Black Madonna by Carl Sargent & Marc Gascoigne

Author:Carl Sargent & Marc Gascoigne [Sargent, Carl & Gascoigne, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780451453730
Amazon: 0451453735
Publisher: RoC
Published: 1996-03-02T07:00:00+00:00

17

It was a distinctly jaded huddle of people who managed to bluff and shuffle their way through the apparently equally tired and more than disinterested security at the Toulouse airport. They’d already soaked Michael’s jacket with a generous dose of brandy and proclaimed him dead drunk to account for his unconsciousness. Serrin, in contrast, had made a fairly swift recovery during the drive, surprising them all, though he was still not entirely himself. He seemed vacant, not attending to his surroundings, but he was able to talk coherently and seemed to be suffering no more than physical fatigue. Coffee from a flask, and a nip of the brandy left over from anointing Michael, had had a powerful restorative effect on him.

Streak talked them through without incident, and they were just fastening their safety belts in the Yellowjacket when a pair of airport security guards came racing up to their chopper.

“Oh, drek.” Geraint said. Streak frowned, but had no choice but to push open the chopper door again.

“You forgot to sign this.” one of the men announced. proffering a form that looked as if it had outgrown “triplicate” and was now heading for double digits.

“Yes, and this.” the other one grinned.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s chill. Sorry, we were in a hurry. Guess I forgot.” Streak said, managing to sound bored as he signed the top copy with a pen borrowed from one of the men. That pen, when it found its way back to the officer, was wrapped in a high-denomination French banknote.

The man smiled broadly. “That will do nicely, monsieur.” he said, and the pair retreated slowly back to their concrete watch-house.

“I was so busy trying to be casual I forgot the bleeding bribe.” Streak explained once he’d closed the door of the aircraft. “Sorry.”

“Thank God that was all.” Geraint said. He was overtired and jumpy. Of them all, he alone had seen the malefic spirit that had killed Gianfranco, and the sight had seared his nerves.

“London?” Streak asked again. Apparently no one had heard him the first time.

“Guess so. I’m too tired to think of anywhere clever.” Geraint said feebly.

Streak turned briefly to his fellow elf, but Serrin had his nose buried in paper. With Michael still unconscious, the mage had apparently decided to take over the task of plowing through the morass of data he’d unearthed in his investigations. His brow furrowed, he ticked off something on one page. then resumed chewing the end of his pen absentmindedly as he scanned the next. Beside him. Kristen gazed absently out the window, apparently mesmerized by her light-spotted reflection.

“Can’t go back to London . . . some mad Shi’ite ragheads have nuked it!” Streak announced loudly.

“Hmmm.” Serrin said, chewing hard.

“Does he often get like this?’ Streak asked no one in particular.

“Uh? What?” Serrin said, suddenly looking up.

“Never mind.” Streak said wearily as he prepared to taxi off. “It doesn’t matter.” He pulled on his headset and hailed the tower, asking for clearance and a runway The engines kicked into life, straining and purring like barely house-broken leopards.

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