Marked Masters

by Ritter Ames

  The roadie held up a large wheeled bag I recognized as my own and said, "A pretty lass with pink-tipped hair left this for you."

  "Yes, that was Cassie."

  "Okay then. Let's roll." He tossed my bag like it weighed nothing, and the luggage landed in the back of a waiting golf cart. I assumed a full bag of luggage was nothing after manhandling huge electric amplifiers and stage boards. He waved me toward the passenger side, and I hopped in beside him. I turned back and saw Jack run into the customs zone just as we zipped toward the exit. I untied the scarf from my purse strap and covered my head. A second later I'd added my sunglasses. I'd have to take them off to climb the stairs to the plane. But since it was a rock group's charter, my disguise could easily be chalked up to a publicity-shy celebrity instead of my wanting to stay incognito in case any of Moran's watchers manned the airport.

  The roadie gave my new look nary a glance. I was really beginning to like this guy.

  "I'm Clive, by the way," my escort told me, holding out a callused right hand as he used his left to steer the cart out of the building and onto the tarmac. "Patricia said you're a good egg and you won't grass all our secrets to the press."

  "I thought grass was when someone narced to the police. It works with the press too?" When he frowned at me, I quit my musing. "Sorry. Whatever. Yes, I'll keep anything quiet from the press. They've never really been my friends either."

  Well, some were, but I didn't think Clive wanted to hear me dither on. And his opening up with this line made me wonder what kind of drug use I might witness on the plane. Not that drug use would surprise any of the press. I would have thought the group's image actually required that kind of thing broadcasted. "Look, as far as drugs—"

  He held up a hand as we neared what appeared to be our jet. I don't know one private plane from another, but the musical cacophony coming out of this one pretty much spelled out Whyte Noyse to me.

  "Here." He handed me a pair of earplugs and leaned closer so he wouldn't have to shout. "Just wear them until we take off. I'll make introductions after we're in the air."

  Okay.

  However, the earplugs were cushy, and when in Rome and all of that… He grabbed my luggage bag from the back, so I only had to get myself up the ladder before Jack had a chance to spot me on the tarmac. Thanks to the long transatlantic flight and the time zone difference, dawn was struggling to peek out over the horizon. It wasn't quite full light, but it was worrisome. Regardless, all the outside airport lighting was still ablaze, so I needed to get into the noisy plane as soon as possible. Yes, the thought sounded crazy even to my earplugged ears.

  Band members were still boarding, lugging their own stuff up the portable stairs. I was halfway, stuck behind a couple of leather-clad Whyte Noyse members and bookended in back by my roadie escort, when everything stopped. Something wasn't fitting into the hatch door. I nearly panicked, wondering if Jack would leap out of the concourse doors at any second. Since half the band wore shaded glasses, I put mine back on and scrunched down a bit. I'd just have to be careful as I climbed. I fiddled with my shoe, trying to pretend I wasn't hiding behind dark lenses and the metal sides of the stairs. I peeked over the railing to see if Jack had made it through customs and followed us, then I caught my breath.

  It wasn't Jack I had to worry about. Standing outside one of the nearby hangers was a rather disreputable looking guy in a duffle jacket. I lowered my lenses to better see over the top of the frame. As the man took a toke from his cigarette and pulled his hand from his face, I was sure. I'd spent some agonizing minutes looking at that face. I folded up my own trench coat less than a month ago to make a pillow and try to keep him comfortable before the EMTs arrived at the London docks. He was the man I first knew as the smelly Welshman. Last I'd seen of him was when he'd been whisked away by ambulance in a near death state. He obviously was alive and kicking. And he was one of Simon's henchmen.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had to get Jack onto this. The noise level was too awful to call him, and the riotous music would give my precise position away if he was outside the airport. He'd home in on my exact current location. The only recourse was to text him and hope he recognized the number. The burner phone was in my hands, and my thumbs were flying in seconds.

  "Hey, no." Clive snatched the cell from my fingers. "I told your friend when she brought the other mobile phone for you that I keep all visitors' mobiles until the plane lands. We don't need any surreptitious Tweets or embarrassing shots on Facebook or Instagram."

  He turned off the phone and started to place it in his jacket pocket.

  "No, please." Down below the rail level, I raised enough to peek over the bar and point out the now alive and smoking Welshman. "The guy over there? Standing in front of the hanger? He's wanted by the police. I have a friend in the airport who's connected with British intelligence, and I was texting him so he could handle the takedown."

  The roadie squinted one eye at me, then turned and followed the direction of my finger. Truthfully, the rumpled Welshman in his dull duffle coat looked far from dangerous. We watched him move around a bit, then grab a clipboard when it looked like one of the actual working crew questioned his need to be onsite. The answer apparently satisfied the Welshman's accuser, or the poor crewman was too overworked to care, because he waved a hand as if disgusted and walked away. The Welshman leaned back against the building to finish a last drag on his cigarette, tossed the butt, and ground it under his heel.

  I held out my hand. "Please. Believe me. I know what I'm talking about."

  Clive shook his head for a moment, then said, "Okay, but I want it back right after. No mobile phones on the plane."

  "Promise."

  A second after I'd fired off my text to Jack, I returned the phone to Clive with my thanks. The gang above us finally managed to force their oversized container through the door with a lot of cursing and an abundance of elbow grease. I kept my head turned away as I made my way up the last few steps.

  Clive hustled me over to a leather couch on the side of the plane where we could watch the Welshman. The roadie handed me a pair of binoculars, keeping a digital camera with a long lens for himself. I expected to see Jack but instead witnessed several airport security personnel scurrying over to the man. Apparently they asked for ID, because the Welshman patted his pockets as if searching for a wallet. He started to pull something from a pocket, then faked a move left and went right, tearing off around the corner of the building with the rent-a-coppers following close behind.

  A minute later, an even larger crowd returned to view, with Jack now appearing in the frame as he restrained the struggling Welshman by holding the man's arms locked behind his body.

  "Good show!" Clive yelled over the noise of the speakers. I think he snapped a couple of pictures too, but between the earplugs and the pounding bass coming from the speakers, I couldn't hear the clicks to be sure.

  Clive slapped me on the back. "Good show!" he repeated. I think he added something about being right back, and he moved toward the front of the plane. I wasn't sure exactly what a roadie did, but Clive seemed to be "a man for all rock seasons," and I assumed he had plenty of tasks to check off his list.

  The luxurious leather couch where Clive left me felt like a million-dollar hug. People continued filing onto the plane, so I took the opportunity to look around. The interior was predominantly leather, a buckskin color and blond on the scattered couches and captain's chairs. All of the wood surfaces were stained a honey-oak color.

  The Whyte Noyse musicians and crew, dressed mostly in black leather and jeans, steadily loaded equipment, running in and out of the door or roving the cabin when their stuff was aboard. Everyone seemed friendly, nodding a greeting to me, which was about all anyone could accomplish in the heavy-metal haven. Several of the band members looked drunk or half asleep when they first stepped onto the plane but perked up within a minute or so. Despite the early morning hour for Brits whose biorhythms were set to Greenwich. The quick transform
ation left me wanting to do a little head scratching.

  In the front of the cabin, I saw a fully stocked bar and galley kitchen. The half wall hiding part of the kitchen boasted a lovely built-in cabinet, which obviously secreted a supersized television screen. There was a desk at either end at the back of the plane and even a couple of bookshelves. A closed door led to areas presumably kept private. Everything was neat and functional. Scrupulously neat. Not what I expected in a rock-and-roll party plane. Well, beyond the volume button stuck on ear-bleeding, of course.

  The noise was getting old fast, and I half contemplated taking my leave and finding alternative passage. However, the decision was made for me when the flight attendant closed and locked the hatch. Everyone immediately found seats and buckled up. Clive came back and sat beside me. He still had the camera and continued to fiddle with the viewer. The takeoff was as smooth as any I'd ever experienced. As I felt the landing gear retract beneath us, Clive knocked my arm to get my attention and removed his earplugs.

  Oh, good heavens, blessed silence.

  "Will it come back on again?" I asked.

  "Not until just before we land," Clive said. "Appearances, you know."

  Ah, I did know. That's what he meant about not "grassing to the press" on the group. I looked around and saw the heavy metal rockers quietly talking and reading. The drummer had earbuds in his Kindle, so I assumed he was listening to an Audible book.

  "So, it's all a front?"

  Clive shrugged. "The boys know how to party, but as we've all gotten older, we've found we don't need to do so much of it anymore." He pressed a button on the camera and turned the view screen my way. "Got a couple of good 'uns, I did. They nailed that bloke good."

  I peered closely at the takedown. Jack looked truly in his element. "I couldn't by chance get a couple of these, could I?"

  "Sure. Give me an e-mail address, and I'll send them all to you."

  I withdrew my wallet and found one of my business cards. "Thank so much, Clive. I'd like to send them to my friend."

  "The one what got 'im, eh?"

  "Yes." The one what got 'im, indeed.

  As soon as the flight attendant signaled we could move around the cabin, Clive unbuckled his seat belt and motioned me to follow him.

  "Gordon made me promise to fetch you for him. He's a big art collector, and when Patricia told us who was doing a ride along, old Gord recognized your name right away." Clive stopped and ran a hand over his cheeks, his fingernails playing a scritchy refrain over the couple of days' worth of whiskers. He leaned toward me, brushing my arm as he said, "Just a little bit 'o warning, love. Gord's a great bloke, but he can get a mite…focused…you know?"

  I could only imagine, and my face must have shown my guarded understanding, because he quickly added, "Nothing bad, see, but he gets fixated. It can annoy people. This isn't really a long flight, you know, and sometimes he gets on a subject. And if you wouldn't mind…"

  Was he kidding? After they saved me the time and trouble of flying commercial? Not to mention giving me a way to sneak around any operatives Tony B had watching out for me.

  "Don't worry." I placed a hand on his forearm as I spoke. "I've spent a lifetime around people who love art and want to talk exclusively about their favorite artists and works."

  The relief on his face spoke volumes. He smiled and motioned for me to again follow him. But first things first.

  "Clive, I've been traveling in these clothes for a couple of days now." Okay, so it wasn't consecutive time frames, but I wasn't skirting the truth by much. I looked down at my brave, trusty gray knit dress, then looked back up at Clive. "I'd really like to change before I meet new people."

  "Sure, gotcha. The loo is this way." He motioned me through the door I had already guessed led to a toilet and dressing rooms and found instead it held a conference table and a couch I assumed pulled out into a bed. Alrighty, then. Not what I expected but then neither had much of anything else about this flight. Clive closed the connecting door, and I was left with the space to myself.

  The bathroom was larger than a conventional airline toilet but not anything to get excited about. However, there were real towels with good soap, and I took my time luxuriating in the little niceties. I pulled a sapphire wrap dress from my bag and thanked the heavens once again for giving me Cassie and her common-sense approach to life and travel. A few minutes to retouch my makeup and artfully toss my curls, and I was set to go. The gray dress went into a handy plastic bag my thoughtful assistant included and was zipped into one of the outer pockets of the bag to head next to the laundry.

  I felt human again and ready to meet a rock star or four.

  Clive was still by the door when I exited back into the public part of the cabin and walked me around to make introductions. I knew everyone's names and faces, but I had little opportunity to chat as the roadie systematically herded me toward the bass guitarist who sat near the galley in obvious anticipation of our meeting.

  Clad in head-to-toe black, even his shoulder-length hair dyed an unrelieved ebony, Gordon Silver was the defining image of aging rocker. When he began talking, however, I immediately understood what Clive meant and why he'd offered the subtle warning about Gordon's focus. "Laurel Beacham. I've been looking forward to meeting you. I want to add some pieces to my collection, and I was wondering…"

  And I went temporarily on autopilot. It was no problem, since he handled the monologue quite well on his own. From the way Gordon launched into his preferred topic and mostly kept his gaze slanted away from mine, I presumed some level of highly socialized Asperger's. Now in his late forties or early fifties, he may not have been actually diagnosed as a kid but likely enjoyed a large family or friendship circle that helped him through support and acceptance and let him evolve out of the stereotype of the syndrome.

  I soon found myself enthralled by the tales of how he acquired his personal collection. He tumbled headlong into an immediate waxing of affection for art—and particularly for his personal collection. "Acquired my first Constable when I attended an Antiques Roadshow event at Belton House. Still remember the gardens and the blue of the sky. Brilliant! The National Trust opened the grounds up to the Roadshow crew and visitors that day, and I stood there under the lovely azure heavens along with the rest of the hordes. Thousands of us came. Everyone had something in their hands, showed off a bit to one another. Lots of comments about the gorgeous day…"

  Backstories like these always made me smile, and I let him patter on for a while until I realized he was stuck in a circle, so I prompted, "What did you take for appraisal?"

  "Nothing important." He made a face, so I assumed his valuation by the experts came in at a disappointing level. He continued, "What's more important is what I took away. Wandered down a bit to do a lookie-loo, and that's when the paintings bloke, Philip Mould, took a turn inspecting the old paintings what people trotted out of their attics and grannies' lounges to bring along for the day."

  He stopped and tilted his head away from my direction, staring into the distance. I started to ask for his recollections of the paintings he saw there, but he cut me off. "Gorgeous stuff. Liked it all a lot. Studied music at the Royal Conservatory, and for the first time I saw music in something besides the art we all played on instruments. One painting in particular caught my attention because the blue above perfectly matched the one we were under that day. A pure blue with white clouds and tan shadows to define the shapes of the clouds."

  Again he stopped and kept his attention riveted once more on a point to his right. It was just the couch Clive and I had sat on, but I felt he was instead seeing rolling green fields and lawns along with well-tended gardens anchoring a stately historic home, all under the fairest of British skies. I waited, contemplating his words about his musical studies. I'd always noticed a classical method below the Whyte Noyse trademark decibel-pumping rock standard, and now I understood why. This day was shaping into one of nonstop surprises and unexpected information.

 
After a few minutes, Gordon spoke again. "The killer for me was an absolutely brilliant Constable. A landscape that hooked me right here." He covered his head with his left hand and his heart with his right, but he stared at the couch as he spoke. "The genius of the man. I'd been to the Royal Gallery in London and seen me some of Constable's work before, but until that day at the Belton House Roadshow event, I truly hadn't tumbled onto what his art really said."

  The flight attendant came by with a tray. "I have cappuccino, Americano, and espresso. And I'll bring along some pastries in a moment."

  This cappuccino tasted even better than the one I'd received an hour earlier in commercial first class. But I needed to load up now since the rule in Italy is no cappuccino after ten in the morning, and that was about the time they would be dropping me off in Florence. I'd gotten a little spoiled by America letting me drink any kind of coffee drink I wanted at any time.

  Gordon took a sip from his tiny cup of espresso and picked up exactly where he'd left off. "Constable grew up in Suffolk, just like me. But my father wasn't a mill owner. I know the country Constable painted. Even once he moved into London circles, he still went back to Suffolk, the home county, you know, just to paint the scenes he'd known ever since childhood."

  I knew a little about Constable, how the subject of his landscapes created a harmony between the nature he loved and the human beings he usually chose to put in for perspective. Most of his landscapes were peaceful scenes, with workers at the day's tasks in the distance doing jobs like cutting hay. "I always liked The Hay Wain the best, I think."

  "Love that one!" Gordon actually smiled directly at me for a second. "That's on the Stour River. And you know the house on the left side of the painting, under the trees? It's known as Willy Lott's Cottage."

  "Anytime I see a Constable, I'm amazed at the way he could always capture nature in the tiny movements."