“We trust that you can make a persuasive argument to accommodate our request. What you say is at your discretion. It is not a significant deviation from the schedule, but the time and location are critical to an experiment we will be conducting at the observatory.”
“Observatory?”
“You would know it by a different name.” She told him.
He could not hide his surprise. “How can an event on the other side of the world influence your experiment in Paris?”
“That will become clear in time. There are many levels to our cause, and you are yet on the verge of the outermost ring. Do not mistake my presence here as an initiation. That will come when we see how you…” Her eyes lost focus and her voice trailed off, as she gazed past him out the rear window of the limousine. Curious, Chiron turned to see what had distracted her.
A motorcycle had appeared behind them and was racing to close the intervening distance. It did not seem a noteworthy development, but the woman continued to stare at the approaching vehicle as if trying to assess the significance of its presence. She toggled a switch on the armrest, activating the intercom.
Her words were unrecognizable, but after a second, the chauffeur’s voice scratched from the speaker, likewise incomprehensible. It’s true, was Chiron’s first thought. They have their own language.
The limousine immediately charged forward, racing into a turn with a roar of horsepower. The tires slipped on the wet macadam, shrieking in protest as the heavy vehicle fish-tailed, only to become silent as the road straightened and control was once more asserted. The motorcycle fell back momentarily, caught by surprise and unable to match the other vehicle’s power, but the rider lowered himself behind the abbreviated windscreen and surged forward.
“Is he chasing us?” inquired Chiron, still not grasping the situation.
“I told you our enemies were multiplying,” replied the woman through clenched teeth.
The concern evident in her expression hit Chiron like a slap. My God, we’re in danger.
With the prey alerted, the hunter now forsook subterfuge, taking full advantage of the motorcycle’s superior maneuverability to close the gap whenever the road forced the chauffeur to apply the brakes. Chiron could now clearly see their pursuer. The aerodynamic motorcycle had been painted a glossy black to cover any telltale markings. It was impossible even to be certain of the vehicle’s manufacture, but Chiron was a fan of speedway racing and instantly recognized it as a Caviga 125 Roadster. The rider’s black leathers and helmet were not so easy to unriddle, but his driving skill suggested that he too was more than a little familiar with the dangerous sport.
The limousine was forced to slow as it entered a hairpin turn, the beginnings of a switchback that carved its way into the Pyrenees. The motorcycle shot forward and the rider lifted his left hand from the grip and drew an oblong object—a gun, thought Chiron. Of course it’s a gun—from a holster on his hip. As the gap shrank to nothing, the rider laid the long barrel of his weapon across his rigidly straight right arm and sighted on the back window of the limousine.
Chiron ducked instinctively, but not before he saw a pinpoint of flame at the tip of the weapon. He knew the gun had been fired but heard no report; the limousine’s insulation effectively squelched all outside noise. What he did hear however — a harsh, surprised gasp from his companion — froze his blood.
This cannot be. The glass must be bulletproof.
He looked over at the woman, confirming his worst fear to be true. She sat in stunned disbelief, her right hand clapped over her left shoulder but unable to staunch the scarlet flow that stained her white jacket.
She’s wearing white, he thought. Why didn’t I notice that before?
There was a sharp cracking sound, and he saw a neat hole, smaller than the thickness of a pencil, appear in the partition behind her head. The bullet had passed through both the rear window and the barrier separating the inner compartments. Even Chiron, who knew very little about small arms, was familiar with the concept of armor-piercing bullets. Impulsively, he threw himself forward, pushed the woman down onto the floor and covered her with his body.
The adrenaline that had surged through him at the initial meeting was now gone. The instinctive urge to flee or fight had departed, just when circumstances dictated he ought to have needed it most. Instead, there was only a surreal calm, as if he were a spectator watching a scene from a movie. There was no horror, only a curiosity about what would happen next.
Another Teflon-coated projectile perforated the window and continued through the partition with a harsh crack. Chiron immediately felt something change; the limousine was slowing. Even without looking he knew what had happened. The round, blindly fired through the mirrored glass by the motorcyclist, had struck the chauffeur. Something about the way the vehicle meandered toward the edge of the road told Chiron that the wound had been fatal.
The car careened from the road with deceptive slowness, as if it might at any moment stop, allowing its passengers to get out and stretch their legs. Chiron braced himself between the opposed seats and hugged the woman close as the large car left the paved road and crashed down an abrupt slope. Despite his preparations, he was thrown violently about the interior of the vehicle as it bounced chaotically down the hill. It was difficult to ascertain the moment at which the limousine stopped moving, but there was a final intense heave forward that lifted him off the prone woman and slammed him into the fractured partition.
Chiron felt no pain, though he knew the hammering he had taken must have resulted in, if nothing else, at least a mass of bruises. He lay stunned for a moment in the crook of the upholstered seat. The car was tilted forward at a forty-five degree angle, skewing his sense of balance like a trick in a carnival funhouse. He pulled himself toward the edge of the seat and looked down at his female companion.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he rasped, surprised at the sound of his own voice in the sudden silence.
She nodded, but seemed to be having trouble righting herself. Chiron reached toward her, then changed his mind and focused instead on disengaging the door handle. The door fell open, revealing a rain-soaked, but familiar landscape. Just outside the door flowed a body of water, and in the distance, he could see an overhanging wall of rock.
The grotto, he thought dumbly, cursing himself for having paid no attention to the route chosen by the chauffeur. An instant later, he realized what good fortune had provided them: if they could reach the mass of people, which even now was looking up from their prayers and ablutions in order to gaze on this unfolding spectacle, the assassin would not dare to follow.
There was a tortured squeal of metal behind him and Chiron turned to find a man clad in dark riding gear peering in through the opposite door. The cyclist had removed his black helmet, but the gun remained, now held in his right hand.
The assassin looked like a man about to transform into a savage beast. He sneered, thin lips pulling away to reveal teeth that seemed too large—the better to eat you with, Chiron thought, manically — and his eyes blazed with barely restrained fury. He glanced at the scientist first, appraising his value as a target and potential threat, then turned his fiery gaze upon the woman and began speaking.