Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  Chapter ten

  Despite the lack of a watch, Tyrell had always been good at marking the passage of time, and when the van came to a halt and stayed immobile he gauged they hadn’t been travelling for much more than an hour. It wasn’t the first such stop, but somehow he sensed this was it.

  And he wasn’t the only one. “We there already?” said Fox.

  “Not quite,” said Chalice unbuckling her seatbelt. She walked to the rear doors. “Probably fairer to call this the halfway point.” She swung the doors open.

  “Toilet break?” smirked Fox.

  “You should have gone before we left,” she replied and jumped down to the ground.

  One by one they followed her out. For some reason Tyrell had expected them to be at a motorway service station somewhere. He was surprised to dsocver that they’d come full circle and were back in the multi-storey in Luton…no, not the same one when he looked closely, the lights bolted to the walls were different, and the landscape of the city outside was different, the buildings lower.

  “Where are we?”

  “No point keeping it from you, you’ll see soon enough. We’re in Milton Keynes. Brendan, Tom, grab the bags will you.”

  Fox grumbled under his breath and having to clamber back into the van only moments after exiting it, but Cheung went without complaint. After a few seconds they both appeared in the doorway and dropped the two holdalls, Tyrell’s satchel and the black briefcase to the concrete floor.

  “Don’t forget the supplies,” chirped Lucy excitedly before either man could climb down. Fox looked like he was ready to grumble again but quickly smiled instead when he realised it was Lucy who was asking, not his boss.

  “We really won’t need supplies, the safe house should be fully stocked,” said Chalice.

  “Should be? Are you sure?”

  For a moment she eyed the younger women. “Fine,” she said at last. “You can bring the box.”

  “We don’t have to carry it far do we?”

  Chalice shook her head. “No, Brendan. Not far.”

  Zoë had left the cab to join them now. In her hands she carried a drawstring bag that reminded Tyrell of the sort he used to take to school with his PE kit inside. Of course his mum had made his out of old curtains, this looked manufactured and had a logo he didn’t recognise stencilled on the side.

  “This is where you leave me then, boss?” Zoë said with a wide grin that was almost as bright as her hair. She wore grungy black leggings and a washed out denim jacket.

  “It is,” said Chalice. Without another word she reached inside her leather jacket and took out her mobile. Switching it off she deposited it into the bag. “Ok folks, we talked about this, no phones from this point on.”

  Fox mumbled something but did as ordered, dropping his phone after Chalice’s. Tyrell heard an audible clink as they collided. Cheung placed his own gently inside to avoid the same thing happening.

  Since Quintus had already abandoned his phone, and since Tyrell didn’t own one, this left only Lucy. She was holding a large smartphone in her right hand, a slightly pleading smile on her face. “I definitely have to give it up?” she asked.

  “Definitely.”

  She shrugged. “Oh well, guess my boyfriend can survive one night without me texting or Facebooking him.” She put her phone into the bag. Tyrell resisted the urge to shake his head. The processing power of modern day computers alone was something that had come as something as a shock, that a slim phone could also function as a computer was like something from a science fiction film.

  “Don’t worry, I promise not to text him for you,” said Zoë with a wink. She expanded her gaze to take in all of them. “I hope you all switched them off before you gave them me, I’m not, repeat not, an answering service.”

  “God, Zoë you’re worse than my mum,” said Fox.

  Tyrell saw a flash of something in Lucy’s eyes, followed by Fox looking somewhat guilty as if he realised he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

  “One more sweep for everyone,” said Chalice. “This is a pretty secluded corner of the car park but keep behind the cover of the van, don’t want some old lady seeing us frisking each other and get the wrong idea about what’s going on.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” said Fox.

  Cheung rolled his eyes at him.

  “Sorry about this John,” said Chalice as this time she frisked him.

  “No worries.” He almost croaked the words as her hands ran up the inside of his thighs. He hoped to hell she wasn’t paying too much attention down there.

  “Watch it!” It was Lucy who’d snapped the words, and Tyrell looked up to see Fox standing behind her, holding his hands up in mock surrender, grinning like a naughty schoolboy.

  “Sorry, just being thorough.”

  Lucy looked over her shoulder, offering him a demure smile in reply. “Fine, but no thorougher!”

  “Is that even a word?”

  “It is now.”

  Zoë was shaking her head. “Such a shame I’m going to miss the babysitting tonight,” she said without troubling to hide the irony in her words.

  “Some girls have all the luck,” said Chalice. She shook the other woman’s hand, and with naught but a quick wave aimed at all and none of them simultaneously, the redhead climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  Everyone had been frisked again now, and Tyrell noted it had been intentionally done by someone other than had done it previously. Lucy was holding the briefcase, whilst Chalice and Thomas Cheung had taken one of the holdalls each. Tyrell had reclaimed his own satchel—every bag had had the scanner run over it again.

  “You ok with that, John?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re sure it isn’t far?” said Fox, he held the box of provisions in both hands and had a worried look on his face.

  “Not far at all,” said Chalice. Tyrell hoped she wasn’t being disingenuous; he was starting to feel tired again.

  “Good. What have you got in here anyway?”

  “Nothing much,” said Lucy. “Coffee, tea, milk, some pizzas, baked beans, crisps, chocolate biscuits... I figured I was let off my diet this one night at least.” When he pouted she added, “There’s no hand grenades in there, you scanned it remember?”

  Chalice led them away from the van, towards the exit door. The car park seemed in better condition than the one in Luton, but Tyrell couldn’t shake the oppressive feeling that came with being in such a place. Looking around he saw that everyone else seemed slightly on edge, though he had no way of knowing if it was for the same reasons as him. Only Ibex seemed relaxed, odd really given the situation. The only one of them not carrying anything he had his coat tails swept back, hands thrust into pockets, his walk jaunty…too jaunty for Tyrell’s liking. Even though the man looked much older than he recalled, the arrogance was just as he remembered it.

  Once through the fire door Chalice pushed the button for the lift. When it arrived she merely stepped briefly inside to push a button. Then she headed through the doorway marked ‘stairs’. Tyrell expected Fox to grumble at this but he remained silent. He glanced at the indicator above the lift doors, the lift was going down. A neat trick that probably wasn’t necessary but he was impressed anyway.

  The stairwell was narrow, claustrophobic, and they had to climb upwards in single file, with Tyrell just behind Chalice. This time he kept focused on the back of her skull.

  They only went up a single flight of stairs before they exited onto the floor above where they’d been dropped off. There were less cars up here but still enough that he had no idea which one they were heading for.

  Ones as it turned out.

  “Here we go,” said Chalice gesturing towards the two that were practically closest.

  “Nice wheels,” said Fox. Tyrell saw his eyes light up.

  He had to admit he was right. He had no idea how old the vivid red Range Rover with the tinted glass was because the number plate was personalised, but the bodywork w
as shiny enough that he didn’t imagine it was much older than a toddler. The Audi TT coupe parked next to it bore plates that announced it was six months old, if that. It was white, polished to a high sheen that said it hadn’t been here long.

  Red and white. Blood and bandages, he mused.

  Fox laid his box down and ran a hand over the bonnet of the Audi as if it were the thigh of a beautiful woman.

  “Don’t get too attached,” said Chalice. “John and I are taking the Audi.”

  That caught him off guard. He’d expected her to want to keep Ibex close to her, and from what he knew of TTs he doubted there’d be room for three of them. He said nothing though.

  “I’m travelling in comfort then?” said Quintus walking over to the Range Rover. “I always preferred driving these when in Nigeria, much smoother ride. Well if no one else minds I’ll call shotgun.” He stood by the passenger side door now, his fingers on the handle. He tried the door, out of habit more than anything, then looked surprised when it opened.

  Chalice was smiling. She held something that looked like a bulky key fob in her hand. “Opens when I get close,” she said. “Brendan,” she added and tossed him the keys.

  Witchcraft, thought Tyrell.

  “Gotcha, boss,” said Fox , snatching the keys in mid-air and almost sprinting to the driver’s side. He put his hand on the door handle, then paused, a curious look drifting across his eyes. “Here you go, Tom. You need the experience,” he said, and without further preamble he tossed the keys in Cheung’s direction.

  The younger man was caught off guard. Initially he actually caught the keys, but they bounced out of fumbling hands and dropped to the floor.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, kneeling to pick them up again.

  Quintus Armstrong was shaking his head, rueful smile upon his lips. “Let’s hope the same thing doesn’t happen should you need to draw your sidearm.”

  Cheung’s already narrow eyes narrowed further in a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. Keys in hand now he came over to where Chalice and Tyrell stood. “Where am I heading, ma’am?”

  Chalice grinded her teeth. “You’ll follow the Audi. Under the front seat will be a prepaid card to get you past the barriers. Should you lose sight of us you’re to find the most convenient place to stop and wait, we’ll double back and find you.” From the way she said it Tyrell got the distinct impression she would not be happy if this happened. “And I know this is the hundredth time I’ve asked, but please stop calling me ma’am. You make me sound fifty…” She glanced his way. “No offence.”

  Tyrell shrugged.

  “These really are lovely cars,” said Lucy. She was stood admiring the Range Rover.

  “Here you go, Luce,” said Fox, opening one of the rear doors in an overly chivalrous manner.

  Lucy giggled coquettishly and climbed inside. “Why thank you, kind sir. Don’t forget the supplies though,” she added with a chiding finger wag.

  “Could I ever,” muttered Fox tromping back to the box of supplies.

  He placed it in the Range Rover’s boot. At Chalice’s suggestion the rest of the bags went with it, including Tyrell’s. He felt odd about letting it go, despite the fact all it contained was some spare underwear and a can of deodorant.

  “Ok, let’s roll,” said Fox slamming the boot down.

  “Let’s roll?” murmured Tyrell.

  Chalice shrugged. “I think he watches too many films.”

  “Excuse me, but may I ask a question before we continue further?”

  Chalice looked at Ibex and nodded. “Of course.”

  Quintus had his hands in his pockets again, he was arching his back, sticking what belly he had out like a puffed up sheriff in a western. “I was just wondering how safe this safe house is. How secure I mean.”

  Chalice smiled. “Very. I’m the only person who knows where it is…well aside from the owners of these two vehicles, and right now…” she checked her watch. “They’re on a plane to New York for a very impromptu shopping trip.”

  “This isn’t an official Security Service safe house then?”

  “No.”

  This seemed to satisfy Ibex, and he got in the Range Rover without further comment. Cheung and Fox quickly followed.

  Chalice didn’t offer to let Tyrell drive—which frankly he was glad about—instead she just got into the driver’s seat. As he climbed inside he saw her struggle to remove a brown leather holster and pistol from the waistband of her jeans. At least I didn’t imagine the gun, he thought. He couldn’t tell what make or model it was, because she quickly stuffed it into the door pocket on her side. He wasn’t disappointed that she didn’t trust him enough to pass it over.

  The cockpit of the Audi felt like the inside of a space ship, so many controls dotting the black plastic console and he didn’t recognise many. The red leather seat was like something out of a fighter plane too, though it was extremely comfortable, seeming to mould itself to his spine, and he felt himself relax for the first time in hours. When she turned the ignition the engine came to life with the quiet purr of a jungle cat who’d quite obviously roar much louder when needed. Looking back over her shoulder she slipped the car into reverse and backed out, turning slightly to the left to make it past the Range Rover. Tyrell’s fingers dug into leather as they passed close to the other car, millimetres between the wing mirror outside and the vermilion leviathan. His fingers dug deeper as they swung to the right and down the ramp to the next level, moving faster than he’d expected. Tyrell bit his lip to keep from yelping as tyres squealed.

  “Sorry,” she said, her faux apologetic tone reminding him of Sir George.

  “No worries.”

  She took it easy from then on. When she got to the exit she reached under her seat and used the ticket she found there to raise the barriers. She drove barely thirty yards down the road before indicating and pulling over. Only when she saw the Range Rover appear did she set off once more.

  “Not far,” she said with a smile that for some reason John Tyrell found somewhat disquieting.

  Chapter eleven

  A light drizzle started within a few minutes of them setting off, darkening a once bright day to the point where she had to turn the sidelights on. The low-lying grey clouds and preponderance of traffic around them made the inside of the Audi feel more confined than it actually was.

  The wipers swept back and forth on their lowest setting like the pendulum of a tiring Grandfather clock, and the car wasn’t going much faster. Timescales for operation Bottlewood had been out of her hands, but still she chided herself for not anticipating they’d be leaving Milton Keynes in the middle of rush-hour. She’d barely gotten out of second gear since leaving the multi-storey. In a way it helped, meaning she couldn’t put too much distance between them and the Range Rover, although even with their sluggish pace there’d almost been disaster.

  For some reason Cheung had hung back a little too far, creating a gap that an enterprisingly impatient BMW driver had spotted and tried to nip into. Chalice saw the flicker of his indicators in the rear-view mirror and took action, braking to close the gap an instant before the other car could make its move. The BMW driver honked his horn but she was too concerned with greater matters to care that some accountant hadn’t been able to shave a few seconds off his journey time home.

  Mostly she was concerned about Quintus Armstrong, and about the mission in general, but she’d be lying if didn’t admit to herself that she was concerned about John Tyrell, and lying to herself was something Chalice Knight had stopped doing after she’d left Israel ten years before.

  She’d left the radio off on purpose to facilitate conversation, but Tyrell had said very little since clambering into the car. Instead his eyes seemed glued to the outside world, a child fascinated by the future.

  She’d been wary when Sir George Mellanby told her he was going to ask Tyrell to accompany them on Bottlewood, and that wariness hadn’t gone away. There was a curious schizophrenia to the man. He had the slu
mped shoulders and weary eyes of someone a lot older than fifty, and sometimes he looked positively terrified of the slightest thing. He looked like he’d dressed with little thought, and judging from the three or four dried scabs on his face he’d shaved the same way. Most of the time he seemed out of phase with the rest of the world.

  She guessed she could understand that.

  But there had been moments…instances where those tired eyes had flared with intelligence, with the instinct and experience she’d have expected from someone with his reputation within the Service. She’d never met anyone within MI5 who didn’t respect his abilities. Even if they disliked the man, found the rumours of what he’d done distasteful, still they never quibbled over his abilities as an agent.

  Then there was the third side to him, where he seemed less like an old man, less like the agent he’d once been, and more like a child. Take the way he’d examined the inside of the TT, wonder in his eyes that reminded her of the time she’d accompanied Alice and Peter to a fireworks display, and she’d seen the same look of awe in little Lola’s eyes as she witnessed airborne explosions of colour.

  So far Tyrell seemed to flit between a tired man older than his years, a child trapped in an aged body, and a young, vital, sharp operator who’d known just how to handle Ibex.

  Chalice wasn’t sure which facet of Tyrell’s myriad personality unnerved her more, but in truth it was the unpredictability that worried her most of all.

  “I don’t remember there being so many cars.”

  She glanced to her left for a moment. He was still looking out of the side window. The lights outside played against the raindrops clinging to the glass, creating an ever changing kaleidoscope. He didn’t quite have his nose pressed up against the window, but he wasn’t far off.

  “It must be difficult,” she said. She hadn’t really wanted to go down this particular route, but she’d wanted a conversation, and given his comment it seemed the best way to start one.