by Paul Starkey
“What facts,” sneered Fox.
Ibex’s grin never wavered. “Well firstly is the fact that Chalice Knight doesn’t like to talk about her name; that implies the reason behind it might be somewhat embarrassing. Secondly there’s the nature of the name itself. Unusual, and with obvious religious overtones. Put the two together and I imagine her mother had a fling with a padre and was arrogant or naïve enough to want to boast about it.”
“That still seems thin,” said Fox.
“Possibly, but undeniably correct judging by dear Lucy back there. I take it that is the explanation you were going to proffer?”
“Yes. Well I was going to be a bit more polite but…yes.”
“See.”
“It doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s correct. Lucy’s information might well be gossip, and the gossipers might have merely deducted the same incorrect hypothesis that you have.”
“I see,” said Ibex. “Well perhaps you’re right, Tommy. Maybe I’ll wheedle the truth out of Ms Knight later, eh? Then we’ll see.”
Ibex’s tone didn’t waver, it remained light and friendly. Still Cheung knew he’d irritated the other man. The change from calling him Thomas to Tommy was deliberate. He still couldn’t believe he’d challenged Quintus Armstrong’s hypothesis like that. After going out of his way not to irritate Brendan he’d foolishly made an enemy of someone he suspected was a darn sight more dangerous.
Lorries and central reservations might be the least of his worries from now on.
Chapter thirteen
Life was full of contradictions, Chalice knew. On the plus side the atmosphere inside the Audi had got a lot better since she’d attempted to ensure Tyrell knew his place. On the downside this was because within a few minutes of their last conversation, John Tyrell had nodded off.
Thankfully he didn’t snore, but even if he had she might have let him sleep. Partly because she knew he likely needed the rest, but also she didn’t want him to suddenly start arguing back, somehow she doubted the issue of her leadership was quite over.
He slept soundly, head lolling against his chest, chin tapping against his heart in rhythm with the road. It was how a child or an old man might sleep, and nothing had roused him, not speed, or sudden stops, and the only evidence that he was still alive as the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
They were off the duel carriageway now, on a narrower road heading into the countryside; traffic was still prevalent but she knew it would start to slacken off soon as people turned off for this or that village. She checked the clock. Their destination was still some way off, with luck they’d be there before seven. She’d already decided they would start almost immediately. She knew there’d be protests, and was already rehearsing her responses silently in her head. They needed to eat, yes, but it could wait a while, especially as Lucy had brought snacks along; she somehow doubted Antonia and Burgess’ larder would be bare either. There’d be things they could eat and drink with little preparation that would tide them over for a while. Hunger was a great tool for focusing the mind, and she wanted Ibex focused while he sang his little heart out. She wanted this op to be a success.
She was the only person that knew where they were going, and Quintus had made it clear that the Americans weren’t aware he’d betrayed them to the Chinese, and the Chinese hadn’t a clue he was about to sell them out to the British. Still paranoia nagged at her like a battleaxe of a housewife from a 70’s sitcom.
If the Chinese weren’t as in the dark as Ibex claimed, and if her security arrangements weren’t as tight as she imagined, then they might find themselves in trouble, and if a Chinese team came, they wouldn’t be coming to do anything except kill every last person inside the safe house, and they would come well prepared for that task. Unconsciously her right hand left the steering wheel for a moment and checked that her gun was still where she’d left it, wedged into the door compartment. As her fingertips brushed the obsidian butt of the SIG SAUER P230 she felt momentarily calmer. The pistol held seven .380 calibre rounds, and she had two spare magazines in her jacket pockets. Fox and Cheung each had pistols too, and there was something with more stopping power secured in the holdall Sir George had dropped off that she hoped they wouldn’t need.
I’m just being silly, she thought. Too long on the job without a decent enough break. Bottlewood will go smoothly, and when I go home tomorrow I’ll be taking 21 unspent rounds home with me.
She didn’t take her fingers from the gun.
She heard movement to her left, noises that weren’t even close to words, yet were uttered like language. She looked three times in Tyrell’s direction, each glance a snapshot of a different stage of his awakening. The first time he looked confused, bewildered. The second time he actually looked scared, a caged animal, a dog or a cat that realises they’re boxed in and there’s no escape. The third time he almost looked at ease. Still patently not fully awake, still slightly confused, but not scared anymore.
“How long was I asleep?” He asked, the words slipping roughly out from between dry lips.
“Not long, twenty minutes maybe. Quite the power nap.”
He chuckled, though it sounded more like a cough.
“Do you have any water?”
She shook her head, eyes never leaving the road. “Sorry, John, I don’t. We’ll be there soon though.”
“How far?” She knew he wouldn’t have the remotest idea where they were. The hedgerows and dry stone walls ran along either side of the road were ubiquitous in the extreme, and gave no clue to their location.
“Fifteen minutes at most.”
“Good. Glad I woke up before we got there.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. Not sure she wanted an answer.
“What you were saying earlier, about this being your operation, about you being in charge.”
Now she was certain she hadn’t wanted an answer. “What about that, John?” The temptation to look at him was powerful, but she kept her gaze on the road ahead. She’d seen no traffic for several minutes, but they were doing sixty, and whilst she felt confident driving these winding country lanes at that speed, you never knew when some idiot yokel who thought he knew these roads like the back of his hand was going to come screaming round a corner too wide and too fast.
“You need to realise…” he began.
Don’t say it, she silently begged. Don’t say it…
“You’re not in charge of this operation.”
She sighed, contemplating her options. She could leave him by the side of the road and he still wouldn’t have a clue where they were going. It would narrow down the options though, because the house was close by. Of course she could always leave him by the side of the road with a .380 calibre bullet in his temple, and for a few seconds she actually worked out how to go about that.
I’ve really got to stop planning murders, she mused. In truth she had only one viable option, and that was to go on with the mission, although maybe she’d make her point again, when they got to the house, take John Tyrell somewhere private and explain, rationally, her point once more. If needs be she would explain it at gunpoint.
“Aren’t you going to ask who is in charge?” he asked, and she suddenly realised she’d been silently thinking for longer than she’d imagined.
“I assumed you think you are, John.”
He laughed again, this time it sounded more alive, more normal. “Me? Sometimes I have trouble remembering which is right and which is left. No, I’m barely even in charge of myself anymore.”
She frowned. “Then who?”
“Ibex,” he said softly. They were on a straight now, no sign of oncoming traffic, so she looked at him. He was smiling but his eyes were serious. “Never forget that,” he added. “Quintus Armstrong is in charge; Quintus Armstrong is always the one calling the shots. That was true when he first came to us in 1988, and it’s true now.” He shrugged, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t take anything he says at
face value.” Embarrassed now—she caught a hint of flush to his cheeks—Tyrell turned away and looked out of his side window.
She stared at the back of his head for a moment longer, then returned her eyes to the road. For a man who seemed so uncertain about just about everything there was distinct, unwavering certainty whenever he talked about Ibex. Suddenly she was no longer worried about being paranoid, now she was worried if she was paranoid enough.
Chapter fourteen
Darkness. He was cloaked in darkness.
He could still hear though, still feel, still smell.
He heard barked, shouted words in a language he didn’t understand, although the cadence suggested there were questions being asked.
He felt a dry warmth bathing his entire body, the hairs on his arms prickling with it. Wherever he was the heat was almost stifling. His lips felt dry, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t move a muscle, any more than he could see. As paralysed as he was blind.
He could smell though. He smelt the heat that seemed to suck all moisture from the air. He smelt sweat, and he smelt piss; the twin scents of fear.
More words, he didn’t understand this burst of questions any more than the last, but he could tell the slight shift in emphasis. The questioner’s need for an answer had intensified, and he wasn’t surprised when a few seconds later he heard something that sounded like a punch.
Another voice now, the antithesis of the questioner’s, the owner of this one was scared, pitiful, at the mercy of the unseen interrogator. This second voice also spoke in English, though the words were broken by wracking, agonised sobs.
“Please…please I don’t…don’t know…don’t understand what you’re say…say…saying… please I…”
Another punch.
“Please!” The victim sobbed, the whine of the hopeless. “Where am I…why…are you doing this?”
Though he couldn’t see the other man he was building up a picture of him. He sounded young, and he was clearly British, the Scouse tinge to his voice indicating he’d grown up in Liverpool, or at the very least had spent a lot of time there.
“Who…are you?”
The interrogator wasn’t there to answer questions though. Only ask them. Another staccato burst of questions, a linguistic machinegun firing unintelligible bullets.
“I don’t…” the young man from Merseyside began.
The slaps shut him up; Three, four, five… until he could only whimper.
A new voice chimed in, this one spoke English, but it was accented, Middle Eastern, Arab… “I can make this stop, but you have to tell me, tell us, where your comrades are heading.”
“I don’t know what…what you’re talking about?”
There were no more words. No more slaps or punches. It would have been better if there were. Instead the whimpers became a whine, which became a scream. The scream was muffled though, and a few seconds later the only sound John Tyrell could hear was splashing water. Then another sound broke through; the wracking choke of a drowning man. As dry as he felt, suddenly water was the last thing he wanted.
“It is your turn now I think, John,” said the Arab who spoke English.
John Tyrell opened his eyes. This time there was no confusion, no fear. Wherever he was it had to be better than that terrible darkness, had to be better than a torturer’s den.
“You ok?”
He turned in his seat to find Chalice Knight looking at him. Her seatbelt was unbuckled and the driver’s side door was open, he saw brickwork behind her, window frames.
“We’re here?”
She nodded. “I asked if you were all right?”
He’d slumped down in his seat again and now he drew himself up to sit straight. “I’m fine,” he said. “Guess I nodded off again,” he added with a dry laugh.
“I guess you did,” she said. Her eyes were narrowed, concerned even, and Tyrell wondered how bad he looked.
“Bad dream,” he said by way of explanation. “I get them from time to time, especially when I’m out of my comfort zone. I guess this counts as well outside of it so not too surprising. I’ll be ok though.” He smiled and hoped she wouldn’t see through it. Yes he got bad dreams these days, but none had ever been that bad, felt that real. Almost like a memory…
Except it couldn’t be. The doctors had been utterly clear with him, the brain damage was irreversible. Those memories he’d lost were gone for good, like chalk words on a blackboard wiped away, unrecoverable.
He didn’t know whether she believed him or not, but clearly she didn’t want to pursue matters if she didn’t have to. “We’d better get inside,” she said and clambered out.
He looked ahead. The car was obviously parked at an angle to the house, so all he saw were hedges, rosebushes and, beyond them, a clutch of trees. It was still light, but darkness reigned within the tree line, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him from within the darkness.
“Yes, better get inside,” he whispered.
Chapter fifteen
“I guess this is it, guess we’re nearly there,” said Cheung as he swung the Range Rover between two brick pillars, each taller than the average basketball player.
Lucy Parrish was glad the trip was almost over. She’d never been a good traveller, especially not sat in the back of a car (no matter how comfortable it was) and the stink of cigarettes still clung to the air inside, just served to make her queasier.
As they passed over the threshold she noted the wrought iron gates that had obviously swung back before they arrived. Automatic, she assumed and, once they were past them, she looked back. For a moment nothing happened, but then, as gateway steadily receded away from her, the gates moved. She’d expected them to slowly clunk their way together, but the movement was quick, like a sharp handclap. She heard nothing, but in her mind there was the distinctive sound of her bedroom door closing, the terrible follow-up noise of the key turning in the lock…
She shivered and looked either side of the gates. Red brick walls veered off left and right, almost as tall as the gateposts, and a melange of plant life seemed to be in the process of crawling up the brickwork. She surmised that the wall encircled the property. It looked like it would pose a significant barrier, but not an insurmountable one.
She turned her attention back to the way ahead. The driveway wasn’t overly long, and already she could see glimpses of the house up ahead. The skies were clear here, they’d left the rain behind twenty minutes ago. It was momentary freedom, she knew. Within half an hour night would fall, and besides, though she didn’t know where they were, the weather forecast had predicted rain would hit most of the country sooner or later today, so she suspected those dark clouds were already pursuing them.
For now the sky was blue however, and the autumnal leaves offered some welcome colour to what had been a dark day. Golden yellows and browns, burnished reds and purples…the leaves gently fluttered overhead like flags, and she allowed herself the fancy of being in a parade.
A sudden flurry of wind hurled armfuls of leaves at the windows, and for an instant she thought a flock of birds had flown against the glass; before she could compose herself she’d jumped in her seat.
“Only the wind, Luce,” said Fox. “Don’t worry I won’t let it get ya,” he added with a chuckle as he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close for a moment. Any excuse for physical contact.
Her skin crawled, but she fought back her distaste. She didn’t look at him, instead she stared at her lap, as she had done several times during the trip; so he wouldn’t see her eyes. She didn’t want him to know how she really felt about him. Operation Bottlewood was a fantastic opportunity for her, an honour, and she didn’t want to let her mentor down. She could put up with Brendan Fox. She told herself it wouldn’t be for long, and besides, she’d dealt with worse.
There was a flare of brightness now as they passed out from under the cover of the trees. The road widened to a large, gravelled area. The Au
di was already parked there, Chalice and Tyrell standing either side of it. And behind them was the house.
She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the house surprised her with its ordinariness. It was large, but not huge. Certainly no mansion—when she’d seen the gates she’d somehow thought it might be. Still, it wasn’t your typical family home.
From the front it looked like a letter H, if one was to be looking down on the H from above. The central section was recessed back, and on either side of it two wings jutted forwards. The brickwork was pale, except for the second floor of each wing; these bricks were a dusty red.
There was a curious lack of symmetry to the windows she could see, and she found it jarring, disquieting almost. The recessed section looked how she imagined a house should. A dark blue front door set in the centre, with windows either side (leaded affairs containing a dozen smaller panes of glass each), above them were three windows in a row. Finally there was a single window peeking out from a dormer extension in the slanted grey tiled roof, this sat above the first floor window and the ground floor door. So far, so symmetrical.
On the wing to the left there were two windows on the ground floor, but three above them, and they weren’t even set parallel to any of the windows below. It looked a mess. The wing on the right was more disturbing though, because it had no windows at all, just an impassive face of blank stone, although she could clearly see where windows had been, the brickwork was almost the same colour, but not quite—or maybe the bricks just weren’t as old and weathered—either way it was obvious that there’d originally been two windows on the first floor, with a single larger window below. She imagined they’d created the image of a face; two eyes and a mouth. She supposed they still did, but all she could think about were eyes that had been blinded, and a mouth that had been gagged.
She shivered, hoping Brendan wouldn’t notice and put his arm around her again.
Cheung brought the Range rover to a juddering stop, pausing then rolling on another few feet, as if unsure where exactly he should park. In the end he stopped to the right of the front door, perhaps two or three metres from the house.
