when they boiled through during the ‘Great Breakthrough,’ but instead respected (after a fashion) the rule of its Prince-Bishop. Of course, it had been pillaged down to its underwear, even (or especially) the Churches, but in theory there remained a self-governing city; one of the patchwork of petty states and historical accidents that collectively comprised Germania. Once the war went east and then global, Luxembourg was left behind and got on with its own business unmolested. For the time being.

In the contemporary lottery of life that was no mean achievement anywhere. On their way in, Frankenstein and friends had received yet another unsolicited crash course in present-day harsh realities. The statelets traversed were silently instructive—but not in the sense they once graced the itinerary of every Grand Tour: as aesthetic academies and/or fun stays. Now, those not physically ravaged by war were indirectly so. Denuded of male citizens (all either dead or in arms or both), Lazarans kept the show going—or limping—along. Resurrected people drove—or, more often, hauled—the ploughs. Death and the scent of ‘serum’ hung over all.

Hence it had been a depressing trip. Shepherded by their shy ‘Belgian’ shadow, they saw only vistas of civilisation visibly in retreat.

Which was why Luxembourg was such a tonic. If only by contrast as a haven of prosperity and home to myriad still-warm humanity. Not only that, but crucial to Ada’s aims, it still boasted a civilian aerodrome.

That had been a sleepy little facility before ‘History’ intruded; catering mainly to the Prince-Bishop’s Episcopal progresses. Changing geo-political imperatives altered all that. Now it was quite a hub. The party were biding their time before heading for its hubbub.

One of the ‘day-one’ acts of French Conventionary Government in all its conquests was to nationalise every aircraft. They couldn’t for the life of them see why mere civilians should gallivant in the sky whilst the class struggle hung in the balance below. And besides, there was the danger of aristocrats and other enemies of the People escaping that way. Instead, collaring the collective national fleet, they used them to rain bombs and air-mobile columns of revolutionaries on their enemies. Zeal and sheer elan carried them halfway across Europe—till the trenches rendered both qualities irrelevant—and suicidal.

Later, when revolutionary ardour cooled and the wars turned gutty, there was even less justification for jaunts and fun. With the rainbow-hued vessels of Europe’s leisured classes long since confiscated and painted grim, and the factories unable to keep up with war losses, those merchants without contacts in the Convention or money for bribes lost their galloon fleets too. Which plunged Europe’s economy further into free-fall recession—though with the happy by-product of creating unemployment just when the army desperately needed fresh flesh. The leaders of the Revolution congratulated themselves on killing two birds with one stone.

All of which is to explain why tricoloured galloons criss-crossing Luxembourg’s airspace, locating their position via the Cathedral’s spire, had become such a familiar sight as to be invisible to the natives. No one pointed any more. Not that it was anyone’s business noting their conqueror’s ways in any case: open curiosity often came at a cost…

Because, in a paradoxically un-revolutionary way, the Convention set great store by its material possessions: aerodromes included. For instance, it was common knowledge what happened to Budapest when its French air facilities were sabotaged by guerrillas. Now there was neither a Buda or a Pest beside the Danube, and the puppet ‘Revolutionary Protectorate of the Magyars’ was casting around for a new capital.

But Frankenstein had no such concerns: here wasn’t his homeland. Indeed, it could be said he no longer had such a thing. Here in Luxembourg—or anywhere else—he was free to look up at the crowded skies, drink in the scene, and be careless of consequences.

The Luxembourgeois saw things differently. They saw that wisdom lay in averting your eyes and cultivating your own garden whilst you still had one. Plus adopting the positive attitude of gladness it was only war-supplies the vessels above deposited on their soil, not bombs.

That culture of denial suited Frankenstein and playmates down to the ground—which, coincidentally, was also the direction most Luxembourgeois cast their gaze when they met foreign eyes.

All in all perfect conditions for a conspiratorial meeting: circumstances conspiring in their favour for once. Away from their hotel’s walls-with-ears, surrounded by the devout coming in or out, plus the hucksters that preyed upon them, Luxembourg Cathedral was an answer to plotters’ prayers.

The ‘Belgian Secret Police’ had been successfully left at the border. Frankenstein felt they were now free to worry about other things.

‘Ready?’ he asked, meanwhile pointing out some blameless gargoyle as if that was the topic of discussion.

‘As we’ll ever be,’ replied Foxglove. And I still say it’s a very bad idea...’

Ada playfully smacked her servant’s arm.

‘Oh, hush you!’ she admonished, but gently by her standards. Lady Lovelace was thoroughly enjoying this lark. She kept checking her appearance in her powder compact mirror, making needless minor adjustments to hat or hair. This was her biggest transformation since rising from the grave and she was growing to like it.

‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ said Julius. ‘Try to act in role.’

Ada carried on regardless.

‘Who’s to say it isn’t?’ she countered sweetly.

A good point. Frankenstein moved on.

‘You have all the baggage?’ he asked Foxglove.

‘All that you’ve permitted us, sir.’

‘And the rest?’

‘In the hotel privy pit, weighted down to sink.’

‘Are you sure?  No coat or trinket donated to charity?’

‘At your insistence, sir, I resisted the urge.’

‘Good. We must leave no trace here. And the hotel bill?’

‘Paid in full, plus an generous gratuity.’

‘Excellent.’

Lady Lovelace tutted.

‘No it isn’t. It’s very un-excellent. That was waste. It’s not as if we’re ever coming back here...’

Frankenstein brooked no dissent. Here was his time and plan.

‘We leave no spoor and likewise no pursuit,’ he said magisterially. ‘We shall shortly have enough problems without risking an outraged innkeeper. His shrieks as he chased us down the street for a few francs would ruin all.’

Ada snorted scepticism.

‘And pray tell how he would recognise us?  Eh?  Eh?’

Another good point. She was full of them today just when they weren’t welcome. Best to cut things short before she made any more. Frankenstein tore up the rest of his intended mental check list.

Or almost all of it.

‘The pistols?’ he asked Foxglove.

‘Primed and loaded, sir. May I ask why, sir?’

Frankenstein drew himself up on his crutch, shifting weight onto his remaining free leg.

‘No, you may not. Enough said. Right then: come fly with me!’

Then off went the freshly-minted cripple and his companions, tip-tapping across the cobbles towards the aerodrome.

*  *  *

The beggar by the Cathedral door—who could really have done with a ‘coat or trinket’ from Foxglove, had the man’s generous inclinations been allowed play—was relieved soon after.

A second and even more afflicted indigent took his place and, in the space of all the levering up and grunting, an exchange of intelligence took place.

‘He mentioned flying,’ said the first to the second.

‘Alert Team two,’ said the second to the first before he left.

Then the new beggar settled down to some long hours of displaying (fake) sores, and importuning worshippers as they emerged from the Cathedral all pious minded. Professionalism aside, it was in his interest to be convincing. The surveillance master said he could keep any alms received.

*  *  *

‘Beggar One’ went and rattled his tin before a young couple and their child seated outside one of the cafes in Cathedral close.

‘Be off with you!’ said the husband sternly, to be plausible. Simultaneously, his ‘wife’ discreetly pinched her borrowed baby to make it cry. The other patrons had sympathy for the poor mite, plainly frightened by the dreadful old tramp. Under the barrage of general grumbling the couple had cover to hear his true purpose.

‘Twelve,’ said the beggar—pre-agreed code for the aerodrome—and shambled off before the police arrived.

Whilst madam calmed ‘her’ infant with kisses that induced ‘ahh...’s from the cafe clientele, father took off his bowler hat and fanned his face with it. Although it wasn’t that warm a day.

‘Twelve,’ said the team at the hotel window, who’d counted the bowler’s back and forths.

A care-worn man sitting at a desk well back into the room was not content.

‘Check,’ he ordered.

They observed again. As per instructions, the cafe signal was repeated after the agreed ‘message break’ (casual adjustment of a breast-pocket kerchief).

‘It’s the aerodrome,’ confirmed the window team.

Care-worn man was straightaway even more worn.

‘Amateur!’ he hissed—his heaviest rebuke. ‘Keep in code!  You might have been seen. Lips can be read!’

Everyone present cringed and became even more eager to please. Jobs like this weren’t easy to come by, but were exceptionally easy to lose.

‘I’ll tell five to activate seven,’ said the most senior junior.

Care-worn man nodded, like that should be so obvious, and looked even sorrier to need to add:

‘And don’t forget eleven on stand-by.’

The rest left and Care-worn man, today’s surveillance supervisor, could relax, insofar as he ever did.

He hated having to wield the whip: his agents were like his children to him. Yet did not Scripture say ‘he who spares the rod hates his son’?  And very often in his profession the penalty for carelessness was death. So, Care-worn man had to be stern out of the love he bore them 

The back-up squad (that the departed team knew nothing of) now entered the room. They were older in the service: deceptively sleepy-eyed professionals.

  ‘He masquerades as a maimed man: a French hussar,’ Care-worn man briefed them. ‘One feigned empty sleeve, ditto a lost lower leg, plus a crutch and eye patch...’  He almost smiled, his closest approach to that expression for many months. ‘The work of civilians. Grossly overdone. The Swiss looks like the love-child of a patchwork Lazaran and Neo-Nelson!’

That nearly got a laugh, but it did no harm to be light hearted during simple missions, building up a bank balance of solace for the more frequent gruelling jobs.