| Hargrove
the Marxist Detective and the Adventure of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle |
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Hargrove
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"keep your distance Chewie, but don't look
like you're trying to keep your distance... I don't know. Fly
casual." - Han Solo The battle ebbed and flowed like a tide, the pulsing
groups of desperate valiant warriors falling back, regrouping, and surging
forward. The rattle of
gunfire echoed off the walls and dust, smoke and plaster chips filled the
room, making it difficult to breath and even more difficult to see. In this choking gloom the Iga NinjaTM seemed to
gain new life, their deadly blades snickering quietly through the blinded
enemy. Hargrove looked over at Paddy O’Lan and MacGuiness. They had set
themselves up behind an overturned table with a stockpile of whatever
drinks had been available; laughing eerily as they let off bursts randomly
into the dusty haze, not particularly caring which side they hit.
At each occasional resulting scream, they laughed louder and raised
their bottles in good-natured friendly salutes.
The Marxist detective gritted his teeth and looked about for
Frieda. His searching eye found her, on the north side of the conference room.
Behind her, in the corner by the fruit punch bowls, in a lull in
the battle, was Sensei Lloyd. The
stillness caught his eye; Sensei Lloyd stood motionless, sword poised,
facing Trotsov. Hargrove gasped. “Cover
me!” He yelled to Frieda, and dashed across the conference room towards
her, the H&K PSG1 set to fully auto and blazing into the fray. From the shelter of one of the great columns, they watched horrified, as
Trotsov’s blade rang out against Sensei Lloyd’s. Clearly she knew her craft as thrust followed cut, spinning,
leaping, fluid motion overwhelming the aging head of the Iga.
The two bodies met, separated, and met again, blades sliding and
clashing; Sensei Lloyd stumbled and Trotsov took instant advantage, the
tip of her blade slicing into the flesh of the old man’s shoulder.
Sensei Lloyd grunted and leapt back, poised with his upturned sword at
his cheek. Trotsov allowed herself a small smile.
“You are done, old man,” she said, “unless you’ll agree to
a deal?” “No. There will be no
deal,” the clan leader hissed. He
visibly relaxed, and straightened slightly. Hargrove raised his weapon and gently squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. “Damn,” he cursed, frantically searching Frieda’s body
for weapons. Frieda gasped. “I have
nothing!” Hargrove stifled
her squeals of delight as he confirmed several potential hiding spots, and
they both forced their attention back to the duel.
Frieda’s squeals had attracted further attention, and a small
contingent of TICKS was making their way over. Sensei Lloyd’s eyes were hard and flint black, but he was calm.
“No deal,” he repeated, “And you have won nothing here.”
His blade lowered, and his eyes never wavered. Trotsov’s laugh was cruel. “Very
well,” she smiled, through clenched teeth.
Despite her bulk, she moved like lightning, the katana’s arc a
clean shining line in the dusty air.
Hargrove and Frieda gasped in two part harmony.
There was a flash, the katana sliced, and when the flash cleared
the retina Sensei Lloyd’s black ninja cloakTM drifted into a
graceless heap on the floor, empty. There was no time to wonder at this, as the small
force of TICKS began shouldering their oddly shaped rifles. Hargrove and Frieda ran, crouching, back across the
conference room to where the Irishman and the Scott sat, giggling.
Ninja FredTM made the occasional shushing sound at them,
and fired shuriken with rapid fire precision into the maelstrom. At their arrival, the black clad Fred shot them a
look of desperation. “The
second wave has arrived,” he managed, between throws, “Their force is
now stronger than ours! We
must retreat. Can you manage
these two?” Hargrove nodded – there was no time to tell Fred
what they’d seen, and the enemy forces had forced their way fully into
the room. “This way,” he
said, jerking his head towards a nearby fire exit.
A small contingent of black clad warriors joined them, covering
their retreat and helping to drag the besotted Scottish behemoth. One of the Iga warriors slung O’Lan over his shoulder,
pausing only to rap the diminutive agents head against a nearby pole to
simplify the transport process. How long into the night they ran, Hargrove didn’t
know. They wound their way
through the back streets of Yaravin, and the ninja were barely there; dark
bursts of movement between shadows, flashes of eyes from sewer grates,
doorways and hedges. The
Marxist detective caught the occasional barely audible curse, as the ninja
stubbed toes and found cover in thickets of thorny brambles, but for the
most part their flight was deathly silent but for MacGuiness’ drunken
laughter. The last of the light had disappeared by the time
Ninja FredTM stopped, and the streets were glowing with various
city light sources. There was
a flash, and the ninja vanished, leaving only Fred in a dapper tweed suit.
He glanced about nervously for a second, and motioned for them to
follow him out of the little alley, into the street.
“Don’t do anything, suspicious” he said, quickly, and nodded
at MacGuiness and the newly awake O’Lan “and make sure they behave.
The Paplavok Café is owned by friends of the cause – we will be
safe here for a time.” The café proved to be a warm, if dingy place, but
Fred led them past the quaint tables and into the back.
A flight of stairs led them to a locked steel door, which Fred
rapped on with a walking stick he had pulled from seemingly nowhere.
Pause. Rapped again,
in a peculiar pattern. Another
pause, and a slot in the door clanged sideways, revealing a suspicious set
of eyes. The eyes widened at
the sight of Fred, and the peephole clanged shut again; within seconds,
the door was open and they were ushered in. “You? Here?
What went wrong?” The burly man stammered, in heavily accented
English. “I don’t know.
Not yet.” Fred replied curtly, and brushed past him into the dark
warren of rooms behind. The
first door was opened, revealing what seemed to be a smoke filled Irish
pub, the like of which litters cities the world over, except that it was
mostly empty and devoid of the usual blustery cheer. Despite that, there was a tired whoop of joy from
MacGuiness, echoed quickly by O’Lan, and stifled by a glare from Fred.
“Coffee,” he called to a man hidden in the smoky shadow of the
bar, “lot’s of it.” He
led them through the bar, into a room which opened past the washrooms,
empty but for a large meeting table surrounded by chairs. The man from the door appeared in the doorway.
“Wait here, make yourselves comfortable, I will return
quickly,” Fred told the tired group. He motioned to the doorman, and they disappeared. “Where the hell are we?” MacGuiness growled,
searching his pockets for his bottle.
“That little bastard has fast hands.” “We,” announced Hargrove, in his best detectives
clipped tones, “are in the vicinity of Abovain and Moskovian Streets.
In Yerevan. In a small
Irish pub. Which appears to
be underneath a local café.” Paddy O’Lan turned over and groaned.
MacGuiness prodded him with his boot in a helpful manner.
“Abovain!” The
small Irishman moaned, cryptically “I remember that place.
A horrid drink, shouldn’t ever have been brewed.” They ignored him. “Hargrove, dear; how do you know this?
And does this not concern you?” Frieda asked, settling into the
chair beside him and putting her head on his shoulder. “Street signs, my dear.”
Hargrove said. “You had the presence of mind to read the signs on
the way here?” She asked, impressed. “No, my love.
There – in the window.” Sure
enough, the street signs glowed under lamplight outside a small iron
grilled window. “But what
I’d like to know is what we are going to do now.
Clearly there was a mole, or a leak, or a…well somebody found
something out. Is it possible
that one of us is the source?” Hargrove fixed each of them in turn with a glare;
that was indeed the question. Frieda?
Never, and his hand had been…well suffice it to say that she’d
been with him the whole time, of that he was sure.
MacGuiness? O’Lan?
Turncoats? He refused
to believe it. “No,” he said with sudden finality, “Not one of
us. We are in this together,
fellow workers in the revolution of workers, dedicated to the cause.” MacGuiness started.
“Cause?” He said, chuckling, “I’m here because some dolt
sank me fucking ship.” He
shook his head. “If
somebody could just find me a door, and point me to the sea, I’ll be
taking my leave of you. If the fine lady there wants a ride…” Hargrove’s eyes hardened.
“I should have known,” he said, “once trouble started you’d
be the one to turn tail. Fellow
worker indeed, and to think that once I envied your solid honesty, your
back breaking ethic, your…” He
couldn’t continue, so choked with emotion he was. Frieda raised her head and looked over at MacGuiness.
“We need your arm on our side, your wrench, your spirit.
My superiors will make sure it’s worth your while, never fear.” MacGuiness’ answer was cut short by the return of
Fred, accompanied by three others. “This is Sir Edmund Trundle, Paulina Korneeva, and
Sergei Parajanov. Sir Edmund
heads the coalition of resistance, and Sergei and Paulina are local cell
leaders. Obviously something
went horribly wrong; it appears that we are the last of the Iga NinjaTM.”
Fred’s eyes were hard, as was his voice.
“It also appears that I am now the clan’s grandmaster.
We have reorganized ourselves.
Others will join us shortly, and a presentation will be made.” Paulina and Sergei sat down at the table, nodding a
hello, Sergei’s eyes lingering over Frieda.
Paulina glared at him, then Frieda, and then inexplicably at
Hargrove. Sir Edmund began a slight bow, when his eyes caught
sight of Paddy O’Lan, who was beginning to recover somewhat. “Ho, ho,” he said, “If it isn’t The Green Lantern.
Paddy O’Lan, as I live and breathe.
Back from Istanbul in one piece, I see.
I’ve lost an office pool bet on you, I’ll have you know.” MacGuiness began a laugh.
“The Green lantern,” he sputtered, “Oh that’s bloody rich,
that is.” His laugh was cut
short by an elbow to his ribs, which forced him into a fit of coughing. O’Lan’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s not common knowledge,” he said, “and I’ll thank
you lot to keep it to yourselves. I’d
a tricky time as it is in Istanbul, what with the fish tank and the
hovercraft affair; I’ve some words for your superiors when I return.” Two younger men appeared, carrying a strange device
which they placed on the table. “Portable
holographic device,” Fred explained.
The room was filling slowly, people of a wide variety of ethnic
backgrounds trickling in. With the projector set up, and the trickle of people
into the room abated, Fred nodded at one of the younger men.
The lights dimmed, the machine on the table clicked, and the shaky
image of a large building hummed into life in the middle of the table. “Hidden within the crate this young lady brought
with her,” Fred began, indicating Frieda, “was a sheaf of blueprints.
One set outlined engineering data for a cryogenic chamber, but
underneath that was a second set: a set of technical drawings for the
building you see before you.” His hand swept across to indicate the building
floating above the table. “The
US embassy in Yerevan,” he said, “headquarters to one of the greatest
conspiracies of our time. Home
to the growth chambers for the alien replacement clones, destined to be
the heads of various states – the current target being
Armenia.” He let that sink
in. “Obviously,” he continued, “we cannot allow
that to happen.” The image
flickered, and became a gridded city map.
“The area of Yerevan we are interested in is arranged as a
circle, with the embassy at its edge.
You are here.” The image added a glowing red dot, then shifted,
zooming closer at breakneck speed until the lined representation of the
embassy filled the image. “As with most US embassies, this building is
heavily fortified, and fully guarded, which is why we had initially ruled
out a strike against it in favour of action elsewhere.
However, these blueprints have revealed a small flaw in the
building’s defenses. It appears that a small team of agents could
approach the embassy here,” lights glowed out brightly on the left rear
side of the embassy, “and put a small rocket propelled missile in this
ventilation shaft.” Again
the image enlarged, showing the shaft in question; “which leads to a
bathroom beside the room where the aliens await activation.” “How big a rocket?” O’Lan asked. Fred pulled out the MM1 revolving 40mm grenade
launcher from Frieda’s crate, and placed it on the table.
“This. The
ventilation shaft entrance is a grilled mesh, two feet by two feet. The team will need to blow the mesh and fire these grenades
through the resulting hole.” “You’re mad,” MacGuiness chuckled. Paddy O’Lan piped up.
“No, I think it’s possible; I used to hit muskrats in Algonquin
park at 80 yards with something similar in my misspent youth back home.
Dad used to call it ‘sniper training’.
‘Get that one,’ he’d say, ‘that one looks bloody catholic
ta me.’ Da was always on
about the Catholics.” The
diminutive Irishman trailed off in the face of hard stares from the rest
of the room. Fred cleared his throat.
“Fine. All right.
The main body will be a distraction.
We will march up Marshal Baghramian Street to the front gate,
posing as a protest march. This
will arouse no suspicions; it is an everyday occurrence at US embassies
worldwide. Once at the front
gate, we will mill around loudly and attract attention.
At a pre-arranged time, I will slip to an unattended portion of the
gate and deposit this drugged rabid fox inside the embassy courtyard.”
From under his tweed sport coat, Fred produced an unconscious fox
with a flourish and placed it on the table beside the grenade launcher. “That will fully distract them. The small team will then proceed with their task of blowing
the vile lab. Any
questions?” Fred paused. “This plan is fool proof.
We’ve fully tested it on Johnson.”
He indicated the greasy haired badly dressed man at one end of the
table. The man’s clothes
were shredded beyond repair, and one arm was bandaged.
Johnston drooled and frothed invitingly, but nobody had any
questions for him. “Fine,” Fred continued, “all that remains then
is to pick the elite team. The
protestors will be given feature-changing makeup so that they will not be
exposed, but the small team runs the greatest risk.
For that, we require volunteers.”
He looked pointedly at O’Lan, MacGuiness, Frieda and Hargrove. “I am required at the front gate, so I regret that I cannot
be a part of this historic mission.” Sir Edmund stood.
“I,” he pronounced in precise, correctly enunciated, English,
“Would be proud to lead this contingent.” Hargrove bolted upright.
“I must be a part of this. I
have waited for this uprising all my life.” He turned to Frieda, and
pulled her up, looking into her eyes. “Remember Afghanistan? Rome? Barcelona?
We must do this, together, my love.” “Yes! Yes!”
Frieda threw her arms around Hargrove, and pulled him close,
ignoring the smell wafting off his tattered suit. Hargrove turned to look at O’Lan and MacGuiness.
“And what about you two?” He paused, but they said nothing.
“What if I told you there was a round of free drinks in it when
we were done?” “We’re in” Paddy O’Lan said, quickly.
MacGuiness nodded enthusiastically. “Fine,” Fred said, “that’s our team then.
You will be taking the subway from Yeritasardakan, about a block
from here, past the embassy to the stop on Marshal Baghramian.
There is a hotel across from the stop, you will wait there in the
bar until it closes, at 0200 hours. The
protest should be well out of control by then.”
He fixed them with a peculiar look.
“This is important though; excessive drinking may risk
everything.” MacGuiness looked hurt and was about to say
something, but thought the better of it. “You leave on the last train – 1100 hours.
That is in two hours, you may want to get some sleep and something
to eat. Paulina and Sergei will accomodate you.
We meet back here in an hour.
Questions?” Fred’s
eyes swept the room. “Fine. That is all.”
As the room emptied, Fred paused beside the group.
“You will not be alone,” he said, in a low voice.
“The Iga who came here with us will accompany you, though you
will not see them. For now, rest.” And then they were alone. Will they succeed? Will there be more Paddy O’Lan puns? Is Paddy O’Lan as whiney as Luke Skywalker?
Who gets to be Chewbacca, and when does Sensei Lloyd reappear?
Can anyone else find a street map of Yerevan, as well as subway
maps, train times and such? What
about Arovain beer, what the hell does it taste like anyway?
And last but not least, is anyone but me proud that I worked the
drugged fox into all this?!
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