Season of Ashes Ch. 03-05

"We have issues." He didn't bother with niceties as he approached Milicent. He unfurled the newspaper from beneath his arm, presenting it to her. He didn't wait for her to take in the headline, "Newland is dead. They think it's us. If we weren't the top bounties in Paris before, we are now."

His voice was low, the tension making itself clear in his words. "I hope you have better news. Paris is getting too hot for my tastes."

A gaggle of tourists walked past them, brushing past Dominik with a smattering of Italian as they navigated the narrow sidewalk. He fixed them with a scowl and his spine stiffened. He managed to restrain the impulse to push back, to confront a threat before it could develop into something worse -- he froze as he saw the metallic gleam in the man's hand was a camera. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to Milicent, "Let's go inside."

He needed a distraction. He was jumping at ghosts, seeing enemies around every corner. They both needed time to collect their thoughts, and his stomach was making its needs known -- loudly.

The interior of the teahouse was comfortable and warm, and they were met with the cosy scent of floral teas and baked goods as they stepped inside. He merely nodded to the greeting they received from a cheerful waitress, instinctively selecting a table in a corner of the small space, seating himself with his back to the wall. He hated the prickling sensation of his paranoia, but he'd learned to obey his instincts nonetheless. He couldn't afford to be anything less than careful. Not now.

His eyes were dark with concern as he met Milicent's gaze, "How soon can we leave? And where are we going?"

Milicent

"Oh!" A breathless gasp of relief when she spotted him. Whispered excuses were foremost on her lips: "Sorry, I--"

He cut her off with his abrupt salutation. Her eyes skimmed the headline. She blanched at the black-and-white photography that displayed their grained likenesses. The intelligence from the article -- the description of the sheer brutality involved in last night's mess -- made her insides squirm and revolt; she was suddenly thankful she had nothing inside of her to throw up. This was worse than bad. They were in the crossfires of malicious actors: men -- for they were almost always men -- who had no qualms about displaying the evidence of their sadistic bloodshed for all the world to see.

He was right. They should go inside. She felt too exposed out here.

She smiled, still staring at the headline. "T'avais raison." She lowered the newspaper, tucking it to her side, and burbled a high-pitched laugh, as if she had been made privy to an amusing editorial. "Très drôle." Milicent shifted the position of her glow sticks and hooked her arm around Dominik's, leaning on him in a display that went far beyond casual affection, for she was somewhat dubious about her ability to walk.

Her false smile lingered even after the waitress wandered over to take their order; a second after she left, Milicent couldn't even remember what she had pointed to on the menu.

"Soon," she said, recovering her equanimity. She adjusted herself on the seat, side-eyeing the entrance all the while, and pulled out the glossy, black boarding passes. "Tonight. From Gare de l'Est. To Venice." She placed the passes on the table, using her fingers to slide them over toward Dominik. "These should entitle us to a private car. We can skip all the formalities when we board and disembark. At least, that's what Isabelle -- my friend -- said."

Milicent replaced her urgent expression with a lax smile when the waitress returned; the service was abominably fast. Two saucered teacups and two large teapots were placed before them, along with a tiered tray overflowing with carbohydrates. Milicent waited for the woman to walk off before leaning toward Dominik.

"I left my ring behind at the safehouse. I went back to get it just now -- but someone was already inside. Or had been inside after we left. The lockbox was open and the shades were -- well, someone had adjusted them. That's why I'm late -- I had to make sure I didn't have anyone following me."

Milicent paused to recover her breath. She poured tea into her own cup: a dark brew that looked almost purplish against the white of the interior. She peeked around; Dominik had the more privileged outlook with his back against the wall, so she had to consciously crane her neck to get a sweep of the tearoom. An elderly couple in the opposite corner of the establishment were holding hands across their table; a polished professional in a bespoke suit sat in the middle at a table all to himself, occasionally checking his wristwatch in between sips of tea; the sounds of young men -- laughing and joking -- came from the direction of the kitchen. An idyllic scene; she dreaded it all the same.

"You said you had money stashed somewhere public. Lots of money." Milicent grabbed a paper napkin and brought it down to her lap. A few moments later, she placed the napkin next to Dominik's cup. Unmoored, its folded edges began to unfurl, exposing a glimmer of the 50-euro banknotes she had hidden within. "That's from Isabelle. Not a fortune, but better than nothing." She grabbed a random item from the tray and shoved it into her mouth; flakes of pastry dough crumbled down her chin. "Is it worth it, do you think--" --she paused to chew properly; the pastry was sweeter than anything she could remember eating-- "--to try to recover your cache?" She swallowed. "Otherwise, it's probably best to head right over to the station. They might let us board well before the departure time."

Dominik

She was as happy to see him as he was her, that much was clear from her reaction. He felt a surge of pride at that -- somehow, Fujiwara had managed to get through to this fearsome woman. Even amidst the turmoil, that thought rang as clear as a bell. The way she clung to him wasn't just for appearances, a couple enjoying a day out in the city. She was putting too much of her weight on him for that to be the case. Whatever the reason, he certainly wasn't going to complain at the sensation of her pressed against him. She was a bracing, calming presence. A reminder of what could be.

Her news, at least, was positive. They had a way out of the city. Venice. He didn't have any contacts there, but it would give them room to breathe. Distance from the crimes they'd been accused of. Fujiwara nodded, his posture relaxing slightly as he slipped the boarding passes into his pocket. A private car; they wouldn't be disturbed, and it was almost a full day to get to Venice. They'd have time to lick their wounds and recover. Maybe to compare notes and try to figure out what their plan was.

"Perfect. Some good news at last." He was beginning to feel as though he hadn't slept a wink, even the night with her wasn't as rejuvenating as he needed. He was still sore, the exertion taking its toll. Right now, twenty hours on a train sounded like an excellent prospect.

The rich scent of tea tickled at his nose, and Dominik wasted no time in pouring his own as Milicent spoke. It was a fragrant black, dark and on the edge of bitter. Just what he needed. He cupped the delicate teacup with two hands, taking a sip and ignoring the nearly-scalding heat of the tea.

Her ring. Part of him was curious about that -- an affectation? A relic of her past? Or was she actually married, choosing to ignore her fidelity in favour of a night with him? He'd initially interpreted it as just another prop used to sell her role, but for her to risk returning to the safehouse for it? Another mystery for him to file away in his mental index. The woman was proving to be even more complex than he initially thought. But who wasn't in their line of work?

The safehouse was discovered. That was a bad sign. It should have been abandoned years ago, left to languish as a line item in an accountant's spreadsheet. Nobody should know about it. How had they been discovered? He frowned in thought, until -- the car.

"They tracked the car; that's the only explanation I have. They can't have known about the house, at least I don't think so." If they did, their enemies were even more resourceful than he thought -- or they were people Dominik already knew. Either was too concerning to bear thinking about for the moment. He shook his head. "We just need a few more hours. Some space to think." The edge of frustration crept into his tone, but he brushed it aside as she spoke again, choosing to pluck a palmier from the tray instead. He picked at it, the crisp pastry making his stomach growl with hunger.

At Milicent's question, Fujiwara shook his head, "Too risky. I have a go bag stashed in a locker at Gare du Nord, but it's too risky." Public spaces in modern cities were both a blessing and a curse -- easy enough to blend in when anonymity was required, but the unblinking eyes of cameras were always watching. If their faces were sought after, facial recognition would pluck them out of the crowd easily. "If we come back to Paris, maybe. Right now, there's too much heat."

It was a shame; he had everything that he'd need to make his escape. Cash. A new identity. Clothes. Weapons. So close, but too risky to seek out at the moment. Dominik sighed, brushing his hands together to shed crumbs of pastry and sugar as he did. His hands deftly slid the napkin from the table, tucking the bills into his pocket alongside the boarding passes. Not as much cash as he'd like, but it would do for now. He plucked another palmier from the tray, taking a large bite of it as he considered their options.

Now that he'd gotten food and tea that wasn't stale, Fujiwara felt more human. It was silly, the way the little luxuries helped prepare for the trials ahead; the carbohydrates were already working wonders for his clarity of thought. They had a long road -- or track -- ahead of them, but they would come up with a plan on the way. They'd be safer away from the headlines of Paris.

"The station," he agreed. He paused, before looking down at himself with a grimace. "I don't suppose your friend's car has clothes aboard. Or a hot shower?"

He waved the waitress over, pressing a note into her hand and pouring himself another cup of tea as they waited for the change. He let his eyes wander their fellow patrons; an elderly couple were easy to dismiss as potential threats, and the man in the suit was too composed for an intelligence asset. Spies and diplomats couldn't afford suits like that. His paranoia told him that everyone was a potential threat; closer observation assuaged his doubts to some degree. Still, he wouldn't be entirely content to relax until their enemies were cooling on the ground.

Fujiwara stood as the waitress brought the change back, tucking it away into his pocket. He raised an eyebrow at Milicent. "Time to go?"

Milicent

In the fragile tranquility of the tearoom, Milicent was most surprised by the solace she drew from watching Dominik eat. It pleased her to see his appetite. He was such a spectacular machine -- such a mouthwatering construct of sinew and muscle and bone -- but he had the same needs for fuel that she did. The knowledge that she was partially responsible for his satisfaction -- that she had selected the venue and supplied the cash -- filled her with a sense of smugness by making her a shareholder in his joy. It helped, too, that he was so easy on the eyes. Anyone watching them would regard her gaze as that of a smitten girlfriend. She followed the path of his eyes when he looked down at his outfit.

"Actually," she said, raising an eyebrow at the revelation that sprang to mind, "knowing Isabelle, we'll probably have all sorts of amenities on board." Milicent had never travelled on the Lemniscate herself, but she had been a steerage passenger on other luxury trains steaming across Europe. In her experience, the private suites on such vessels were secluded, sumptuous, and oversupplied. It occurred to her that Isabelle likely kept spare outfits on board; surely she wouldn't begrudge her blonde friend taking certain liberties?

"Yeah." She was daydreaming about clean sheets and warm baths and fine dining, and thus barely conscious of his words, but her body reflected his motions when he stood up from their cosy table. "Off we go."

❦

In the taxi, Milicent perused the front-page article, hoping to glean something that would better inform her of their situation. Instead of reassurances, all she discovered were harrowing facts. They'd already uncovered her civilian identity -- or else someone in the know had leaked it to them. There it was in black and white: Millicent Haris-Vogue. Wanted for questioning. The sight of her name burned her retinas. The editors hadn't even bothered to certify the spelling. The sensational nature of the news -- and the late hour at which it had developed -- had likely forced the paper to cut corners to meet its usual deadline; there hadn't been enough time for the journalists to get their hands on a decent photograph of her, especially since Trident did its best to keep her image from populating the web. That was useful -- up to a point. For all she knew, better images of her were already adorning televisions across the country, and the evening edition of the paper was just as likely to feature her likeness on the front page, as long as no sudden catastrophes supplanted their primacy in the news cycle. In any case, they were both personae non gratae. There'd be no Thanksgiving with the parents this year, no New Year's with friends.

Paris was boiling. Escape was vital. But with a manhunt underway, any formal means of egress would be under the strictest surveillance. Milicent was confident in the safety of the Lemniscate...but she knew that getting on the train in the first place could prove to be their most perilous undertaking yet. The paper rustled in her grasp as she folded it back to its original position and tucked it -- headline facing down -- on the seat next to her.

Their driver was a taciturn professional; after nodding in receipt of their instructions, he pretended his passengers did not exist and wordlessly eased the car northward, constantly springing from one lane to another, and thereby offered them a scenic route that skirted past the Louvre before zooming up Strasbourg Boulevard. Milicent watched the blur of passersby on the street with a longing air; how nice it would be to have that freedom again, to walk and talk and shop and idle without fear of death or arrest. Maybe Venice could offer them a taste, however brief, of that sort of respite. Maybe.

After a quarter-hour journey, the taxi coasted to a halt in front of the colonnaded frontage of the station. The driver, operating on habit, toggled a button to open the trunk of the car, only to remember with a sharp intake of breath that his passengers, strangely, had not boarded with any impedimenta.

Milicent peeked out the window. There was no unusual police presence in the wide stone enclosure that bordered the main entrance. But there were plenty of meandering bodies, and any one of them could mark the figure of a plainclothes officer or -- perhaps worse -- a hired gun like their kidnappers. A public, well-guarded setting like this would probably offer sufficient protection against the sudden advances of unlawful hitmen -- but Milicent recalled the gory sight of the young officer who had gotten his head blown off in the Grisaille; snipers could very well be involved, in which case even the aegis of a public forum would do little to shelter them from their unknown foes.

Now or never. There was no use hiding in a taxi until the Day of Judgment. She stepped out of the car and tugged her headscarf forward, obscuring as much of the blondeness above her brow as possible. She left behind Isabelle's glow sticks -- all but one, which she held onto as a keepsake out of loyalty to her friend's wishes.

Once they passed the glass doors leading into the cavernous entrance foyer, Milicent's eyes combed through the surroundings. Diverse hordes of people mingled and separated like debris swirling in an eddy; fluorescent lights advertised department stores, fast food outlets, and electronics shops; trilingual announcements reverberated across the interconnected halls, broadcasting changes in arrivals and departures. Life continued at its normal pace here. If the police were monitoring the area with newfound urgency, then they were doing it from the comfort of control rooms, or in the far-off queues of passengers waiting to embark.

"We should see about getting phones." She pointed to the small telecommunications store off to the side. "Do you still have--?"

--Milicent froze. She squeezed her fingers around Dominik's wrist.

"Three o'clock," she hissed, dragging him behind a freestanding vending machine. "The driver. From yesterday."

He wore a knitted cap on his head and a bandage across the bridge of his nose, but his gaunt face and stained turtleneck were unmistakable, even from several dozen metres away. He stood in a small queue in front of a bakery kiosk. His hands were casually deposited in the pockets of his trousers, but his eyes betrayed an uncommon alertness, flicking around to inspect the figures near him.

Dominik

If their cab driver had any interest whatsoever, he did not show it. In the finest Parisian tradition, he ignored them completely; his only acknowledgement of their destination was a half-hearted grunt before he sent the car careening through the narrow streets and busy thoroughfares with reckless abandon. Fujiwara was content to sit in silence, preparing for the riskiest part of their journey. If they were going to be waylaid by the authorities, it would be at Gare de l'Est. Still, the prospect of escaping Paris and doing so in privacy and comfort was worth the risk. They didn't have any better options at the moment.

It was a short drive, but his eyes were on Milicent as she scanned through the paper. The tension was clear in her body as she saw her face in black and white across the page, and saw her name written in unforgiving type. It was the ultimate sin for an intelligence operative. Never expose yourself to the world, never let people know your face or your name. If she hadn't been planning to retire before this, the decision was almost certainly made for her now. Though he'd had more time to come to grips with the situation, he felt the same way. The same creeping, sinking feeling in his stomach still churned, and he knew he'd have to come to terms with it soon enough. They needed to find who the true culprit was -- and that was only the beginning of reckoning with their new notoriety.

They stepped out of the cab, and the familiar murmur of a crowded train station enveloped them. It was a comfortable sort of bustle, people on their way to and from their destinations, travelling both near and far. It was a comfortably mundane sight, one that laid a form of normalcy over their day, even with the anxious period they faced now. They were close to safety, and yet the road ahead was split by a gaping chasm of uncertainty. Who or what was waiting for them here?

Fujiwara scanned the crowd around them, his eyes flickering over their surroundings with a practised cadence. It was second nature for him; along with the comfortable anonymity of crowds came hundreds of potential threats. Complacency would get them killed, and he wasn't going to allow that.

Even so, it was Milicent who spotted him first: the driver from the night before, looking worse for wear after their struggle. He didn't turn to look; that was a rookie mistake. They couldn't afford to bring attention to themselves, and they needed to look as different as possible from the pair of captives who had escaped from the farmhouse the night before. There weren't many options available to them, but Fujiwara settled for slipping his arm around Milicent's waist, and adopting a sort of slouching, relaxed gait. With their clothing, there was a chance they'd be ignored, dismissed as another young couple on a day trip.