"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. Historically, we don't exist. If we establish a relationship with D'Artagnan and the musketeers, we might as well be announcing our presence here to the terrorists."
"If the Timekeepers' planned disruption involves the three musketeers, then your arrival on the scene will definitely make them nervous," said the agent. "However, history has never been totally complete. There are the inevitable undocumented details. They won't be sure about you. On the one hand, you might very well be exactly what you appear to be. On the other, you might be agents from the 27th century. They won't be certain and that will make them nervous. Nervous people make mistakes. That's what I'm counting on."
"That's what I thought," said Lucas. "I can see why you're so fond of these people, Finn," he said sarcastically. "He's setting us up. We're the bait to flush out the Timekeepers."
"Well you can fucking well forget that noise," said Finn, rising to his feet angrily. "That wasn't part of the deal. This is supposed to be your ballgame, Mongoose, or whatever the hell your name is. You seem to forget that we're not company men. We're soldiers. And damn expensive soldiers, at that, too damn expensive to be used as judas goats in your espionage games. This is supposed to be a TIA show. I didn't like it, but those were the orders. We're here just in case you people blow it. We're not even supposed to be involved in your investigation."
"That's where you're wrong, Delaney," Mongoose said. "You're already involved. You stepped into the game when you interfered in Meung and involved yourself with D'Artagnan. That was your mistake, not mine. It was your responsibility. You're going to have to live up to it."
"No way."
"You haven't got much choice, Delaney." The agent got to his feet. "You either do it my way or I'll blow your cover myself. The Timekeepers are here, there's no question of that, and knowing the way they work, I'll stake my reputation on the fact that they've manuevered themselves into positions that will enable them to strike at key figures in this scenario. My job is to intercept them and I can't do that unless they reveal themselves. I'm not about to have a couple of commandos come in to clean up my mistakes. I don't make mistakes."
"Listen here," said Lucas, "what do you think this is, some interagency competition? Some sort of intramural game? We've got a potential timestream split here and you're worried about your record?"
The agent headed for the door. "Let's get one thing clear," he said. "This is my show and I call the shots. And I'm going to call them as I see them. I'd appreciate your cooperation, but remember one thing-I don't need it. You either work with me or you work for me, it's up to you."
"Or we work against you," Finn said.
The agent held up his laser casually. "I wouldn't advise that. These are perilous times. Keep in mind that adjustments are your specialty, gentlemen. Assassination's mine."
There was a soft knock at the door. For the second time that day, Andre panicked. She was not normally given to that emotion, but her emotions had been strained to the breaking point. Earlier that day, there had been another knock at the door to the apartments and her heart was in her mouth as she answered it. It was only a messenger from the tailor shop, delivering her clothes. She had been able to keep him out of the apartment, but she had been afraid that the boy would still sense that something was amiss. Hunter's body had been lying in the bedroom for two days. There had been no chance to get rid of it, no way of removing it without being discovered. It had been all that she could do to keep the maids out of the room. The lie was that "Monsieur Laporte" was very ill and could not be disturbed.
For two days, she had been in something like a state of shock. Who had killed him? Why? Nothing had been stolen. Had Hunter enemies in Paris, in this time? If so, why had he not warned her? Or perhaps he had, when he told her to remain in the hotel unless he accompanied her. What had happened? And worse than the shock of finding him dead, worse than not knowing why he had been killed or by whom, was the realization that she was now entirely alone, trapped in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar time, with no way of escape. She literally had no place to go.
Cautiously, her nerves ragged, she went up to the door.
"Who is it?" Her voice seemed shrill to her. She swallowed hard, trying to calm herself.
"Doctor Jacques Benoit," came the soft reply, "to see Monsieur Laporte."
She leaned against the door with relief. It was a name she knew. Jacques Benoit-Jack Bennett-Hunter's friend. The man who was the reason for their journey to this time. Surely, he'd know what to do. She had no one else to turn to. Quickly, she opened the door and pulled him inside.
The old man looked confused. He had come to see an old friend and he now found himself facing an extremely agitated young woman dressed in nothing save her undergarments. His eyes took in the harried look that spoke of little, if any, sleep. He noticed the uncharacteristically short blonde hair, worn in a male fashion, the flushed cheeks, the nervous perspiration on her forehead. Then his professional senses took over and he saw deeper, or rather, he observed more closely. He noticed the woman's bearing, her unusual muscular development, her slightly bowlegged stance that spoke of years spent in the saddle. He saw her hands, which were not the hands of a pampered Parisienne, but the hands of one who worked at hard and possibly brutal labor. The calluses and scars told a tale of violence and survival.
She, in turn, saw a withered, kindly, avuncular old man with gray hair and crow's feet, wrinkled skin, and slightly stooped posture and her heart sank. How could this grandfatherly old man be of any help to her? Then her years of soldiering took over and she saw something else, which the casual observer might miss. His eyes. They were alert, sharp, distressingly blue, and deeply observant. He was taking her measure even as she took his.
"What is it?" said Jack Bennett. "Where is he?" He spoke in English.
She shut the door quickly, locked it, then jerked her head toward the bedroom. Before he reached the door, the old man knew. The knowledge stopped him in his tracks like a hammerblow.
"Oh, my God," he said, softly. "How long?"
"Two days."
"Sweet Jesus." He pulled back the sheet and his eyes became filled with pain at the sight. "It was because of me," he said, his voice hollow. "It was all my fault. He couldn't have known."
"He couldn't have known what?" said Andre.
"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," said Bennett. "And they killed him for it. Because of me."
"Who killed him? Why? What had you to do with it? Speak, and be quick about it!"
Bennett turned and saw her standing in the door, a rapier in her hand. Under other circumstances, it might have been a comical or maybe even an erotic sight, a striking-looking woman in her underclothing, standing in the doorway to the bedroom with a sword in her right hand. But it was neither funny nor erotic. The soldier in Jack Bennett, though he had not fought in years, knew at once that this woman was extremely dangerous.