‘And her flunky is dressed as… a French flunky. Or so they delude themselves. Remember they have their oh so humorous carte de sejour, courtesy of the Belgians. William Tell indeed! Plus false French papers purchased in the town. I instructed the forger who made them to provide top quality examples: they will pass muster. And they have weapons. The Swiss is free and easy about using them. Watch that.’
Care-worn man waited for a nod from each to signify they understood. All were armed, but experienced enough to realise that real skill lay in never firing a shot.
‘Insofar as we can guess their intent our Master thinks they’ll be thwarted. But either way pleases us. Now go.’
Care-worn man wished he had a glass of wine to toast his charges with as they went; off—yet again—at his bidding to face mad people in a world gone mad. However, alcohol, or indeed any indulgence, during a mission would have been that awful thing: unprofessional. It skewed judgement and urged impulses even on those who’d won life’s most difficult struggle: namely to control their own thoughts.
More to the point, Prince Talleyrand would not have smiled upon it—and in the intelligence field no more need be said.
Soon the clear-up team would take over the building to remove the slightest trace he’d ever been there, but meanwhile Care-worn man had a moment for reflection.
Surely he would get to crack a bottle of red one day? Was that really too much to ask? Perhaps there’d be opportunity during retirement (if he made it), or on his twenty-first birthday: whichever came sooner.
Sooner the better.
Chapter 22: COME FLY WITH ME
Julius spruced himself up—and found that wasn’t so easy with only one free hand. So, acting the part, he instructed Foxglove to adjust his busby and straighten his pelisse.
The little interlude, so natural seeming of a maimed but still dapper hussar, proud of his uniform and wounds gained in his country’s service, gave him opportunity to size up the aerodrome concourse. Again. This was his third survey on three successive days—though the first two had been in another persona.
Nothing had changed. Access to this public part was promiscuous, but beyond was an entirely different (and yet the same old) tale. National Guardsmen controlled the narrow entrance to ‘airside,’ as exclusive and hard to attain as the gates of Paradise. Papers were being demanded even of high ranking soldiers. Beyond them, just visible beyond the lattice barricade, civilian heavies kept a beady eye before yet another line of passport control. After that there was distant sight of the galloon pylons and windmill dynamos.
And Julius had heard entry control at ‘arrivals’ in France was even stricter! Hence the second and madder-still phase of his plans.
Meanwhile, there were more than enough concerns to occupy the present moment. French law (or more accurately, power) ran the show here, and, though technically on Luxembourg sovereign soil, foreign rules pertained. Tight rules, straight out of the desiccated mind of Police Minister Fouché.
Everyone, Frankenstein included, had heard of the legendary control the Convention exerted over its citizens in order to remain in power, but it was still impressive—and daunting—to see it in action. Julius wondered if it was strictly necessary, now that the Convention’s internal enemies were all either Lazarans or definitively dead. There was even word that the vast ‘Civic Virtue’ re-education camps were closing for lack of business. If so, perhaps the Revolutionary government was now just making a point to keep things that way.
Whatever the reason, only serving soldiers got on to French galloons, and even then only those who strictly needed to. Except that Julius had heard one sentimental exception was made. A blind eye was turned towards those whose sacrifices to the People’s cause rendered travel difficult.
He lurched forward to the booking cabin, making a show of the stick that bore him and of pain bravely borne.
Deep joy! He had deceived. The military clerk stood and saluted.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Three tickets to Paris, if you please. The first available flight.’
‘Your papers, please monsieur.’
The clerk read them.
‘Tell? William Tell?’
‘Yes,’ said Julius Frankenstein.
‘No!’ protested Ada, less loud than she first intended, but still audible.
Julius had promised her he’d use their French papers, and right up to that moment he’d truly intended to. But the name on those had never really appealed to him, and, besides, were too easily forgotten. The instant Frankenstein arrived at the desk mischievous voices in his head (perfect mimics of his own voice) had spoken to him. Worse still, he’d listened.
The clerk looked up. ‘‘No?’ he enquired, after Ada.
Julius dismissed the protest as of no account.
‘My New-citizen sister fears flying,’ he said, adopting impatient tones. ‘Once we are in the waiting area I will beat her until she calms down.’
The clerk approved. He’d often wanted to do that to passengers.
Ada shut up and looked Lazaran-fashion hang-dog, apparently resigned to less-than-nothing status and taking to the skies.
Frankenstein’s new name was checked against a big book of undesirables and, of course, found absent—since William Tell’s insubordinate acts ended centuries ago.
That established, money changed hands and tickets were married to documents. ‘Mr Tell’ lurched off with his human baggage in tow.
‘William’/Julius was looking forward to a cup of coffee. It would invigorate him for (belatedly) explaining to Lady Lovelace and Foxglove his true plans. That he didn’t look forward to.
It all hinged on whether he could convince them of the legendary tightness of French entry control. And that therefore they’d be hijacking a galloon rather than just catching one like normal people.
If they swallowed that he’d go on to explain it was a childhood dream of his to command a galloon, and he could only thank Lady Lovelace for driving him on to realise it. Then, he’d outline his revised intentions for France, on the off-chance they’d succeed and survive. He had in mind wine and peace and a period of cloud-counting in a French village—whose name would not be vouchsafed to Ada. And when, probably after five minutes or so, he grew sick of that, he foresaw a further change of identity and enlistment in one of Neo-Napoleon’s ‘Foreign Legions.’ But Madam Lovelace would never know the upshot of that because they’d have long since parted company by then…
Finally, when all was said and done and confessed, coffee-cup still in hand in the departure lounge, he would wish his companions ‘a nice life.’ Goodbye rather than au revoir.
But before that exciting prospect there awaited the steely-eyed soldiers round the gate. The spiked barrier blocking it was never lifted till they’d given each passenger their seal of approval.
Not everyone was spoken to but Frankenstein merited a word. And a salute, which boded well.
‘Been in the wars, eh? said the one with the best pressed uniform and most luxuriant ‘Old Guard’ style moustache. All these sentinels was imitating, and maybe aspiring to join, that elite regiment. ‘Best-pressed’ was the first amongst equals.
Julius had prepared an entire alternative life story, spending a very pleasant afternoon constructing it in his room with history book and bottle of wine.
‘Moscow, Tunis and Naples,’ he said, successively touching truncated trouser leg, sleeve and eye-patch.
They were impressed: each had been big and bloody battles,—and better still, all victories.