The Armageddon Protocol

TWENTY-NINE

With no phones or money, Harry had to think on his feet. On the corner of the Rue Daguerre he saw a small bar called the Pink Parrot. He stepped inside and asked the barman if he could use a telephone.

The man was young, with a full, messy beard and was polishing a beer glass. Increasing the strange atmosphere was an actual pink parrot in a large cage placed on the corner of the bar, and in the far corner a man in a red waistcoat was playing the final bars of As Time Goes By on an upright piano.

“Okay,” Zoey said, her voice low. “So this is weird.”

The barman sighed, and his first reaction was to tell the Englishman to get lost, but when Zoey turned to show him her cut cheek and they explained they had been robbed, the man behind the bar produced a cheap, plastic landline telephone and placed it on the counter.

Niko took a step back and put his hands in his pocket. “I need to use the facilities,” he said, and strolled the length of the bar before turning and vanishing out of sight.

“Cent douze,” the barman said with a shrug, and then poured a brandy for the shivering American woman. “And this is on me.”

“Thanks,” she said, downing it in one as the man walked to attend to a customer at the other end of the bar. The parrot squawked and one of the punters threw a peanut at it and mumbled in French.

“Who are you calling?” Zoey whispered, watching the staring eyes of the men and women crawling all over them as Harry made the call. “Not the police, right?”

“Are you crazy?” he said. “If the police know our location we’ll be split up and thrown in jail before we take another breath. No… I’m not calling cent-douze, don’t worry. I’m calling an old friend.”

He waited impatiently as the phone at the other end rang and rang. He stared at his watch but didn’t even read the time. He already knew it was getting late, and now he was thinking that maybe his old friend wasn’t home.

“What’s this dude’s name?” Zoey asked.

“Leo.”

“He’s reliable right, Tonto?”

“Yes, and if anyone’s Tonto around here it’s you.”

“Hey!”

But Harry wasn’t listening to her protests. He had just told her Leo was reliable, but the truth was his old friend could blow hot and cold. Leo Hilton was part of the furniture at MI5. A year older than Harry, they had gone to Harrow together and were as thick as thieves, but that didn’t make his old friend any less unreliable. He was as sharp and street-smart as they came but he had his flaws, like anyone else.

And then he picked up the call.

“Good evening, Madam Wu’s Adult Bar… your pleasure is our treasure.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “Leo, it’s Harry.”

“I know four Harrys.”

“Bane, you knob.”

“Ah, so you’re not after Madam Wu?”

“No, I’m after sodding Madam Wu and stop buggering about. I’m in a certain amount of trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Maybe, yes.”

“Give me a second,” Leo drawled. “It’s pretty inconvenient at this exact moment, old boy.” In the background Harry heard a woman’s voice asking a question. Then the sound of a light slap and a giggle.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Leo,” Harry said. “We’re in deep shit and we need some help and all you’re thinking about is a roll in the hay.”

“A roll in the hay, indeed… you make it sound so tacky. These are the very finest silk charmeuse sheets available to man.”

“We’re back on the ‘stop being a knob’ thing again.”

“Hey!” Leo protested, but not too convincingly. “You called me, remember?”

“Sorry.”

“What do you need?”

“We need to get out of Paris in a hurry.”

“You haven’t been harassing nuns, or anything, have you?”

Harry sighed.

“Destination?”

“No idea, but our friends took off in a Caracal Super Cougar with a registry code F-ZWCB. Their chaparone is named Hans Steiner.”

“I see.”

“And no governments — we’re wanted for murder in Spain and France.”

“You’ve been doing even more naughties than me.”

“They’re false accusations, Leo.”

“I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. Like I said, give me a second.”

“I’m sure that’s all you need.”

“For me to find out about this Steiner, I meant.”

“Of course.”

The line went silent for a few moments and there was the sound of a Champagne cork popping and then some more gentle giggles. A few seconds later Leo returned to the phone.

“You still there, Dr Kimble?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“I have a contact in Interpol named Alain Baupin.”

“Interpol? I told you no governments!”

“Relax, Harry… he’s an old friend — freelance for the DRM, working there on an undercover mission.”

The Direction du renseignement militaire, or the DRM was the Directorate of Military Intelligence. Harry considered it for a moment and decided it was all he was going to get and went with it. “You trust him?”

“As far as I trust anyone.”

“How reassuring — and the code?”

“Belongs to a corporation registered in Hungary — owned by a Zalan Szabo. Its flight plan was filed a few hours ago for Chamonix in the French Alps. Szabo owns a large private hotel there.”

“A private hotel?”

“It’s sort of a wellness resort. A clinic with therapists where billionaires go to unwind. Due to the nature of the guests it’s harder to get into than the White House.”

“How nice.”

“It’s just outside the town. I’m guessing he’s Steiner’s organ grinder, so that must be where they’re headed.”

Harry had been to Chamonix once, but had never heard of the name Szabo before. “How are we getting there?”

“Alain has arranged a pilot and light aircraft for you if you can get out of the city, Harry.”

“Where exactly?”

“The Melun Villaroche Aerodrome, twenty miles southeast of Paris. Can you make it?”

“I think so.”

“Alain is in the main Secretariat in Lyon, and he’s going to meet you in Chamonix.”

“How am I going to ID him?”

“I told him to look for a washed-out loser carrying some red carnations. Chamonix is very civilized — not like the holes you frequent, so you should stick out like a todger on a wedding cake at any rate.”

“A wonderful image, thanks Leo.”

“Don’t bother me again, old sport. There’s only one day left this year and I intend to spend it in bed.”

Harry peered through the frosted glass of the café and watched as the avenue outside filled with the flashing blue lights of police cars. They had been called in response to the unauthorized helicopter that had landed there a few moments ago and would obviously be linking it to the earlier attack at the Catacombs. Parked among the police vehicles were several unmarked black cars which he knew would belong to the internal security agency.

“Time for us to make like shepherds, right Chief?”

He turned to see Zoey was right beside him, viewing the chaos outside with the same distaste.

“Sorry?”

“Get the flock outta here.”

“Ah — gotcha.”

“There’s a way around the back,” Niko said quietly. “I saw it when I used the klo.”

“Eh?”

“Klo… box,” he repeated.

“Restroom,” Zoey said.

“Then let’s get to it,” Harry said, exchanging a suspicious glance with the barman. He watched the barman look over his head at the street outside and then narrow his eyes as he returned his gaze to the three foreigners in his bar. “Because I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

“Which was pretty shitty to start with, if I’m honest,” Zoey said. “The only smile I got was from the parrot.”

“Love you too!” the parrot squawked.

“We’re outta here,” Harry said, and then they filed out the back to the rear door which led onto a typical Parisian inner courtyard. “This way.” They crossed the courtyard until they reached a narrow allow and walked along it in the opposite direction from the police until they hit the Rue de Grancey. At the north end of the road was a cobblestone street lined with taxis.

Harry hailed a cab and they piled in. “Melun,” Harry said and handed over a one hundred euro note. “Aussi vite que vous le pouvez.”

The driver stuffed the money into his shirt pocket and hit the gas, skidding away from the chaos on the Place Denfert-Rochereau behind them.

“You think we’ll make it?” Niko asked.

“The Super Cougar will make the journey in less than two hours, but we’ll make the time up when we get in the air at the aerodrome.”

As they drove south through the banlieu zone and while Zoey and Niko drifted in and out of sleep, Harry remained vigilant for the entire duration of the drive. If what Liška had said was true about this so-called Ministry of Human Puppeteers, then anyone and everyone could be a part of their network, including even this cab driver — a hacked call, a compromised agent… he knew how it worked.

But not this time. This time, they were safe and the cab driver rolled up outside the Aérodrome de Melun Villaroche at a little before midnight.

Harry woke Zoey and Niko and they crossed the damp asphalt to a tall man dressed in black who was leaning on the hood of a large Renault.

“Alain Baupin sent us,” Harry said.

The man offered no introduction, but jutted his chin at a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron that another man was pushing out of a small hangar behind him. “We fly in five minutes.”