The Timekeeper Conspiracy

PROLOGUE

Garvin's life was leaking out of him in a dozen different places. He didn't think that it was possible to lose so much blood and still be alive. He knew that he had only moments left to live, probably less.

Lodged beside a nerve behind his right ear was a micro-circuit that, when activated, sent out a coded signal to the agency. They would find him by homing in on his implant signal, but they wouldn't be in time. He would be dead in moments, at which point another signal would be sent. It would be the termination signal and it would let them know that agent Richard Garvin, code name: Ferret, had bought the farm.

He had made a mess of it. Garvin had no idea how they had caught on to him. He would never learn how his cover had been blown, but that was of no consequence. He didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that they hadn't finished the job.

They had left him for dead, but he wasn't dead yet. He had to hang on just a little while longer, just long enough to transmit his information. If he could do that, then it wouldn't be in vain. He would have died for something, something that mattered. And he'd be able to get back at them, even from the grave.

He no longer felt any pain. All he felt was a deep and numbing cold. His breath came in burbling gasps and he was shivering, even though it was a warm spring day. Springtime in Paris, he thought. A lovely time to die. He chuckled and started coughing up blood.

He reached behind his left ear, only to discover that that side of his face was nothing but raw meat. So much for the transmitter. The subcutaneous implants were very fragile. They had known just where to cut. They hadn't bothered with his cerebral implant. They knew his fellow agents would never get to him in time. And time was running out. He had to let them know, he had to leave a message.

He dragged himself slowly across the floor, leaving a wide trail of blood behind him. With each movement, more of his intestines tumbled out onto the floor. He didn't bother trying to push them back in. What was the point? It didn't matter. He was a dead man. Nothing mattered except what he had learned.

After what seemed like an eternity, he had dragged himself over to lean against the chalky white wall of the tiny apartment on the Rue de Seine. Time. If only there would be enough time… His vision was blurred. He felt very dizzy.

He had never thought that it would be like this. He had always known that he could die and that his death could be unpleasant. It was something every agent knew and lived with. But he had never thought that the end would be so damned undignified. They would find him vivisected in a puddle on the floor, his entrails torn out as though he had been the victim of an augury. Read my entrails, tell the future. Or, in this case, the past.

He dipped his finger in his own blood. There was a plentiful supply. Please, God, he thought, just let me live a little longer. Just long enough to write my epitaph.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. It brought on another coughing spasm. Fighting the encroaching blackness, Garvin used every ounce of will and strength that he could muster to keep his finger from shaking. He began to write his last words in his own blood.

Time. In the last analysis, it always came down to time. And Garvin's time had run out. They found him slumped against the wall, his eyes wide open in an unseeing stare.

Outside, it was morning and the birds were singing songs of spring.