by Matthew Dunn
“You’re not planning anything bad, are you?”
Lindsay shook her head. “No, no. Nothing stupid. Don’t worry. This is just us talking and me spouting shit. I can’t touch him. I can’t do anything bad to him. That’s half the problem.” She wiped her tears away. “But it doesn’t stop me wishing every day that some drunk driver or whoever would wipe him out on his way home. At least then I’d be forced to do something.”
The black London cab stopped in King’s Road, in Chelsea. Though it was evening and raining, the popular thoroughfare of designer shops and restaurants was buzzing with well-groomed beautiful people, none of whom looked over the age of forty. As Dickie Mountjoy surveyed his surroundings, the retired major decided that everyone who came here was a scrounger who’d never done a decent day’s work and lived off swollen bank balances courtesy of their fathers.
Phoebe paid the cabbie, helped Dickie get out of the vehicle, and exclaimed, “Ooh, I do love King’s Road.”
Dickie huffed. “Thought you might.” He steadied himself with his walking stick, swung it under one arm, and followed Phoebe. He was properly dressed for the cold outing—leather gloves, scarf immaculately folded so it looked like a cravat around his throat, and a knee-length blue moleskin coat over his trousers and jacket. Aside from a chic cropped faux-mink-fur jacket, Phoebe, on the other hand, was wearing next to nothing and a pair of platforms. It was a miracle she didn’t get hypothermia during her regular evenings out.
She led him to an antique shop that was closed, though its inside lights were still on. She pressed the doorbell. An elderly man unlocked the entrance; he had half-moon spectacles hanging on a chain over his chest, was wearing a red smoking jacket that looked as though it had been made a hundred years ago, and had yellow and silver hair that had been styled to make him look Bohemian and eccentric. An arty type. For the love of Jesus, let’s get this over with quickly, thought Dickie.
Phoebe introduced herself as the woman who’d called the shop proprietor earlier in the day and had asked for an after-hours appointment. The man beckoned them in. Dickie was about to follow Phoebe in, but stopped as a newsstand billboard farther up the street caught his eye. He frowned as he tried to decide what it meant, and entered the shop.
On display were antiques that Dickie reckoned were targeted at more-money-than-sense people who wanted to furnish their West London homes with Victorian and Edwardian junk and old stuff from India and China that nobody there wanted anymore. The proprietor led them to a glass counter, on top of which was a musical instrument case. He stood behind the counter and placed his manicured fingers over the case. “I have an interested buyer for this in Vienna.”
Major Mountjoy stood ramrod straight, even though it hurt his back and legs to do so. “How much does he want to pay for it?”
“She.” The proprietor smiled. “And I rarely discuss money at the outset. In my business, it’s a tad gauche to do so.”
“In my world, ‘gauche’ is a word used by poofs, pricks, and the loiterers Phoebe hangs out with in her poncey art gallery.”
Phoebe hooked her arm under his, rubbed her hip against his body, and said in a mock stern tone, “Don’t be a naughty Dickie.”
The major wished she’d let go. “I’m just sayin’ I’m entitled to know how much it costs.”
The proprietor smiled with a look of insincerity. “Let me show it to you first.” He opened the case; inside was a handcrafted German baroque swan-neck lute. “It’s eighteenth century, and I have a certificate of authenticity from the man I purchased it from in Berlin.”
Though Dickie knew nothing about music, or art, or indeed anything that seemed to him to be a pointless load of nonsense, he had to admit the instrument looked beautiful. “In good nick?”
The proprietor frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it in good condition? Does it do what it’s supposed to do?”
The shop owner ran his fingers over the strings. “It’s perfect.”
Phoebe nestled her body closer to Dickie. “I think it’s gorgeous. Will would love to play this.” She looked sternly at the proprietor, and this time there was nothing false in her expression. “However, I agree with the major that we need to know what we’re dealing with. How much?”
The proprietor’s smile widened. “It’s not easy to put a value on an instrument of such—”
“How much?”
The proprietor pinged one of the strings. “Three thousand pounds.”
Phoebe was shocked. “I think you might have mistakenly added an extra naught on the price.”
“It has been valued with precision, and my Viennese potential buyer agrees with my valuation.” He shut the case. “By all means get an independent assessment of its value. But, I can show you my receipt of purchase, which unequivocally states that I bought it for five hundred pounds less than I’m asking for it. I believe the markup accurately reflects the effort and cost it took for me to source the lute.”
Dickie nodded at the case. “We’ll take it.”
“Dickie?” Phoebe pulled his arm. “You mustn’t spend that much money. My—”
“Mind’s made up.” He withdrew his wallet, containing five thousand pounds that he’d withdrawn from his post office pension fund earlier in the day. “It’s worth the price to make Mr. Cochrane happy, and to get out of this faggoty place.”
Ten minutes later, Dickie was standing on the sidewalk while Phoebe was holding the encased lute in one hand and hailing a taxi with the other. To Dickie’s surprise, she wasn’t staying out in the West End to make a night of it, but instead wanted to return to West Square because David was cooking for her. He coughed onto the back of his hand, silently cursed as he saw blood on his glove, and caught the headline on the billboard.
ROGUE MI6 OFFICER SPOTTED IN U.S. NET CLOSING IN.
“Keep going, lad. Don’t give up,” Dickie muttered to himself.
Traversing New Jersey, the Greyhound bus was 160 miles from Washington, D.C., and was due to arrive in the capital in exactly three hours and ten minutes’ time. Outside the bus, nothing was visible in the darkness; inside, every seat was taken and most people were sleeping or talking in the hushed tones that all but the brash and dumb adopt on a bus at night.
Toward the rear of the coach Will Cochrane was in an aisle seat next to a twenty-eight-year-old named Emma, who’d introduced herself to Will when she’d boarded the vehicle in New York City and had told him, somewhat flirtatiously, that she hoped he didn’t snore when he slept.
He felt cramped in the seat, and he couldn’t get his big frame and head into the right position; every time he tilted his skull back he feared an involuntary snort, and as he drifted into sleep, his head would move forward—slowly at first, but then culminating in a whiplash butt against nothing and an inhalation of air that produced a grunt. He decided it was too embarrassing to continue and stared ahead down the aisle.
“Want a slice of orange?” Emma held up a segment of fruit. “Good for the sinuses.”
Will smiled and replied in his Virginian accent, “Sinuses or snoring?”
“Same thing.” Emma dropped the orange segment into Will’s palm. “Actually, I don’t know if orange helps at all. But it sounds about right, doesn’t it?”
“Guess so. Thanks. I haven’t had fruit for a while.” His teeth crushed the segment, sending shots of vitamin C into his mouth.
“You look like you’re desperate for sleep.”
“That obvious, is it?”
Emma nodded. “Tell you what.” She rummaged in her knapsack. “I got a spare travel cushion. They’re great for getting comfortable, and”—she grinned—“stopping sinuses getting noisy.” She pulled out the pillow and held it out to Will.
“You sure?”
“Totally, because I’d kind of like to get some sleep myself.”
Will fixed the cushion around his neck. He knew that he shouldn’t sleep, but his whole body and mind were craving a few hours of shutdown. He decided to clos
e his eyes and take a chance.
Ten minutes later, Emma could tell from her fellow passenger’s slow, deep breathing that he was asleep. She was relieved that her cushion had done the trick, not just because she wanted some peace and quiet to rest, but also because she’d meant what she’d said to him—the guy really looked dog tired.
He seemed like a nice man, and she was happy to help him.
She looked at him, thinking how odd it was that strangers could sleep next to each other when traveling on public transportion, as if they were sharing a bed. Not that she was complaining; this guy was hot. She decided to go to sleep fantasizing about watching him fall asleep in their bed while caressing his fatigued face.
The image made her feel good.
And made her frown.
Because there was something about his face that was familiar.
Actor? TV personality? Unlikely somebody from that world would travel on a bus. And the name he’d given her—John Jones—didn’t ring any bells. Oh well, in all probability he was a nobody who just happened to have the looks of someone famous.
She closed her eyes, picturing her fantasy, and at the same time wondering, Who are you?
It was nearly 1:00 A.M. when Ed Parker entered the Russian and European Analysis division’s archive room at CIA headquarters. He’d considered leaving this inquiry until morning, but couldn’t sleep. So he’d gotten out of bed, put on jeans and a sweater, made a call to the head of the archive, and driven over to Langley.
The archivist was already in the room, working on his computer while looking majorly annoyed that he’d been summoned by Ed to work at this ungodly hour. The man—in his early sixties and thin, aside from a belly that came from decades of sitting at a desk and drinking gallons of beer in his off hours—was wearing casual attire and socks that didn’t match, and his hair was ruffled. “Director Parker. So pleased to see you.”
“No you’re not.” Parker strode to the archivist’s desk. “You got any coffee around here?”
“Nope. But I got a bottle of Jack in my drawer in case of emergencies.”
“I have to drive home after this.”
“So do I.”
“Well, fuck it, then. If we get caught, we can spend a night together in a cell while swapping stories about the good ol’ days.”
The archivist poured whiskey into mugs, handed one to the director, and returned to his workstation. “What do you want?”
Parker placed a hand on the archivist’s computer. “Your password to your database.”
The archivist laughed. “Can’t give you that.”
“Thought you’d say that, which is why I needed you here.” He took a sip of the liquor. “The Project Ferryman files: Who last pulled them and when?”
The head of the archive spent a few minutes tapping on his keyboard and glancing at his computer screen before looking at Parker. “Helen Coombs pulled the files three days ago at 0906 hours. As per access protocols for these files, she read them in one of the booths and they were then returned to us at 0957 hours. You know her?”
Parker nodded. “She’s cleared to read the files: she’s involved in distributing Ferryman intel to our key government contacts. Anyone else read the files in the last few weeks?”
The archivist returned to his screen. “You, Mr. Sheridan, and Senator Jellicoe. No one else.”
Parker polished off his drink. “Okay. Send an e-mail to Helen Coombs telling her I want to see her at ten A.M. tomorrow in my office.” He checked his watch. “Correction, today. But don’t tell her why.”
The sight of Washington, D.C., with its neon lights showing glimpses of rain-drenched buildings in the darkness, made Emma feel both euphoric and irritable. The joy was plain and simple, the same elation she always felt when she reached the end of a long journey, and by Christ she’d made this journey enough times to wish away every minute of the time it took. Her irritability came from the fact that she was visiting her parents, meaning she would have to endure her mother’s cross-examinations about her love life, dietary intake, fashion sense, and latest hairstyle, as well as her ignorant and snide comments about her vocation. Her father, by contrast, was a head-in-the-sand guy whose prime motivation in life was avoiding confrontation. Trouble was, every time Mom started getting all nosy on her, Dad would tell her she was acting like Perry Mason, and Mom would say she was too young to know who Perry Mason was, and Dad would say she wasn’t, and finally Dad would get precisely what he wanted to avoid: confrontation. It happened on every trip she made to see them. And while they were going for each other’s throats, she’d sit between them feeling like she was twelve years old.
And the irony was, during her short adulthood she’d experienced far more of the world than her parents. Upon graduating from college, she’d given the finger to their dogmatic belief that a career in law awaited her and instead accepted a position with a charity that specialized in aid to the Third World. She’d chosen the career path because she desired travel, was by nature a person who wanted to make the world a better place, and knew it would shock her mom and dad. Among many things, Emma was a rebel who would frequently eschew sensible paths in favor of impulsive adventure.
She pulled out her cell phone and saw it was nearly 6:00 A.M.
The man by her side was still asleep, or more like unconscious. She’d never seen a guy look this tired, and felt guilty for having to wake him.
But Union Station was minutes away.
She nudged his arm.
Good Lord, it felt like steel.
He remained asleep.
She prodded his thigh.
It was as solid as a mature oak tree.
He was motionless.
What was left? There had to be something he could feel. Not his hands. They looked leathery and immune to pain or any other feeling, since they were covered in scars.
That left the face. Touch him there? Just like she’d fantasized?
She raised a finger and smoothed the back of it against his cheek.
His eyes opened and he exclaimed, “Ulana, too dangerous to make it.”
Definitely not the same accent she’d heard before.
British, she decided.
“You okay? We’re pulling up to Union Station.”
Will collected his thoughts, silently cursing his involuntary outburst.
“You dream in British?”
Will smiled and made no effort to conceal his English accent. “Sometimes, yeah. I often switch between accents without knowing I’m doing it. I’m half and half. Mother was British; father American.”
“Was?”
Will nodded. “Was.”
The coach pulled into Union Station, and as it did so Emma recalled killing hours in New York City’s Penn Station by reading a discarded copy of the New York Times. There was something she’d read in the paper that was nagging her, but she’d only been half awake and she was struggling to recall what she’d seen. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you on TV? You look familiar.”
Will tensed. “I’ve been asked that before. Guess there must be some actor out there who I resemble.”
“Maybe a better way to look at it is that he resembles you.” She smiled, and then thought, God, did I just say that?
Will smiled back at her. “Thanks for the pillow. It was a lifesaver, and it really was a very kind gesture.” He got to his feet as the coach came to a halt in the station’s bus deck and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”
Emma shook his hand and kept hold of it as she asked, “You make this trip a lot?”
Will lied. “Too often.”
“I hope we bump into each other again.”
“Me too. Just make sure you bring your extra travel cushion.”
He walked down the aisle, leaving Emma wondering who decided that it was inappropriate for a girl to give a guy her telephone number when he hadn’t asked.
She also wondered why her fellow passenger wasn’t carrying any luggage.
Strang
e.
Still, she was envious, because her cruddy backpack felt like it weighed as much as she did; it would be great one day to travel footloose and fancy-free.
She gathered her things and exited the coach into the station’s basement bus parking zone. Though it was only recently built, she knew every inch of Union Station’s new bus area—it was as big as a cathedral, modern, spacious, and minimalist, had multiple tiers that were accessed by elevators, escalators, and stairwells, and a glass roof over the upper level containing bathrooms and retail outlets. But as she entered the ground floor to head toward the H Street NE pedestrian entrance, she reflected that this was the first time she’d seen cops in the building.
She could see four of them standing in two groups. The nearest pair were approximately fifty yards away and were looking at the faces of the commuters passing them. Farther ahead, two more cops were doing the same.
Ten yards ahead of her, John Jones stopped for a second before continuing on toward the exit and the police who stood in their way.
Why did he stop, she wondered?
She glanced at the cops again; there was no doubt they were looking for someone.
She returned her gaze to the back of John Jones.
He was walking slowly, his hands now in his jacket pockets.
Did cops make him uneasy?
Scare him?
It came crashing home.
The New York Times article.
A photo of a handsome man who was described as half English, half American.
An image that matched the face of the guy who’d sat next to her on the bus.
A rogue British intelligence officer.
On the run in the United States.
Her heart beating fast, she tried to decide what to do. Call out to the police, saying an armed fugitive was heading toward them? That was the logical option. Maybe she’d be entitled to some kind of reward for playing a part in the capture of the man named Will Cochrane.
The cops were heavily armed and were wearing body armor. Together, they’d easily overpower him. Plus, he’d looked so tired on the coach that she doubted he had any fight in him.
