27
My neck hurt. A lot. My chest too. I was gasping like a fish. Even my back ached, nothing compared to the rest. I dragged my eyes open…an unfamiliar ceiling. Fancy cornice… expensive wallpaper…where on earth?
I rolled over, wheezing. Why was I this out of breath?
Oh. I froze, then turned my head, quickly scanning the room. That was why.
Father Mark lay half-propped against the nearest wall, his chest heaving, his face a horrible gray color and his lips almost blue. Eyes half-closed.
I scrambled up onto my knees. Was I up to running away? No strength in my body at all. He looked so ill… “Father Mark?”
Father Mark’s eyes opened all the way—filled with intense relief. “Margaret, are you all right?” he whispered. One hand was clutching his chest.
“Fine.”
The look of pain in his eyes deepened, they closed for a moment and he slid a little further down the wall.
I started to scramble towards him without thinking. Stopped. “Is it…safe?”
He opened his eyes again, his hand slipping from his chest as though it was too much effort to hold it there. “I think so. Be careful…”
I was already beside him. I waited for him to take this in, watching his eyes warily—nothing happened so I got an arm around him and maneuvered him onto my lap before he could slide all the way to the floor. His skin felt cold and clammy.
“Father Mark, tell me how to help you?” I pressed his hand urgently. “What do I do?”
“Did you mean it? Did you…?”
“Yes. Yes, I meant it,” I whispered—and it was true. “I forgive you. Please…tell me what to do?”
A joyful smile settled on his lips, though the pain still lurked in his eyes. “I’m free, Margo,” he murmured. “Do you realize? I’m free of it. My own again… Thank you…so much…”
“Me? It wasn’t me, if you’ve broken free of it, it was you. Now what do I do?”
“Pray with me.” I had to strain to hear him. “You know the one…”
“No! No, tell me how to help you? Please?”
His eyes lost their focus—his hand tightened around mine, just a little, as though checking I was still there. Another spasm of pain crossed his peaceful face and his hand loosened again. Was he even still conscious?
Heart aching, I bowed close to his ear and began to pray. “Now, Lord, you will let your servant go, according to your word, in peace, for my eyes have seen the salvation which you have prepared in the sight of all nations–A light to bring light to…” His body changed from weakly alive to deadweight in my arms, his last breath fluttering my fake locks, then no more.
I clawed short, dark hair back from his damp forehead, touched his slack face in desperate appeal, whispering useless, useless words. “Please, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please…”
But his gray eyes stared up through me, through the ceiling, through all earthly things, and there was nothing for me to do but hold him and rock in silent misery.
Not again.
A sudden silence from the open window and the sound of a clock striking drew me back to thought. I had to get out of here!
I went on kneeling, paralyzed by indecision. I couldn’t carry Father Mark’s body—couldn’t just leave him. Apart from my natural reluctance, it would be a gift to the EuroGov. They’d claim their own security forces had killed him as he came to attack the Chairman and if the vote was as finely balanced as I feared, it could be enough. Getting his body out of here was almost as important as stopping him jumping out that window had been. So think, Margo!
My mind was slow with grief. Wheels…wheels would be a start. This was a hotel, so…laundry trolley? Everyone would be at a window here or there, listening to the speech—I could look out for an apron or something, but above all, I must just be quick.
Hurry, Margo! Perhaps they’ll assume Father Mark didn’t get here in time, but they’ll come to check sooner or later.
The door opened—my heart catapulted up to my throat…what the? A team of paramedics rushed—quietly—into the room. They stopped dead when they saw me, gaping, then, recovering, the first one crouched beside me and placed two fingers on Father Mark’s neck. I did a double take. Spitfire?
“Too blasted late,” I whispered. But thank God they were here. Did this mean Bane and the others had succeeded?
A pair of them placed a stretcher-gurney thing on the floor, Spitfire swiftly but gently closed Father Mark’s eyes, and they heaved him across. At which my mind concluded I didn’t need to worry about anything further, and I could go back to Feeling Awful.
Quickly fastening straps to hold him onto the stretcher, they arranged a medBlanket over him, strategically pulled half across his dead face, deployed the stretcher’s wheels…then Spitfire was shaking me gently. “Margaret? You need to play the concerned relative, you understand?”
I nodded dully. That wouldn’t be hard.
Spitfire plonked my cap back on my head and pulled me to my feet, moving me into position beside the stretcher, and we were off. I jog-wobbled alongside, occasionally remembering to peer anxiously at the supposed patient—oh, Father Mark!—but the corridors were deserted. We went down in a service lift and came out of a door into that back street. An ambulance was parked there, into which they loaded the stretcher.
“Wait,” I croaked, as Spitfire urged me in. I pointed. “My bag…down there. NonLee. Fingerprints…”
He understood. Better not to leave stolen weapons in the vicinity of the Chairman with my fingerprints all over. He murmured an order, and Orange ran for the bag. As soon as he’d piled in, we were off. I caught a glimpse of what looked like EuroGov security hurtling out of the service door, just as we pulled away. Too late.
Well…we still had to get out of Brussels.
“Bane?” My voice was hardly audible, but they understood what I was asking.
“I don’t know,” said Spitfire apologetically. “The state remained in EuroBloc hands when we left. We snuck out.”
“How—” I broke off, wincing, but again he guessed what I wanted to know.
“Eduardo crept into our apartments and woke us. We had no time to talk about anything other than the mission. But if Bane was okay when you left, I don’t see why he wouldn’t still be okay.”
Clearly they thought I’d left Bane sleeping peacefully in our bed or something. My heart sank. They knew nothing. Well, not nothing. Eduardo was alive and well and somehow free or had been when they left. That wasn’t nothing. But whether Bane and the others had freed him or whether he’d just woken up in time to avoid capture, like Lucas… No way to know if any of them were alive or dead.
Bane…
Jon. Lucas. Kyle. Oh, Kyle. Kyle who was still avoiding me.
I stared at Father Mark’s body and went back to feeling numb. Lord, watch over them. Please watch over them.
We stopped quite soon and a couple of the guys jumped out and wiped a quick mix of street dust and oil over the number plates. Good point.
Lord, watch over them.
Long minutes of forcing our way through traffic with the siren on and doubling along back streets with it off and finally we were out in the open countryside.
“Where’s the blinking forest?” snarled Spitfire after a while.
“They don’t have so much around Brussels, lucky blighters,” said Trombone.
But finally, suddenly, sheltering trees loomed around us.
Lord, watch over them.
Spitfire was on his phone. “Our location’s coming up on your screen? Good. How far away are you?” There must be another guy… “Okay, we’ll be ready. Oh, wait, stop at a supermarket and buy a whole load of frozen veggies, would you? Yes, frozen vegetables. Any kind. Oh, about…” He shot an awkward look at the blanket-shrouded shape. “About enough to pack around a dead body, okay? Yes. Yes, it is. I know, me too.”
We pulled off down a dirt track and soon came to a halt. Spitfire urged me out and sat me on a log, posted a guy on either side of me and went back to the others. “Clean it all out, that’s right…leave it tidy. Take some photos, so we can prove we left it undamaged. Start getting some of the kit off, give it a shake, fold it.”
The ambulance cleaning went on in front of me for some time, barely registered. Eventually Spitfire’s voice came again, more loudly, “Oh good, here’s Discus.”
An innocuous white van was pulling up. Discus jumped out, opened the back and started to hand out the guys’ own clothes. When it slowly sank in that some of the guys were blushing and seeking the inadequate shelter of the ambulance, I turned around on my log and stared unseeingly into the forest instead.
Lord, watch over them.
Soon I was being loaded into the white van.
Hang on…where was Father Mark?
Spitfire saw me looking around anxiously and stamped gently on the floor. It sounded solid, but I knew what he was about to say before he said it. “Secret compartment, Margo; don’t worry.”
That was all right, then.
Lord, watch over them.
There wasn’t a lot of space in the back, with five of the guys and me, so I stretched out on the floor and alternated between dozing fitfully and staring miserably into space. Spitfire tried to get me to talk, but soon gave up. I just felt so numb.
The first couple of times I actually managed to nod off we came to a road block, and they woke me and stuffed me into the secret compartment with Father Mark, who’d been packed around with frozen peas and wrapped in a foil blanket.
“Too many roadblocks,” muttered Spitfire. “It’s insane; they must know she’s out here somewhere.”
“They’ve had a very close look at the CCTV footage from the hotel lobby, I s’pose,” said Trombone.
“Here’s another one,” called Discus from the front.
In practiced fashion, the guys took up the floor panel.
“I’m so sorry, Margo.” Spitfire looked horribly guilty as he pressed me once again into the cramped space with only a corpse for company. “But we just can’t risk it.”
I did agree, though I didn’t feel like talking about it. I lay there in the darkness, shivering inside a foil blanket of my own, holding Father Mark’s cold, stiffening hand through the joins in the blankets in an attempt to ward off the terror, and wishing, wishing, wishing it was still warm and alive. Lord, watch over them.
“This is mad,” Spitfire was saying, as they hauled me out again. “Our IDs may be perfect, but they probably got a rough idea of how many of us were in the ambulance. Pretending to be a hard-up band on our way back from a gig may have worked so far, but if they even ask to see our instruments? I think we should pull off somewhere nice and quiet in the forest and give things time to calm down.”
“Well, you’re in charge,” said Trombone.
“I was hoping for slightly more feedback than that.”
“Well, obviously we’re keen to get home and help,” said Geranium. “But this is really, really tempting fate. I think we should stop.”
“We’ll be no use to anyone if we get caught,” agreed Boeing. “And we’ve got Margaret’s safety to think about.”
“Okay, Discus, find us a quiet spot, preferably under the shelter of the trees in case the Eye of Sauron passes over.”
Things got extremely bumpy for a time, then we were stationary. The guys started to pass around field rations, but I wasn’t hungry. Lord, watch over them. I lay down again, and after a while I slept.
…Daylight was filtering into the van… I stretched, aching all over, touched my neck tenderly—regretted it—and finally glanced at my watch. One o’clock. I’d been asleep for almost ten hours! If the team had slept they were awake again now, playing card games and munching more rations.
Spitfire sat me on one of the bench seats and insisted on smearing some salve from the first aid kit on my neck, much good it was going to do. I endured. The numbness still hovered around me and anyway, talking hurt rather a lot.
“Radio?” I rasped, but Spitfire shook his head.
“We have to assume all methods of communication are compromised,” he said. “I’m sorry, Margo.”
I nibbled at a ration bar for a bit, but swallowing hurt a lot too. After a while, I had to make a run for the doors—there was very little to come up; I’d barely eaten the day before. I gave up on the ration bar after that, because throwing up made talking seem painless, and I still felt a little queasy.
I joined the guys in a rosary for Father Mark, only mouthing it myself, and by early evening, Spitfire decided we’d carry on and see if the roadblocks were gone. Relief surged through me as we moved again.
Bane… Are you okay? It was an ache in my gut, I needed to know so badly.
Jon? Lucas? Kyle? Everyone?
Lord? Watch over them. Get us safely home?
The roadblocks were gone. We drove sedately, at the speed limit. A police car would get more than it bargained for if it pulled this van over, but still, unconscious coppers would provide a trail for the EuroGov.
It was a very long night. I dozed fitfully and, embarrassingly, had to get them to pull over twice for me to be sick, though my stomach was empty. I reassured them in a croak that I didn’t get motion sickness, it was just stress. Or grief. First Snakey, then my baby, now Father Mark. And no way of knowing if Bane and the others were dead or alive. It was all simply too much. We stopped once to buy a new load of frozen veggies, and every moment of that long journey, I was keenly aware of what lay under the floor. I’d failed. Father Mark was still dead.
When at eight in the morning, the twinkling roofs of Rome appeared through the windscreen I’d scarcely ever been so happy to see a place, despite not knowing what awaited us. Of course, unlike most cities, Rome had checkpoints to get in. Something about the Underground’s headquarters nestling in the center.
Back into the makeshift morgue. Father Mark’s hand was limp again; rigor mortis had passed. I’d not imagined the interminable nature of the journey.
After a while Spitfire lifted the floor a crack. “The checkpoint barriers were just open, no one there. But stay down there in case of a random check, okay? Not far now.”
I muttered an affirmative. My throat was beginning to improve a little.
Finally, finally, we pulled to a halt in a garage and they hauled me out one last time. Carefully, they lifted out Father Mark’s body as well, laying it down in the corner before drawing their nonLees and opening a concealed door.
I wanted to sprint along the passage, I was so desperate to find out what had happened, but I allowed them to go ahead, advancing with extreme caution.
Lord, watch over them. Lord, let them be all right.
The passage seemed to go on forever. Nothing but the dim illumination from the flashlights and the sound of our breathing.
“Halt, who goes there?” The sharp challenge came from ahead. Everyone froze and dropped to one knee, nonLees held ready. Several guys pressed me to the wall, shielding me with their bodies.
“Identify yourself,” demanded Spitfire.
“You’re supposed to go first,” said the voice.
“Uh…” Sounded like Spitfire was frowning. But the challenger was right. “Agent Gedro, VSS number five, six, eight, three, two.” Spitfire sounded nervous. If it was a SpecialCorps soldier, a grenade would probably come rolling round that corner. “Identify yourself, please?”
“Agent Fallon, VSS number four, seven, seven, six, three. Advance and be recognized.”
Spitfire’s dark silhouette rose and disappeared along the passage. We all waited for a bang, a thud…
“Ferrari!”
“Spitfire!”
That was definitely the sound of manly back-pounding, not someone collapsing on the floor. We all hurried forward.
“What’s happening?” Spitfire was asking Ferrari, AKA Agent Fallon. “Is the Vatican back in our hands?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” said Ferrari, waving the question away. “Go right along, everyone will be delighted to see you. Wait, where’s Father Mark?”
Spitfire sighed. “He’s dead,” he said softly. “Trombone, Discus, nip back and get him, will you?”
I was already rushing along the passage. Wait, I didn’t actually ask if they were all okay. But surely he’d have said… I raced on, the guys jogging alongside, the walls passing in a blur.
Finally I scrambled up through a knee-high opening… and there was a group, heading straight for us. My eyes snapped to the solid figure in front, a thin stick waving in front of him.
“Bane!” I lurched to meet him, pretty much fell on him and, at long last, burst into tears. He managed to get hold of me as my legs threatened to give out entirely.
“Margo?” Checking he wasn’t about to passionately embrace the wrong weeping female?
“It’s me,” I sobbed. “I’m a bit hoarse.”
He settled his arms around me and held me close. Inhaled deeply. Stroked my hair, kissed my face, kissed my hair. Rocked me to and fro, and hugged and kissed me some more. I just clung to him and cried and cried and cried.
“Oh, Margo,” he sighed at last. “You’re safe.”
“That’s my line,” I whispered, smiling through tears of joy.
“Yeah,” he said, wiping my cheeks dry with his thumbs and kissing my forehead. “But it’s okay, Margo, everything’s okay.”
I stared at him. I was overjoyed to see him, alive and well. But he looked so…happy? Ferrari had clearly reported our arrival. Didn’t Bane know?
“You know I failed, don’t you? You do know Father Mark—” I broke off, swollen throat closing even more.
Bane’s face fell. “Yes, I know. You tried, Margo. You’ll have to…have to tell me what happened.”
“Then why do you look like you want to grin from ear to ear?”
He blinked, looking astonished. “Margo, don’t you understand, we won!”
“Won?” I said blankly.
“The vote, Margo! We won the vote!”