Chapter 9

“But no one ever changed The Church by pulling down a steeple.
You’ll never beat The System by bombing Number Ten.
Systems just ain’t made of bricks, they’re mostly made of people.
You may send them into hiding, but they’ll be back again.”
-Crass, “Big A Little A“

Interpol had a Master Detective, known for being able to solve the most elaborate of crimes in mere minutes. Criminal organizations hated and feared him, there were prices on his head all over the world, and his services were in constant demand. He was frequently heralded in newspapers as “France’s Own Sherlock Holmes.” He was so brilliant and sexy, so detached and brooding, that women, men, and movie studio executives all over the world wanted him.

Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez called Interpol in the middle of the night; stating that there was an urgent matter of national security that only he could resolve, which could not be discussed over the telephone, and demanded that man come to San Finzione immediately! When he was told that The World’s Greatest Detective was far too busy to come at this hour, Ramirez started shouting obscenities into the phone, demanding the name and badge number of the person he was talking to and that the Chief of Inspectors be gotten out of bed and put on the phone immediately.

When the supervisor came on the line, Ramirez demanded to know if the supervisor knew who exactly he was and whom he served, and he wanted his badge number and everyone he’d spoken to so that he could see to it that they would be fired if he didn’t put that man on the case. The supervisor apologized profusely, stating that their Great Detective was on a case on the other side of the world, but that he knew someone just as good, right there in the Lyon HQ and working hard at his desk even now, that he could recommend. Ramirez calmed down and thanked the man before the supervisor foisted him off on Detective Inspector Luc Tomas Allaine.

Allaine’s supervisor didn’t care for him at all, nor did most of his co-workers. But because his success rate was even higher than the Master Detective’s, and the supervisor’s entire division rode the coattails of his conviction rate; reaping prestige, budget, and pay increases largely because of the uncredited work of D.I. Luc Allaine, the supervisor knew that he was stuck with him, making him dependent on that fucking asexual queer who solved more crimes from behind his desk than his entire department did by showing up at crime scenes in billowing black trenchcoats with high-tech C.S.I. gear.

Ramirez knew that if he’d asked for his old friend directly, they would have kept him on hold, sent him into voice mail loops, and “accidentally” dropped the call, until he really had been as mad as he’d been pretending before they put him through, so skipping right to that part was the best way to save time.

Luc was at his desk, as usual. He worked the night shift and had a corner office, opposite the corner of his supervisor’s own. This, like all of the occasional rewards that Luc received for his work, followed the motif of “Keep that prick in his office; way the fuck over there, where I can pretend he doesn’t exist.” The supervisor had approved having a television, comfortable sleeping couch, microwave, and refrigerator in Luc’s office; as well as his own private lavatory. Thus far, all of his requests to get Luc a private elevator or personal building entrance/exit directly to his office had been rejected as structurally unsound after they’d already knocked down a wall to make room for the lavatory. In addition to the office television, a second was housed in a home entertainment center, containing all manner of gaming consoles both new and retro, that had been put in after someone said that they overheard that he liked video games.

A story breaking in international news had just mentioned the city of Seattle, when his phone rang and he saw the incoming number. Luc began typing, then answered.

“Generalissimo Hernando Ramirez, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of San Finzione, goes through the trouble of calling me at work.” Luc said into the phone. “Why do I feel compelled to begin searching news sites for ‘San Finzione’ before answering?”

He could hear the noise of hurried activity on Ramirez’s end. People coming up to him with questions and reports as he tried to convey that he was on an important call.

“Luc,” Ramirez said, clearly on speaker on his end, too. “It won’t have hit world news yet ... Si! I want full thermal flyover scans of the vineyard. Intelligence says this informant is more reliable than most. The gun cache is out there, get to it before they do.”

The distraction ended, and Ramirez tried to return to the call.

“Check Seattle, my friend ... No, we are explaining the military presence in the city to the touristas as the filming of a big Hollywood movie here in San Finzione. Contessa Maria is going through her great-grandmother’s address book to find some movie stars who can be trusted to come here and go along with such a ploy. Si, the entries in Contessa Helena’s private address book are quite detailed. And tell my secretary that I’m on an important call and not to be disturbed! By the time Ramirez had peace and quiet in his office, Luc had already brought up a site for local Seattle news, and was reading about the hit on the Triad limo.

“Sorry, Luc.” Hernando said when he was able to return to his desk and take the phone off speaker. “I take it you’ve had time to see what I’m calling about.”

“Oui, very interesting. Oh, an obvious frame job, of course.” Luc lit a cigarette and chewed on the driver’s last words. “... ‘slavery and human trafficking ... DO NOT happen in San Finzione...” He thought on the words. “This is a reprimand, not a threat. Perhaps one to be sent in blood, oui, but not like this; like an American Gangster film. Your Contessa has you and your men. If she wants to send a message to the Elders, why not send some of you to deliver it to their doorsteps in the night? Speaking of which, I got a flag last night, which said that Nigel Mander had entered the US via Portland, Oregon, on a San Finzione Cultural Attaché passport; I’d meant to call you and ask about that. Since everyone knows that ‘Cultural Attaché’ means ‘assassin,’ I am guessing that he is on the payroll and that Yorkshire has resurfaced.”

“Si,” Ramirez replied, lighting a cigarette of his own. “Yorkshire has a name now: Leonard Whyte, with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’ in Whyte.”

“Hmm...” Luc hmmed. “The electronics mogul. Oui ... I have a box on him. Nothing concrete, just the name popping up enough to warrant starting a box.”

Luc frequently angered people other than his co-workers, mostly in a professional capacity. Because of this, he’d created a string of safe-deposit boxes, scattered across Europe, containing everything he had on the people or organizations most likely to kill him. Ramirez held the backup key to the box in San Finzione containing all of Luc’s dirt on his supervisor and co-workers.

“Whyte hired Morgan.” Ramirez mused. “He knew where to find him and about his condition. There’s a connection, somewhere in the past.”

“Oui. And for reasons that you are still unable to tell me over the phone, his handicap was an important factor in Whyte’s decision. Give me a moment, Hernando.”

Ramirez waited patiently and smoked while Luc typed some more. This was the kind of thing his old friend did, and the reason La Contessa requested that he contact Luc again after his assistance with the assassination investigation.

“You truly should come and meet La Contessa, Luc. I know you two would get along, and there are many other things about her that are better shown than explained.”

“Sam has been asking for a vacation, and I need to update some of my boxes there. I would not even need to use my leave time; I am frequently encouraged to telecommute. Pamphlets about it are often left under my office door. Soon, perhaps. But oui, there was something I was keeping an eye on; a footnote from the Deep Web that stood out to me, so I made a note of it. Hearing Morgan’s name again brings it to mind.” Luc brought up the file. “Ah, here! A whisper that someone has been looking for disabled mercenaries. Unusual, because a mercenary who has lost a limb or one of his senses typically only finds work again by establishing a reputation for being exceptionally skilled enough to compensate. A general call, though, would pull the ones who got left in the dust out of retirement.”

“Allow me to guess. Seeking deaf mercenaries. Like Morgan.”

“Indeed. But Morgan was no random selection. There is another way such men find work again.”

Ramirez nodded, knowing what the answer would be.

“Old times’ sake.” He replied.

“Oui. Though, with what we know of Whyte, I would not consider him sentimental. Morgan may have approached him for old times’ sake, but then, Whyte exploited them. Now that we have his name, I should give those old cases a second look.”

Luc thought a moment.

“Hernando. No one would put out a call like this unless the men he hired needed to be hard-of-hearing for a particular reason. There are, of course, rumors, legends, ‘peasant gossip,’ like olden times, perhaps; about your Contessa de San Finzione that no rational person would take seriously. And if someone had reason to believe them, then oui, hired guns unable to hear might be an asset. It would also explain many unanswered questions about the attempt on her life. About why the assassin was able to reach her, while everyone else froze. My questions about your actions during the event, which you never answered, and I respect you too much to ask again; would certainly be explained.”

“Luc, I have heard the rumors of which you speak. And if there were any truth to them...”

Allaine didn’t make his friend finish the statement.

“If it were true, it would, of course, be a Classified State Secret of San Finzione; however poorly kept. Something that, even if I were cleared to know, you would be unable to tell me over the telephone. I would need to follow your Contessa’s advice from the adverts and ‘come there’ to be told.”

“Si. And Violeta says you and Sam still need to come for dinner. El Niños miss their godparents, too.”

“Just so.” Luc took a long drag and finished his cigarette. “This, then, also explains why Whyte was so quiet between the attempt on her life and now. He had pawns to gather. I must look into this, and then, based on what you have not at all told me about La Contessa, I must rethink my entire notion of how our universe works. I should have something in an hour. Was there anything else?”

“Oh, si. La Contessa’s old friend, the one skilled in matters of money; Whyte has made him a part of things now as well. We have his assistance.”

“I see...” Luc said, lighting another cigarette. “An old friend of La Contessa’s ... a definite asset, important enough for Whyte to drag into the crossfire, loyal enough to stay in it with her, almost certainly trusted enough to know the truth of the rumors which you have most definitely said nothing about, and any conclusions I may have reached are entirely my own. More to think on.”

“Take all the time you need, old friend. I have something to tell her now.”

They ended the call.

Troy Equals was at his desk in his home library, something he’d had built while they expanded their two-car garage to four, to accommodate Susan’s car and the Ferrari that Helen had given Julie on their Honeymoon. Four Vespa scooters were also parked in the garage, another gift from Helen.

Troy’s desktop computer had been set up in the library that had been expanded to contain more than it’s original content of references on the subjects of hypnosis and mind control, so it also functioned as Troy’s home office. A concealed peephole on the wall behind him allowed him to see into Julie’s home studio on the other side, and vice versa.

It had been Julie’s idea, in case they were both working, and one of them needed some quick “stress-relief.” She and Troy had both implanted post-hypnotic triggers in each other, so that if one of them heard the sound of the peephole opening or noticed it open on the wall, they would continue working; but act out a subconscious desire to put on a sexy show for whomever was looking through the hole while they worked. Then when they heard or saw it close, either stop the show or finish themselves if the show had gotten that hot, and resume working, happy with the knowledge that they’d helped their partner-in-everything get on with their own.