7. The Charge of the Light Brigade
The Charge of the Light Brigade
They spent the afternoon reading up on Lindsey’s case, trading observations and ideas as they worked to piece together a new plan.
Jean-Claude crafted a late lunch from the limited contents of Ilya’s pantry, and they ate it in the kitchen as they catalogued the evidence.
After a few hours, they conceded that they’d taken their research as far as they could; they would have to wait and see what the military-appointed JAG lawyer would do when she arrived.
As long as she encouraged Lindsey to plead not guilty, they would follow the case from the background and help where they could.
They didn’t discuss any alternative plans, but Tennyson had noted the exhilarated light in Louna’s eyes.
She was looking forward to this—maybe not quite hoping something would go wrong, but ready for the smallest excuse to throw off the limitations they’d placed upon themselves.
Tennyson was no stranger to working outside the law, but that wasn’t his preference for a situation with such high visibility.
A job like this required finesse, a quick strike followed by a quicker disappearance.
For Louna, the threat of publicity only added to the appeal of their work.
Which, like everything else about this job, worried him.
When they finished their meal, Philippe ran updates on the security system while Jean-Claude drove to the nearest market for groceries.
Louna settled onto the couch with her sketchbook, and Tennyson snooped unapologetically through the Nest, the garage it rested over, and the surrounding block, searching for weaknesses in the security.
And he talked to Lindsey.
He tried not to put any pressure on the one-sided conversation, focusing first on meaningless observations about the city and musings over Lindsey’s case.
But as the afternoon wore on, Tennyson found himself sharing other things—worries about Harlow, memories of his last job with Hartmann, misgivings over putting Louna and the Verdier brothers in the line of fire.
“It isn’t just them,” Tennyson said, standing outside the garage as he searched for each of the cameras in Ilya’s system.
“I never told Harlow about you. About anything from my past—nothing specific, no names. But he knew enough to find you, and that he could lure you out of the embassy so you could be arrested. What else does he know? If he goes after my family—or their families? Auden is married now. She has twins. But I suppose you’ve been in contact with them. You probably know more than I do.”
Lindsey had always kept up better communication with everyone back home, including Tennyson’s family.
They’d grown up together, after all—Lindsey’s sister Liz may as well have been Tennyson’s, and he knew that Lindsey felt the same about Auden, Blake, Browning, and Beckett.
He wouldn’t have cut them off, no matter what Tennyson did.
It had been a small comfort when Tennyson stopped calling home. If his mother couldn’t have him, at least she still had Lindsey.
That was a better deal, anyway.
“Harlow gave me a deadline,” he said, making a final assessment of the building’s least and most defensible areas.
They’d closed the shutters over the windows in the loft, cutting off any light to the street outside.
Looking up at it, he would never have guessed it was anything other than an abandoned garage.
“He said Louna and I had three days to go back to him,” he went on.
“And Harlow doesn’t bluff. If I was on my own… ”
A dozen possible plans flashed through his mind, and his instinct was to hide them, so he forced an explanation through his lips. “I’d go after him. If I was on my own, I’d hunt him down to keep him from targeting anyone else. Hurting him so he doesn’t hurt others. Isn’t that hypocritical?”
A passing car made him pause, and he wondered again if there was any point in saying this out loud. “You’ll be safe in holding, but be careful. If anyone strange shows up…”
He turned the northeastern corner of the building, noting the location of the last camera he’d been trying to find just under the eaves.
A memory struck him, and he gazed at the dark building and spoke a little absently.
“Do you remember Pawlicki’s Lit and Comp class?
The poetry recital. You wanted Shakespeare in case Cassie O’Brien decided to show up to class that day, but I convinced you to do ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ off the challenge list for extra credit.
We practiced on your back porch until Liz came out and made fun of us. ”
He closed his mouth, remembering the gleam in Liz’s eyes as she mimicked them, forcing a deep and exaggerated English accent.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Something in the shadows of the roof caught his eye, and he stepped closer to investigate.
“Forward the Light Brigade,” Tennyson muttered. “Charge for the guns.”
It was evening, and dark enough that he couldn’t make out any details of the muted shape.
The ledge jutted out of the building about halfway between the camera and a closed window.
On this corner, the only window would belong to the bedroom Louna had used.
The brick wall was rough, the mortar crumbling in places, and when he ran his hand over the surface, he found several divots just deep enough to serve as handholds.
He pushed his fingers into first one gap, then another, lifting himself higher and ignoring a tedious attack of vertigo as he climbed.
He’d never liked heights, but he’d scaled enough trees with Lindsey and his siblings over the years to overcome the fear now.
When he reached the ledge, he found that a missing brick afforded a convenient foothold, which allowed him to lean against the wall so he could examine the shape.
It was a backpack, small and navy blue, a color that blended into the shadows more naturally than flat black.
Its plastic zipper was nearly silent as he pulled it open to reveal a harness, a black bodysuit, and a pair of dark rappelling shoes.
Tennyson shuffled the items aside and found an inner pocket stuffed with cash in various currencies, and a handful of business cards.
He drew one out and held it up to the dim street light.
The paper was thick white cardstock, completely empty except for the outline of a flying swan printed in black ink.
The Black Swan.
Tennyson frowned, pushing the items back into the bag and settling it onto the ledge before lowering himself carefully to the ground.
Why would Louna keep a go bag outside her window?
He hadn’t seen her with it when they arrived at the Nest, but she’d been alone in the bedroom long enough to put one together and stash it on the ledge.
For what purpose? If she thought she might have to run, why keep the bag outside?
Why not just have it ready by the door, or tucked away in her room?
Instead, she’d put it in a place that would allow her to escape without using the main entrance.
Without him and the Verdier brothers.
Tennyson inhaled, savoring the sharp cold of the night air in his lungs before heading back into the garage, through the crawl space, and up the spiraling staircase to the loft.
He found Louna still drawing on the couch, but when he approached, she flipped her sketchbook closed and patted the spot next to her.
Jean-Claude was in the kitchen again, and Philippe was bent over the jail’s blueprints on the dining room table.
“Sit, mon loup,” Louna said, flashing a distracting smile at him. “Have you satisfied yourself as to the security of the building?”
“Can’t trust that Ilya handled things on his own,” he said.
“Ilya is quite experienced with these matters,” Louna said.
Tennyson crossed his arms. “I hope he’s better with security than he is at fighting.”
“He is also very good at fighting,” Louna said, her smile sweet. “It just so happens that you’re better.”
She said it patiently, like she was mollifying a child, and Tennyson grunted and turned away from her offer to share the couch. “Anything?” he asked Philippe.
He shook his head. “Nothing helpful.”
That was just as well; he already had more problems than he liked to handle at one time.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Louna tuck her sketchbook under one arm, securing it against anyone else’s gaze.
She’d done the same thing the last time he’d seen her with it—at her museum in Paris, when he’d come upon her in a little alcove, sketching one of the statues in a moment of peace he’d felt guilty interrupting.
The glimpse he’d caught of the figure was unsurprisingly impressive, shaded in light values that highlighted the smooth texture of the marble.
This time, he’d seen only the impression of wings inside a circle, like a crest. It wasn’t anything she should have been embarrassed of showing, and a twist of unease curled through him.
A go bag. A drawing she didn’t want him to see.
What was Louna hiding?
Thanks to Jean-Claude’s trip to the market, they enjoyed a much more satisfying meal of salad and chicken blanquette, with cheese and bread left on the counter for after-dinner grazing. There was wine as well, but Tennyson limited himself to bottled water. He didn’t drink on the job.
“Now,” Louna said, finishing off a second glass of wine and sparkling up at him. “I believe it’s time to settle the sleeping arrangements. We have two beds and four people. Whatever shall we do?”
“I’ll take the couch,” Tennyson said.
“Hold on,” Jean-Claude said, with a faithful glance at Louna. “Philippe snores, and he’ll keep me up all night if I share a bed with him. He can take the back bedroom, I’ll sleep here, and you—”
“Will take the couch,” Tennyson said firmly.