by J. P. Lane
The immigration lines were long. Lauren joined the shortest one for visitors and inched her way forward noticing how much everything had changed since she was last in London. British Immigration was now Border Control. That seemed as good a name as any considering how many people flew in and out of Heathrow. She pulled a little factlet from her mental storage closet holding reams of information, most of it not much use to her. If she remembered correctly, around ninety airlines flew from Heathrow to over one hundred and eighty destinations all over the world. Judging from the people around her, she was not surprised. In the next line was a woman in a sari, gold bangles jangling from above her elbows to her wrists. A tall, stately man wearing some kind of African attire stood in front of a man who appeared to be Middle Eastern. Neither did the fact that nearly sixty-eight million people traveled through this airport each year surprise Lauren. She wondered if her contact was among those arriving at that moment. For some unknown reason, the thought chilled her and she gave an involuntary shudder.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to stay calm. There was no reason to worry, she reminded herself. The only hurdle would be Customs and even then, it was highly unlikely she would be searched. She was traveling with a medium size carry-on only. There was little in the bag, just the clothes she needed for her in and out trip. She felt confident the tote looked innocent enough. Cautious nevertheless, she checked inside it to see if the package was easily visible. It wasn’t. It was safely hidden under her scarf, a book she had been reading on the plane, and her cosmetics bag.
Before she knew it, Lauren found herself at the station. She tried not to show her nervousness as she handed her passport to the Border Control agent and returned the woman’s professionally congenial smile. Though there was nothing to worry about at this stage, she couldn’t help being paranoid as she watched the agent open her passport and then check the computer screen.
“How long will you be staying in the U.K?” the agent asked, flipping through the passport in search of a blank page to stamp.
Lauren found her voice with difficulty. “Two days.”
Without giving Lauren a second glance, the woman stamped her passport and bade her welcome to the United Kingdom.
Lauren marched forward, her dread mounting with each step. With the tote holding more than she dared to declare still slung casually over her shoulder, she wheeled her carry-on to Customs and joined the shortest Nothing to Declare line. What if they searched her, she asked herself as her anxiety morphed into full-blown panic. What if they discovered the envelope and examined its contents? She knew nothing of the contents of the envelope, except for the draft in an amount far exceeding the currency allowance of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. Lauren kept her eyes on the exit sign praying her anxiety wasn’t obvious. It will soon be over, she told herself. Think positively. Think positively. You’re almost there. Just one more stop and then you’ll be out of here.
He singled her out with a wave of his hand as she took her next step forward. Lauren faltered in her tracks. Refusing to believe it was her he was beckoning, she glanced behind her. Uncertainly, she looked back at him. His nodded affirmative removed all doubt it was her.
Lauren’s heart began to pound as, with weakened knees, she went over to the station and placed her carry-on on the belt. She slipped the tote from her shoulder and placed it along with her handbag in a basket. Slowly, the three items made their way towards the screening device and disappeared into its bowels.
Lauren walked forward to meet them on the other side.
“If you’ll just step over there with your bags please,” she heard him say.
Numbed, Lauren complied.
“Could you open that for me please, miss?”
Hardly able to control the trembling of her hands, Lauren unzipped her carry-on. She watched as he gave the contents a cursory search, and then seeming satisfied, moved on to her tote.
One by one, the official of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs began checking the meager contents of the tote – her scarf, her book, her cosmetics case, and finally the envelope. He pulled out the envelope. He held it up, turning it, examining it, weighing it in his hand as if to determine what it might hold. Lauren watched in a daze. The seconds slowed into endlessness. What was he doing now? She didn’t understand. He was returning the envelope to her tote with a disinterested look. He was finished. He was wishing her a pleasant stay. For a minute she was unable to move and the next thing she was through the exit, almost running towards the safety of ground transportation, her legs almost giving way beneath her.
Two hours later and still shaken by her ordeal at Heathrow, Lauren walked the short distance from her hotel to the teahouse on Kensington High Street where she had arranged to deliver the package. As she made her way along the familiar Kensington sidewalk, she took a deep breath of the cool air. This had been one of her favorite beats during her university days in London and her fondness for the area had endured. But this time was different. Her apprehension over the meeting, added to the terrifying experience she had just gone through, had reduced her to a nervous wreck.
It had begun to drizzle by the time she reached Kensington High Street. Lauren quickened her pace. She did not wish to arrive drenched. Besides she had no more than five minutes to reach her destination. She waited for the pedestrian light and crossed the street, steeling herself for what lay ahead.
She arrived to find the teahouse packed. She hesitated inside the entrance looking around for any man with dark hair wearing a navy sweater and grey slacks. There was no one fitting that description as far as she could see. Lots of jeans and grey slacks, but no navy sweater. She glanced at her watch. She was on time. Perhaps he was running late, or maybe she had simply failed to see him. She navigated her way through the bustle towards the back of the room. He was sitting at a table against the wall, eyes watchful as she made her way to him.
He rose to greet her as she came over to the table. “Nice to meet you, Susan. I’m Jason,” he said as she introduced herself. He did not extend his hand, but waited until she sat before sitting again.
“I thought we might sit back here,” he said in so easy a manner it surprised her. “It’s about as far from the crush as we can get.”
Lauren thought they could just as easily have met somewhere less crowded, the Victoria & Albert museum, which was not too far away, for example. However she refrained from offering her opinion. She placed her tote on the empty chair next to her and waited for him to make the first move.
“Tea?” he suggested. Seeing her surprise, he smiled, “Since we’re here we may as well have something.”
Lauren observed him discreetly. He was much younger than she had imagined. And he was remarkably handsome with riveting eyes the color of clear amber. Those eyes were watching her studiously as she decided he looked more like a male model than… She realized she hadn’t a clue what role he played. Perhaps like her he was a courier, also unaware of the nature of whatever it was they were involved in. Fearful he might think her rude, she tried to tear her eyes away from him, but he held her fascination.
His dark hair was well cut and tousled in a way she knew was no accident. She assumed no expense was spared when it came to his appearance. The navy sweater was cashmere. His ring looked to be bloodstone, often a hallmark of a good school, or good lineage, or both. Lauren wondered what he did for a living. He had fine hands – creative hands is how she would have described them – with long, straight, strong fingers. Whatever his occupation, he had an urbane gentility about him that matched his flawlessly debonair appearance.
“So, I gather you have something for me,” he said breaking the spell.
“Yes, it’s right here.” Lauren reached for her tote. She pulled out the envelope and handed it to him.
“Do you mind if I have a quick look?” he asked with a peculiar glance. “It would be better – in case any questions crop up.”
Lauren’s nod of consent gave no indication of what was quickly passing
through her mind. From what he had just said, it seemed he thought she knew more than she did. Perhaps if she played her cards right, she would find out more. She just had to wait and see.
“Let’s see what we have here,” Pavel said placing the envelope out of sight on his lap. He opened it and perused the contents for a minute or two, eyes in deep concentration. “Yes, this will do very nicely. I have everything I need here. Would you please convey that message to whoever needs to know?” Quickly picking up on Lauren’s puzzlement, he explained. “I’m assuming this is the last communication with you and your associates.”
Lauren shifted in her chair. They had ordered, but their tea and its accompaniments, two muffins in two different flavors, had not yet arrived. She wondered what to say. It was clear their business was done. For the sake of small talk she asked if he lived in London.
A terse yes was his answer.
“What kind of business are you in if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m an architect.”
His lips were smiling, but the amber eyes had gone stone cold. They were issuing her an unspoken warning – speak of nothing remotely touching on the personal. What Lauren was seeing was more than caginess. There was ruthlessness behind the handsome façade and she instinctively recoiled from the danger. As if knowing this, he asked amiably if she would be in London for long. She told him no.
Lauren began to have strong doubts this man sitting across the table from her was an architect. She imagined his name was no more Jason than hers was Susan. She now understood any conversation would be based on pure fabrication. It would be superficial at best. And there was no hope of leading him back to the subject of the package. Unfortunately, their order was now on the table and there was more time to kill than she cared to spend with a stranger who was giving her the heeby-geebies. Unconsciously she began playing with her watch.
“Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?” he asked.
“I have an appointment not too long from now. But no, I’m not in a great hurry,” she answered cautiously.
“Well, I’m glad I’m not holding you up. Forgive me if I took your time for granted when I suggested having something here. I just thought as a visitor to London you might enjoy this place.”
He poured their tea. Time dragged on. They talked about current attractions in London, him doing most of the talking. Having not been there in a while, Lauren was hardly au courant.
“Pity you won’t be here for long. There are some interesting things going on. Are you interested in Baroque?” he asked.
“Do you mean Baroque music?”
“No, the Baroque period overall.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m gung ho over Baroque, but I am interested in some things from that period.”
“Well in that case, you may want to consider staying a bit longer to do the walking tour of Mayfair streets that’s on right now. It focuses on the crème de la crème of 17th and 18th century society. I particularly enjoyed touring the homes of Nelson and Handel.”
Lauren glanced furtively at her watch. She had already been at the teahouse much longer than she expected. She was beginning to wonder why they were lingering, because lingering he was. Every now and then she caught him reading her and each time her discomfort grew. As he continued talking, careful to avoid asking any personal questions, her educated ear picked up an almost imperceptible trace of something foreign in his flawless BBC accent.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
He looked taken aback by the question. “Why do you ask? I’m English,” he said.
Lauren laughed nervously. “They say there aren’t any English people left in London. You come as a surprise.”
A smile played on his lips, but it did not reach the amber eyes. Lauren looked at her watch, this time with no attempt to hide her interest in the time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but if we’re through, I really have to go,” she said reaching for the bill.
“Please allow me,” he said, swiftly taking the bill from the table. “Beautiful women should never pay.” As their eyes met across the table, Lauren shuddered inwardly.
The grey drizzle that had cloaked the city had begun to ease up as Lauren made her escape from the teahouse and scrambled into a cab. She gave the driver the address of the bank in Mayfair, sat back in the seat and closed her eyes. It was over. She tried to rid her mind of all that had transpired, but her curiosity about the source of the money she was about to collect would not let her alone. Wherever the funds were coming from, she had a strong suspicion it was not from the coffers of the Ministry of Finance. And what about the mysterious stranger she had just met, she asked herself. Where did he fit into the picture? A trace of a frown flitted across her brow. Something didn’t feel right about him, but she was too spent to try and figure out what it was.
Pavel watched Lauren leave, his amber eyes following the cab as it drove away. She seemed to him to be an unlikely candidate for involvement in such a risky undertaking. But then, he didn’t look the part either. However, he was curious about her. She didn’t fit. She asked too many questions for one thing. And she had seen his face. That had been a mistake on his part. In his line of business, one couldn’t be too careful. Then again, he had been assured she was simply a courier, uninformed of the nature of the operation and the contents of the envelope she had just delivered. He shrugged off his misgivings, paid the bill and walked outside. The rain had stopped and the sun was coming out.
TWENTY-TWO
There was a crack like the sound of a rifle, then an instantaneous flash followed by a clap of thunder that shook the windows of the Island Daily News building until they shuddered. Lauren looked up from her computer and out the window eyeing the hissing forks of lightning nervously. It was pouring down, a deafening deluge, which deposited puddles in the parking lot outside almost as soon as it had begun. The rain was coming down so hard she could hardly see her car.
The thunder rumbled on, obliterating Lauren’s already feeble effort at concentration. Logan was consuming her thoughts again, as he had been from the minute she had boarded the plane for her return flight from London. During the flight, the weekend at Vale Verde had kept drifting back to her as she passed in and out of an exhausted sleep. It was during one of her waking moments that it dawned upon her that her interest in Logan was a little more than professional.
But as far as Lauren could tell, Logan had not given the slightest hint the feeling was mutual. He had been charming, yes. Informative when it came to the history of the estate, yes. Nothing more. Though there had been one moment when she had thought there was more. While pointing out an old sugar mill, he had drawn nearer to her and touched her lightly on the shoulder, the contact of his hand sending a surge through her. But, Lauren reminded herself, it had been the briefest contact, too casual to be mistaken for anything more than innocent. She gazed out the window, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she had fallen for Logan. It was the laughter that had done it for her, she concluded, fits of laughter bonding them for a breathless moment of hilarity. When their laughter had finally subsided, he had held her eyes fleetingly. Had she seen something in his eyes? Or was she imagining she did?
Lauren started at the sound of a voice behind her. “You scared me to death, Peter!” she exclaimed swiveling her chair around.
“What’s the matter, Lauren? You seem a bit on edge this afternoon. I just wanted to pop by and tell you I liked your piece on Armstrong. I never had a chance to tell you before you took off.”
“Told you you’d like it,” Lauren grinned.
“Talk about blowing your own trumpet,” Peter laughed. “If you’ll allow me to shower the praise, you got a lot. I hear it’s hard to get anything out of him.”
Lauren gave Peter an enigmatic smile. “Must be my irresistible charm.”
“What’s this e-mail you sent about his sister’s party?” Peter asked. “You obviously ignored my advice. And now there’s some write-up on the estate too? You aspiring to be a Feature
s writer or something? You find crime and corruption not enough of a challenge?”
“I know you didn’t think it was a good idea, but it turned out to be very rewarding.”
“How so?” Peter grunted dubiously.
“There was quite a cast of characters in attendance, the Deputy Prime Minister and the Minister of National Security and Defense, to name two. Gordon Matthews and the Minister of National Security and Defense appear to be the best of friends.”
“And your point? The Matthews know a lot of people in high places. Why would it be unusual for two ministers of government to be at their party?”
“I suppose you have something there,” Lauren admitted grudgingly. “But you should have seen their house, Peter. There’s no way an income from a shipping company could support that kind of extravagance. Virginia Matthews showed me a grand piano she seemed particularly proud of. I wouldn’t know a piano from a harpsichord, but she was quick to educate me. It was a 1927 Bosendorfer. I checked it out and want to know how much a 1927 Bosendorfer piano costs? Fifty-two thousand dollars, Peter! Fifty-two thousand dollars!”
