Authors: Thomas Kirkwood
It was being ridiculous.
Fifty yards to go.
He took a deep breath and held it. Not much farther. He had been watching his step, moving slowly and deliberately in spite of his unsettled thoughts. Now he permitted himself a glance toward the vineyard.
A wave of reassurance swept over him. They had not stopped working! He could still discern their movements as they raked. He was going to make it!
He crouched down and moved ahead. Thirty yards to that first fat grove of trees where he could take cover . . . twenty yards . . . fifteen . . .
Out of nowhere came a big black bird, some kind of French crow. He froze in his tracks. This was almost as bad as dogs.
The crow buzzed him like a model airplane, nicking his cap and cawing loudly. He watched it rise and circle, and cursed under his breath.
He took another cautious step forward, hoping the attack was over.
No such luck. The squadron leader returned with a flock of his pals. They buzzed him in combat formation, strafing him with war caws.
Now he hit the ground. What else was he supposed to do?
The birds relented for an instant, but he could see they were going around for another pass. He used the respite to take a quick glance at Henri and Isabelle.
Jesus, had they noticed? They were standing perfectly still. They looked like scarecrows, their rakes poised motionless at their sides.
Baby crows, that was the problem. These disgusting birds had a nest somewhere in one of those trees he had been regarding as welcome cover.
Calm down, calm down. All sorts of things could set off a crow alarm. It didn’t matter, he had heard birds like this before. They always got excited about nothing. Those shrieks hardly meant someone was trying to break into the Minister of Industry’s home.
He forced himself to think clearly. Henri and Isabelle were stone deaf. They had looked in his direction, but so what? There was no way they could have heard the crows and no chance they could have seen him. They were farther away now than they had been when he had started across the meadow.
He lifted himself up on his elbows, craned his neck and looked back at them.
He almost swallowed his tongue. Henri was waving at him. Not only waving but walking toward him!
Shit! The old man must have binoculars.
Stay calm! He had to make a choice, and couldn’t afford to make the wrong one. Should he wait for Henri? Or should he make a dash for the basement and hope the old man decided he was chasing a mirage.
Steven got to his haunches, took an angry swat at the nearest dive bomber and turned his eyes to his destination, the dark space between the wall of the manor and the hedge row.
He had to go for it. He hadn’t come this far to get derailed. Besides, he didn’t feel like being interviewed by Henri.
He resisted the urge to look back. He would know soon enough if the old guy really had seen him.
Go!
He started for the house, then stopped abruptly. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Cars were arriving at the front gate, an entire procession of them.
He fell back on his stomach and crawled to the nearest tree. The crows must have pitied him because they left him in peace.
While his heart thumped in his chest he watched, mesmerized.
Henri hadn’t seen
him
. He’d seen those cars pulling up at the gate. He’d been expecting them. He had waved and started out to meet them.
Steven hammered a fist into the earth. If he’d kept his cool, he would be in the basement. The way it was, he would now have to slip past a contingent of men who not only had good ears and sharp eyes but automatic weapons.
And dogs!
Jesus Christ, four men in business suits were unloading a pair of German shepherds from the back of an unmarked van!
Who were these guys? Did Michelet have a personal security force?
Probably not. As a Government Minister, he would enjoy state protection if he requested it. These were some sort of security agents.
A fifth man jumped out of the dog van and confirmed Steven’s fears. He was wearing a black wind breaker with the initials of the French Anti-Terrorist Police stenciled in bright yellow on the back.
Jesus, just what he needed. First crows, then a whole company of gung-ho cops. He was down love-forty in the final set. He had to take chances.
The men did not have the key to the gate. Technically they were still locked out.
Should he make his break
before
Henri arrived to let them in?
And if he made it, should he head for the manor or retreat for the woods?
He looked back over the open meadow he had crossed. No cover, bright sunlight, the possibility of a renewed crow attack. Strike that one from his short list of options.
If he moved in the other direction, toward the house and the hedges, he would at least enjoy the cover of several tree trunks. He would only be exposed for a couple of seconds, but he would be very close to the security men, and moving right at them.
What about the dogs? Would they be let inside the gate? If so, it didn’t matter which way he moved. They would be on him in a micro-second. Waiting did not seem like a good idea.
His conclusion: he had to go now, he had to go into the teeth of the storm.
As he was getting to his haunches, a four-door sedan pulled up out front. The heads of the waiting men turned. This was someone important.
The car blocked his view of the dogs, which meant it blocked their view of him. It wasn’t going to get any better than this.
He shut off his mind and bolted forward, staying low. To hell with the tree trunks, he was going for broke.
He stumbled at the corner of the house and dove into the dark space between the wall and the hedges. His breathing sounded like a rasp in his ears. Nothing he could do about it, so he just let it rip.
He didn’t hesitate but continued to fight his way forward. It was tough going. The hedges grew closer to the wall than he remembered.
He came to the horizontal basement door and flung himself down next to the lock, trying desperately to quiet his breathing.
Work fast! They were obviously planning to search the place for tonight’s meeting. Once the dogs got through the gate, he was hound feed.
He took out the keys he’d had made from the imprints in his wax kit but had no idea which one went to the outside door, which to the wine cellar. No time to think. He would have to try them both.
He heard the dogs barking, heard greetings meant for Henri.
He slid the first key in the lock. It jammed, he couldn’t get it out.
Jesus Christ Almighty, could anything else go wrong?
It sure as hell could, he thought, as the key finally popped out. What if neither of these goddamned things fit? What if he had made imprints of the wrong keys? What if the guy on the Left Bank who had sold him the kit had ripped him off?
What if? What if?
You could drive yourself crazy with questions.
The second key slid into the lock. It turned easily. He lifted the door.
The lights inside the basement came on automatically. He was glad for the blazing sun.
He rolled through the opening, touched his feet to the ancient stone steps and let the door down on top of him.
The lights went off. A welcome darkness engulfed him.
No time to celebrate. He didn’t know if he had been spotted. He didn’t know if they would search the basement.
He took out his tiny flashlight, locked the door and went looking for a place to hide.
The basement was huge. He might be able to find a spot, he thought, maybe inside the furnace. It wasn’t winter yet. The heat wouldn’t be turned on. He could crawl into the air return and be invisible.
Invisible, maybe. But if those goddamn dogs came down here, it wouldn’t do him any good. They would sniff him out wherever he was.
He wandered through the vaulted passageways in the dim dusty light. Before he found the furnace, he noticed a little vent near the top of the foundation. He tilted its metal louvers slightly upward and could see the main gate. It hadn’t been opened yet.
The entourage was still milling around. A man in civilian dress was directing traffic, getting all the cars parked in an orderly line across the street.
Michelet must be a suspicious bastard, Steven thought, a man who wouldn’t even let his own security people park on his property. What did he think they might smuggle in? A spy from another party? A journalist?
He had to smile. If they didn’t catch him and hang him from the crow tree out back, he might just spend an enjoyable evening.
When Henri finally unlocked the gate, a man with a clipboard was the first to step inside. He chatted with Henri briefly, then signaled to the others. They entered one at a time, the man with the clipboard checking off what was apparently a name when each man passed by him.
He was counting!
Michelet must have wanted to make sure everyone who went in also came out! This guy was not suspicious; he was paranoid.
The dogs and their handlers were waved through last.
Steven heard footsteps overhead fanning out in all directions.
Time to go.
In a far corner of the basement, he found two furnaces, one modern, the other ancient and defunct. They didn’t offer a place to hide, but on the wall behind them was a rotting wooden door that looked more promising.
He was about to head for it when the basement lights came on. They were here! He began to move slowly toward his goal. He could see his shadow creeping along the cobwebbed brick wall.
He didn’t know how many men had entered the basement or if the dogs were with them. But they had definitely come: he could hear their footsteps.
He hadn’t expected this. The basement transmitted sound like an echo chamber. His heart was thumping loudly again. He was too late. He couldn’t open the door without risking a noise that would give away his presence.
He moved silently toward a pool of darkness beyond the next vaulted archway. This was hardly adequate cover, but at least he wouldn’t stand out like a neon sign.
He held his breath and listened.
Heavy footsteps on old stone, visions of the Gestapo. But the voices were not German. They weren’t even ill-tempered. He hadn’t been seen!
From what he could hear, he concluded there were only two men. He was trying to figure out why they hadn’t brought the dogs when one of the men asked, “Why didn’t you bring the dogs?”
The other man said, “Because our future President showed up two minutes ago. Gandoff was trampling his herb garden trying to run down a crow. When Guillaume ordered him to stop, he took a big shit in the geraniums. Thatcher got the idea it was okay and squatted. You know how Michelet feels about dogs. He ordered them off his property.”