Novel - Airman (29 page)

Seconds later, a rock thumped against the door, followed in quick succession by three more, the last ringing against a steel band. “I thought as much,” said a voice. “A reinforced door.”

Linus checked the breech with his thumb, then shouldered his way along the wall to a gun port.
Loaded and ready. Say something else, Marshall.

Bonvilain did. “Conor Broekhart. Why don’t you come down so I can finally kill you? May as well be blunt.”

Linus sent six shots winging toward the voice. Perhaps God will favor the virtuous, he thought as the gunshots echoed around the tower’s curved walls and the discharge smoke sent his windpipe into spasms.

“So,” called Bonvilain, “Conor is not at home and the blind servant pulls the trigger. Just so you know, blind man, you just grievously wounded the pillar I was sheltering behind.”

Or perhaps the devil looks after his own, Linus concluded, covering his nose and mouth with a wet cloth from the sink. I must warn Conor. He must not be taken. I will fire the emergency flares.

Conor had worried about leaving Linus alone in the tower, in spite of the fact that the American had survived wars and prison for fifty years without his help, and so had rigged a series of emergency flares to the roof. The fuses trailed down to various spots throughout the tower and were capped with sulphur sleeves. It was only necessary to yank off the sleeve to light the fuse. The fuses were linked, so if one sparked, they all sparked.

The nearest fuse was in what they jokingly referred to as the lounge, a collection of chairs clustered around the fireplace, which Linus was using as a gin still.
Fifteen steps from the rifle slot to the lounge. One step down. A bench by the wall. Nothing I don’t pass by a hundred times a day.

Linus coughed the last of the rifle smoke from his lungs and began his short walk carefully. What a shame it would be to come unstuck from a twisted ankle. There was plenty of time. Bonvilain would be reluctant to enter through the front door, as there could be any number of guns pointed at that target.

Walk slowly but surely.
Linus was thrown into turmoil by a series of gunshots, each one clanging against the door, setting the metal ringing like a bell. Wynter dropped to all fours, puzzled.
Has the marshall grown stupid? The door is reinforced; he said it himself. Why shoot at it?

The answer was obvious, and occurred to Linus almost immediately.
He is not trying to kill me, he is trying to distract me. The marshall is not alone. . . .

Something cold, sharp, and metallic pressed against Linus’s neck.

“You left the roof door open, old man,” said a voice in heavily accented English. Linus knew immediately who it was. Sultan Arif, Bonvilain’s deadly second-in-command.

“You of all people should know,” continued Sultan, “that sometimes trouble comes from above.”

The fuse. I must ignite it.
Linus made a lunge for the lounge, suffering the blade at his neck to gouge deeply, but there was no escaping Sultan Arif. The captain grabbed him as though he were a struggling pup and hoisted him to his feet.

Keep your bearings. Know where you are.
It was a difficult task with such distractions to his senses. There was pain in his neck and wet blood down his back. The gunshot echo had not yet faded, and Sultan swung him around. Linus was utterly disoriented.

Concentrate. Where are you?

In the end, Sultan made it easy for him. “Let’s go down and meet our master, shall we?” he said, pushing Linus across the room. Wynter heard the door bolts scrape back and the gush of cool air against his face.

I am in the doorway, he thought, fingers questing for the frame.

Sultan’s voice was loud by his ear. “I have him, Marshall,” he called. “The blind man is alone. There is a rope ladder here—I shall tie it off.”

“Don’t be so tiresome, Sultan, throw him down,” said Bonvilain. “Nothing is more amusing than watching a blind man fall.”

Sultan sighed; this was a task without honor, but honor was not a quality greatly prized by the marshall.

“Relax, old man. Tight bones are broken bones.” The leather in his coat creaked as he bent his arm to push. Linus waited for the right moment, and as Sultan propelled him into space, he screamed. Loudly enough to mask the sound of a sulphur sleeve being ripped from a fuse running along the door frame.

Linus cried as he regained consciousness, for as his head had struck the earth, he had seen something. A flash of light. Just for a moment—now all was dark again. His breathing was restricted by the weight of a boot on his chest.

“I remember you,” said Bonvilain. “You played piano for the king. Very clever, a blind spy. Well, old boy, your piano-playing days are over. Your spying days too, come to think of it.”

“Damn you, Hugo Bonvilain,” rasped Linus valiantly. “There is a special pit in hell reserved for your ilk.”

The marshall laughed. “I have no doubt of it, which is why I intend to delay my departure from this life as long as possible. Your departure, however, is imminent, unless you answer my questions promptly.”

Linus’s own laugh was bitter. “Just kill me, Bonvilain. Your prison couldn’t break me, and neither can you.”

“Do you know, I think you’re right. I believe that you would resist me with your final breath. I shall never understand you principled people. Sultan has a few principles, but he can ignore their berating voices when the situation calls for it. I don’t really need you at any rate; Broekhart will be back and I will be waiting, simple as that.”

“Perhaps not so simple,” said Linus. At that moment, the linked fuses sent half a dozen flares rocketing into the sky. They exploded pink and red, their light reflected on the bellies of dark clouds.

Bonvilain watched their slow descent with catty dismay. “Warning flares. How this young Broekhart wriggles. I swear, sometimes it seems I have been trying to bury him for his entire life.”

“Help is on the way,” gasped Linus. “The fire brigade will be called.”

Bonvilain thought briefly, knocking his knuckles on his forehead, then called to Sultan. “Fetch me pen and paper from the tower. I will nail a special invitation to this man’s head.”

“I am not eager to murder a blind man, Marshall,” said Sultan calmly.

“We have talked about this, Captain,” hissed Bonvilain in the tone of a parent who does not wish his children to hear. “In your soldiering days, you had no such morals.”

“That was war. They were soldiers. This is a blind old man.”

“Fetch me the pen,” insisted Bonvilain.

“I did not unfurl the ladder.”

“Unfurl?
Unfurl?
Are you William Shakespeare now? Fire another bolt then, climb up another rope.”

Sultan nodded toward the village. “That will take several minutes. I do not believe there is time.”

Bonvilain scowled petulantly. “This is really too much, Sultan. I fervently hope this old man is the one who puts a knife between your ribs. I will lean over your dying body just to say I told you so.”

Sultan bowed low, to show his continued loyalty.

“Too late for bowing now, my good man. I am very disappointed in you.”

“My apologies, Marshall.”

“Yes, of course, apologies. How useful. At least do me the kindness of tying this spy to the pillar.”

“Of course, Marshall.” Linus was hoisted upright and thrust roughly against the gate pillar. Bands of rope crossed his legs and torso, cinching tight enough to burn. Sultan’s footsteps circled around, making him dizzy.

Dizziness without sight. Darned unfair.
But at least it seemed he was to live; though with Bonvilain involved, there would definitely be a condition.

“Very well, blind man,” said the marshall’s voice, to his left, low and mocking. “You have earned yourself a reprieve. Deliver this message to the Airman. Tell him that I am hosting a gathering tomorrow night. A small dinner to celebrate the life of Conor Broekhart, which I find amusingly ironic. It will be the third anniversary of his death. Family and friends only. Wine will be served for a special toast, a potent vintage.
Very
potent. It will seem as though the rebels have managed to infiltrate the kitchen. Tragic.”

Linus did not have the breath for insults.

“Be sure to tell Conor that I am going to all this trouble because of him,” continued Bonvilain, fingers digging into Linus’s shoulder. “If he had remained where I’d left him, then none of this would be necessary; but because he escaped and then stole from me, his brother becomes an orphan. You know, perhaps I will make the infant my ward. Raise him as my own. A little Marshall.” Bonvilain chuckled, enjoying his own twisted sense of humor. “How the people would love me. Noble Bonvilain adopts another man’s child.”

Linus managed a short sentence. “No one loves you, Bonvilain.”

“You’re right,” said the marshall. “And you would think that might bother me; but no, I seem to find all the fulfilment I need in material wealth.”

Sultan moved, bowing, into Bonvilain’s line of sight. “Marshall, those flares could attract attention.”

Bonvilain was disappointed. No doubt the villagers would come to investigate the flares. No more time for gloating. A pity—he enjoyed it so, and there were all too few occasions. Ah well, poisoning the queen and the Broekharts was something to look forward to. And with any luck, Conor would throw himself into the pot, too. And even if he did not, Bonvilain would soon be prime minister, and nothing anyone said would be able to change that.

Time for one last word with the blind man. “I suppose the Irish will untie you,” he said. “But even so, do not run away. Remain here and deliver my message, or your master will not even have the chance to kill himself attempting to foil my plans.” Bonvilain slapped Linus hard across the cheek. “After that, spend the rest of your life wondering when I will kill you. As we know,
you
will not see me coming.”

Linus kept his lip stiff and his frown in place, but he was breathing hard through his nose, and had the ropes not held him, he would surely have collapsed.

I hate myself for feeling this terror. I have seen war and plague. I have lived in darkness with the ever present fear of pain. But terror? Never before, until now.

“Damn you, Marshall,” he sobbed defiantly. “The devil take you.”

But he knew by the hollowness of the air and the drift of his voice that he was alone. Bonvilain had gone to make preparations for his celebration.

I should be happy, Conor Finn thought. My plan has succeeded and I am a scientist again, with funds to continue my experiments far into the future. I should be at least content.

But he could not escape the knowledge that this was not his life. He was skirting the borders of his life as though banned from entering. And somewhere, just beyond his reach, another true life was waiting.

Farther away will be better. How can I start again, when every time I raise my eyes, I see the Saltees on the horizon?

Conor was steering his horse and cart down the coast road to Wexford, and from there to Curracloe beach, five miles on the other side. It was already noon, as it had taken longer than expected to winch the wings down the side of the tower. He would have to sleep on the beach for an extra night, perhaps two, depending on conditions.

The journey, too, would take longer than expected. They had traveled less than a mile from Kilmore, and already the horse had tired from such a load. Wings, engine, tail, body, and of course, his new propeller. It was a heavy burden for an old horse. He would see about trading the beast in on the Wexford docks.

He thought of Linus, and laughed aloud.
My mind compares Linus to an old beast. He would not be happy to hear that.
With Linus Wynter on his mind, he glanced over his shoulder to check for flares, as he had a dozen times already on this trip.

As if Linus needs me. As if Linus needs a . . .

The flares were up. All of them, it seemed. Pirouetting to earth, leaving pink trails like the spokes of a ghostly umbrella.

Linus was in trouble.
It must have something to do with last night’s encounter. It could not be coincidence.

Conor pulled the cart off the road, driving it deep into a wooden copse. The horse complained, shying away from low branches, but Conor drove her on, wedging the cart tight between two trunks. The trees shook, raining pine needles down on man and horse.

In seconds, Conor had unhitched the horse and was urging her back along the coast road. With this animal, there were two choices. He could run her short and fast, or slow and long. Conor chose fast; something told him that long would be too late.

Conor arrived at the tower to find his only friend tied to a pillar, his face and neck rent with contusions. His first thought was:
Dead. I have lost him again.
But then the old man coughed. “Linus!” he said, taking the American’s weight. “You’re alive.”

Wynter seemed surprised. “Conor. I didn’t hear a horse.”

“She collapsed outside the village. Her heart, I imagine.” He quickly sliced through the rope, sliding his friend down along the pillar.

“You won’t die today,” said Conor, conducting a quick check for broken bones. “But there’s not a piece of skin on you that isn’t bruised. Your blood is blue, you’ll be delighted to know. I always suspected you were royalty.”

“Listen to me, Conor,” said Linus, his throat raw and rope burned. “It was Bonvilain.”

Conor actually fell backward to the grass. “The marshall himself ? Here?”

“Him and his bloodhound, Arif. I left the roof door open, to clear the cooking fumes. Stupid old man. They only left because they thought the villagers would come to investigate the flares. I could’ve told them that you’ve been firing up flares and God knows what for weeks now, and the locals are bored rigid watching them. I could’ve told them that, but I didn’t.”

“What did he say?” Conor demanded. “Tell me, Linus.”

Linus sighed deeply, his face scarred by pain and sadness. “He knows you are the Airman, Conor. He plans to murder your family, Isabella too. Poison, most likely, at a dinner tomorrow night. A dinner for Conor Broekhart.”