The Reluctant Assassin by Eoin Colfer
I had better not shrug, then, thought Agent Savano, and twisted herself completely into the fireplace.
While Chevie was scraping her nose along the redbrick of a chimney, Riley was being interviewed in the writing room by society darling Tibor Charismo. Riley was an adoring fan of Charismo’s work, and Tibor seemed extremely satisfied to take this as the starting point of their relationship.
They sat at an extraordinary mahogany writing desk fashioned in the shape of a stylized gryphon, with a lion’s body and the head of an eagle, covered in gold leaf, protruding from one side. The lion’s flat back was upholstered in pale orange leather, with cubbyholes for bottles, pens, and blotter.
And even though Riley had visited the twenty-first century, he believed this desk to be the most fantastic single object he had ever seen.
“You are admiring my desk, I see,” said Charismo. On this morning he wore an old-fashioned powdered wig over his dark curls, his mask was painted in garish orange and red to give him a slightly demonic appearance, and his dressing gown was quilted silk with a lush fur collar.
“Yes, sir,” said Riley. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Charismo drummed his fingers on the wood. “A gift from the tsar of Russia. I baked a poultice for a boil on his nose, if you can credit that. The offending blemish was reduced in circumference by more than sixty percent. Alexander was most grateful.”
Riley’s jaw dropped. “You are a doctor, too?”
“I have no formal qualifications,” said Charismo, in a way that suggested formal qualifications were a waste of a gentleman’s time. “I am connected with the spirit world, which is composed of the sum of human experience, past, present, and future. The spirits communicate with me in my dreams. They whisper to me of words and music, but also of future events. Wars, catastrophes. Plague and famine. It is a terrible burden.” Charismo rested his weary, tortured brow on his knuckles. “No one can ever comprehend the cross I bear.”
Riley dared to pat his hero’s elbow. “Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.’ And surely, sir, you are the greatest genius who ever lived.”
Charismo smiled a touch sadly. “Dear boy. Yes, perhaps I am. And how pleasant it is to have the fact acknowledged. You truly are a perceptive young fellow.”
Charismo dabbed a lace kerchief near his right eye. “Perceptive and mannerly. You have no doubt noticed my various masks and yet made no comment.” Tibor Charismo tapped the smooth plaster of the mask molded to the left side of his face. “This particular model is a Japanese Noh mask representing the devil.” He giggled. “I wear it for séances. A little melodramatic, I know, but it gives the ladies such a naughty thrill.” He paused, his mouth drooping in long-suffering sadness. “I know what they say, those so-called gentlemen of the press. Charismo hides his warts. Or Tibor Charismo cultivates mystery because he is a sham. But the truth is, I wear these masks to hide a terrible disfigurement. A birthmark that was the subject of so much childhood ridicule that I cannot bear to expose it now. Even at night I wear a silken veil.” Tibor banged his fist on the desk. “Why must Tibor endure this curse?” he shouted to the heavens, and then, “Oh, look. Tea!”
Barnum, the enormous driver, was also a butler. He now entered, squashed into a uniform and pushing a trolley heaped with cakes and hot drinks.
“I know how you young scamps enjoy your treats,” said Tibor, filling a plate for Riley.
“Oh, no, sir,” objected Riley, his stomach already full to bursting after a glutton’s breakfast. “I’m not used to such rich food.”
“Nonsense,” proclaimed Charismo. “You must sample les macarons. My chef is French, and they are his speciality. Though I have been credited with inventing the different flavors. A tip from the spirits.”
“Perhaps just one,” said Riley, selecting a small cake.
Charismo filled his own china plate and ate for several minutes with concentration and enjoyment, growling low in his throat with each mouthful. Eventually he sat back and belched into his handkerchief with such force that the material fluttered.
“Now, what was our topic? Ah, yes, the trials of Tibor, but enough of that. You will think me a terrible boor. We are here to talk about you. The spirits assure me that you have had a fascinating life. Let us start with those unusual eyes.” Charismo placed a finger to his temple. “The spirits inform me that this condition is known as anisocoria, and it is usually the result of trauma, but it can also be inherited.” Tibor leaned forward, suddenly paying very close attention. “Can you remember, my dear boy?” he asked, flecks of sugar on his lips. “Can you remember your parents? Did they have anisocoria?”
Riley sipped his tea. “I do not know for certain, sir. Sometimes I have dreams, or visions. I was young when my parents died . . . were murdered, actually. By a man named Garrick. Now he’s on my trail.”
Charismo stuffed his kerchief in his mouth. “Quelle horreur! Murdered, you say. But this is terrible, awful.” He patted Riley’s knee. “You are safe here, my boy.”
Riley placed his cup on its saucer, tracing the pattern of dancing girls on the china with his index finger. “I can’t stay long, sir. You have been wonderful to grant us shelter, but Garrick will find me, and then you would be in danger. My conscience could not bear that responsibility.”
Charismo harrumphed. “With your leave, Riley, I shall worry about this Garrick individual.”
Riley’s scratched the scab on his shoulder, though the tattooist Farley had warned him against this. “Everyone says that, sir. Then Garrick kills them.”
“Shall we make a gentlemen’s agreement?” asked Charismo. “We will have our little talk and I shall take my silly notes, and then I will set all the resources at my disposal, which are considerable and include Otto Malarkey and his stooges, a-looking for your Garrick. How does that sound?”
Riley forced a smile.
“Capital,” he said, resolving that he and Chevie must be away before nightfall.
Chevie’s first thought upon emerging through the fireplace into the chamber directly above her bedroom was that perhaps she should not have worn a white shirt.
I am not having much luck with clothes these days, she thought, and then, These days? What does that even mean anymore?
The climb had been difficult, but far from impossible for someone whose first month in training had included a half-mile crawl along a disused latrine drain, with barbed wire overhead and a permanently disgruntled FBI instructor above the wire. Her only worry in the chimney had been that she would lose her purchase on the mortar between the bricks and slide down to the cellar.
Chevie climbed over the grate’s brass railing, then stood upright, grateful to have space on every side—she had been about two minutes away from developing claustrophobia.
She looked around. This room was three times the size of hers and infinitely more luxurious. The bed was the size of a trampoline and seemed to be built on a nautical theme, with posts designed to look like masts and drapes rigged like sails. Blue-and-white-striped cushions were heaped in a mountain in the center, and what looked like a veil was tied to a brass hook on the headboard. Chevie counted over a dozen gas jets on the walls, as well as four electric lamps. One of Charismo’s Farspeak devices stood on a marble-topped bedside table and another on the rolltop writing desk. Gold-framed pictures lined the walls, and all depicted Charismo. Some were seated portraits, but others documented his extraordinary career. Here he was onstage with Robert Louis Stevenson in Covent Garden, and there was Tibor presenting a leather-bound book to Queen Victoria herself. By the window was a framed cover of Harper’s Magazine, split by a Union Jack ribbon into two halves, the left depicting Charismo speaking into his Farspeak device, the right showing an amazed mother with her petticoated daughters listening raptly to the receiver.
Chevie looked around for anything that might justify her nagging suspicions about Tibor Charismo. She knew in her gut that something was wrong. Her in
I knew those guys were clean, and I just know that Tibor Charismo is dirty. I need to find the connection. There were only two men from the future hiding back here. One was Riley’s father, an FBI agent, and the other was the man he was guarding.
Charismo’s collection of half-masks was displayed on a board on the wall, each dangling from a dedicated brass hook.
This guy sure likes his masks, Chevie thought, tapping a mask that looked like solid gold but was actually painted plaster.
Nothing is as it seems.
Almost unconsciously, she began humming the intro of a song that her father had played over and over again on his beatup turntable: Eric Clapton, “Behind the Mask.”
Now this is real music, squirt, her dad said every single time he dropped the needle on the record.
Behind the mask. I wonder what is behind the mask.
There was a crack in the display board running right down the center. No, not a crack—a gap, because the board was actually a set of doors.
Where is the handle?
There was no handle, so Chevie put a finger against each door and pressed. The doors gave slightly and then swung open to reveal a recessed cupboard and bulletin board. There were line drawings pinned to the board and an assortment of objects placed on the shelf.
Calm down, she cautioned herself. And don’t miss a thing.
“Oh, my God,” she said aloud, surprised that her suspicions had proved to be spot on. “I’ve got you now, Tibor.”
What a fancy name he’s given himself, Chevie thought. Much fancier than Terry.
Suddenly she heard the rapid footfalls of a big person jogging up a nearby set of stairs.
I need proof for Riley.
Chevie snatched two small objects: a glittering ring from its velvet cushion, and the second to get her home again. She was back in the chimney before the masks stopped rocking on their hooks.
Inside the chimney, Chevie plotted her next move.
I need to get Riley alone and show him what I found. I hate to destroy his hero, but Charismo is not quite as gifted as he pretends to be.
She inched down the shaft toward the light below. The light. My room.
No one entered the chamber above. The footsteps she’d heard had been a false alarm. Still, it would be foolhardy to go back up. She should count herself lucky that she’d escaped detection this time.
Chevie imagined her Quantico instructor screaming abuse in her ear, and this motivated her to descend a little faster. In three minutes flat her boots were sticking out of the fireplace in her bedroom.
She twisted onto her stomach and pushed herself into the room, once again feeling that immense sense of relief at being free from confinement.
I made it , she thought.
A voice above her said, “Well, well, well. What do we have here, a-droppin’ down the chimney? One of Father Christmas’s elves, perhaps?”
If that voice belongs to Barnum, the humongous coach driver, then I am in trouble, thought Chevie.
It did, and she was.
Albert Garrick always felt a little jittery passing through Mayfair. In spite of his dandy getup and his long hair, a style affected by many a lordling, he had the nagging idea that his humble origins somehow shone through his eyes for all to see.
In spite of everything I know, everything I have seen, I cannot make myself comfortable on these streets.
He tried to bolster his own confidence with an inner pep talk: Buck yourself up, Alby. You are no longer a starving urchin combing the cobbles for the scraps from a rich man’s table. Time to scrape that shame off your soul like dog filth from the toe of your boot.
A flower girl actually curtsied as she approached. “A carnation for your buttonhole, m’lord.”
This simple greeting raised Garrick’s spirits more than his own strictures ever could, and he smiled with more sincerity than he had in some time. He reached behind the girl’s ear and found a shiny sovereign.
“This is for you, my dear. Buy something that is as pretty as yourself.”
The maid stammered a thank-you, then stood a-staring at the currency in her hand as though it would melt.
Garrick continued down the north side of Grosvenor Square toward the residence of Tibor Charismo, the man who had hired Otto Malarkey to kill him.
There was a well-tended private park opposite Charismo’s famous dwelling, reserved for residents only and accessible by a heavy, locked gate. Armed with his magician’s tools, Garrick was no more troubled by the gate than a dog would be by a keep off the grass sign. In seconds he was reclining on a clean, varnished bench, admiring the Himalayan rhododendrons, and keeping a close eye over their bobbing heads on the fabulous Charismo residence.
So, now Tibor Charismo wishes me dead, as he once did Riley’s family.
For it had been Tibor Charismo who had contracted Albert Garrick over a decade ago to dispose of Riley’s entire family in their Brighton residence. And now, all this time later, he had obviously discovered Garrick’s deception and decided to settle the affair with some finality.
Could that be the entirety of it? Charismo would pit himself against me over the life of a boy?
Garrick thought that if the situation allowed, he would put this question to Charismo before he killed him.
There was some movement in a window. Garrick’s rejuvenated eyes had no difficulty recognizing the figure, even from this great distance.
Charismo.
Garrick sat up as though the bench had been electrified.
So, my nemesis is at home today. That makes my job easier.
He was suddenly glad that he had tipped the young flower girl so heavily.
You see, Albert. It is like Felix Smart’s mother always said: If you do nice things, then nice things will happen to you.
Inside the house on Grosvenor Square, Tibor Charismo was treating himself to yet another macaron while the barbiturates he had mixed into Riley’s tea took hold of the lad’s brain. The sweet delights of the belly had always been Riley’s weakness.
Once the boy’s eyes had glazed and his arms hung limply by his sides, Charismo began his questioning in earnest, revealing the true motives for his kindness.
“Now, Riley, let me explain what is happening. I have given you a blend of barbiturates that I cooked up myself. A truth serum. You could try to fight it, but you would simply damage your brain, so it would be far better for your mental health if you answered all my questions truthfully. Do you understand?”
“Yesh,” said Riley, around a fat tongue. He felt drunk and compressed by the weight of air above him.
Charismo clapped his hands. “Excellent. Now, first question: Did you come through the wormhole, or were you just squatting in the house on Half Moon Street?”
It did not seem strange to Riley then that Charismo should know about the wormhole. Perhaps the spirits had told him?
“Wormhole,” he slurred. “From future.”
Charismo frowned. “I imagine you somehow were pulled into the time tunnel on Bedford Square, then returned through Half Moon Street, correct?”
“Yesh. Pulled and returned. Future smells lovely.”
“And Miss Savano—what is that sweet girl’s part in this affair?”
Riley closed his eyes and smiled. “She is FBI. Special agent pretty.”
Charismo stood, wringing his hanky like a turkey’s neck. “FBI? F . . . B . . . blooming . . . I.”
“Like my old dad. FBI. I saw his shield.”
“Like your old dad?” said Charismo slowly, allowing the words to sink in, confirming his suspicions. “Of course. I heard Garrick had a boy. But I didn’t know you were that boy.” He steered his mind back to Chevie.
“Has she come for me?”
“For you, sir? Oh, no. We simply flee from Garrick. He wants the Timekey. It’s the last one for this wormhole. Or it was the last one, till Otto Malarkey pulverized it.”
“That’s wrong, sir.”
Charismo flapped his kerchief, irritated. “What’s wrong, boy?”
“Garrick is not deceased. Everyone makes that mistake.”
“Not Tibor Charismo,” said Tibor Charismo. “I have taken care of Albert Garrick. He crossed me once, but never again.”
Tibor popped the final macaron into his mouth and hummed while he chewed. “That’s the chorus of a new song I am crafting entitled ‘We All Live in a Yellow Submarine,’ which I won’t be able to release until submarines become commonplace.”
The door burst open and the manservant Barnum entered, dragging Chevie behind him. She was bound fast with coils of rope, but still struggling.
“What ho!” said Charismo. “This is unexpected.”
“I found ’er in the chimney,” said Barnum, tossing Chevie to the floor at Charismo’s feet.
“Unexpected?” said Chevie, cheek burned by the carpet. “Didn’t the spirits warn you?”
Charismo poked Chevie’s shoulder with the tip of his pointed slipper so that she lay on her back. “That is not how it works”—he placed a finger to his temple—“Agent Savano of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Chevie sneered. “Hey, why don’t you ask those spirits if they can tell you anything about Terry Carter, a crooked banker from New York City?”
Charismo shrieked at the mention of Carter’s name, then kicked Chevie in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs.
“Put her on the chair,” he ordered Barnum, sitting down to rub his toe. “Then leave us.”
Barnum’s hands were quick to the job, but his brow was puzzled. “Leave you, master? But this gal has strange maneuvering in her, and you are not yourself entirely, throwing kickings and such.”
“She is tied, is she not?” said Charismo irritably. “Do as you are told, but wait outside the door. There will be some lifting before long.”
Barnum threw Chevie a threatening look and left the room, muttering about how a man never knew where he was, and a little manners would not go astray.