“I’ve heard of Dalн,” Jane said. “He did all those creepy stilt-legged animals and melting watches, right? I think I’ve seen them at MOMA, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this Andrй Breton character.”
“Not surprising,” I said, feeling quite juiced now that I was in my element. “Outside of the Surrealists, few people knew him, but he’s a poet who was regarded as the ‘pope,’ as it were, of the movement. Eventually he kicked Dalн out of the elite inner circle of Surrealists because he was considered too far right-wing, and if you can believe it, even too extreme for them.”
“That issaying something,” Connor said.
“I know,” I said, nodding. “There was a huge falling-out in their circle, and it upset Dalн greatly. His pissy response to it all was, ‘The only difference between me and the Surrealists is that I am a Surrealist.’ The whole movement started as a very literary thing, but eventually their philosophy snowballed until it became more like a religion.”
“I’m not sure how all this fits into what’s going on here,” Connor said. “It sounds like the foundation may take its name from them, but to what end?”
“I’ll tell you,” I said, excited by my sudden epiphany. “As an artistic movement, the Surrealists are big on the symbology of the fish. In the twentieth century, it’s a reoccurring motive in their artwork. It we extend that artistic use of it in form and theme into the lifestyle and not just the art, the fish takes on a totemistic nature. Meaning-”
“There’s a power in that wooden fish,” Connor finished. “Good work, kid. Of all fish that Cyrus hunted out, this was the one that eluded him, probably the only one he really wanted. Why else would he let all the others go up in smoke?”
I stood up. “I’m not sure, but maybe the F.O.G.ies will have some insight now that we have an idea about the fish. They must have been around when the whole Surrealist movement was going on. I’ll ask the Inspectre.”
I looked to Jane. “You going to be okay?”
Jane smiled. “As fine as an ex-cultist hiding from a contract killer can be.”
“Play nice with the other kids,” I said, “and have Connor get you an iced mochaccino. They’re to die for.”
I ran back toward the movie theater section, leaving Connor and Jane to themselves. I’d find a way for those two to bond or die trying. I continued farther back to the offices and through the desks and cubicles before hitting the stairs leading up to the Inspectre’s office. Once again, I walked in on Argyle Quimbley just as he was settling down behind his desk with a cup of tea. He looked up when he saw me coming through his door and his face fell. He set his cup down.
“Easy, son,” he said. “Nothing too loud. The spirit-or should I say spirits-of Eccentric Circles still pervades me…”
Trying to contain my excitement, I quietly described what Jane, Connor, and I had been discussing. When I was done, the Inspectre remained silent.
“I thought maybe the Fraternal Order of Goodness might have some insight?”
“Ah, yes,” the Inspectre finally said. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. “I will certainly pass that information along to the other F.O.G.ies, but I’m afraid I can’t comment on it myself.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “Sir…?”
“Until I’m actually in council with the other members of the Fraternal Order, I’m afraid I can’t discuss our take on the situation just yet.”
“But you’re part of the D.E.A.!” I said, confused.
“The Order works outside the confines of the D.E.A.,” he said. Why was the Inspectre stonewalling me?
“What’s the blasted difference anyway?” I said out of frustration.
“Ah, well, thatis something I can tell you,” the Inspectre said, warming. “Being part of the Department of Extraordinary Affairs is ajob -a worthwhile and important job, but a job nonetheless. The Fraternal Order, however, is a way of life, reaching far beyond the confines of what this office can do. Unfortunately that means we keep our own counsel. I’m sorry.”
The Inspectre seemed sincere and a little sad, but right now I wasn’t having it. People I had come to care about were at stake.
“Fine,” I said, heading for the door. “I’ll be sure to send a funeral wreath to your next meeting if Jane gets killed in the meantime.”
“Simon,” the Inspectre said, trying to stop me, but I kept walking. There was work to do, people to protect.
35
Apparently, what I said had more of an effect on the Inspectre than I thought. Minutes after I returned to Connor and Jane, rumors of the Inspectre calling the Fraternal Order into secret session were flying. An hour later, those rumors were confirmed when the office erupted in a flurry of activity. After using my information as a springboard, the F.O.G.ies finally agreed to merge their information with the rest of the Department, and since I had pegged the Salvador Breton Foundation as the group we were looking for, piecing together a plan became remarkably easy.
We overheard from the Enchancellors that F.O.G. had even called Director Wesker into their secret session to find out what he had gathered in his covert ops at the Sectarian Defense League. Luckily, his cover had proven to still be safe. Wesker had learned of an upcoming gala cosponsored by the Sectarian Defense League and the Salvador Breton Foundation. The one thing that both the D.E.A. and F.O.G. agreed on was that something big was up, and with Wesker’s help, invitations were secured.
None of us were quite sure what to expect, but the decision was made to crash the gala-the smaller the team, the more unnoticed we would be. The Inspectre hand selected me, Connor, and several members of Shadower team for the mission. Since Jane wasn’t part of the D.E.A., she hadn’t been invited to our little party crash.
Apparently, the location always changed for these events, but this time the bad guys had done things up in style by obtaining the Metropolitan Museum of Art as their venue. Never slaves to convention, the Surrealists had chosen to host the event as a “Come As Your Favorite Dead Celebrity” affair, and while we waited on line to enter, I immediately noticed several people sporting the curly-cue mustache of Salvador Dalн himself in their not-so-creative costumes.
For my own costume, I had gone with one of my childhood idols. There had been two potential costumes, both from shows I had watched as repeats. First, there was the man who made theWilliam Tell Overture popular among generations of kids, the Lone Ranger. The second was a folk hero from the old Mickey Mouse Club serials, none other than Zorro. Figuring they wouldn’t let me in with holsters and guns, I opted for Zorro. He had always struck me as more interesting anyway, less of a Goody Two-shoes than Tonto’s kemosabe. The fact that I didn’t really know how to use the plastic sword hanging from my belt didn’t make it seem any less cool to me.
Most importantly, I had opted for the traditional black gloves of the Zorro outfit. Museums were full of potential danger where my powers were concerned, and although I was exhibiting some newfound control over my powers, touching any of these artifacts was likely to overload my powers and cripple my mind in a heartbeat. The energy off these ancient pieces-psychic imprints from people who handled the installations, the actual artists and crafters of the items, millions of tourists-I didn’t even want to think what could potentially happen to me.
The man at the door checked my invitation and inspected my plastic sword before handing it back to me and waving us into the museum. There was something about being in a museum at night that was eerily intimidating. The absence of thousands of tourists had settled like a blanket over the Met, the quiet echoes of footfalls drove home its enormity. It reminded me of wandering the halls of my high school while waiting after hours on parent-teacher night. It almost held the same sense of doom, too.