The Reluctant Assassin (W.A.R.P. 1) - Page 22

Surely my chance will come, thought Chevie, but every time she was on the verge of launching herself at the magician, he saw the intent in her face. It was almost as if Garrick could read her thoughts.

“You are wondering if I can read your thoughts,” said Garrick suddenly, waving a nub of sausage at her. “I confess that I cannot, but I do have a certain expertise in the science of movement, what you might term kinesics or body language. Your violent intentions are as clear to me as the Times’s banner headline.”

Chevie glared at him. “Yeah? What’s my face telling you now?”

“The FBI often employ the term acceptable collateral damage,” continued Garrick calmly. “If we were to engage here, I can guarantee that at least half a dozen members of the public would be killed; the number could be as high as ten, if you really inconvenienced me. Felix assures me that you have a certain competence in the martial arts, but you are unarmed, and I have three pistols and a blade on my person. Do you think the Bureau would reward you for provoking me in a restaurant?”

Garrick was right, and Chevie knew it. She could not afford to be aggressive in such a public area.

Again, Garrick read her face. “You have come to the right decision, Agent. After all, these are real people all around us. People with families and loved ones.”

Garrick flinched as if struck, as his own words connected him to a memory of Smart’s.

“Loved ones,” he repeated, pulling the Timekey from under his shirt. “Felix knew that his father had taken a female companion somewhere in London after his mother died. Charles Smart never revealed whom, and Felix presumed that once his father disappeared into the past that was the end of that. But I have spied on many a lovesick mark, and passion will drive a man to almost any lengths.” Garrick paused, flipping the Timekey with his agile fingers. “His father built a second pod in London, but Felix could never track it down. And it occurs to me, as a student of human foibles and failings, what better reason to construct a backup pod than to sneak back to this century and visit a secret flame?” Garrick activated the key’s small screen and clicked though the menus until he came to a trip log.

“We have several jumps from Bedford Square, as one would expect, the last one in the early 1980s. And that should be the end of it—but, no, I have some coordinates here. More than a dozen more jaunts logged to and from the same spot. Smart, you amorous old dog. Whoever this woman is, you could not stay away.”

Garrick stuffed the Timekey inside his shirt. “Riley, my son. We have found our way home.”

Riley did not speak, but his eyes spoke for him: I am not your son.

Surprising that Garrick could not decipher that.

Garrick used the GPS on Smart’s phone to navigate to the coordinates on the Timekey. Felix Smart’s memories acted like a living tutorial. Whenever Garrick arrived at a new screen, he simply concentrated for a moment until its workings came to him.

They walked from the Wolseley side by side, like family, past the Ritz and onto Piccadilly. Garrick enjoyed the early morning sun on his face, while Chevie’s strides were stiff with tension and Riley walked as though dazed with exhaustion; in reality he was overplaying his fatigue so that Garrick would not press him into conversation, and he could steal a moment to think.

I wish there was some way to signal to Agent Savano, he thought. We can only escape by paddling in the same direction.

He tried to catch Chevie’s eye, but she was lost in her own thoughts.

Surely there is an alert out for Garrick at this point, Chevie was thinking. Maybe he will be recognized.

It was doubtful, as Garrick no longer looked like Agent Orange. The only people who had Garrick’s true description were walking beside him, and it seemed as though Riley had chosen which side he was on. And she would not have held the boy’s choice against him had it not been for the murder of her colleague.

The city center was becoming busy as shops opened for business. In spite of the congestion fee, the streets were soon jammed bumper to bumper with vehicles. The day was shaping up nicely, clear silver skies that would soon turn blue, and a brisk breeze that could stir even the most jaded time traveler. The unlikely trio strolled together through Mayfair, Chevie hoping against hope that somehow the Bureau had tracked them and there was a sniper drawing a bead on Garrick’s crown even as they walked.

Wishful thinking. And, even if somebody does shoot this Garrick creature, it might not even harm him. It could just make him angry. Who knows what this guy is capable of?

Chevie told herself not to give up. One of Cord Vallicose’s maxims was that there was always an opportunity waiting to be noticed; an agent had to be ready when it presented itself.

Whatever it takes to stay out of the past, she thought. I am not going into the past.

But Chevie’s subconscious knew, even if her conscious mind didn’t yet realize it, that she would hop, skip, and jump into the past whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner” if it meant getting away from this lunatic magician.

They arrived at the coordinates programmed into the Timekey without any sniper fire or indeed incident of any kind. Garrick held his two hostages tightly by their necks, long nails digging into their collars.

“Do you know, Agent Savano,” he said conversationally, “that I could kill you now with any one of these fingers?” To demonstrate which fingers, he drummed them in a creepy fashion on Chevie’s flesh. “One of my trade secrets is that for the last ten years I have been coating my nails with furniture lacquer. They are hard as steel and sharper than a barber’s cutthroat. I can slit any package with my thumbnail and explore its contents behind my back for my famous second-sight trick. I have never revealed that to a living soul, but something about you makes a person want to unburden.”

Chevie did not appreciate being told a magician’s secrets; it made her think that she might not live much longer.

Riley gazed down the length of the street. “Are we here, master? Is this the way home?”

They had arrived at Half Moon Street, and it looked just like the movies said a Mayfair street should look in the summer, with a row of fine old five-story buildings that had been converted into small businesses with a few cafés and pubs. The street was still quiet at this time of the morning, and the sidewalk was barricaded by stacks of cardboard and trash that had yet to be collected by the garbage truck. An old lady in boots was hosing the night’s detritus from the entrance to an antiques shop.

“Now, where would be a good place to pick up antiques?” wondered Garrick.

In the past, thought Chevie, and she was suddenly afraid for the old lady.

Chevie felt Garrick’s grip loosen slightly as his fingers seemed to grow a little shorter. She glanced up and saw that Garrick was hunched now. He spasmed as though racked by a silent fit of coughing. With every retch, his physical self altered until he resembled Felix Smart once more.

That was my chance, Chevie realized, and I stood here gawking.

Garrick’s fingers tightened on her shoulder once more. “You should have had a go there, Agent,” he said, sweat pasted across his brow. “Those transmogrifications take it out of a fellow, yes, they do.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called to the elderly lady. “Perhaps you can assist me?”

The lady did not look up from her labor. “I can assist you at nine. Shop opens at nine. Most of the stuff I have is really old, so another thirty minutes won’t matter.”

Garrick tapped her window. “I see you specialize in Victorian.”

The lady released the hose trigger and swiveled her head upward to take in Garrick.

“Yes, and I will still specialize in Victorian at nine.” There was probably more British sarcasm in the tank, but the lady changed her tune once Garrick’s adopted face registered.

“Wait a moment. Don’t I . . .” And her eyes drifted as though trying to locate an elusive memory. “Your face. It seems so familiar.”

Garrick’s smile seemed utterly genuine. “P

eople tell me I look like my father.”

The lady dropped the hose. “Oh . . . Oh, my. Felix? You are Felix, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am Felix,” said Garrick, making it sound like he was the new messiah.

“Oh, goodness. Oh, dear me. Felix.” The woman’s face was transformed utterly. Gone was the cynical tradeswoman of moments before, and in her place stood a wide-eyed, flustered lady. “Your father said you might find me someday.”

Garrick placed a hand on her shoulder. “And here I am.”

“Yes, you are here. Plain as day.” She drew a worried breath. “Oh, are you hungry? You must be thirsty? And your young friends? They’re probably hungry and thirsty.”

Garrick shrugged as if to say, We are terribly hungry and thirsty, but I am too polite to mention it.

“You must come in. Please come inside.” The lady fished a door key on a chain from under her blouse, then jabbed it into antiques shop’s front door.

“But, madam,” said Garrick, smiling, “it is not yet nine o’clock.”

The lady knew very well she was being ribbed. “Oh, it’s always a question of time with you Smart boys.” She offered a gloved hand. “I’m Victoria. Your father’s . . . friend.”

For a moment Garrick’s eyes glittered in Felix Smart’s face.

Tags: Eoin Colfer W.A.R.P.
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