by G M Eppers
Roxy wasted no time. She had her briefcase on the edge of the desk by the time I sat down and had popped it open. “I believe I have all the documentation you’ll need to extradite the criminal known as Rennet Butler. His legal name is not known. I hope that won’t be an impediment.” She passed over a manila folder, which Ms. Forthright took and began paging through. “Mr. Butler escaped from an American prison in the state of Georgia several months ago where he was serving time for a number of serious charges. I’ve already applied for provisional arrest and he is in custody at this time. You’ll see I have affidavits from the arresting officer, the English prosecutor, and seven witnesses to his most recent crime.” Neither Roxy nor I, as those petitioning for the extradition, could be considered as witnesses, but the rest of the CURDS team and Sticky had all written and signed statements. “You’ll also see that this most recent crime violated 16 international statutes, 12 of which were created in the UN Uber Treaty of Bern.”
“Gracious,” said Ms. Forthright. “You’ve certainly done your homework, Ms. Dubois.” She continued paging through the file, slowly. “This is very impressive work on such short notice. I understand the crime in question took place only last evening.”
“That is correct. I know my job, Ms. Forthright.” She certainly did. She had stayed up all night taking those affidavits, waking each person in turn as needed. I made a mental note to mention it in my report to Miss Chiff.
“Well, I believe I can give this a go. I’ll have my secretary fax this entire packet to the prosecutor. He’ll have to sign off on it and send it to OIA,”--the Office of International Affairs--“who will do the same and fax authorizations back to me here at the Chembassy. You understand, either of them could deny the request.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Roxy.
“If that happens, we can attempt to revoke his passport, which would result in his immediate deportation, but I believe this should go through the channels with no problems.”
I spoke up. “If possible, Ma’am, we’d like to escort him back to the States in CURDS custody.”
“You don’t want Marshall assistance?” she asked, clearly taken aback by my request. I’m sure it was highly unconventional.
“I don’t think that will be necessary. We’ve dealt with Mr. Butler before.”
She scribbled a note on the top page of the file. “I can recommend that, but I can’t guarantee it will be authorized. I would suggest you have an Interpol Red Notice filled out in the event he escapes your custody.”
Roxy patted her briefcase. “Already done. Just waiting for a date and a signature.”
Ms. Forthright closed the folder, stood, and picked it up. “Well, let me get this to my secretary. It should take at least a few days to process, though I will do what I can to speed it up. If you have a cell phone I can call?”
I gave her the number of my phone. A few days was a gift. I believe the usual time span for this kind of red tape was measured in geological eras. I sensed the hand of Miss Chiff at work yet again, or simply that Uber business kind of trumped most other stuff. Back when it was considered a viral contagion, avenues were created to expedite nearly every aspect of dealing with Uber on a global basis, enabled after a seriously botched attempt at handling an Ebola outbreak in West Africa. No one wanted that to happen again. If it had been known that it was not contagious at all, but inadvertently self-inflicted, we’d likely still be treading water in a lot of ways. What I often looked back on as an inexcusable failure in science and medicine continued to benefit us immeasurably.
We returned to Sticky’s. As long as Miss Chiff didn’t contact us about another assignment, we were welcome to stay in London as long as necessary. When we returned to Hearth and Home, I ordered Roxy to bed. She’d been up for almost thirty hours and didn’t object to the order at all. I hadn’t had as much sleep as everyone else, but I was still mostly refreshed. I did take a shower, though, before I joined everyone else in the dining room, which had been set up for afternoon tea. The rest of the team and Sticky had all slept in while Roxy and I had been out, so it was just Roxy playing catch up. They had enjoyed a nice leisurely breakfast versus the McDonald’s sausage egg McMuffins that Roxy and I had grabbed on the way to the Chembassy. But now it was time for tea.
Sticky poured out. He served a platter of mixed crumpets and biscuits, whatever was left from his pantry. “Sticky, please let me reimburse you for all the food you lost,” I said as I sat down. “We’ll take you for groceries tomorrow on us. And you can show us some sights.”
“I do get a delivery from Tesco every Wednesday,” he said, “but there are a number of places in London I like to shop as well. Thank you, Helena. I believe I will take you up on that offer.”
Sir Haughty sipped his tea in true British fashion. “It seems only fair, mate.”
Billings sat next to Avis Nicely, and Badger next to Agnes. Billings picked up the tongs and put a square of sugar into his tea. “Sugar?” He asked the twins.
“Two please,” said Avis.
“None for me, thank you,” said Agnes.
Billings plopped two sugar squares into Avis’ tea, and she stirred it as they dissolved. Sylvia nibbled a biscuit and watched. She often stayed out of conversation, more so since her accident. She never did like to call attention to herself, which is probably why she didn’t want to tell anyone about what happened in Paris. I watched her watch the others, and watched her watching me watch her. Her uncovered emerald eye looked down demurely at her teacup, as she calmly kept her mouth busy with slow sips, tiny nibbles, and unhurried chewing.
“There’s some lovely groceries in London,” said Sticky. “We can go to Waitrose, or Fortnum and Mason, which supplies food to the Queen herself. Guests love when I mention that. But it won’t take all day. Are there some sights you’d like to see?” We had a number of suggestions and we spent a few hours making a tentative plan. Sticky pulled out a London map and we devised an efficient route. Because much of the food would be perishable, we agreed to do the groceries the next day and save sightseeing for the day after. Besides, groceries would require the car, whereas other entertainment would be better done by the Tube, London’s subway system. In addition, should we get a call from Miss Chiff, the sightseeing was all expendable whereas replacing Sticky’s lost pantry contents was somewhat more important.
So the next morning, with Roxy caught up on sleep, we piled everyone into the van and headed into London to replenish Sticky’s larder. Our first stop was a place called Sainsbury’s, where we picked up the turkey and a chicken for the turducken that he hadn’t been able to make because of Butler’s intrusion. We also got the ingredients for the ruined stargazy pie, dumplings, and four dozen eggs, but they were out of kippers. So we moved on to a Waitrose where we found kippers and several other items, but Sticky was just getting started. “You know,” he said, noticing that there was still room in the van in a foot well somewhere, “I do like to keep a variety of cuisines on hand since I get guests from all over the world. Would you mind terribly if we ventured farther? You won’t have to pay this time, but it’s so smashingly convenient with this large vehicle that it’s hard to resist.” While the majority of our purchases were Sticky’s, he was hardly the only one shopping. I didn’t expect to hear any objections.
“Sure, Sticky. Where would you like to go?” Billings asked at the wheel, ready to take further direction.
“A place called Loon Fung.”
“Sounds Asian,” said Sylvia from two rows back, sounding a bit nervous.
“Well, yes. It’s in Chinatown. Just a quick stop, I promise. I have guests from Hong Kong already booked for next month.”
Billings drove according to Sticky’s directions and soon we were in Chinatown, which looks amazingly like the Chinatown in DC, which looks like the Chinatown in Paris, which …you get the idea. Chinatown seems to be the same place no matter where you go. You have to walk around reminding yourself of what country you are in. I’ve never been to China itself, b
ut I have this odd feeling it actually looks nothing like any of the Chinatowns. I suspected that, with the various Chinatowns popular with tourists, the décor catered to the expected stereotype and didn’t actually reflect the real ambiance of China. I could be wrong. I’ll probably never know. Asia doesn’t really do cheese.
It took ten minutes to find a parking space in the Q-Park lot. We piled out, rearranging the existing groceries to extricate ourselves. I noticed that Sylvia wasn’t making any moves to get out of the van. “Sylvia?”
“I can wait here,” she said. “You can’t be long. We have perishables. And you won’t have to worry about the car being broken into.”
The rest of the group waited in a huddle nearby, looking curious. I went over to the side of the car for a confidential word with Sylvia. “The car will be fine.” I ducked closer, lowering my voice so the rest wouldn’t hear. “Sylvia, you’re only making them suspicious that something is wrong. Come with us. Act normal. Hey,” I added as an afterthought. “Duck down for a sec and then act like you just moved your eye patch. Everyone will think they missed something.”
She exhaled heavily, then gave in. She leaned down, and came up fingering her eye patch. Keeping her voice equally low, she said, “Okay, but if I see one frozen cat I’m going to go berserk.”
“We’re not going to see any frozen cats.” I didn’t KNOW that, but I had to say it. “I think that’s only a restaurant thing. Like you said, we have perishables. After this it’s straight back to Hearth and Home. We aren’t stopping anywhere for a meal.”
We followed Sticky to Loon Fong where he purchased several Asian dishes. I stayed near Sylvia in case she saw something that might cause her to freak out, but she managed to keep her cool. Roxy bought a couple boxes of fortune cookies, and Nitro grabbed a large pack of Chow Mein noodles, which were apparently included in his heavily self-restricted diet. On the way back to the car, Sir Haughty popped into a small souvenir shop. “I’ll just be a few ticks,” he said. No one else wanted to go in, so we waited outside.
It was while we were waiting that my phone vibrated. I let out an involuntary “Oooo,” and pulled it out of my front pocket. I made a mental note to start putting it in the back when I left it on vibrate, but somehow I kept forgetting. I’d made that mental note many times.
It was Ms. Forthright. “Are we good to go?” I asked after she identified herself. I pushed the button to put her on speaker so the others could hear.
“Not quite. You see, there’s the matter of local criminal charges. Attempted murder, a guns charge, and kidnapping. All but the last have been cleared.”
“Cleared? How?”
“We have the report from the crime lab. It turns out Uber in non-dairy food is harmless. It must combine with the bacterial starter to have the narcotic effect. It doesn’t even cause Obstruction without that. So, the attempted murder charge is virtually gone.”
“But he intended—“ I started to say.
She interrupted, anticipating my objection. “You know the intent laws were reformed after the OOPS. It was too easy to say you didn’t know it was Uber.” That was true. It was determined that ignorance of the cheese was no excuse. In this case, it worked against us. Had there been the potential for actual contamination it would be different, but this was something like intending to rob someone at gunpoint when you only had a feather. Even if you believed it was a gun, it was still a feather. In a way, I was disappointed, but if it held up the extradition I wanted the red tape cut to ribbons.
“And the guns charge?”
“The guns were registered to Mr. Butler, and were only fired when he was being subdued as a result of the struggle. We can’t hold him on that. However, that leaves the kidnapping charge.”
I looked at Sticky, knowing where this was headed. “Sticky, would you be willing to drop the charges against Butler so that we can take him to the States? We can extradite if the only thing on him is escaping U.S. custody.”
Sticky moved closer. I could see he was going through the options in his head. “Is that what you want, Love?”
Butler had terrorized him for three weeks. He had every right to want the man’s head on a platter. I knew it was a lot to ask. “Yes.”
“Consider it done.” He took the phone from my hands gently and spoke to Ms. Forthright, waiting while she started a formal recording, then giving her information to confirm his identity and his request to drop the charges. “I can come to the Chembassy in person, if you like,” he offered.
“I believe this recording will be sufficient.” He surrendered the phone back to me as Ms. Forthright continued. “But it will take at least another day to process. I’ll call again when I have the extradition authorization.”
I thanked her and hung up. “Thanks, Sticky. I’d rather take him home with reduced charges
than leave him here on anything less than attempted assassination of royalty.”
“Don’t let Francis hear you say that,” Sticky said. “He adores British royalty. Any mention of an assassination and he would certainly take offense.”
I looked in the window and saw Sir Haughty standing in line at the register. There were three people in front of him, so we had a little time. “Tell me, Sticky,” I said in a conspiratorial whisper that made my entire team lean in close, “was he REALLY knighted?”
“Yes, Love. He was. I did it myself. We were both off our faces, of course, and I wore a dress and a wig and spoke like this,” for the last three words he went into a high falsetto, then resumed his normal voice. “Please don’t tell him. He really does think it was the Queen. He’d be heartbroken.”
“Absolutely, Sticky.” I made meaningful eye contact with each member of the team, wordlessly swearing them to secrecy. Badger crossed his heart and raised a Boy Scout salute. Sylvia mimed zipping her lips shut, and the others nodded in agreement, suppressing giggles.
After a couple more minutes, Sir Haughty came out carrying a tiny bag. “Did I miss something?” he asked when our conversation stopped at his approach. I told him about Ms. Forthright’s call. “I see. Well then. Our London tour is nearly finished.”
“What did you get?” asked Sticky, pointing to Sir Haughty’s souvenir bag. There was a British flag imprinted on each side of the plastic bag. There were no handles, so he had the top of the bag scrunched up in his fist.
“A gift for you, mate. But you have to promise not to open it until after we’ve left. And just to make sure, I’ll hang on to it for you until then.” He smirked and clutched the bag closer.
“But I’ve already gotten my gift,” said Sticky, patting Sir Haughty on the shoulder. “Rennet Butler is out of my establishment. My kitchen is full to bursting. It’s almost like the entire nightmare never happened. I couldn’t possibly ask for anything else.”
Sir Haughty laughed out loud. “You didn’t ask. That’s why it’s a gift!”
Roxy said, “it’s very small.”
Sylvia replied for him. “Good things come in small packages.” She paused. “It’s personal between them, I’m sure. Come on. Let’s go.” And Sylvia led the walk back to the car.
We all helped carry in Sticky’s purchases and he stowed them in various cupboards, double-wide refrigerators, and a walk-in freezer, happy as a clam to get his life back in order. Not long after that, he sent a mass email to all of his regular customers that he was again open for business after dealing with personal issues. And before we turned in that night, he’d already gotten a couple of bookings by phone. He also texted his staff to report to work as usual at the beginning of the week. It felt good to see things getting back to normal so quickly.
The next day, as promised, Sticky led us around London to see the sights, using the Tube to get from place to place. I’d seen some of the sights, but this was the first time for Sylvia and Nitro, and it was fun watching their reactions to things like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and seeing Big Ben strike 12 Noon. We went over London Bridge, and Sir Haughty regaled us with
a history of the bridge. “This bridge, in fact, was built recently, opening in 1973. The original bridge was wood, and was replaced by newer wood several times before the stone bridge was built in Medieval times. It used to house dozens of shops and was a place for the royalty to display the heads of executed criminals beginning with William Wallace in 1305.”
“Of all the facts about London Bridge,” said Sticky, “you can count on Francis to know about the severed heads.”
Sir Haughty took friendly umbrage at Sticky. “And just what do you think is the most interesting fact about London Bridge, mate?”
“It was sold,” he said.
“For real?” Nitro asked. He hadn’t heard about this. “Not just some scam artist?”
“For real,” confirmed Sticky. “In the 60’s, I believe. To a rich bloke by the name of Robert McCulloch. He had the thing moved, brick by bloody brick, to Arizona, of all places.”
Unfortunately, there was nothing on the other end of the bridge of interest to us, so when we got to Southwark we turned around and went right back again. The last London attraction on the list was the London Eye, a huge Ferris wheel on the south bank of the Thames. It was early evening by then, and Sticky wanted to show us the lights of the city. I was looking forward to it. As we queued up in the ticket line, we watched its 32 cars rotating slowly high above our heads, lit up against the darkening evening sky. “I hope no one has acrophobia,” said Sticky.
“Are you kidding?” Replied Agnes.
Avis added, “What’s the opposite of acrophobia?”
