“If so,” Martin said, “it will be the first time in many years.”
“Martin,” Dubois grunted once Gendreau had gone. He was clearly not pleased to see his dour henchman. “I was about to give some dictation.”
“I won’t be long,” Martin promised, proceeding into the office. Dubois followed, slamming the door behind them.
Now that the moment had arrived, Martin found himself unsure how to proceed. His planning, conducted in an alcoholic daze, had left much to be desired.
“What is it?” Dubois snapped. He crossed to his desk and sat in his large leather chair as though assuming a throne.
“Gendreau should exercise more caution. He’s not even bothering with a disguise now.”
“His exile has been formally lifted,” Dubois reported. “People have short memories, and Gendreau has a great deal of influence. He’s planning to find backers among his friends for our steamrail project, and he has a design for a more efficient engine that would be cheaper to produce.”
“And will he actually succeed in raising money or improving the engines, do you think?”
“What do you want, Martin?” Dubois was fingering the button in his pocket, and Martin smiled. “I don’t have time to make chitchat with you.”
“Very well, monsieur, I shall put my cards on the table. And now, so shall you. I am calling your bluff.”
“Bluff? I don’t recall making any bluffs.”
“No? It occurred to me that I’ve been of great use to you these seven years, but I’ve also learned a great deal about you. One of the things I’ve learned is that you are far from subtle. Also you are a poor judge of character.”
Dubois’s lip curled. “I judged yours well enough.”
Martin nodded, conceding the point. “You saw that I was afraid to die. That I wanted to become something more than I was. A man willing to undergo such pain to improve himself is unlikely to give it up easily. I also had hope, of course, that one day I might regain the leverage I needed to free myself.”
“Have you lost your hope, Martin? Is Coeur de Fer rusting away?” Dubois taunted.
“I no longer have hope, it’s true. More importantly, though, I no longer have anything to lose. Perhaps I’m wrong, but if I am it doesn’t really matter to me anymore.”
“Wrong about what?” Dubois sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, one hand clutching the trigger device.
“Poison is a subtle man’s weapon, monsieur. And as I said, you are not a subtle man. You’re not a man who restrains his impulses. I believe if you had really possessed the means to kill me all these years I’d be long dead by now.”
A horrible smile transformed Dubois’s plump, bland face into a mask of demonic delight. “Oh, Martin. How wrong you are. I watched the doctor install the vial of poison myself. Did you really think to challenge me? I have nothing to fear from you. This little display changes nothing, nothing between us except providing me entertainment.”
“As I said,” Martin replied, an unearthly calm stealing over him as he slipped his coat off, draping it over one of the chairs in front of Dubois’s desk, “it doesn’t matter either way whether I’m right or wrong.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Dubois assured him. “You are right about one thing, I am impulsive at times. Several years ago in a fit of pique I destroyed the formula for the antidote that had been sitting in my safe for so long. It gave me no little satisfaction, I must say.”
It was almost a numbness, the peace Martin felt. His only recourse lay before him, clear in his mind. He slid the switch in his forearm from one position to another, circled the desk matter-of-factly and placed his mechanical hand around Dubois’s neck before the man could even raise a protest.
“Wha—” the man squeaked before the pressure on his throat stopped the air. His fingers fumbled frantically at his lap and he flipped the wire guard off the button on his controller and pressed it repeatedly, stabbing at it as Martin simply held his neck and watched.
“I don’t feel anything,” Martin informed him. “No click. No burning or pain. Seven years is a long time, Dubois, do you think your mechanism is rusty?”
Kicking and thrashing, his eyes starting to bulge, Dubois slapped the device flat onto Martin’s chest and pounded his meaty fist against it. He dropped the thing with a clatter when Martin raised his hand to flip the forearm switch yet again, triggering the springs that clamped his claw down to a tight, irregular cylinder of diameter much smaller than the throat of a portly man.
I should have made it last longer, he thought as Dubois’s twitching slowed to a halt. Blood washed from the ruined neck over Martin’s hand, and he let it die down to a trickle before he released the clamps and stepped away.
The deadly calm was fading, a faint twinge of nausea rising in its place. Martin used a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the blood from the smooth surfaces of his arm before putting his coat back on and stepping out into the vestibule.
Marguerite glanced at his hand, then quickly away. “I’m going out to have a smoke in the park with one of the other secretaries. I’ll be gone about fifteen minutes.”
Martin nodded, and the girl rushed away, leaving him to exit the building unobserved.
His mind whirled, flooding with possibilities for his next step. He had done it, he was free, but what now? It occurred to Martin that part of him never believed Dubois was bluffing. Some shred of doubt always remained, keeping him from planning too far ahead lest he suffer more disappointment.
The weather seemed to have changed while he was inside, Martin noted as he stepped out into the open air. In the morning it had been quite cool and mild, but now he felt overheated. A sweat had broken out on his face. He strolled away from the building, hands hidden deep in his coat pockets, trying to ignore the sensation of dread that had taken root in his chest.
A surgeon-engineer, he thought. Just in case, I should find one. A surgeon-engineer, or else a very good makesmith.
Nineteen
HONFLEUR, FRANCE, AND ATLANTIS STATION, BENEATH THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
CHARLOTTE WANDERED THE cobbled lanes of Honfleur, charmed by the picturesque town’s transformation. She and Dexter had returned just in time for a festival, it seemed.
“Is it really almost Whit Sunday?” Dexter had asked as they stared, bemused, at the colorful gauze and flower garlands festooning an ancient archway near a prominent church. “It doesn’t seem like Easter was that long ago.”
“A lot has happened since then,” Charlotte pointed out.
She had far too much time over the next several days to consider all that had happened. After another half-hearted attempt at conquering her fear of the claustrophobic submersible, she admitted defeat and returned to championing various uses of the Gossamer Wing to anyone who would listen. Two days later, Murcheson kindly suggested she might benefit from some fresh air and relaxation, and Charlotte reluctantly left the station and returned to Honfleur.
More than anything else that had happened, the increasing awareness that her whole mission had been precipitated by a series of lies and misunderstandings depressed Charlotte. None of it had been true, all the way back to the British bluff about having a working doomsday device. True, it had won them the war. But the treaty, the peace, all she had done in France, even Reginald’s death, all of it was premised on falsehoods. Real people, people who thought they were doing the right thing, had died over this information but it had all been a game of grown-up make-believe.
Around and around her thoughts raced, and when they weren’t chasing after Dubois and the bomb that never was and all that implied, they were circling her relationship with Dexter. She reviewed each encounter, all her words, until she was so tired of thinking about it all she felt like screaming.