Chapter 9: Prayed for a savior

"Well," Phileas said as he poured the brandy into three crystal decanters. "I must say, Mr. Cummings, Mr. Stokes, that I am a bit surprised by your position."

"How so?" Cummings asked nervously. He didn't like accepting hospitality from a man he intended to burgle. He knew that a certain amount of back-street-doings, as it were, had to be expected of undercover agents, but Fogg seemed such an upstanding person, and certainly kinder than he had to be.

"Well, to begin with, I certainly didn't expect you to come and tell me that my cousin had gotten off at the station all right."

"I only thought it was polite," Cummings said weekly, "She is after all, a lady. One can never be too protective."

"Really?" Fogg said, sounding amused, "I suppose that's true. I can scarce number the times I've dearly wanted to protect Rebecca, but been unable too."

"A right redhead, eh?" Stokes said, laughing. Cummings and Fogg stared at him, a bit put off by his common humor. The boxer seemed to notice his folly and quickly turned back to his tumbler.

Fogg cleared his throat, "What I was really referring to when I said I was surprised by your offer was that I was shocked that Chadsworth would spare men to protect Miss Sykes, he seemed rather annoyed at her when last we parted."

"Jupiter's book is quite important," Cummings said. "When I heard that it was threatened I felt we had a duty to help protect it."

"Did you?" Phileas asked, it seemed like he was almost suspicious of that claim. "And why is that?"

Cummings hesitated for a moment, "It is vital to national security that our enemies do not recover it."

"But what," Fogg asked, drawing every word out as long as he could, "if we never benefit from the book itself?" he proposed. "What if Chadsworth never consents to buying it, what then?"

"So long as our enemies don't have it," Cummings said, taking another sip of the brandy, hoping that the action would hide his lie.

Phileas looked at the younger man with a wary eye, but after another sip of brandy seemed to wash that away. When he spoke again his voice was jovial and warm. "As glad as I am for the company, I can't help but think that this will be a somewhat weary journey," Phileas said. "There is no chance for whatever foreign agents tracked Mary down to assault her while in the Aurora, and we will be hovering over London for hours, at least until daybreak."

Cummings felt another twinge of guilt, but soothed himself with the knowledge that the young girl would not be assaulted on the Aurora, she would simply be burgled. "Well," he said uncertainly. "Perhaps we could pass the time with a game of some sort."

"Did you have any particular game in mind?" Fogg asked with an eager tone in his voice. the young agent had no idea what sort of pandora's box he had just opened.

"Well, I don't know," Cummings said. "I was rather thinking something along the lines of Chess, although I don't know if you have a board."

"I dare say that no person who would call themselves civilized would dare to be without a chess board. But that would leave our dear Mr. Stokes out. Perhaps we could persuade Passepartout to join us and start a game of bridge, or, perhaps, whist?"

"I'm not really one for those games of strategy and such," Stokes said quickly. "But I know that Mister Cummings here is quite good a chess. If you're any good sir, I would like to see a fine game played. You can learn a lot form watching two masters duke it out."

Phileas smiled in the way an English Lord often smiles to those he knows to be his inferiors, "Indeed you can, well then, Mister Cummings, are you up for a game?"

"Of course sir, bring out the board."

"I'll fetch it directly," Fogg said, with an almost childish grin. He quickly exited the room, leaving Stokes and Cummings to their own devious plots.

"We don't have time for an elaborate plan," Cummings whispered quickly. "We'll begin play and then, after a bit yawn and say you'll go for a quick walk. I'll keep him busy in here, draw out the game as long as I can, and you, you find the papers.

"Right, sir," Stokes said. "Good plan."

Cummings nodded and tried to ignore the guilty lump in his throat. At that moment Fogg came back in was an obviously hand carved chess set in one hand and another decanter of brandy in the other. "It was the duce to find," he said excitedly. "I almost never get a chance to play. Rebecca has the attention span of a three year old, she thinks the game is dull. Passepartout can never remember which pieces make which moves and Verne takes so long thinking of every move and countermove that I have enough time to read "War and Peace" between turns." He looked up at Cummings and smiled, "I shall very much enjoy having a true opponent."

"As will I, I'm sure," Cummings said. He had not found a man of intelligence and daring who was interested in a game of chest for quite a while. He rued the fact that he would have to make this game a farce, something to keep Mr. Fogg distracted for as long as possible and not a true tet-a-tet with a worthy competitor. Cummings was beginning to think that, maybe, this job was not as fulfilling as he'd hoped it would be. That maybe the parts of him he liked the best would fade away in the secret service, because what he needed were the parts of him he liked least. But those thoughts would have to wait 'till London, 'till after they'd found the book and completed their mission.

The rook made a sort of dull thud as it hit the board. Cummings felt a thrill run up his spine and he sucked the breath in through his teeth, Phileas exhaled slowly through pursed lips and leaned back in his chair.

"Check," Cummings said, trying to hide his self satisfaction. He was too young to realize that such efforts were useless.

"Well played," Fogg said, examining the board and taking another sip of his brandy. "Well played indeed."

"I must admit that this game is the most rewarding thing I've done in quite some time," Cummings said, taking his own sip of brandy and not savoring it. "You are a magnificent player, Mr. Fogg, truly remarkable. Have you ever thought of entering a tournament?"

"No," Fogg said in a drawn out voice. "A well played game of chess is invigorating, but I'm afraid my tastes run towards games where fortune plays her hand." Fogg's eyes never left the board, and they always had a thin film over them; he was concentrating.

"Ah, cards and the like?"

"Anything that you can bet on."

"I suppose a wager could be made on chess."

"No," Phileas said. "No, no. Chess is all skill, there is no chance involved. If you know you have superior skill and reasoning, than there is no chance, and without chance, no honorable wager."

"Do you believe you have superior skill and reasoning?" Cummings asked, just a little nervously.

"No, no," Fogg said quickly. "Ordinarily that is the case but, no, with you Mr. Cummings, I have no such assurances."

"I take that as a high complement."

"As it was meant, I can assure you," the older man said, smiling.

Once again, Cummings felt a pang of guilt in his gut. He nodded, politely in acknowledgment of the compliment than fell into a sullen silence. He was able to brood for a few moments, before he realized that Fogg was examining him with cold grey eyes. He tried to smile, to shrug off the glare, but the son of Sir Boniface seemed to be made of ice. The game was up, there was nothing to do now, but confess.

However, whatever Cummings would say was immediately forgotten. There was a large bang, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, and then a horrible, horrible silence. There was an uneasy dread filling the room, Cummings knew that, whatever that shot had been, it had to do with the book. And from the chilling look Fogg gave him, so did the older man.

"If," Fogg said, his very voice a threat, "that was one of yours, harming, in any way, one of mine, you shall find yourself falling. Falling and landing, very suddenly, and lethally I might add, into the English country side."

"Fogg," Jules yelled, his voice was thin, croaked with sorrow. That was understandable considering the sight that greeted the Englishman kindled both a debilitating grief and the need for revenge.

"My God," Phileas said in a whisper that no one but Cummings heard. All other words seemed somehow inappropriate.

"You have to come help me, Fogg," Jules said, tears were rolling down his eyes and he was clutching the young french girl's body to his chest. They were both covered in blood, by the look of things, hers. "She said to pray, you have to . . . have to help me pray."

Phileas felt as if his heart had suddenly turned into stone, it felt heavy and obstructed his breathing. Like a man in a trance he walked over to the pair sprawled on the floor and knelt down. He had to fight back tears as he saw what had happened, two very distinct bullets had torn through her torso, probably hitting her lungs. She was still breathing, but barely, and blood was flowing out of her mouth. Her eyes were focused on something else, something far away, something not of this earth. She was dying.

As Jules, his eyes closed tight, he voice choked, desperately rattled of prayers of petition to every saint he could name, Phileas watched the young girl's face. She didn't looked pained, she almost looked rapturous, and her lips were moving, ever so slightly. It took him a moment, but eventually he realized that she was praying as well: reciting a prayer that once upon a time, in the depths of his childhood, he had known.

"O Raphael, lead me towards those I am waiting for, those who are waiting for me," She whispered, so silently that no one but the angel could hear. "Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead me by the hand towards those I am looking for. May all my movements, all their movements, be guided by your Light and transfigured by your Joy."

Her eyes fluttered and she gasped, but her lips continued to move in the silent petition. Without deciding to, Phileas found himself reciting the prayer along with her, his voice was hushed, not really meant to reach the Angel or comfort the dying, but rather to honor the girl that followed him with such devotion. "Angel Guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you at the feet of Him on whose unveiled Face you are privileged to gaze. Lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of earth, we feel the need of calling to you and of pleading for the protection of your wings, so that we may not be as strangers in the Province of Joy, all ignorant of the concerns of our country."

He recited the last verse of the prayer alone, "Remember the weak, you who are strong--you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder, in a land that is always peaceful, always serene, and bright with the resplendent glory of God. Amen."

A tear rolled down the stoic man's cheek, and he checked his breath to hold back a sob, "Jules," he said softly, reaching out to the young man who was furiously sobbing his way through the Hail Mary, and putting his hand on the writers shoulder. Phileas was ignored.

"Jules," he said just a little more forcefully as he shook the young man, hoping to startle him out of his fanatic supplications.

It worked, the younger man looked up at his friend with furious bloodshot eyes, "For God's sake, Fogg," he screamed, except that his voice was hoarse from crying so hard. "She's hurt, she said we have to pray. Help me pray."

"Jules," Phileas said, with no small amount of sorrow and compassion in his voice. "I believe that you need to start praying for her soul."

Those words, though spoken with nothing but heartfelt love, stabbed the young man as painfully as any knife could have, "No," he croaked, tears streaming out of his eyes. "God, no."

"Her suffering is over, Jules," Phileas said. He could feel the tears start to well up in his eyes as well, but he set himself against crying, he was stronger than that; he didn't cry.

As Jules collapsed into his grief on the floor, cradling the body of his beloved, Phileas pulled himself up and, taking a deep breath, turned himself around fully expecting to find an empty room. Instead, he found Cummings and Stokes watching the very intimate mourning, both looking horrified and ashamed.

"Gentlemen," Fogg spit out. The word seemed to developed a new meaning as he said it, it was almost a threat. "If you would be so kind as to retire with me into the kitchen I believe we have some matters to discuss regarding Jupiter's papers."

"Fogg, I . . ." Cummings stuttered, not willing to look the older man in the eye.

"This is important," Phileas spit out venomously. "This cannot wait."

Cummings nodded, and was willingly led to the kitchen, as was Stokes. When they reached the door to the little room they found it locked, with Passepartout inside, banging and screaming for someone to let him out.

"Oh, Master," Passepartout gasped as the door was unlocked and opened. "I was standing in the kitchen making tea and then there must have been a blustering of wind because the door, she closed, and then the lock went click and I was thinking I'd never be let out, which would not be so bad for me, sir, because I was having all the food, but it being very bad for you sir . . ." He didn't seem to notice the graveness of the company around him as he babbled on. Part of Phileas didn't want to tell him what had just transpired, the other part of him couldn't let the manservant be jovial and whimsical at a time like this.

"Passepartout," Fogg said, more harshly then he meant to. "Something dire has happened."

Finally, the Frenchman seemed to catch on to the tone of the men around him, "Dire, master?"

"It seems," Fogg continued with unbearable formality, which he used to keep him from breaking down into tears. "That Mary was shot, and killed."

"Shoted!" Passepartout gasped, horrified, "Shoted, the sweet, innocent, lovely girl . . ."

"Ple . . Ple . . .Please Pas . . .Paspart . . .tout," Phileas stuttered, before taking a deep breath. His emotions were too close, too powerful. He had to push them down and away, to disconnect. "Go comfort Jules. Watch over him, make sure he wants for nothing."

"I'm sure he'll be wanting Miss Mary," the manservant said with a whimper.

"Go!" Phileas yelled, as he pointed towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms and the scene of one of the greatest tragedies Fogg had ever experienced.

"Yes, master," Passepartout said sheepishly, before turning and heading up to see what could be done for Jules. Which left Phileas alone with the two agents.

"When Chadsworth refused to the buy the book fairly I assumed he was come to his senses, not leave them completely," Phileas said angerly, before stepping aside so that the door to the kitchen was unobstructed. "If you would be so kind," Phileas said with perfect formality as he ushered the men into the small room.

Stokes glanced at Cummings, presumably for instructions. Cummings did not react, instead he look straight ahead, at Fogg, with the sort of expression that an honorable but guilty man has before his execution. Hot rage pulsed through Phileas's veins, and he was not beyond crude vengeance. But something about the way Cummings stood, with a trembling jaw and set eyes, reminded Phileas of himself twenty years ago.

"In my day rape and murder were not acceptable tools for members of Her Majesty's secret service," He said, standing in front of the door so the two men understood they were trapped in the small, claustrophobia inducing room. "But I suppose the rules change with who's playing. And some people will do anything to get what they conceive to be the slightest advantage. And this," Phileas said, pulling the small black book out of his breast pocket, "would give any man in our line of work an advantage, I should know, I've read it."

"That's Jupiter's book then?" Stokes asked before Cummings was able to hush him with a gesture.

"It is indeed, and it's pursuit has so far killed at least three people, one of them an innocent."

"It' was an accident Mr. Fogg," Stokes tried to explain desperately, "It happened so quick and he was yellin' and she was cryin' and neither of them were answering questions."

"Be quite, Stokes," Cummings said forcefully. "Fogg is right, an innocent girl died, there are no excuses."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Mr. Cummings," Fogg said. "Because I know you'll understand that here's where it ends." With that, Fogg threw the book into the little franklin stove Passepartout always kept hot in case Fogg would suddenly, unexplainably demand tea or coffee.

"Damn it man, what are you doing!" Stokes yelled, not quite foolish enough to reach into the licking flames that surrounded, and had already begun to consume, the little black book.

"Shut up Stokes!" Cummings yelled, "Fogg is right, it ends, it has to end."

"Then I trust that I need not chain you for the remainder of our trip to London?"

"No sir," Cummings said, "We submit ourselves entirely to your authority."

"Well then," Fogg said, his throat was beginning to swell, watching that little black book incinerate reminded him of the waist and futility of life. He needed a drink. "I'm going to lock you in Passepartout's lab. If you would be so kind as to not touch anything . . ." he couldn't finish the sentence, he needed a drink desperately.

The End

Dear faithful readers, I know you're all very upset, you've waited, and waited, and waited . . . and this is what you've got. I'll try to give you a little bit more closure with an epilog, and I'll explain some of the sources for the story with an appendix. I'm not at all convinced anyone will want to read these things, but feel that they need to be there. So thanks for your tenacity and patience.