by Paul Starkey
They were all stood in the narrow space between the backs of the vans and the low wall of the car park now, and without further ado Chalice walked along the row of vans, banging each one twice on the rear doors. The effect was instantaneous. The rear doors of each van sprang open in turn.
For some reason he couldn’t fathom, John Tyrell found the image of van doors opening disturbing, but he fought the disquiet down and concentrated on the flaw in Chalice’s plan; with the doors fanned out it would be even more difficult for someone inside the car park to see what was going on, but whichever van Ibex got into he’d still be in plain sight if someone was watching from afar. Despite Quintus’s assertion that he wasn’t under surveillance there was always the possibility that he was.
Tyrell was still pondering whether or not to say anything when Tom Cheung leaned over the edge of the parapet and grabbed the piece of string Tyrell had seen dangling there earlier. He tugged hard and, an instant later, Tyrell jumped back as an avalanche of white slammed down against the opening, hitting the wall with some force and throwing up a cloud of dust that made him cough, even as he blinked grit from his eyes.
“It’s ok. It’s just a sign,” said Brendan Fox coolly. “Advertising retirement homes,” he added with a smirk.
Tyrell realised then that he was the only one who’d jumped at the canvas banner dropping into place. Even Ibex, who hadn’t known it was coming, seemed unperturbed. Great, he mused, made myself look a right scaredy-cat there.
“Quintus, if you will,” said Chalice now gesturing to the rear of the van driven by the young redhead, Zoë wasn’t it?
Tyrell tried not to be glad about that. Sex had been a bit of a funny thing since he’d left hospital. Before the illness, well seventeen years ago more accurately, his libido had been strong, flitting from girl to girl, never staying with the same woman very long—the six months with Sonia had practically been marriage, but she’d spent most of the time on assignment in Paris so it didn’t really count—he loved woman, but more than that he loved the chase, the kill was nice too, but after that there wasn’t as much fun to be had. He’d told Charlie Sutton this once, and Charlie had told him he was screwed up, Tyrell laughed it off and responded that he was just jealous.
His sexual escapades had raised a few eyebrows within the Service, he knew that, but luckily George Mellanby was no stranger to straying for the right pretty face, and he’d been smart enough to realise there was no leak potential. John was not one for pillow talk, and since he never formed a real emotional attachment to anyone there was nothing for an enemy agency to use as leverage against him. If anything it was the happily married men like Charlie Sutton who had most to lose.
Of course he figured he’d settle down one day, and of course he had, he just didn’t remember doing so.
Lying in that hospital room (he’d been in several, in Germany and back home in England, but they all kind of merged into one soulless hotel room in Hell) he’d quickly had to come to terms with a variety of things. Scars and wrinkles he didn’t remember, weight he hadn’t been carrying before, his eyesight being poorer (not quite in need of glasses yet, though the optician told him it wouldn’t be long) and, most worryingly, the fact that he didn’t seem to get as turned on as easily as he used to. There’d been a lot of highly attractive nurses and doctors in both countries, but often he found himself not responding, whereas once he’d known he would have. He finally raised it with one of the psyche guys, well in truth the guy had raised it with him. The doctor had said it was no need to worry, libido often faded with age, and it was something he would need to adjust to, as with every other aspect of the fact he was seventeen years older than he thought he was.
He’d had sex once since being discharged. That had been with a prostitute, albeit an escort rather than a girl off the street. He’d been ready for trouble of course, known that probably he’d get too excited and would be somewhat premature, and he accepted that. It would be like being a teenager again and he’d just need to learn control once more.
The opposite had happened, humiliating him in a way only a man can be humiliated. She’d been a sexy young woman, with a lithe, taut body that looked like it had been poured into tight jeans and a corset top, but despite this, despite every trick she used, he wouldn’t respond. She’d told him not to worry, that it wasn’t that unusual. He thought that was sweet of her and paid her extra, then he showed her out and returned to his bedroom alone, his self-esteem now limper than his cock.
The only other woman he’d got close to was Mary, who he’d met via the support group. She liked him and had made no bones about it, but he couldn’t bring himself to get involved. He’d never had a thing for older woman in the same way some men did, and though they were practically the same age, it didn’t matter. From his perception she was almost twenty years older than him, no matter what their birth certificates might say.
Today though, today things seemed different. Maybe it was the excitement of being on the job again, but first Chalice, and then Zoë had gotten a reaction from him. He’d had too many false dawns since the illness to put too much faith that his new found horniness was anything beyond a blip, but part of him really hoped it wasn’t.
When he followed Ibex into the back of the van he found himself hit with the third part of a triple whammy of loveliness.
He should have expected it of course, but somehow he hadn’t connected Chalice banging on the doors, and the doors then opening, with the logical conclusion that there’d be someone inside, but there had been…still was.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was young; delicate and slender in a way he suspected might have been gawky when she was a child, but puberty had turned gangling limbs into something altogether more ethereal. Her dirty blonde hair was long, he suspected, but had been piled and pinned haphazardly atop her head in a way that only enhanced her loveliness. She had the perfect skin only the young or the lucky possessed, with bright brown eyes and perfect white teeth set like pearls within a marble work of art.
She had an air of innocent naiveté about her, and was probably self-conscious about how beautiful she was he guessed, judging by the outfit she wore that looked like something librarian would wear. Somehow though, the ruffled green blouse, knee length woollen skirt and grey woollen tights added to her allure. She was so beautiful she didn’t even have to try. He guessed she was self-conscious about her height too, judging by the flat pumps she wore.
“Do you need a hand, sir?”
Tomas Cheung’s respectful tone arrived simultaneously with a hand on his upper arm, and it was only then he realised that he was frozen, half inside the van, one foot inside, one still outside, hands gripping the doorframe.
“I’m fine,” he snapped pulling away from Cheung’s steadying hand and clambering inside. Annoyed and embarrassed by how easily he’d been distracted.
He hadn’t even noted the inside of the van he’d been so enraptured by the girl. Now he noticed the six seats, three each side. They were black leather, and looked like the kind you used to find in fancy cars, and which more recently he’d seen top football managers seated pitch side in. Each had a seatbelt attached. Quite cosy and comfortable, despite the tomblike nature of the windowless metal box they were in. He spotted his bag, on the floor in a space between the chairs and the partition that blocked off the driver from the rear compartment. There were a couple of holdalls there as well, one of them the one Sir George had handed to Chalice earlier, a black soft leather briefcase, and a small cardboard box that looked to be full of provisions.
The girl was seated in the far right hand seat, and Ibex had taken the pew directly opposite her. Tyrell tried not to feel jealous at that. He could have taken the seat by her side, but he was conscious of being too obvious, besides taking the seat next to Quintus meant he could look at her more easily.
Brendan Fox took the seat next to her, and Cheung took the seat next to Fox. This left one seat next to Tyrell, and Chalice took it after slamming clos
ed the doors. Tyrell tried hard not to think of the clang of a funeral bell. There were lights fitted to the ceiling, and in truth not much light had peeked in from outside with the doors open. Still it seemed noticeably darker inside, colder too.
“Everyone strapped in?” asked Chalice fastening her own belt. “Zoë’s a good driver but this will be bumpy.”
Brendan Fox groaned at that, but Ibex chuckled. “I’ve taken the bus in Nigeria, trust me however bumpy the ride is I know I’ve handled worse.”
Tyrell however was worried—again—he hadn’t eaten a lot today, the arrival of Sir George scuppering thoughts of a late lunch, and now he was scared that his empty stomach might not react well to the ride. So concerned was he in fact that he almost missed the final introduction.
“…John Tyrell, and this of course is Quintus Armstrong. Gentlemen this is Lucy Parrish, our secretary.”
“Secretary?”
Lucy smiled at him and he felt his heart flutter once more. “Sir George doesn’t trust recording devices a hundred percent, I’m back up.” She didn’t seem too put out by this.
“More like the tape recorders will be back up for you, Luce,” said Fox with familiarity that Tyrell found annoying.
There’d been no signal, but suddenly they were moving. At first it was quite gentle, but within a few minutes Tyrell guessed they’d finally left the car park because things got a lot more jarring. To take his mind off things he turned to Chalice. “Where are the other vans headed then? The decoys I mean.”
“I knew what you meant. Even I don’t know for sure though. One of them will head north up the M1, they’re supposed to get at least as far as Sheffield but after that the route’s up to them. Probably though we’ll know by then if they’re being tailed. The other van’s heading down the M1 to join up with the M25, they’re supposed to take the M4 from there to Reading…against once they get there they’re left to their own devices.”
“And us?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
“That would be telling.”
Chapter nine
After a few minutes if idle chitchat the van fell silent, everyone it seemed was lost in their own thoughts. Cheung had retrieved a newspaper from under his seat, and, after a gentle prod in the ribs from Fox, had handed over the middle portion of the paper. The two men read quietly. Lucy Parrish seemed preoccupied with her nails, whilst Chalice Knight stared straight ahead at the far wall above Cheung’s head. As for John Tyrell, he tried not to think about his stomach, or Lucy Parrish’s legs.
Quintus Armstrong had closed his eyes, and within a few seconds his head was lolling against his chest. Tyrell doubted anyone could fall asleep that quickly, and wondered if it was a delaying tactic to avoid talking until he had to?
His hypothesis was blown out of the water when Ibex’s eyes suddenly snapped open, sparkling with the alertness of a deer. “You know the worst thing about leaving your whole life behind?” he addressed his words to the whole van.
It was Lucy who responded though. “No,” she said softly with a shake of her head.
Ibex grinned. “One leaves behind even the necessities. I left a full packet of Kools on top of my refrigerator. Now I don’t suppose anyone here smokes do they?”
“I do,” said Fox looking up from his reading. Reaching into his jacket pocket he came out with a crumpled packet of Silk Cut. He held them aloft the way a police officer might show his badge off, and Tyrell wondered if he’d maybe been a copper?
“Could I trouble you for one, and a light as well; Left my Zippo with my Kools.”
“Sure,” said Fox, but before he could proceed to pass the cigarette packet over a single word echoed through the back of the van.
“No.”
It had been Chalice.
Ibex regarded her curiously, slipping his glasses to the end of his nose so he could peer over the top at her; that was the trouble with tinted lenses. “Excuse me?” he said, polite enough but, piggy in the middle between them, Tyrell felt the electricity that suddenly seemed to flow between them, and it was anything but polite. “I appreciate that I am, technically, your prisoner, but even condemned murderers are allowed a smoke.”
Chalice met his gaze with such intensity that Tyrell wasn’t sure where to direct his own eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “But this van belongs to MI5, technically it’s a workplace and that means…”
Ibex let out a roar of laugher. “I’d say you were kidding me, but I suspect you’re not.”
“Sorry,” she said with a diplomatic shrug intended to show it wasn’t her fault. “Rules are rules, even for people in our business.”
He laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head as he did so. “Lucky we didn’t have so many rules in our day, eh John?” he said leaning in conspiratorially towards Tyrell.
“I guess,” he replied, perturbed at finding himself centre stage.
“Damn right. We’d never have won the Cold War, Ivan would’ve found a way to abuse our smoking ban, that’s for sure.”
Fox was still holding the packet of Silk Cut, as if not sure what to do with them.
“Best put them away,” said Ibex. “Your boss might have to shoot you otherwise.”
Fox’s eyes flickered towards Chalice. Tyrell assumed she’d nodded or otherwise confirmed that he was ok to pocket them once more, because he slipped them back into his jacket.
Quintus went back to sleep after that, or at least gave the impression he had. Chalice asked for Cheung’s paper, whilst Fox passed his own section back to Cheung who now started reading it. Fox meanwhile awkwardly pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Got new ones of the kids,” he said showing it to Lucy.
“Aw they’re so sweet. My dad used to carry a Polaroid of me in his wallet all the time. You must be really proud of them.”
“I am,” grinned Fox.
Tyrell noted Fox wore a wedding ring, but very obviously he’d referred to a picture of his kids. No mention of his wife. I wonder if they’re estranged, he mused, or maybe they’re divorced and he hasn’t taken the ring off yet?
It was curious, before he’d clambered inside he’d felt tired, and had planned another nap once the van started moving. Now he was here though he felt too energised to sleep. Again he had to wonder if he might be coming out of the woods, or if it was all illusion. The doctors had made it pretty clear he wouldn’t get much better. Still he hadn’t lost hope…
He shook thoughts of himself away and concentrated on the people he was going to be spending the night with and his thoughts on each of them so far.
Brendan Fox—The more time he spent in his presence the more he figured he wasn’t ex-military, more likely a former police officer. He was disciplined, but not nearly disciplined enough. Shiny shoes, but a crumpled suit. He had a cocky arrogance to him but Tyrell wondered if that was covering something, he came back to marriage break-up again. He noticed now that his fingertips were stained slightly yellow, he smoked a lot, and the air of relaxed nervousness he had about him reminded Tyrell of a sniper he’d once known who’d been on the job too long and finally let things get to him. Irrespective of this, from the way he carried himself Tyrell figured of all of them, Fox would be the one they could rely on if they did get into trouble.
Lucy— Not much to tell there he thought. Too young and naïve to have done much in her life, and already he had her pegged as daddy’s little girl. Daddy would be in the service, or some affiliated department, and she’d just be biding time until the right man came along.
Cheung—Young and eager, polite and respectful which bugged Tyrell because he’d always though that should be earned, not given away. Definitely a gambler, and Tyrell wondered at the logic of including a Chinaman on a mission involving the temporary defection of a Chinese agent.
Chalice Knight— For some reason he saw her as an older version of Lucy, another daddy’s girl, but one who’d failed to find the right man and had decided to put career first. She seemed to have a chip on her shoulder
about his involvement, but he didn’t blame her for that. If their roles had been reversed he suspected he would have felt the same way. She seemed competent enough, and if Sir George trusted her that spoke volumes. That said, Mellanby had made mistakes before when he let his dick do his thinking for him. And there was her name, it suggested hippy parents; least she wasn’t called Moonbeam or something.
That left Quintus Armstrong, and Tyrell hadn’t a clue about Ibex. What he’d told Chalice was true, Quintus did like to play games, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was one Great Game. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be a setup, with the Chinese using Ibex to sow misinformation, hell, never mind the Chinese, it wouldn’t be the first time the CIA had played an ally...
Zoë—he had nothing to base an assessment on their driver so far.
And that was it; Apart from one John Tyrell of course. A tired and broken old man who thought he was still in his prime despite all evidence to the contrary. A fool who thought beautiful young women like Lucy and Chalice might actually be interested in him. A dinosaur who was all of a sudden out of his depth, who wished he hadn’t agreed to this, who wished he was still at home hiding from the world.
