something that actively endangers the adjustment. Don’t ask me how we’re supposed to define that, I haven’t the faintest idea. Allendale is sending a TIA team back to bring him in. He wants him alive, both to make an example of him and to find out how he managed to screw around with the records. Darrow’s in for it, too, because he was soft on him and didn’t bust him out of the agency.”
“So much for not having the spooks underfoot,” said Delaney. “I knew this mission was too good to be true. It was too easy.”
“So far, at least,” said Lucas. “It’s about to get a bit more difficult. Fitzroy’s got orders for us. It’s time for the Scarlet Pimpernel to make a trip to Paris. Think of something to tell Marguerite and get hold of Ffoulkes and Dewhurst. We have to leave this evening.”
“Who’s the target?” Finn said.
“The Marquis de Leforte,” said Lucas. “Not a very nice man, by all accounts. Treated the peasants as if they were less than animals, so consequently they’d like very much to kill him now that he’s vulnerable.”
“How’s Blakeney supposed to find him?” Andre said.
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Lucas. “Leforte’s in the Bastille. He’s already been tried and condemned to death.” He smiled, mirthlessly. “All we have to do is get him out.”
“Get him out of the Bastille?” Finn said. “How?”
“That’s what I asked Fitzroy,” said Lucas. “His answer was, ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. After all, Blakeney did.’”
It was four o’clock in the morning and Finn and Lucas stood in the street, looking up at the north tower of the Bastille. Andre, under protest, had stayed behind with Marguerite. She hadn’t liked it, but they had made her understand that her job was just as important as theirs; perhaps more so. Someone had to watch Marguerite while they were gone, to make certain that Mongoose didn’t try anything with regard to her. They had no idea what he intended to do and they couldn’t afford to take any chances.
They had a plan of the Bastille, thanks to Fitzroy, and they knew where the Marquis de Leforte was being held. He was imprisoned in the north tower, in cell number 106. But knowing where he was and getting him out were two very different things. One was a fait accompli, the other seemed impossible.
Dewhurst was waiting for them on board the Day Dream, which lay at anchor off Boulogne-sur-Mer. Ffoulkes was in that seaside town, about twenty miles from Calais, awaiting their arrival. Several newly recruited members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel were in a small apartment in Paris awaiting instructions from their leader. Everything was in a state of readiness. Now all they needed was a plan.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Finn said, wryly. “We’ve got exactly eight hours before Leforte’s due to be executed. You got any ideas?”
“Yeah,” said Lucas. “I say we go find Fitzroy and threaten to disembowel him unless he gets us some equipment. With the right stuff, we could walk right in there and take him out.”
“A couple of AR-107’s would be real nice,” said Finn
“I was thinking along somewhat less lethal lines,” said Lucas. “Like, some nose filters and a few gas grenades, real basic stuff. Just put everyone in there to sleep, Leforte included, and walk in, open up his cell and carry the poor bastard out.”
“Fitzroy won’t play, huh?”
Lucas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, he won’t play. According to history, at least so far as TIA intelligence has determined, Blakeney got him out.”
“I don’t suppose Blakeney had any gas grenades,” said Finn. “Did the TIA tell us how he did it?”
“Unfortunately, there’s no record of that,” said Lucas. “All they were able to learn, according to Fitzroy, is that Leforte was captured trying to sneak out of Paris dressed as an old woman, thrown in the Bastille, tried, condemned, but never executed. The Scarlet Pimpernel took credit for his escape, by sending one of those notes of his to the public prosecutor. It would’ve been nice if they could have clocked back to see how it was done, but Blakeney’s already dead. However it was done, we’re going to have to be the ones to do it.”
“Sure would be nice if we could hop on a plate and jump ahead a few hours so we could see how we did it,” Finn said. “But then, we’d have to do it first before we could see how it was done. Ain’t temporal physics wonderful?”
“It’s times like these that make me wish I’d kept my lab job,” Lucas said.
“It’s times like these that make me wish I’d stayed in the regular army,” Finn said. “But then, if I had, I’d probably be dead by now. So much for the old ‘what ifs.’ We’d better come up with something fast, partner.”
“I’m agreeable,” said Lucas. “What did you have in mind?”
“Beating the living daylights out of Fitzroy, stealing his plate, knocking out the tracer circuits, and going to Barbados.”
“We’ll save that as a last resort, okay?” Lucas said. “Come on, we’ve been in tougher spots than this. Let’s work it out.”
“Okay. Let’s take it one step at a time. What are the odds of our getting in there and taking Leforte out between now and sunrise?”
“Not very good,” said Lucas. “These new citizens have become very conscious of their new positions. If anyone’s got any business being in there, they’re known to the guards. It’s like an ‘old boy’ network. It’s doubtful that we could bluff our way in and if we tried to force our way in without the right equipment, we’d have a whole garrison down on us before we got halfway up the tower.”
“Okay, so forget storming the Bastille,” said Finn. “That leaves us with the option of trying to take him when they bring him out.”
“Which should be anytime between ten o’clock and noon tomorrow, when he’s scheduled to be executed,” Lucas said. “They’ll bring him down into the courtyard in the prison, put him in a tumbrel, and take him out under guard along the most direct route to the Place de la Revolution. The entire route should be packed with spectators, since Leforte is so well loved. That means that the tumbrel won’t be going very fast.”
Finn nodded. “I’d guess a little faster than a walking pace, just to give everyone a chance to spit at the marquis. If we’re going to put the snatch on him, it’ll have to be then, somewhere between the Place de la Revolution and here.”
Lucas pursed his lips thoughtfully. “The crowd’s going to be the main problem,” he said. “We won’t be able to seize control of the cart and drive him away, because we’ll never make it through the crowd. If we try to pull him out of the tumbrel, they’ll tear us to pieces before we can go several yards.”
“Scratch that idea,” Finn said. “That leaves us the Place de la Revolution. The crowd’s going to be thicker there than anywhere else along the route.”
“That could work for us,” said Lucas. “They’ll be at a fever pitch by the time Leforte gets there. What we need is mass hysteria, confusion. Something to drive them crazy enough so that they’ll be running in all directions. If we can create some kind of a diversion in the square, we might be able to grab Leforte and get lost in the crowd. All we need to do is to get him out of that square. Then we can take him to the safehouse, knock him out with that trick ring of yours, and have Fitzroy clock us to Boulogne-sur-Mer. But we’ll need something to disguise Leforte until we can get him out of the square.”
“No big deal,” said Finn. “We can throw a shawl and a cloak over him. Now all we need to do is figure out some sort of a diversion. How about a fire?”
“It would be risky,” Lucas said. “We don’t want to get anyone killed inadvertently.”
“We can take steps to minimize that possibility,” said Finn. “Don’t forget, we’ve got some extra manpower. We’ve got league members Barrett, Moore, Smythe-Peters and the Byrne brothers standing by. All we have to do is pick a likely building, get one of the boys to start a small fire that’ll make a lot of smoke, then torch the place but good. We’ll need a healthy blaze to steal the show. There’s enough time to pick a site, get instructions to the boys, and start them off making Molotov cocktails. It should do the trick.”
“I hope so,” Lucas said. “Well, I can’t think of a better idea at the moment, anyway. Come on, let’s pick our spot.”
At ten-thirty in the morning, Leforte’s jailors opened up his cell and led the stunned marquis downstairs to the courtyard of the Bastille. The aristocrat had not slept at all that night. He spent what he believed to be his last night on earth praying. A man who had never paid more than lip service to religion Leforte found faith in the last hours of his life. He had no hope, none whatsoever. He knew only too well how much the people hated him and how justified that hate was, he knew that he could expect no mercy. He had known it when they had arrested him, just
