Marah Chase and the Fountain of Youth

by Jay Stringer

  “Get out.”

  “Wait.”

  “You, the desert, and a can of oil, like that Bond movie.”

  “No, wait. For real. I can help. I told you I met with these people? They’re in London. And it sounds like we’ve heard the same rumors, that Caliburn is working with them. I don’t know, man, if I was him, I’d be pissed that you’ve been running around for ten years claiming to have killed him. He’s maybe going to be after you at some point. But we can get him first. I know how to contact these guys. They know me. I can get them to talk to you.”

  “You just got done telling me how you promised some people to set them up with a meeting you couldn’t deliver.”

  “This is different, man.” Lenny grinned, showing his cosmetically whitened teeth. “We’re buddies. I’ll fix you a meeting with these guys, just get me to London.”

  EIGHTEEN

  It was two years since the terror attack, but whenever Chase was in London, she could still smell sulfur and burned dust. She could feel grit in her mouth. These were all just tricks of the mind, but she wondered if everyone else felt it, too.

  She walked down the steep slope of Villiers Street, toward Embankment tube station. She needed to be nimble, filtering between a mass of commuters and tourists. Even on a cold afternoon, London was heaving with people.

  At the bottom of the street, she saw the gates to Victoria Embankment Gardens. There was a line of emergency medical staff leaning on the railings. Chase scanned the scene, looking for any sign of a problem they might have been attending to. All she could see was the normal mass of moving people. Maybe that was routine now, medical teams waiting in case of emergency.

  She hopped down the steps and crossed the small road, walking into the shadow of Embankment Place, the dimly lit stretch of road covered by Hungerford Bridge. There were large black columns supporting the bridge, and the covered space was lined with coffee shops and bistros.

  Chase could feel the pull of warm caffeine. The early-morning flight from New York to Gatwick had been followed by the longest taxi ride in history, as all the roads into London had approached gridlock. And now she was living in the permanent underworld of jet lag and lost time.

  She took a look around. Most of the crowding was at the entrance to the tube station. Fewer people had turned to walk under the bridge. She hesitated at the door to one of the chain coffee shops, reaching for the handle.

  “Ditching me already?”

  Chase turned in the direction of the voice. Joanna Mason was standing only a couple of feet from her. Chase could have sworn she hadn’t been there a second ago.

  Mason left a few seconds before adding, “Usually it takes you at least a week.”

  Chase smiled and nodded. “I guess I deserve that.”

  They both stood for a second, caught in two minds about what to do next. What was the correct etiquette for meeting up with an ex-girlfriend who also happens to be an MI6 spy? Should they hug? Should they shake hands? Should they secretly plot the overthrow of a government?

  Mason made the first move, leaning in close for a brief embrace.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Chase let that hang for long enough before smiling and saying, “I am pretty great.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “Thanks. You look awful, obviously.”

  Mason looked frustratingly good. When they’d first met, Mason had been a field agent, trying to manage the stress of her double life. In the time since, she’d been promoted to head up her own department. Everything about her had been upgraded. The suit was sharper, her eyes were brighter. She was wearing a trench coat that probably cost more than Chase’s entire outfit, and in that off-the-shoulder way that every third woman in London seemed to be doing. Chase’s ego was bruised at the idea that someone’s life could be so much better after she walked out of it.

  Mason nodded to the coffee shop. “Want one?”

  “You’re not worried it’ll give tails time to get into position?”

  Mason smirked, just a little. “You don’t get to come into the country without eyes the whole way. That traffic jam on the drive from Gatwick was just so Thames House could put cars all around you. There’s someone in your hotel. There are two watchers in the medical crew over there, at least two people on this street by the bike shop. I think we can get a coffee.”

  They each ordered. Chase did her usual bit about asking for a regular coffee and pretending to be frustrated that they didn’t know what she meant. They settled for two Americanos, cream and sugar for Chase, and black for Mason, and took their drinks back out onto the road.

  “We’re going to be followed no matter what?”

  Mason blew on her drink and put the plastic lid back on. “Basically, yes. You don’t go through what we went through without getting put on a watch list.”

  “But we were the good guys.”

  They walked silently through the tube station, out onto the road that ran along the Thames. After crossing the busy road and bike lane, they didn’t start talking again until they were beside the river.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mason said. “Good, bad. We were part of it.”

  “So you’re on the list?”

  Mason paused to lift the lid of her coffee again. Chase smiled at the impatience. Mason could see a global map of political intrigue and plan six steps ahead. But put caffeine or a cake in front of her, and she was a child.

  “I’m sure I’m on a list somewhere. Not the same one as you, not one I’d get to see. But I broke into MI6, one of the most secure buildings in the country. Technically, I was part of a coup. It’s just that I picked the right side.” She looked around, nodding to someone Chase hadn’t noticed. “It’s just a watching brief, don’t worry about it. They’re not going to make any moves on you.”

  Chase sniffed the air. “Do you still smell it?”

  “That’s a whole thing.” Mason’s mouth twitched at the memory. “People say you can still smell it by Parliament. That burned dust, charcoal. I think it’s because they’re still rebuilding Big Ben. The scaffolding is a reminder. The real thing for me is the sirens. An ambulance went past me about six months ago and I almost had a panic attack.”

  “Have you told your bosses about that?”

  “Of course not.”

  They shared a look as they passed Cleopatra’s Needle, an ancient Egyptian monument they had visited on their second night together. Japanese tourists were climbing on the steps, posing with the bronze lions that stood permanent guard on each side of the Needle.

  “I see this every day now,” Mason said. “Lived in London my whole life and never noticed it until you. Now I see it every time I go by.”

  “You walk by here every day?”

  Mason sipped the coffee, scowled, but went in for a second hit. “I moved to a new place on Cable Street. Since the promotion, I’m mostly at my desk or in meetings, so I walk the commute to stay active.”

  “That’s a hell of a walk.”

  Mason shook her head. “Fifty minutes, fifty-five, maybe.”

  “I’m an American.”

  Mason laughed. “True. But I thought you were a farm brat?”

  Chase nodded. She was. Grew up in Washington State and loved hiking. Mostly she’d only made the American comment for the joke. For some reason, talking to Mason always brought out the contrarian in her, even if it was in a gentle, playful way.

  “Shame about the move,” Chase said. “I liked your Chalk Farm place.”

  “Too many memories. Plus, the new flat is pretty fancy. It’s a penthouse, new build, and I’ve got a view of the Tower of London. If I crane my neck.”

  “They’re clearly paying you too much.” Chase nudged her shoulder against Mason’s affectionately. “I bet you drive a sexy red sports car now.”

  “There’s no point owning a car in the city.” Mason walked on a few more steps before adding quietly, “It’s blue.”

  They passed beneath Wate
rloo Bridge. There was a raised viewing platform overlooking the river. It had been built on the remains of the original bridge, but now it was home to a large collection of tents and cardboard boxes.

  Through the other side, they started talking again. Chase filled the silence with something light. “So, the watcher at the hotel? Please tell me it’s not Tara.”

  Tara was the attractive brunette who had checked her in. She’d managed to combine friendly and rude into an interesting mix. Chase already had designs on spending the evening at the bar, trying to find out more.

  Mason smiled and slowed down, turning to face Chase. “What do you need?”

  Chase started to ask why Mason assumed she needed anything, but she gave up. As with Guerrero on the phone, her friends knew her. This wasn’t a social call, and Mason was fine with it.

  “I’m looking for someone,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Ashley Eades.”

  Mason didn’t bother to hide the recognition that flashed across her face. She looked down at her feet and said, under her breath, “Shit.” She looked around, checking for watchers, then stepped in closer to Chase. “Not here. Play along.”

  They kissed. Chase was caught by surprise as their lips met. She tried to lean into it, give some back and find the passion of the moment, but the whole thing was a performance. Mason took her by the hand and led the way across the bike lane, to the side of the road, where she flagged down a black cab. She opened the door and waited for Chase to climb in and shuffle across the seat before getting in herself and shutting the door. She leaned toward the plastic divide to the driver and gave him an address.

  Chase and Mason made empty conversation on the journey. Movies. Politics. The American presidential race. All of it for the benefit of the driver. Although Chase’s London geography was rusty, she knew they were heading in the opposite direction from Mason’s Cable Street apartment. They drove west along the river, then turned north somewhere around Chelsea. The cab pulled into a lane in the shadow of a soccer stadium. Mason paid in cash, and they got out. As soon as that taxi was out of sight, Mason flagged down another one, this time giving the driver a different address. Chase recognized the big white-fronted houses of Kensington. They passed Earl’s Court tube station and turned right, into a narrow network of mews lanes lined with small houses. The cab pulled to a stop.

  Mason paid again. As they climbed out, she kissed Chase and whispered, “Keep it looking good.” She led the way back up the street to a black gate leading between two restaurants. She unlocked the gate, and once they were both through, she paused to lock it again behind them. Down the lane, they came out onto a small courtyard, with a proper traffic entrance at the other end. They’d taken a shortcut and one that, apparently, only Mason had the key to. She opened a gate next to a house’s front steps, and they walked down to the basement level, where she opened a large black front door, ushered Chase in, and locked up again after one last look around.

  They were in a very basic, sparsely furnished apartment. Mason flicked the lights on and then said, “I could offer you coffee, but you’ve got that covered.”

  Chase took the lid off her own cup and sipped from the drink, now almost cold. “I could go for another.”

  “Instant okay?”

  Chase smiled. She remembered Mason had a whole speech about instant coffee and the British class system. “Sure.”

  They both headed through to the cheap-looking fitted kitchen. White on black, with a faded linoleum floor. There was a wooden table next to the window. Chase pulled out one of the two seats and sat down. She took a look out the window. The view was of a brick wall, with light coming from the street above. Mason filled the kettle and switched it on, turning back to face Chase and leaning on the counter.

  “Safe house. My old boss, the one who died during the attack, found a few dead spots left in the city. Places the cameras don’t reach.”

  “I would like it noted, for the record, that you gave me a golden shot at a joke there about finding places the cameras don’t reach, and I didn’t jump on it.”

  Mason paused, partway through spooning coffee into two mugs. “I think you just did.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. How is this off the grid? I thought your guys prided themselves on just how much Big Brother they had going on in London.”

  “They do.” Mason added sugar for Chase, leaving the spoon to rest in the cup with a loud clink. “But they’ve got a design floor they never even think of. It’s the problem of having a handover in generations. The new pups base all their decisions on software and algorithms. The grid tells them which parts of the grid need covered. But if there’s a part of the grid that’s not… on the grid, they don’t know about it.”

  “Sure. I’ll say I understood that, if it helps?”

  “Thanks to incomplete data that was uploaded originally, half this street is off the grid. The houses one hundred yards that way”—she pointed out the window—“are on. And the buildings behind us are on. But we’ve been off camera since the black gate. If they had eyes on us at the last cab, they can send someone in on foot, and they’d figure out the dead spot eventually. But for now, we’re on our own.”

  “Nobody watching?”

  “Nobody watching.”

  Chase leaned forward, smiling to say, Shall we? “I’d like it noted for the record that I also didn’t make a thing out of that.”

  The kettle finished boiling.

  Mason smiled. Yes, why not? “You just did.”

  NINETEEN

  Hass found a package waiting for him when he checked into the hotel. Tara, the woman behind the desk, noted his name and said, “Oh, Ms. Chase left something for you.”

  Tara was young and hot. She had a certain something. Hass caught her sizing him up when he walked in. That feeling never got old. He could feel every inch of himself. She was all smiles as she took his details, then paused for a moment to answer a phone call. She finished checking him in without apologizing for the interruption, then handed him the card for his room. There was a pause, and it started to look like she’d forgotten whatever it was Chase had left.

  “The package?” Hass gave her his politest smile.

  Tara didn’t quite roll her eyes. She was too professional for that. But there as a definite want to do it. “Sure, if you’ll let me finish.”

  That snap, the whiplash between being polite and rude, caught Hass off guard for a moment. He decided the certain something was attitude, and he liked it. Tara stepped into the back office and came out a minute later with a large padded envelope. She handed it over to Hass and was smiling again, but she looked beyond him now, to the next person in line.

  Hass nodded, more to himself than to Tara, and took the package and his suitcase. Chase had picked one of the cheap brand travel hotels. One out of the way, nearer to City airport than Heathrow or Gatwick. On the way to his room, Hass walked through what passed for the hotel bar. He felt a professional shame at this place. It was nothing more than a token effort. A small counter in the corner, linked to the front desk, with three bottles of cheap liquor fixed to the wall and a brand-name coffee machine. The seating area was a café, a meeting place, and reception all in one.

  London was one of the traditional hubs of the black market. The city had mostly been built on it. The money from opium and tea had built the banks; the money from everything else had built the docks along the Thames. Up until the Big Ben attack, there had even been a small number of smuggler towns along the estuary, places where boats and light aircraft made daily deliveries. Successive government had turned a blind eye, because everybody knew the modern capital had been built on these old trades. But the attackers had used one of these towns to bring their weapon into the country, and there had been a secret crackdown on all the old communities and routes.

  Most of the old smuggler-friendly hotels in the city had quietly shut down or changed policy. The London branch of the Royale chain was still there, but it had officially been bo
ught by a new company and rebranded. It was in the middle of refurbishment and would stay that way until the coast was clear.

  It took Hass three attempts before the electronic pass opened the door to his room. The card only had two sides, yet somehow both of them were wrong. He still wasn’t sure which way had been correct, even as the light went green and he stepped inside. The space itself was tiny, just a small bed in a room that appeared to have been built around it. The shower cubicle opened straight out into the room, and the toilet was in what he assumed had been a closet.

  He opened the package from Chase. It contained a sleek tablet, a cell phone, two power cables, and a handwritten note.

  Doc,

  I think I’m being followed. Probably government. Don’t contact me yet. I can be a diversion, give you time. Burner for emergency. Read these files cold, without me priming you. See what you can find. Check out the video and photograph.

  MC XX

  He turned on the device and was greeted with a personalized message: What’s up, Doc? And then a small database loaded. He made a terrible coffee from the packet of freeze-dried stuff and the electric kettle that came with the room and settled in.

  Scanning through the files, he saw documents about Macrobia, Punt, Alexander the Great, and the Fountain of Youth. He found the video and some old BBC news report about the Ethiopian famine. Villagers suffering, journalists pitying them. Nothing new. He flicked through to the photograph. A scanned image, cracked and faded, of British soldiers in the Sudan in 1884. The siege of Khartoum. The Brits got a real kicking that day. Hass smiled, just a little. Shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Britain, along with other European countries, had been laying claim to as much of Africa as they could. It had taken a leader from Hass’s own country, Mohammad Hassan of Somalia, to rise up and push them back. The two forces had clashed at Khartoum, a struggle that had ended in defeat for the British.

  But the focus wasn’t the siege. Chase had this photograph for a different reason. What was it? And why had she mentioned that pointless video? He scrolled back to the BBC report, watched it twice more, all the way through. On the last go, he spotted it. The old guy. He jumped back and forth between the video and the photograph. Okay, they were similar. Could be related. Though, if this whole thing was about the Fountain of Youth… time to imagine the impossible.