TW02 The Timekeeper Conspiracy NEW (9 page)

Andre ignored the stares and wrinkled noses as she entered the lobby of the Luxembourg and made her way back to her rooms. She knew that Hunter would be furious. Doubtless, he had returned by now to find her gone with no word of explanation left. She had taken the carriage and some of their money and now she was returning, soiled and smelly, after having been gone all morning and much of the afternoon. She prepared herself to face his anger. Pausing at the door to their apartment, she took a deep breath and entered. There was no sign of Hunter. Relieved, she went into the bedroom to change her clothes.

Hunter was in bed, with the covers pulled up over his head. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she tiptoed to the closet. Then she noticed that the clean white sheets were stained with crimson. She jerked back the covers.

Hunter's throat was slashed from ear to ear.

Moreau's Tavern was a noisy, friendly place, patronized mostly by the members of the working class and, on occasion, by gentlemen in search of some diversion. It was a rough-hewn sort of place, with cracked white walls, one of which was decorated with a mural placed there by a local artist with a decidedly erotic bent, cheap and sturdy furniture (the better to survive the occasional donnybrook) and heavy-timbered ceiling. Moreau's establishment was a tavern in search of a character and, in that, perhaps, lay its charm. Elderly men played chess at quiet tables in the corners, younger men played cards, gentlemen rubbed shoulders with common laborers as they drank their fill, and prostitutes solicited the patrons, albeit very politely and in a subdued, indirect manner. Moreau would not allow it any other way.

The aging seaman held court in his establishment with a charm and
joie de vivre
that made his tavern a popular spot, and he was tolerant of the excesses of his patrons, but only to a point. Although he was sixty-two years old, Moreau was still as strong as an ox and one did not argue with him unless one were deeply in his cups and, in such a case, the conclusion of such an argument could be sobering in the extreme.

Messrs. Dumas and D'Laine inquired as to the rooms their friend, Monsieur Legault, had arranged for them and Moreau had them sign the register for one of several rooms he let out on the tavern's second floor. Lucas raised his eyebrows when he saw Finn sign in as
Monsieur F. D'Laine.

"Well, if you can be Alexander Dumas,
I
can be Francois D'Laine, so long as we're posing as Frenchmen."

"But D'Artagnan already knows you as Delaney," Lucas protested.

"So? If we run into him again, I've Frenchified my name for the sake of convenience."

"Frenchified!"

"Whatever."

Their room was spartan, nothing more than four walls, a couple of ramshackle beds, a small table, and a basin.

"If you'll be wanting anything more, it's extra," said Moreau.

Lucas assured him that if they needed anything, they would let him know.

"No food before eight o'clock," Moreau said, "and none after nine at night. And there'll be no eating in the rooms, if you please. If you're hungry, you come downstairs and get fed in the tavern. I'm trying to keep the rats down." He pointed at the foot of the bed in the corner. "Chamber pot is under there. When you're done, you fling it out the window in the hall, into the alley. Don't leave it sitting, stinking up the place. I run a clean establishment."

"So I see," said Lucas, eyeing a large roach as it scuttled across the floor. Moreau spat and hit the roach dead on, slowing its progress only for a moment. He shrugged.

"There's still a few around, but I'm getting rid of 'em."

"How?" said Finn.

"Snakes," Moreau replied. "Bought three of 'em from a sailor friend of mine. Don't you worry, though; they're not the poisonous sort. You find one in your bed, just toss it out upon the floor."

"The snakes will eat the rats, I think," said Lucas, "but I don't believe they'll eat the roaches."

"You sure?"

"I think so."

"Hmmph. That explains it, then. I was wondering why there were still so many of them. What eats roaches, then?"

"Lizards."

"Lizards!"

"Lizards."

Moreau seemed to consider this a moment, then he shook his head. "No, then I'll be up to my ears in lizards."

"The snakes will eat the lizards," Finn suggested.

"And then I'll still have the roaches," Moreau said. "What's the point?"

"It does seem to pose a dilemma," Lucas said, "unless you get rid of the snakes. But then you'll have the rats."

Moreau considered this as well, then grunted. "I'll take the roaches."

"Wise choice," said Finn.

That night, he let out a yell and Lucas was out of his bed in an instant, rapier at the ready. Looking sheepish, Finn dropped a king snake down onto the floor. It slithered off somewhere into the shadows.

"Springtime in Paris," Finn mumbled, sourly.

In the morning, someone knocked upon their door.

"Who is it?" Lucas said.

"Ratcatcher," said a voice from beyond the door.

"We've already got one," Finn said.

Lucas opened the door to reveal a gnarled and bent old man dressed in rags and smelling of garlic.

He carried a cloth sack draped over his shoulder and a club-shaped stick in his left hand. He was filthy and his nose was running. He brushed past Lucas and entered the room.

"I'm afraid—" Lucas began, then stopped when the old man suddenly straightened, moving his shoulders to loosen the kinks.

"Mongoose," said the smelly old man.

"Mon—" Lucas halted in mid-word, then peered hard at the stranger. "I'll be damned."

"That's a pretty good disguise," said Finn, wrinkling his nose.

"I'm paid to be a lot more than 'pretty good,' Mr. Delaney," the agent said. He scratched himself.

"Damn lice."

"Must be rough," said Lucas, sympathetically.

"It
is
rough, Captain, but it's the work I do best."

"God bless America," said Finn.

Mongoose looked at him for a moment, then an amused smile appeared on his face. "Working for a spook stings your professional pride, does it?" he said.

"Let's just say I'm less than happy with the arrangement," Finn said.

"I think I can understand that," Mongoose said. "Your dossiers were delivered to me yesterday. I memorized them, then destroyed them. In your particular case, there was quite a lot written between the lines. I think I know you, Delaney. We spooks are only supposed to do the groundwork, after all, right?

Then you real pros come in to clean the situation up. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?" He grinned.

"It might interest you to know that we have a lot in common. I was in the Corps myself and I also flunked out of RCS. My final thesis was just a bit too controversial, so I didn't make the grade, but I'm not bitter.

I expected it. Just between you and me, I'm not that crazy about the agency myself. Too many diehards and nut cases."

"And where do you fit in?" said Delaney. "What's in it for you?"

Mongoose shrugged his shoulders. "A certain amount of thrill-seeking enters into it, I guess, but mostly, it's the lifestyle."

"The lifestyle?" Lucas said.

"I get bored rather easily," said Mongoose. "Playing the same game all the time gets tiresome. I like it when the rules keep changing."

Finn raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me you're in it for the sport?"

Mongoose smiled. "If you like. I suppose that's as good a way of saying it as any, although I'm not much on sportsmanship, if you know what I mean. I play to win. But it's not much of a challenge if the game's too easy."

"Jesus Christ," said Finn.

"You know, that's one scenario I haven't played yet," the agent said. "I've always wondered what it would be like to infiltrate the apostles. I doubt I'll ever get that chance, though. There's a certain extreme sensitivity about some historical scenarios."

Finn glanced at Lucas. "Is he kidding?"

Lucas looked worried. "I don't know," he said. He glanced at Mongoose.
"Are
you?"

"I think so," said the agent. He grinned. "But I'm not really certain. The idea does have some intriguing possibilities, doesn't it?"

"I don't know who scares me more," Delaney said, "you or the Timekeepers."

The agent chuckled. "The Timekeepers have a cause. They're fanatics with a twisted idealism, but it's idealism just the same. That makes them amateurs. I'm a pro."

"Idealism doesn't matter, then?" said Finn. "History doesn't count for anything?"

"History lies," said Mongoose. "You should know that better than anyone. It always has and it always will. History is written by the winners to glorify their victories and if the losers ever have anything to say, they explain away defeat in whatever manner makes them look more dignified. If dignity is possible. If it isn't, then they make omissions. We've all seen things that never made the history books. Right and wrong depends on point of view. I'm not especially interested in the moral implications of what I do.

Morality is totally subjective. To a thug who worships the goddess Kali, murder is a moral act. To a Communist, the end justifies the means. And in a democracy, majority rule means that the minority will be oppressed. Idealism? History? Neither is absolute. The nature of reality depends on the observer."

"God help us," Finn said, "a philosopher spy."

"In our profession, a philosophical attitude can be a definite asset," the agent said, his voice betraying his amusement. "What is an intelligence operative, after all, but one who seeks to be enlightened?"

"You're not a philosopher, Mongoose," Lucas said. "You're a cynic."

"Ah, yes," the agent said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs beneath him on the floor.

"The condemnation of the righteous. In Oscar Wilde's words, 'A cynic is one who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.' Well, when it comes to what I do, the price of failure is usually death. And I happen to place a very high value on my life. Now, diverting as it is discussing metaphysics with you, gentlemen, we do have certain matters to attend to. Our friends' demands have been rejected and the game is about to begin in earnest. And to begin with, I think we can turn your blunder into our advantage."

"What blunder?" Finn said.

"Your encounter with our friend, D'Artagnan," Mongoose said. "Or had you forgotten how you almost prevented his run-in with the Count de Rochefort?"

"Oh, that," said Finn.

"Yes, that," said Mongoose. "Unfortunate, but not a disaster, by any means. I had hoped that Rochefort's party would arrive before he showed up and I would be able to contact you, but things didn't work out all that badly. I want you to keep tabs on him. The fact that he knows you will make it that much easier."

"I don't think he'll be very well disposed toward us after we ran out on him like that," said Lucas.

"Who says you ran out on him?" said Mongoose. "Your story is that you leaped valiantly to his defense the moment I bashed him with that chair. You fought bravely, but you were overwhelmed and taken into custody. Delaney was slightly wounded in the process."

"But I wasn't wounded," said Delaney. "I mean, I'm not."

Mongoose produced a laser and aimed it at Finn.

"Hey! Are you crazy?"

A bright shaft of pencil-thin light lanced out at him, scarring his cheek on the right side.

"To add verisimilitude," said Mongoose. "The girls in Heidelberg would love you. It looks rather dashing, if I do say so myself."

"You miserable son of a bitch, I'll—" Finn stopped when he saw the laser pointed at him still, the agent's thumb on the beam-intensity control stud.

"A little cosmetic surgery and you'll be as good as new," said Mongoose. "Assuming you behave yourself and don't give me any trouble. I told you before, I play to win."

"And we're the pawns, is that it?" Lucas said.

"To paraphrase Lord Tennyson, 'yours not to reason why, yours but to do.' We'll hope it doesn't come to die. Now if you'll sit down, Delaney, and keep your hands where I can see them, we'll continue."

Delaney sat down on the bed, holding his cheek gingerly, glowering at the agent.

"Thank you. Now, D'Artagnan was still unconscious when we left, so he'll never know what really transpired. Should he ask, and he undoubtedly will, you'll tell him that you managed to escape en route to Paris. You weren't pursued, doubtless because Rochefort didn't think that you were worth the trouble.

When you see him, you'll be overjoyed to learn that that blow didn't kill him, as you thought it had. I want you to encourage his friendship, in the course of which you'll certainly meet the three musketeers. I want you to encourage their friendship, as well. If anyone should ask, you have found employment with Monsieur de Levasseur, a wealthy shipping merchant from Le Havre who occasionally stays in Paris and keeps apartments here for that purpose. He is currently absent from Paris and you are the custodians of his apartments and the possessions therein."

"What if he should return to Paris and run into us?" said Lucas.

"Then he will greet you warmly and acknowledge you," said Mongoose, "
I
am Monsieur de Levasseur."

"Since when?"

"Since this morning," said the agent. "I arrived in Paris at the crack of dawn, established myself at the Luxembourg Hotel, impressed them with my financial resources, then departed on pressing business with some people in the Marais. I informed the people at the hotel that they can expect you shortly, that you will be representing my business interests in Paris. When you arrive, you'll explain that my business took me back to Le Havre unexpectedly, but that you will be remaining in Paris, at the Luxembourg, as my principals. That will give you a somewhat more comfortable and more secure base of operations and provide you with a cover at the same time."

"Just one question," Lucas said. "If we follow this plan you've outlined, our cover will be blown in a matter of days. You realize that, don't you? D'Artagnan had no friends when he arrived in Paris.