UNMENTIONABLES #2
Unlawful Entry


They gathered in the dusty sub-basement of the French Consulate-General; four villains, lit only by the flashlights held by their leader. Shadows played across the walls and shelves as his mechanical arms snaked and swayed.

“And here we are,” said Professor Manyarms. “This is the most secure part of the building.” He swept a beam down the freshly-cut tunnel which had given them access. “Or it used to be. If Harmanda's mystery boxes are still around, this is where we'll find them. Sinclair, Ballerina, find those crates. Take this place apart if you have to.”

Razor Ballerina cackled and sprouted blades in every direction. Manyarms raised a finger in warning. “I said if you have to.”

Razor Ballerina pouted.

“Okay, whatever,” said Manyarms. “But find the boxes first. Then head out and load them onto Boring Machine. Florist, you're with me on kidnap detail. Go get the door open. Who's got the sleepyfier?”

Expired Warranty shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah. So I was just having a little look. Admiring the syringe. The purity of design... perfect synthesis of form and function... But somehow - ”

Professor Manyarms grabbed the slim medical case from Expired Warranty's oozing hands. The hypodermic needles were bent, the ampoules shattered and the anaesthetic dripping away. “So much for technology,” he growled. “Guess we bring this guy in the old-fashioned way.”


*


“Madam Director?”

Harmanda underlined a sentence of the report with a resolve that bordered on brutal.

The visitor cleared his throat. “Madam Director,” he said from the doorway. “I have those photo-enhancements you requested.”

She didn't look up from the document. “I made no such request.”

“Well somebody did, ma'am. And I do think you ought to see them.”

Harmanda turned the page. She made a note in the margin. After a moment she wagged a finger towards the in-tray on the corner of her desk. She made another note and heard the cardboard file land. “Door,” she said.

Her deputy closed it behind him and stood alone in the corridor. “Thank you, Caldwell,” he muttered to himself.


*


The stairs between sub-basement and apartment level were hung with paintings; portraits celebrating the great figures of French culture. The lower floors were all Joan of Arc and René Descartes, but by this storey they were running a little thin. After a punishing sixth flight, Manyarms and the Florist stopped for a breather between André the Giant and Pepé Le Pew. The Professor pressed himself as flat against the wood-panelled wall as his spine-mounted mechanical limbs would allow. Arm four mopped his brow with a handkerchief while five and eight rolled a cigarette for later. He looked his colleague up and down. “So, Flora. You do a lot of kidnapping?”

“That's Florist,” whispered the younger man. “Or just Walter, I'm not fussy.”

“Whatever ya like, Wallflower. Tell me again about this Jean-Pierre.” He kept his voice low. These floors, the guest rooms, should be empty bar their target, but there remained the outside chance of a member of staff having stayed late – perhaps waiting for a vital cable, possibly clearing a bureaucratic backlog, most likely conducting an open-secret extramarital affair. These people were French, after all.

The Florist straightened his tie. “I met him a few years back. Balefire was recruiting minions and we made it through the tryouts. Jean-Pierre said he was enhanced to the peak of Frenchness, that he possessed the powers of the French nation. What that means in practice, I wouldn't hazard a guess.”

“Will he be a problem? How strong is he?”

“I couldn't honestly say. He never seemed to do much of the actual fighting.”

Manyarms pocketed the handkerchief and tucked the cigarette behind his ear. He pointed along the corridor. “Harmanda's thermal imaging says only one room is occupied. The Vanessa Paradis suite.” They crept over and Florist put his ear to the door. From within came a soft Gallic snore. They took up position on each side of the doorway; the burly, unshaven, disgraced academic and the scrawny, prematurely balding orchid-botherer. On the Professor's nod they entered the room.

The accommodation for diplomatic guests was sumptuous. The curtains might be thin enough to let in streetlight, but that just served to show up the fine furnishings. Dominating the Vanessa Paradis suite was a portrait of the actress in cutesy teen pop star days, performing Joe le Taxi in her Mickey Mouse pyjamas. Against the opposite wall was a heavy four-poster bed. Its occupant continued to snore. The villains edged closer. The Professor drew back his arms and prepared to grab -

“It's not him,” hissed the Florist.

Metal hands hung inches from the target's head. “Not him?”

The Florist shook his head. “No. It's like him. I mean, it's very like him, but it's not Jean-Pierre.” Manyarms didn't move. “I did wonder when we saw the photograph. Jean-Pierre's got a mole on his cheek shaped like Charles de Gaulle. But not this guy.” The Florist pointed to a croissant-shaped birthmark on the sleeping man's forehead. “And this didn't show up either.”

“You're sure? Huh.” Manyarms tapped his throat mic. “Control?” He waited for a moment, then tapped at it again. “Control, you hearing this?” He looked around the room, eyes finally settling on the Florist. “Tell me one thing. Did Sinclair say anything to you about our communication system?”

“Er. He burbled some nonsense about impressive bandwidth. Is that anything?”

Manyarms mimed strangling Expired Warranty.

The Florist looked down at the unidentified Frenchman. “What do we do now?”

“We take him,” said Manyarms. “We follow the instructions we were given. And if they're based on bad information, we let someone else take the heat.”

“But we don't know who he is!” hissed the Florist. “Or if he's even done anything wrong!”

“Sure he has,” said Professor Manyarms. “And given time, we'll find out what. Or if we can't, we can always render him to - ”

“Sacre bleu!” cried the Frenchman, sitting bolt upright in the bed. The sheets fell away to reveal a stripy jersey. His curly moustache sprang to attention. He pulled a beret from under the pillow and clapped it on his head. “Oo air yew?” he demanded. A moment passed.

Manyarms looked sideways at the Florist. “Translation?”

“I thought you spoke French?”

“Sure I speak French. But I don't speak fistful-of-vowels Franglais.”

Walter Kew faced the Frenchman with all the villainous confidence he could muster. “Name's Florist,” he gambled. “Used to work with Jean-Pierre?”

“Aha!” said the Frenchman. “My bruzzair in airms. Ah em Yves-Claude. Often as 'e spoken of yew.”

“Really? That's, that's good. Because me and my, ah, henchman here, we've got a little proposition for you.”

“And you cain shove eet up your great Americain behaind. You Americains! Your disraispect for French territoire! How dare you violate our consulate in zis mannair? You will leave at wernce or feel ma wrrrath!”

“Nice try with the softly-softly,” said Manyarms, smacking even-numbered fists into odd-numbered palms. “But let's just grab him and - ”

“Ah surrendair!” squeaked Yves-Claude. “Ah surrendair. Ah weel, 'ow you say, curm qua-ett-lay.”

The Professor spread his arms like an avenging Hindu god. “Speak French, dammit! Or better yet...” He gagged Yves-Claude with a strip torn from a bedsheet, then placed a pillowcase over the unresisting Frenchman's head. The Florist further bound him with a set of freshly-grown strangler vines.

Manyarms scooped up the hooded captive like a string of onions. “See? Done. Let's not make this any more complicated than it needs to be.”

And under the pillowcase, under the beret, a croissant-shaped birthmark began to glow.


*


“This is it,” said Expired Warranty. He pushed aside a crate of Gitanes and swept a Tricolore dustsheet off the large black box they'd seen in Harmanda's briefing.

Razor Ballerina hopped down from her perch atop a tall stack of Asterix books. “Okay ya. We go so. Come bring.” She lobbed her bottle of Mouton Rothschild '34 languidly aside. It landed with a smash among the documents and paintings she'd already sliced into shreds.

“Just a moment,” said the zombie. “This is interesting. The surfaces are strange. Really smooth, but I'm not leaving any fingerprints. And...” He stroked around the uppermost edge of the crate. “It's cold. Temperature-controlled. And there's no obvious external way to open it. It's totally secure. This is a really neat piece of kit.”

There was a snap, followed by a soft hiss of escaping gases. The lid of the crate cracked open an inch. Expired Warranty hesitated, fingers twitching, then lifted it a little further. His undead eyes bulged. Behind him, Razor Ballerina shrieked, coughed and clutched at her tightening throat.


*


Harmanda sat alone in the Llama Parlour control room. In one hand she held a sheaf of enlarged photographs, the subject's croissant-shaped birthmark circled in red ink. With the other she held down the switch of a radio microphone.

“Field team,” she barked, “this is Control. Urgent. You are not to engage the primary target. Repeat, do not engage. Please acknowledge.” She took a few deep breaths. “Please acknowledge. Field team, this is Control...”