“If we don’t tell Fitzroy and he finds out about it,” Finn said, “we’ll probably be court-martialed.”
“There’s that,” said Lucas. “There’s also the fact that Mongoose’s interference has already resulted in several deaths, courtesy of our overly zealous young friend, Jean. Given that those soldiers were killed by someone in their own time, Cobra might be correct in his assessment that temporal inertia will compensate for it. On the other hand, maybe it won’t and we’ll have another minor disruption on our hands. Plus there’s the possibility that Mongoose might inadvertently cause a more serious disruption. That’s assuming that Cobra’s right again and that Mongoose has no interest in interfering with the adjustment. He could be wrong.”
“God, I hate those damn spooks,” Finn said.
“Well, it took a while, but I think I’ve finally come around to your point of view,” said Lucas. “I’d like to send the whole bunch of them into reeducation and then put them all to work in waste disposal about a million miles from Earth, preferably even farther.”
“It’s a nice thought, but it doesn’t solve our problem,” Finn said.
“I’ve just been thinking that it would have made our job a whole lot easier if you had been a bit more on target with your sword cane that night.”
“I was wondering if you’d get around to that,” said Finn.
Lucas sighed. “I’m actually surprised to hear myself say it, but killing him would wrap things up rather neatly, wouldn’t it?”
“I hate to be the one to bring this up,” Finn said, “but actually, it wouldn’t. The new director of the agency wants him alive so he can pump him dry. If we killed Mongoose, we’d be directly disobeying orders, we’d have both the TIA and the Observer Corps coming down on us and, last but not least, we’d be guilty of murder.”
“I don’t think they could make a case for murder,” Lucas said, thoughtfully.
“They could if they wanted to,” said Finn. “Manslaughter, at the very least. We’d be in it pretty deep.”
“That didn’t stop you when you tried to stick him in the maze,” said Lucas.
“Things weren’t quite so complicated then,” said Finn. “Besides, I had no intention of getting caught.”
“What were you planning to do with the body?”
“I hadn’t thought it through that far,” said Finn, “but there are several nice lakes on the estate. If I weighted him down, he’d sink very nicely and by the time he came up, if he ever did come up, we’d be long gone and no one would ever be able to recognize who it was.”
“He’d have implants,” Lucas said. “There’d be the problem of the termination signal.”
Finn gazed down at his hand, contemplating his hypo ring. He exposed the needle and stared at it a moment. “Fitzroy was kind enough to issue me some sedatives,” he said. “It would mean that we’d have to take
him alive, but then we could put him to sleep and do a little sloppy surgery.”
Lucas exhaled heavily. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this,” he said.
Finn shrugged. “It’s only talk. So far.”
Lucas nodded. “Yeah. So far.”
The three of them sat in a corner at a small and rickety table in a dark and unprepossessing inn called the Chat Gris, on the outskirts of Calais near Cap Gris Nez. The innkeeper, a surly, grizzled Frenchman named Brogard, did little to disguise his dislike for the Englishmen or his citizen’s contempt for their aristocratic status. However, they were paying customers and the times in France were such that Brogard could ill afford to turn anyone away much less rich patrons with healthy appetites who had also taken rooms in his establishment. He served them in a prompt, if perfunctory, manner and he kept his contact with them to a minimum, which suited Lucas, Finn, and Andrew Ffoulkes just fine.
“I have found the perfect place,” said Ffoulkes in a low voice, so as not to be overheard, although Brogard had removed himself to the far corner of the room and was obviously totally uninterested in anything that Englishmen had to say. “It’s a tiny cottage belonging to a Pere Blanchard,” Ffoulkes said, “an old man of Royalist sympathies who was more than happy to allow us the use of his small hut with no questions asked, providing he received a very reasonable stipend to ease his final days. I think he suspects that I am a smuggler, though I’m certain he doesn’t have a clue as to the sort of goods I’m dealing in.” He grinned.
“Where is this cottage?” Lucas said.
“You take the St. Martin’s road out of town, in the direction of the cliffs,” said Ffoulkes. “At the crest of the road, there is a very narrow footpath, but you must watch for it or else you shall miss it. The footpath leads down to the cliffs, where you will find the cottage, securely nestled on the hillside and well hidden from the road and any prying eyes who would not know to look for it. Blanchard is old, as I have said, and a bit of a recluse. He has an arrangement with a local Jew named Reuben Goldstein to bring him supplies from town occasionally. Outside of that, he has no contact with anyone. It seemed ideal.”
“Yes, it does seem ideal,” Finn said. “You’ve done well, Andrew. It sounds like exactly what we need.”
Ffoulkes smiled, obviously pleased. “What have you learned of the Marquis de Sevigne?”
Finn gave him the information Fitzroy had provided. “He is at present hiding in the apartments of Armand St. Just.”
“An inspired hiding place!” said Ffoulkes. “Who would think of seeking a wanted aristocrat in the home of one of the members of the Committee of Public Safety?”
“Nevertheless, he must be moved quite soon,” said Finn. “St. Just must be very careful. We have to keep any contact with him to a minimum, for his own protection. So long as the marquis is there, St. Just is in great danger.”