But Frankenstein had no such concerns: here wasn’t his homeland. Indeed, it could be said he no longer had such a thing. Here in Luxembourg—or anywhere else—he was free to look up at the crowded skies, drink in the scene, and be careless of consequences.
The Luxembourgeois saw things differently. They saw that wisdom lay in averting your eyes and cultivating your own garden whilst you still had one. Plus adopting the positive attitude of gladness it was only war-supplies the vessels above deposited on their soil, not bombs.
That culture of denial suited Frankenstein and playmates down to the ground—which, coincidentally, was also the direction most Luxembourgeois cast their gaze when they met foreign eyes.
All in all perfect conditions for a conspiratorial meeting: circumstances conspiring in their favour for once. Away from their hotel’s walls-with-ears, surrounded by the devout coming in or out, plus the hucksters that preyed upon them, Luxembourg Cathedral was an answer to plotters’ prayers.
The ‘Belgian Secret Police’ had been successfully left at the border. Frankenstein felt they were now free to worry about other things.
‘Ready?’ he asked, meanwhile pointing out some blameless gargoyle as if that was the topic of discussion.
‘As we’ll ever be,’ replied Foxglove. And I still say it’s a very bad idea…’
Ada playfully smacked her servant’s arm.
‘Oh, hush you!’ she admonished, but gently by her standards. Lady Lovelace was thoroughly enjoying this lark. She kept checking her appearance in her powder compact mirror, making needless minor adjustments to hat or hair. This was her biggest transformation since rising from the grave and she was growing to like it.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ said Julius. ‘Try to act in role.’
Ada carried on regardless.
‘Who’s to say it isn’t?’ she countered sweetly.
A good point. Frankenstein moved on.
‘You have all the baggage?’ he asked Foxglove.
‘All that you’ve permitted us, sir.’
‘And the rest?’
‘In the hotel privy pit, weighted down to sink.’
‘Are you sure? No coat or trinket donated to charity?’
‘At your insistence, sir, I resisted the urge.’
‘Good. We must leave no trace here. And the hotel bill?’
‘Paid in full, plus an generous gratuity.’
‘Excellent.’
Lady Lovelace tutted.
‘No it isn’t. It’s very un-excellent. That was waste. It’s not as if we’re ever coming back here…’
Frankenstein brooked no dissent. Here was his time and plan.
‘We leave no spoor and likewise no pursuit,’ he said magisterially. ‘We shall shortly have enough problems without risking an outraged innkeeper. His shrieks as he chased us down the street for a few francs would ruin all.’
Ada snorted scepticism.
‘And pray tell how he would recognise us? Eh? Eh?’
Another good point. She was full of them today just when they weren’t welcome. Best to cut things short before she made any more. Frankenstein tore up the rest of his intended mental check list.
Or almost all of it.
‘The pistols?’ he asked Foxglove.
‘Primed and loaded, sir. May I ask why, sir?’
Frankenstein drew himself up on his crutch, shifting weight onto his remaining free leg.
‘No, you may not. Enough said. Right then: come fly with me!’
Then off went the freshly-minted cripple and his companions, tip-tapping across the cobbles towards the aerodrome.
The beggar by the Cathedral door—who could really have done with a ‘coat or trinket’ from Foxglove, had the man’s generous inclinations been allowed play—was relieved soon after.
A second and even more afflicted indigent took his place and, in the space of all the levering up and grunting, an exchange of intelligence took place.
‘He mentioned flying,’ said the first to the second.
‘Alert Team two,’ said the second to the first before he left.
Then the new beggar settled down to some long hours of displaying (fake) sores, and importuning worshippers as they emerged from the Cathedral all pious minded. Professionalism aside, it was in his interest to be convincing. The surveillance master said he could keep any alms received.
‘Beggar One’ went and rattled his tin before a young couple and their child seated outside one of the cafes in Cathedral close.
‘Be off with you!’ said the husband sternly, to be plausible. Simultaneously, his ‘wife’ discreetly pinched her borrowed baby to make it cry. The other patrons had sympathy for the poor mite, plainly frightened by the dreadful old tramp. Under the barrage of general grumbling the couple had cover to hear his true purpose.
‘Twelve,’ said the beggar—pre-agreed code for the aerodrome—and shambled off before the police arrived.
Whilst madam calmed ‘her’ infant with kisses that induced ‘ahh…’s from the cafe clientele, father took off his bowler hat and fanned his face with it. Although it wasn’t that warm a day.
‘Twelve,’ said the team at the hotel window, who’d counted the bowler’s back and forths.
A care-worn man sitting at a desk well back into the room was not content.
‘Check,’ he ordered.
They observed again. As per instructions, the cafe signal was repeated after the agreed ‘message break’ (casual adjustment of a breast-pocket kerchief).
‘It’s the aerodrome,’ confirmed the window team.
Care-worn man was straightaway even more worn.
‘Amateur!’ he hissed—his heaviest rebuke. ‘Keep in code! You might have been seen. Lips can be read!’
Everyone present cringed and became even more eager to please. Jobs like this weren’t easy to come by, but were exceptionally easy to lose.
‘I’ll tell five to activate seven,’ said the most senior junior.
Care-worn man nodded, like that should be so obvious, and looked even sorrier to need to add:
‘And don’t forget eleven on stand-by.’
The rest left and Care-worn man, today’s surveillance supervisor, could relax, insofar as he ever did.
He hated having to wield the whip: his agents were like his children to him. Yet did not Scripture say ‘he who spares the rod hates his son’? And very often in his profession the penalty for carelessness was death. So, Care-worn man had to be stern out of the love he bore them
The back-up squad (that the departed team knew nothing of) now entered the room. They were older in the service: deceptively sleepy-eyed professionals.
‘He masquerades as a maimed man: a French hussar,’ Care-worn man briefed them. ‘One feigned empty sleeve, ditto a lost lower leg, plus a crutch and eye patch…’ He almost smiled, his closest approach to that expression for many months. ‘The work of civilians. Grossly overdone. The Swiss looks like the love-child of a patchwork Lazaran and Neo-Nelson!’
That nearly got a laugh, but it did no harm to be light hearted during simple missions, building up a bank balance of solace for the more frequent gruelling jobs.
‘The actual she-Lazaran is dolled up as a cantiniére. Not familiar with the term? Well, you are excused: only in the French army could it happen. The wives and whores of the regiment have their own uniform: a delightful red, white and blue creation: skirt and pantaloons. Plus a sweet black bonnet with a red feather stuck in it. I doubt you could miss her, even if you tried…’
He realised he’d digressed too far, sounding almost human.