Leblanc #2
At first, I think he is handing me a gun, but I still have the one from the lodge.
Instead, he gives me a mobile phone and a charger.
I realise it’s my old burner device, given to me by Josh’s partner and something I assumed Mrs Bellacci had disposed of after taking away my possessions the day Gabriel changed identity.
“Does it still work?”
“What use could it be if not?” he chides. “You have a full charge and a new number.”
“Is yours in here?”
“It is now. You will call me if you have any difficulty.”
“Yes.”
I wake early the next morning to find his side of the bed empty.
A few miles outside the village of Beaumont, a narrow lane bordered on both sides by hedgerows cuts through a sea of fields.
When I spot the gate into a meadow where Mrs Bellacci can turn the car around, I ask her to drop me off.
I can see the tree-lined track to Honeycomb Cottage not too far off.
Due to the distance from the farmhouse—a good two hundred and fifty miles and four and a half hours’ drive away—we agree that I will find my own way back.
Lorenzo left early to explore the area around Balchraggan that morning, bidding us both a cursory farewell.
After the intensity of last night, we barely spoke over breakfast. Honestly, I am pleased he left because I feel sure he would have found a way to remain by my side.
Mrs Bellacci merely rolled her eyes at his rudeness.
I am sure she knows there’s more between us, but on the journey down, she said nothing.
As I step out of the car, I have barely closed the door before she puts the vehicle into gear and drives off.
Within minutes, the car engine fades into the distance, and I’m alone with the occasional rustle of wind in the branches and the chatter of birds.
This part of the world is very different to the scorched but temperate landscape of Tuscany, more wild and windswept.
Alone again, I do what I do best—pull up my collar, put my head down and trudge onwards.
Not far down the track, intimidating ‘Keep Out—Electrified Perimeter’ and ‘Private Property’ signs begin to appear, along with pictures of Doberman silhouettes.
Eventually, I come to a perimeter fence and metal gates set into brick columns.
Cameras are mounted in plain sight on tall metal poles, trained on the entrance.
I notice the faint hum of electricity from the fences on both sides.
I also spy an intercom on the wall and am about to press a button when a speaker sizzles to life.
“What do you want?” comes a gravelly voice.
I pull my hand away and stare up at one of the cameras.
“I am looking for Dr Maurice Leblanc.”
“On what business?”
“Am I speaking to Dr Leblanc?”
“What do you want?”
Stepping back, I pull a large brown envelope from inside my jacket and hold it up to the camera.
“I have urgent registered post for him,” I reply.
“Drop it through the bars of the gate. I will see that he gets it.”
“No can do, I’m afraid. The letter needs to be signed for by the recipient.”
I can’t make out the exact expletive, but immediately afterwards, the ambient noise from the other end of the connection cuts off. I wait a few seconds before lowering the envelope and placing the object back into my jacket.
“My instructions are to hand-deliver the letter to the recipient,” I call out. “But if Dr Leblanc would prefer, I can return to the main depot in Carlisle and he can go there, sign for it and pick it up at his own convenience.”
My bluff seems to do the trick because a huff of frustration issues from the intercom.
“Come to the house. And be quick.”
A loud buzzing accompanies a clunk, and the doors swing open.
I head forward and follow the trail into the grounds.
I’m unsure what I expected—maybe something like the ramshackle Scottish farmhouse—but certainly not the pretty little cottage nestled in a mature garden.
Even Mrs Bellacci’s satnav did not pick up the location, and I am grateful to the cheerful landlady of a pub a few villages away who gave me clear directions to find the place.
She could not hide the slight frown of distaste when I mentioned Honeycomb Cottage, and I can only assume that Leblanc is not particularly liked by the rural community.
Mrs Bellacci advised me to wear my nerdy outfit, complete with glasses, to approach the man. She also suggested I pose as a courier delivering an important package as cover.
As I approach, I see that the facade, with two windows on each storey, appears to have had a fresh coat of paint, the smooth, clean walls in a gentle cream and the woodwork in glossed burgundy. I also notice that each window has security bars with thick black blinds pulled down inside.
When I’m a few metres away, the front door opens a crack before closing again.
Chains rattle and latches slide before the door opens enough for a face to poke out.
As I hurry forward, I see the resemblance to Sylvie in his eyes.
If I had to guess, I would place him in his late seventies.
He has dark, sagging eye bags and sunken sockets reminiscent of street insomniacs I have known.
Sporting an untidy yellow-white combover, he wears a crinkled olive shirt beneath a frayed mustard-coloured woollen cardigan with holes at the elbows and stains down the front.
He scans the area behind me, his eyes darting nervously around the grounds.
“Hurry. Where do I need to sign—”
Before he can react, I take a stride forward and reach a hand out to prevent him from closing the door on me.
“Tell me what you know about The Hartfield Institute,” I say.
His gaze swings from my hand to my face, then his complexion blanches before he staggers back a step. But a step is all I need.
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“Should I mention that I know Sylvie Leblanc, your niece?” I say, commanding his attention. “I also know that you worked at the Hartfield Institute towards the end of the last century and were involved in a Special Operation called KW—”
“Are you insane? Keep your voice down,” urges Leblanc, clearly panicked now and scanning the area behind me once again. “You have no idea who may be listening. How did you learn about Knight’s Watch? From my niece?”
“Please,” I say, and pull back my sleeve to show him the tattoo. “I need to know who I am.”
Leblanc’s eyes bob from my wrist to my face, his brain working wildly. When he sways slightly, I wonder if he is about to pass out, but instead of moving backwards, he grabs my wrist, bends forward, and looks closer.
“Get in here,” he says, wrenching the door open wide. “Hurry.”
The interior of the cottage is the antithesis of the exterior.
Lit by a single table lamp near the door, the hall corridor is lined on both sides with untidy piles of documents and books in grey bindings—precariously balanced and restricting access.
They follow the steep rise of the threadbare stair carpet like paper battlements.
Musky odours of pipe tobacco hang in the air, the white paintwork nicotine-stained and patchy.
I follow Leblanc down a narrow corridor towards the back of the house and am directed into a darkened room, the large window covered by a blackout blind.
A doorway leads off into a small kitchen with sunlight—for some reason the only room with uncovered windows.
In addition to wall-to-wall bookcases in the main room, an oversized digital television screen is mounted on the wall.
Leblanc instructs me to sit in a chair at the table, which is strewn with papers around an ashtray piled with cigarette ends.
“You should not have come here. They have many ways to watch us.”
I am not sure if his agitation is paranoia or common sense. I would have known if I were being spied upon by someone other than him on my way down the drive. But then again, drones are not easy to pick out these days.
“How are you alive?” I notice he has stopped pacing and is now staring at me. “They said you’d been killed on assignment.”
“Who said I’d been killed?”
“The operations commanders. The year before the project was shut down. Two Knights were killed during missions, they told us, Five and Seven. More of their subterfuge, I suppose. Covering their tracks. Five—you—were killed on a covert operation in Libya with a senior intelligence agent. A super yacht anchored off the coast of Tripoli, owned by a known sex trafficker of young boys and an illicit arms trader. A gas tank exploded onboard. Nobody survived, according to reports. Divers from the Special Boat Service managed to recover identifiable parts of the trafficker and the agent who accompanied you, but your remains and those of many of the passengers and crew were never found. How did you escape?”
I miss his question for a moment as my mind replays the violent vision I had when I spotted a luxury yacht off the coast while visiting San Vincenzo with Lorenzo.
How did I survive? I see no reason to withhold details of my retrograde amnesia and about having recollections of very few events before the train crash.
“That makes sense. You would have been on your way back to Hartfield. Knights were programmed to return directly to base after completing a mission or, in the rare event of a mishap, to return to base. As ironic as it may sound, that train crash you were in saved your life.”
I assume he means I was gifted with a life in the real world rather than one lived in an institution.
“You said another of us went missing.”
“Knight Seven. Not missing. A sniper got lucky in Afghanistan. I examined the repatriated corpse.”
“What happened to the others?”
“Others?”
“The other Knights. If I was Five and the other was Seven, there must have been more. And weren’t there also Pawns?”
Leblanc, who has been standing all this time, drops down into a seat.
“Retired,” he says, barely a whisper.
“What does that mean?”