Night of the Animals(127)

The last Watchman scrambled into the eight-by-eight-foot pop-up prison, which he was now treating as a spur-of-the-moment fortress, or at least a kind of safe room.

The winged red doors of the frightcopter flew open.

Astrid felt she had no choice about her next maneuver. She must subdue the frightcopter’s pilot before he killed them all. She sprinted toward it. She ducked under one of the copter’s hot red and gold-crested nacelles. She pushed her back against the main engine cowl, inching toward the door, weapon drawn. As she crouched and rolled into the open, aiming for the pilot, she saw the reason that she and the doctor were still alive: it was empty. The Watchman inside the prison was controlling it remotely.

“You will be hunted down,” the Watchman said to them. He took off his helm, and he clearly considered himself safely ensconced. He was a sallow, weak-chinned, balding man with tiny blue eyes and an incongruously noble roman nose. “But I’m going to kill you first.”

Dr. Bajwa stood up behind Astrid. “Distract him,” he whispered. “I’ve got nothing to lose, have I?”

“What?”

“Distract the idiot in the box.”

So Astrid said to the Watchman, “You can’t, er, see it . . . from your angle, but above you, chap, I see . . . I see the king’s own frightcopter. It’s all pretty-ditty Windsor golds and scarlets, and I don’t think His Majesty’s going to be pleased with your performance. You’ve murdered your colleagues. He’s landing down, my friend.”

“Oh, piss off,” the Watchman said, smiling greasily. “You’re lying. King Harry! And now you better hope your affairs are all in order.” He began tapping the aerosol touchscreen on back of his armored hand, and frowned. “What the bloody hell?”

Dr. Bajwa popped his head out of the frightcopter’s cockpit. “I’ve disabled the remote,” he said. “I’ve got an NSeven solarcopter certification. Almost. It’s ours now.”

“It’s a bloody frightcopter,” the Watchman hissed, his face grown incandescent red. “It ain’t some weekend whirlybird.”

“Well, we’ll see, friend. I’ve been to Philip K’s Solarcopter Flight School. In Kent, mate, in case you’re wondering.” He nodded and grinned. “And if you don’t mind my saying, you look like you’ve gone for a burton, old chapper.”

“You’ll all die,” the Watchman spat back.

“I won’t argue that,” said Bajwa.

Astrid and the doctor looked toward the lions. “Cuthbert!” they shouted, nearly in unison.

They ran over to the enclosure and looked over its edge. There he was—St. Cuthbert, slid halfway down the inside wall, up to his thighs in moat water. He was using his bolt cutters like a climber’s pick, keeping himself above the moat. A full inch of bright emerald algae covered the water, so much it hardly rippled. Only four or so feet deep, it posed little danger to adults, but it was cold, and Cuthbert was old, sick, and he’d had a few knocks. The lions gazed at the spectacle of him with interest, but not any sort of bloodlust.

“Cuddy,” said Bajwa. “We’ll get you out of here. Can you stay there?”

“Oi’m St. Cuthbert, my old friend. Oi’m going nowhere. Yow must—yow must get down to Grosvenor Square—with Drystan. Ar, it’s past time. I shall begin my . . . my last prayers.”

“But we can’t leave you,” said Astrid. “You’ll die.”

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, nodding.

“Drystan,” said St. Cuthbert. “I will call you ‘Astrid.’ It’s only two letters off ‘Drystan,’ and one of them is ‘I’—and I’m here, ain’t I? Ha-ha. But the animals. If I can hear them, so must you because of who you are. Listen for them. They will not hurt me any more than people have already. Go. Go to Grosvenor—now, please. And then come back.”

“But you won’t be safe,” said Astrid.

“If you don’t go, there’s no future.”

“No.” Astrid turned to Baj. “We can’t do this. We shan’t leave him.”

St. Cuthbert, his words smearing together, said, “Pleaseplease-gonow. Oi’m just a voice in tha wilderness of the streets. Yow’re the glory. So go. Gogaga-gogo. Go.”

Smiling down at his patient, battling back tears, Dr. Bajwa said, “Well, Cuddy, I guess this is, officially, going for a burton.”

“Yes,” said the saint.

It was with heavy steps, and crushed hearts, that Astrid and Dr. Bajwa climbed into the frightcopter.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Astrid. “It’s utter madness.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Bajwa, pulling up the hovering touch-controls. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

And they whirred into the busy London night sky.





eight





always england


MASON GAGE WAS A LONG WAY FROM HIS HOME IN Mingo Grove, West Virginia.

The chief security officer at the American Embassy, still a little grumpy at getting awakened at 4:00 A.M., couldn’t believe his eyes. He was standing in what was officially called the Central Confidence Module, or CCM, but most everyone called it the Roost. Apart from the sound of air whooshing through a ventilation register, the dim room was cool and silent, despite the twenty or so people packed in.