History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.
—Karl Marx
“On the night of November 4-5, 1605, a man called Guy Fawkes was found in the cellars under the House of Lords with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. The Gunpowder Plot had been betrayed. As word leaked out to an astonished country, the conspirators, led by Robert Catesby, fled in every direction. They knew that the captured man would eventually talk. He would be horribly tortured. No one survived the rack and Fawkes was no exception. He was chained and stretched and broken in body and spirit over the next three or four days.
“In the pouring rain of November 7, Catesby and a small party of conspirators fleeing north hastily raided a large fortified house, Hewell Grange, for arms and ammunition. They successfully carried off a large quantity of gunpowder. As the rain continued to lash down, they rode a short way to Holbeach, where they hoped to find sanctuary. The gunpowder was carried on an open cart and was drenched from the pouring rain. At Holbeach House they carried the gunpowder inside and stacked it in front of a large fire to dry out. A spark flew out of the fire, igniting the gunpowder and blowing them all up.”
“Duh,” said Kyle. “Talk about hoist with your own petard. What were these guys thinking. Let’s just dry out the gunpowder?”
“And these people wanted to take over the government?” said Rogers.
“They were horribly burned and one was blinded,” intoned the voice-over. “Their chances of escape had just blown up. And now it’s time for our history quiz. Name the major conspirator in the Gunpowder Plot. Was it Richard Catesby, Richard the Lion-Hearted, or Richard Nixon?”
“Who the fuck’s Richard Nixon?” said Rogers.
“First man on the moon,” said Kyle. “Every kid knows that.”
Rogers killed it. Seventeenth-century London disappeared from the screen.
“Interactive shit,” said Kyle contemptuously at the screen. “I hate interactive. So what did we learn from all that crap?”
“We learned patience and humility.”
“In other words, fuck all.”
“That’s a more elegant way of putting it,” said Rogers. He glanced at his palm file.
“The reference to the Gunpowder Plot is in a file Sammy Weiss sent Carlton at 13945668.”
“Jesus,” said Kyle, “that’s just before she was killed.”
“Twenty-eight minutes, to be precise,” he said.
“So what’s with all this Gunpowder Plot thing?”
“Codes maybe?”
“Anything else in that file?”
“Let’s take a look. Mind if we borrow your monitor?” Rogers asked the waitress.
“Go ahead, love.”
He popped the crystal Weiss file into the machine. The menu appeared.
“What’s Bronia?” asked Kyle.
“Some kind of disaster.”
“Great. More history. Try that picture file.”
Pictures flashed rapidly on the screen. Katy in a black wig. A heavyset man at the desk of the Rialto escorting her to an elevator. A powerful man with a big mustache leaving the Rialto. A glimpse of Dunphy, the blond taxi driver.
“Go back.”
The picture of the mustachioed man flashed up again.
“Peter McTurk,” read Kyle. “No information available.”
“Ooh, I know him,” said the waitress.
They both turned to look at her.
“He was in here.”
“You sure?”
“Oh no question.”
“Maybe he likes history,” said Kyle.
“He likes malt whisky,” she said.
“You sure it was him?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Asked me to marry him. After half a bottle, mind you. Mac something.”
“McTurk,” said Rogers.
“I’d have accepted, but he fell over. We had to get him picked up.”
“By who?”
“The Bodyslogs picked him up,” she said.
“Well, that’s nice and convenient,” said Rogers. “The Bodyslogs will have an address.”