Jeremy Robinson - Blackout

King paused at the entrance to survey the room. He vaguely noted the rich appointments-red velvet walls with oak wainscoting, crystal chandeliers and the gleam of brass wall sconces. It all starkly contrasted with the garishness of the electronic slot and video poker machines that lined the edges of the room. The machines seemed to be the primary focus of attention for partygoers, who were no doubt drawn in by the lights and sounds and their own familiarity with the devices. The rest of the space had been divided equally between different table games, predominantly those favored by American gamblers-blackjack, craps, roulette, and Texas Hold ‘em poker-with a half-dozen or so gamblers trying their luck at each. At the far end of the room, a musical ensemble played subdued jazz from a low dais. King’s quickly picked out the security men, but again there was no sign of Brown.

To kill time, he sidled over to the cashier and produced Downey’s Platinum AmEx. The attractive woman shook her head. “No need for that, sir. The house has extended a ten thousand dollar line of credit to all guests.”

“Ten thousand?” King replied, conversationally. “I wonder how long it will take me to lose that.”

She flashed a flirtatious smile, and then pushed a stack of rectangular chips across the green felt surface. “Maybe this will be your lucky night.”

King grinned back, feeling the rubbery make-up on his cheeks crinkling in protest. “You have no idea.”

Idly shuffling the stack of chips, he moved to the blackjack tables and took a seat. He wasn’t much of a gambler. He didn’t even buy lottery tickets. Although soldiering was, by its very nature, the ultimate gamble, he had survived in his chosen profession by minimizing risks. It was no coincidence that his elite squad had chosen “Chess Team” as an operational callsign. Chess was primarily a game of skill and attention to detail, not a test of random luck. And while military operations, like chess games, could not be won without taking some bold risks, a skillful strategist could accurately predict the outcomes and almost always choose the course of action that would win the day. In casino games, the only thing that was certain was that the odds were always stacked in favor of the house.

Still, it wasn’t like there was any risk here; win or lose, it wasn’t his money to begin with.

He played through several hands, betting conservatively and winning only occasionally. Anyone observing would have thought his slightly hunched posture to be indicative of an intense focus on the game, but in reality, he barely watched the progression of cards flashing across the table or noticed his dwindling stack of chips. His gaze flitted back and forth across the room, watching for Brown to make an appearance, and as the hour wore on, he began to wonder if the operation wouldn’t prove to be, in gambling terms, a bust.

Then, promptly at eight o’clock, the music ceased and a voice crackled from the public address system, directing everyone to gather in the casino. Immediately, people began streaming in from the deck, raising the ambient noise level in the room to a low tumult. King played out the hand in progress, standing on nineteen and winning, and then scooped up his chips and made his way through the milling herd to the stage where the musicians were putting away their instruments. A few moments later, the man himself-Graham Brown, aka: Brainstorm-ascended the dais with a wireless microphone in hand, and the room broke into spontaneous applause. King joined in, unenthusiastically patting his hands together as he studied the face of his nemesis.

Fiona had caught a final glimpse of the tall man entering the side entrance of the Louvre, but her attempt to follow was immediately thwarted by a security guard. He haughtily informed her, in halting and heavily accented English, that the ticket window at Passage Richelieu was closed and that entry was only possible at the Pyramid entrance or from the Carrousel du Louvre-an underground shopping mall that connected the museum with several other noteworthy landmarks.

“You let that other guy through,” Fiona had protested.

“Mr. Carutius? He has official business. He is not a tourist.” Like you. The guard had made no effort to hide his irritation at having to explain himself to a lowly American visitor, and a child at that.

“What kind of business?”

“He is the administrator of the special exhibit.” The guard then made a shooing gesture and stepped back to his post.

It had taken nearly half an hour for Fiona and Sara to make their way back around to Place du Carrousel and through the line to the ticket window; plenty of time for Sara to demand an explanation. It occurred to Fiona that King might not have told Sara about the man who now seemed to be calling himself “Carutius.”

“It’s Hercules,” she said simply. “You know about him?”

Sara’s expression was guarded. “You mean Alexander Diotrophes, the leader of the Herculean Society?”

So he has told her. “That was him I saw, going into the museum.”

Sara gave her a pinched expression. Fiona could sense the looming question, Are you sure? But instead Sara said, “The Louvre has one of the largest collections of antiquities in the world. It’s not so strange that Diotrophes would have business here. It’s got to be a coincidence.”

“Whenever he’s around, there’s trouble,” Fiona declared.

“That’s not exactly a compelling rationale for chasing after him,” Sara countered. Nevertheless, King’s girlfriend made no move to pull Fiona out of the line. Instead, when her turn came, she forked over fourteen Euros-as a minor, Fiona’s ticket was free-and grabbed a brochure containing a rough map of the complex.

“Where’s the special exhibit?” Fiona tapped her foot impatiently as Sara unfolded the pamphlet, flipped it around then back again. “Well?”

“Fi, there are half a dozen special exhibits: The Mariette Collection; the Da Vinci sketches; the relics of Saint Caesarius of Arles; the Bamiyan Buddhas…Where do you want to start?”

Fiona let out a low growl. “How should I know?”

Sara blinked at her impassively for a moment, but then seemed to grasp Fiona’s frustration. “Look, most of these exhibits are in the Sully Wing. That’s the closest section to us right now. We’ll work our way through them one by one, okay?”

Fiona nodded gratefully and walked beside Sara as they made their way from the lobby. Her eyes roamed the faces of museum patrons, searching for Hercules-Diotrophes, or Carutius or whatever he was calling himself-but there was no sign of the man. He would be hard to miss, standing a head taller than most men, with his distinctive hair and beard. Yet, as much as she was focused on her search, her eyes were drawn to the elaborate decor of the former royal palace and to the objets d’art displayed everywhere, which surprised her.

She’d never been particularly interested in classical art. Her own heritage had ingrained in her an appreciation for a much different style of expression, one that was to her way of thinking more honest, much more in harmony with the natural world and deserving of more honor than these paintings and sculptures with which the rest of the world seemed so enamored. But despite the fact that she had entered the museum for a very different reason, she found her gaze almost magnetically attracted to the displays and her pace began to falter.

She quickened her step, catching up to Sara as the latter reached the entrance to a gallery sporting a banner advertising the relics of Saint Caesarius of Arles. Sara ventured a few steps inside. “Big guy, right?” she said. “I don’t see him.”

Fiona did not answer. She knew she should be surveying the scattering of visitors, looking for Hercules, but she found herself unable to look away from a marvelous box of gold encrusted with jewels and positioned directly in front of the entrance. Something about the beautiful reliquary absorbed her attention, filled her with an almost transcendent euphoria…