"That's us," I said aloud. "Assassins and rioters."
"Sure, chief," Gaston said.
There was a glow in the sky ahead. From the road only a few scattered lights were visible. The countryside seemed almost unpopulated.
Twenty minutes of driving brought us to the bombed-out edge of the city. The rubble stretched ahead, with here and there a shack or a tiny patch of garden. To the right the mass of the castle loomed up, faintly visible in the glow from the streets below it, unseen behind the wall. To the original massive old country house, Bayard had added rambling outbuildings, great mismatched wings, and the squat tower.
I pulled over, cut the headlights. Gaston and I looked silently at the lights in the tower. He lit a cigarette.
"How are we going to get in there, Gaston?" I said. "How do we get over the wall?"
Gaston stared at the walls, thinking. "Listen, Hammer-hand," he said. "You wait here, while I check around a little. I'm pretty good at casing a layout, and I know this one from the inside; I'll find a spot if there is one. Keep an eye peeled for the street gangs."
I sat and waited. I rolled up the windows and locked the doors. I couldn't see any signs of life about the broken walls around me. Somewhere a cat yowled.
I checked my clothes over. Both lapels were missing; the tiny set was still clipped to my belt, but without speaker or mike, it was useless. I ran my tongue over the tooth with the cyanide sealed in it. I might need it yet.
The door rattled. I had dozed off. Gaston's face pressed against the glass. I unlocked it and he slid in beside me.