The Timekeeper Conspiracy

5

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. 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.

"Who are you?" he said, gently.

"Andre de la Croix."

"You speak English very well, but it's not your native language. And your French, from the little I heard, is less than perfect. Are you underground?"

She frowned for a moment, then remembered. "That was the purpose for our journey here. Hunter came to seek you out."

"You're a recent deserter, then. I thought as much."

"You thought wrong," she said. "I was never a part of the armies of the future. I am a Basque whose time is over four hundred years distant."

"Good Lord. You're a D.P.," said Bennett, astonished.

"What?"

"A displaced person. And Hunter brought you here to join the underground, to receive an implant?"

She nodded.

"You must be an extraordinary young woman," Bennett said. "I can imagine what you must have been going through these past two days."

"I need your help," she said.

"You have it. It's the very least that I can do. God. Poor Hunter."

"Who did this?" Andre said. "Why was he killed? You say it was on your account?"

"I'm afraid so," Bennett said. "It must have been an accident. A horrible misunderstanding. There was no way he could have known. They must have thought that he was someone else. Yes, there could be no other explanation. They-"

"Who?" shouted Andre. "What kind of misunderstanding could have led to this? What could he not have known? Tell me, this instant!"

Bennett stared at her. "Yes, I'll tell you. I can't condone it any longer. They've gone too far. I've made a terrible mistake and now my friend of many years has paid for it. I'll tell you, but I don't know what in God's name we can do about it now."

"Precious little, I'm afraid," said another voice. Andre saw Bennett's eyes widen even before the man spoke and she was already spinning around to face the threat, but she was too late. She felt a sharp blow to her side and she fell into the bedroom, off balance and carried by the momentum of the kick to land at Bennett's feet. The rapier fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. She lunged for it, but Bennett stopped her.

"Don't!" he said, stepping on the sword with his foot.

"Are you mad?"

"I'd listen to the good doctor if I were you," the man said. She saw the little tube in his right hand. It was a weapon, one she didn't understand, but she knew what it could do. Hunter had shown her once. A deadly light that could cut through steel. The same light that had burned through the lock on her door could burn through her flesh as easily as a hot knife passing through fresh butter.

"A good thing Adrian decided to keep tabs on you, Doc," the terrorist said. "Seems like your commitment's slipping. We can't have that."

"Let the woman go, Silvera," Bennett said. "She doesn't know anything."

"But you were about to fix that, weren't you?" said Silvera. "No, you're expendable, Doc, but I'm afraid she's not. I got her partner, but Adrian's going to want this lady alive. We need to find out how many more of them there are, and where they are, and what they know."

"She's not an agent!" Bennett said.

"You'll have to do better than that, Doc."

"She's not, I tell you! And neither was he," he said, pointing at Hunter's body. "He was a friend of mine! He was in the underground!"

Silvera nodded. "That's what he kept saying. It makes for a good cover, doesn't it? He was good, I'll give him that. He didn't talk. But I think the lady will. Adrian's a little better at persuasion than I am."

"Silvera, listen to me! You're making a mistake, I swear it! Kill me, if you must, but let her go. She doesn't know a thing, she's a D.P., she's harmless to you!"

"Then why were you going to tell her everything?" Silvera said. "If she's not an agent, what good would it have done? Sorry, Doc, I'm afraid you're not very good at this game. It's too bad, really. You've been very helpful-"

For a moment, his eyes were not on Andre. That moment was all she needed. She reached behind her quickly, to the back of her neck, where hung a slim dagger in a sheath suspended from a thong. In one fast motion, she drew the dagger and hurled it. It buried itself in the terrorist's larynx. He fell, gurgling horribly, the laser beam cutting a crooked swath across the ceiling. She leaped to her feet and ran over to the fallen terrorist, kicking the deadly tube out of his hand. Then she kneeled by him, grasped the knife, and gave a vicious, sideways slash. Hunter was avenged.

Bennett stared at her, his jaw hanging slack. Andre went over to him and shook him, getting some blood on his shirt. "We cannot stay here," she said. "I understand none of this, but I understand the danger all too well. Collect your wits, Jack Bennett. We must flee."

Bennett came out of it. "Yes, you're quite right, we must. I have friends who will hide us. But we can't simply cut and run. We can't leave two bodies to be found in your apartment. We'll have troubles enough without being sought for murder."

"What do you propose?"

"That we leave quietly, normally. That we pay your bill and move out, with all your things." He thought a moment. "Hunter has arranged other quarters for you. You'll be staying with friends, something of the sort. We'll have to clean up the mess as best we can."

"And what of the corpses?" Andre said.

Bennett bent down and picked up Silvera's laser. "It is both a weapon and a surgeon's tool," he said, "although I dread the use to which we must put it now." He pulled one of the clothing chests into the center of the room. "Use the sheets to line this chest," he said. "And we'll sprinkle lots of perfume on… the contents. It should help to hide the smell. I hope. Perhaps it would be best if you left the room. The sight will not be pleasant."

"You'll need help to pack the pieces," Andre said.

"Will you be able to stand it?"

"I've seen blood before," she said. "I will try not to think whose body we're dismembering. If it must be done, then let's set to it. The sooner we quit this place, the better."

"I was right," said Bennett. "You are an extraordinary woman."

Finn and Lucas moved to one side to let the porters carrying the heavy chests pass. Lucas wrinkled his nose as one chest went by. It reeked of perfume and the smell was powerful enough to make his head swim.

"God, what a stink!" he said.

"It covers up the body odor," Finn said, chuckling. "And there's one lady that must smell like something died inside her."

"Christ, Finn, that smell was bad enough."

"Shhh, I think here comes the perfumed doll herself," said Finn.

They moved to the left side of the stairs, allowing the old man and the young woman to pass by on their right. His clothes were shabby compared to her ornate and obviously very expensive dress.

"There goes one father whose little girl will send him to the poorhouse," Finn said, turning to Lucas.

Lucas was standing on the stairs, looking after the old man and the young woman.

Finn chuckled. "Yes, she's very pretty, but can you stand her fragrance?"

"That's not it," said Lucas, thoughtfully. "That woman… I've seen her somewhere, I'm certain of it."

"Probably reminds you of some old flame," said Finn.

"No, I've seen that face before," said Lucas. "But I just can't…" He shook his head.

"Are you sure?" said Finn.

"I'm almost positive. But it just won't click. There's something.

…" He frowned.

"Must be a coincidence," said Finn. "Hell, who do we know in 17th-century Paris?"

"Not in 17th-century Paris," Lucas said, "but somewhere else. I just don't remember where."

"You're not kidding, are you?"

"I'm telling you, Finn, I know that face!"

"That's good enough for me. Come on, we'll follow them and find out where they go. But just to play it safe, let's keep our distance. Worse comes to worst, we'll just waste an afternoon."

"What if worse doesn't come to worst?" said Lucas.

"You're asking me? You're the one who can't remember faces."

"I never forget a face. That's why this one bothers me. It hasn't been a long time, either." They watched the chests being loaded into a carriage, the old man and the young woman getting in. "Horses," Lucas said.

"What?"

"Horses. That face belongs with horses."

"Well, that should narrow it down," said Finn. "We haven't ridden horses in more than ninety percent of our missions."

"Something doesn't fit," said Lucas. "It's the right face, but somehow, it's all wrong."

"Well, I'm glad you cleared that up," said Finn. "Shall we see which way your right-wrong face is heading? I'd hate for this to keep you up all night."

"I have a feeling that it will. I'm not sure what memories go with her face, but I am sure that none of them is good."