Milo...Hostage

         By Pattie Lawler

 

          

            “They have my wife,” the contact cried.

            In his mind, Milo saw the top of Albany’s head as she kissed his bare wrist. His skin grew warm at the memory. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage.

            The man across the table continued to sob, and while Milo shared his pain to a degree, now was not the time. “I’m not in the business of allowing my transactions to be hampered by rivals,” he assured the man, gently squeezing a trembling shoulder. “I’ll get her back.”

            And Albany.

            “I’ll give you the sword. I don’t want the cursed thing! How I wish to God I had never seen it!”

            “Courage,” Milo murmured, looking around the crowded café for signs of trouble. “The hard part is behind you,” he went on, smiling at the man. “You’ve done as I’ve asked?”

            The man seemed to shrink, nodding. “They’re in my car.”

            “The keys?”

            He placed them on the table. “The white Citroen.”

            That narrows it down, Milo mentally groused. Still smiling, he placed an envelope on the table, put his car keys on top of it, and pushed both across the table. “I will wire you the money when I’m sure of the item. In the mean time, stay by the phone. I’ll call as soon as I have her back.”

            The red-rimmed eyes met his. “Hurry.”

<0> 

            Attaché in hand, Milo pressed the remote lock on the key ring. There was a chirp in reply as the car betrayed its location to anyone watching. Milo barely glanced at the winking headlights. Pocketing the keys, he abandoned the car to Raul’s clutches and started walking for the train station.

            And saw the several lampreys that were assigned to him.

            Some would be with du Montefort. The others...

            Milo grinned, slowing his pace. He needed to give Raul’s men time to search the Citroen, so he reached for his BlackBerry and the distraction it offered. There were several messages, most of them from Lawrence, his research librarian, and they told him schedules, passwords, and where Raul was last seen.

            Milo frowned.

            So close?

            Entering the train station as rush hour began, Milo made for the payphones. Picking one with high visibility, he called his rival. The phone was answered on the second ring.

            “Let me speak to Raul.”

            “Who else would answer this phone, dolt!”

            “Raul!” Milo crowed. “Did you get my presents?”

            He had arranged, via the contact, for five identical packages to be left in the trunk of the Citroen. Simon had personally overseen their production. Each was wrapped the same, weighed the same but were addressed to different locations. In truth, the long rectangular boxes housed a minuet amount of explosives on a remote detonator, small cubes of solid fuel, and enough pre-melted slag to strike fear into a collector’s heart. All this was padded by highly combustible material, guaranteed to put on a dazzling, though mostly harmless, display.

            “What are you playing at?” Raul demanded.

            “You didn’t open them, did you?”

            “I know you too well, Scarlet, to attempt that.”

            “Excellent! So tell me,” Milo growled, “where is the woman?”

            “Which one is the sword? The real sword?”

            Milo placed the BlackBerry on the small shelf below the phone and dialed. When he hit send, his gaze swept the station. It was the dinner hour and the crowds would soon thin. He needed to get his contact’s wife back and get away.

            “SCARLET!”

            Milo jerked the phone away from his ear with a soft whistle then drew it back. “Down a digit?”

            “You son of a bitch! Was that the sword?”

            “Don’t know. The codes were randomly programmed and randomly assigned. Just think, this conversation may be for nothing.”

            “I don’t believe you, you son of a bitch! You wouldn’t destroy the sword!”

            “You know this one’s a job. I have no buy in.”

            “Except your reputation!”

            “While this is all very entertaining, Raul, I really have to move on. The woman?”

            “The sword!”

            “I can and will burn them all from here, Raul. The sword means nothing to me. And don’t try drowning them. The explosive’s rather sensitive, you’ll only upset it more. So, tell me...where is she?” In the ensuing silence, Milo heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got a one in four chance of being a colossal ass. The choice is yours.”

            “And when I tell you where to find her?”

            “You’ll tell me which addresses remain and I'll tell you if your luck is any good.”

            “Don’t play me, Scarlet. I want the real one!”

            “And I want the woman.” He scooped up the BlackBerry and hung up the phone.

            It rang almost instantly.

            Milo walked away. His hands reflectively touched his weapons, the concealed cell phone; he felt something foreign in his pocket and pulled it out. The keys to the Citroen. He threw them in the nearest garbage and made for the place most likely to hide a body from him.

            And didn’t hesitate to enter the ladies room.

            To the resulting gasps he apologized in his best French and made for the stall with the ‘out of order’ sign. Catching the top of the door, he pulled himself up and looked down. On the plumbing was an envelope.

            With a sigh he pulled himself higher, reached down and unlocked the door. Dropping, he swung it open, retrieved the envelope and smiled his parting to the amused and indignant onlookers.

            Approaching the still ringing public phone, he picked up the receiver, dropped it back into the cradle and tore the envelope open. It contained a picture of Albany. Her hands were bound but she looked unhurt. He pushed it into his pocket and picked up the again ringing phone while dialing the BlackBerry.

            “Raul? I got the picture. It’s going to cost you.”

            He hit send.

 <0>

            Standing beside the taxi stand, Milo waved his arms in huge arcs, signaling to the lampreys that one of them at least had to approach. In a moment he was moving back into the station with a plain-clothes officer at his side.

            “He doesn’t want the woman, he wants the item. She has to be here somewhere. You’ve canvassed the place, and yet I just found an envelope address to me. Look again, and ignore ‘out of order’ signs.”

            With a glance at the clock, Milo moved to the ticket machine. “I have to go,” he said, pulling out his wallet.

            “And the missing woman?”

            Milo pointed to the ringing phone. “Tell him I’m dialing and he’ll tell you where she is.” He took the ticket for Metz and made for the platform, BlackBerry in hand.

<0> 

            Sitting on the train, alone with his thoughts, Milo replayed the series of events.

            Any other night he would have prolonged the game with Raul, but typically there weren’t lives at stake. It was strange, that facet, and he frowned. Raul wasn’t bloodthirsty as a general rule. They had had their close calls to be sure, but this smacked of a powerful hand pushing the annoying collector from behind. Perhaps someone hired Raul owing to his knowledge of Milo’s habits.

            He pulled the picture from his pocket and looked at Albany. And smiled. Bound as she was, laying in what appeared to be a hotel room...he could see she was asleep.

            “That’s my girl; utterly unflappable.”

<0>  

            The walk to La Chapelle des Templiers helped to soothe what tension lingered. He saw no lampreys as he went and felt confident he had given them the slip back in Reims. While on the train he had received a message from Lawrence about the contact’s wife and how she was safely returned to her grateful spouse. Pushing his hands into his pockets, Milo lengthened his stride and hurried toward the end of this job.

            Moving into the shadow of the chapel, Milo threw himself against the wall and waited. He needed to be sure he was alone, and a moment to collect his breath was just the thing. A quarter of an hour lengthened into a half when he pushed himself up and, clinging to the shadows out of habit, made for the side door.

            The cold stone walls were as silent as the grave, but the warmth of flickering candles was enough light for Milo to see a stooped man kneeling before the altar.

            “Monsieur de Novelemport?”

            The man stirred as if startled from sleep and began to rise. Milo hurried forward to help him up.

            “Monsieur Scarlet?”

            “I am. But I must ask you, the note you had from me, what did it say?”

            The man gazed at Milo with moist eyes rose as he recited, “It is true I wished to escape; and so I wish still; is not this lawful for all prisoners?”

            Milo nodded, smiling as the man confirmed his identity. “Thank you.”

            “You have my letter?”

            Milo unbuttoned and slipped out of his coat. He removed the magnetized panel in the lining that covered his back and drew out a sealed evidence bag containing an ancient piece of parchment. He tenderly placed it in the outstretched hands.

            “You have read it?”

            “I have.” de Novelemport’s gaze became desperate, and Milo smiled. “He wrote that he lied. He then confesses his love in the strongest terms possible. He said he would have perjured himself before Christ if it would have saved her life. The confession was truly heartbreaking.”

            The old man gasped with pleasure, placing the paper over his heart. “Time and again I was told the story, my whole family was told. But without the letter as proof...”

            “What will you do?”

            “I will die happy, Monsieur Scarlet, knowing that so great a lady was loved by a man of my blood.”

            Milo swallowed hard, his hand upon the withered arm. “Then I am happy for you.”

            de Novelemport nodded. “You must go.” He pointed to a small door but said nothing. Milo dipped his head in recognition and rose. Without looking back, he went to collect a piece of history.

<0>  

            The long metal box housed a wooden casket whose lid had warped with age. A brass cross, with three arms, was set in the wood, and as Milo raised the lid, he was holding his breath.

            In the light of his flashlight, the once white canvas banner, though yellowed and stained by the years, shone as if fresh snow in moonlight. Gently scooping it to the side, Milo gazed at the diminutive sword. It was nicked and pitted, showing signs of wear, but for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine young Jeanette, whom the world would laud as Joan of Arc, holding the blade aloft as she rallied France to her banner.

            Reaching into his breast pocket, Milo removed a Bluetooth, slipped it on as he called Joe, and told her to turn his other phone back on.

            Locked in the glove compartment of the rental car he had given the contact, Raul and his ilk would track its signal and descend upon the surprised man. Doubtless enjoying a reunion with his wife, the poor man would be forced to confess that the sword he thought was genuine was really Roman and, while not without value, was hardly priceless.

            “The PM’s secretary?”

            “Waiting for you at Saint Stephens.”

            “The car?”

            “In the lot. Do you need help?”

            Milo stepped back, assessing the metal box. “No. Anything from Lawrence?”

            “He’s still working on it.”

            “Anything from Raul about Albany?”

            “No.”

            Milo grunted as he lifted the box, tucking it tight under his arm. “Tell Lawrence that du Montefort is working on the problem from this end.”

            “George has called here, twice.” Joe sniffed disapprovingly.

            Milo couldn’t resist teasing her. “He said you’re beautiful.”

            She ignored him. “The meeting in Laon never happened.”

            “They only wanted me out of the way to meet with the contact. Raul thought he would just step in and be me.” He turned sideways to open the door and was soon in the night air, puffing from the exertion. “Pop the trunk,” he murmured, drawing near the car. The thump of the trunk was followed by the clicking of the doors. The engine surged to life.

            “Is it heavy?”

            “No, just awkward. I’ll be returning to Reims as soon as I hand this over.” He opened the box once again and gently removed the banner. Carrying it to the car, he placed it on the passenger’s seat and draped his coat over it.  “I’ll call when I’m en route.”

 

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