Alice looked across the vast greeting hall of the palace, hoping to catch sight of Paul. She stiffened. The man with the face of Sir Giles De Fries, whom people here called Dr. Picton, stood there. He was clothed in grey cloth, expensively woven. Alice snorted her disgust. Her persecutor was walking with his back to her toward some rooms with double doors. It did not take Alice long to decide to settle the score once and for all. She followed him at a discreet distance. Now she knew for sure that James was in danger. Perhaps she could help. She would ambush one of their enemies and strike him down.
Dr. Picton passed a kitchen staffer, wheeling a cart full of cutlery for the daily roast towards another function room. Then the staffer got a call. The man stopped, the customized ring tone indicating that it was his girlfriend rather than his wife. He turned away from approaching hotel guests to take the call. Alice saw the opportunity, reached over and acquired a long serrated carving knife.
Picton stood in the doorway of a large darkened banquet room. The door had been left ajar. Perhaps she was in here. He flicked the light switches. Only the globes at the far end of the room went on, casting some light on a couple of dozen tables. She could be under any one of those tablecloths if she’s in here at all, he thought, and he certainly didn’t intend to check them one by one. Instead he called out: “Alice! This is Doctor Picton,” trying for honey, while achieving peevishness. “We only wish to help you, Alice! Come out.” His words obscured the sound of Alice’s shoes on the carpeting as she slipped into the room behind him, knife at the ready.
“If you’re there, come out,” Picton continued, his eyes sweeping the shadowy tables ahead. “It is for your own good. Trust me, I know what is best for you. We will take care of you.”
Alice was now close enough to ram the knife into him. But she found herself hesitating. Somehow she could not stab even a man she hated in the back. At the critical point, the rage that had driven her was checked by conscience. Yet she was the daughter of a headsman, the very instrument of community vengeance. What was the matter with her? Perhaps an instant later she would have taken her chances on the Day of Judgement, and thrust the blade into his black liver. So consumed was she by indecision that she did not hear Brandt run in behind her. Picton reacted to the sound. He whirled round to see Brandt grabbing Alice, clamping his hand around her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife. Alice realized that God had intervened to save her from mortal sin, and was grateful, even though she had been recaptured by these hateful men.
Picton was furious. She was going to kill him! How dare she! “You mad little cunt!” He balled his fist. He wanted to punch her in the face, but a forbidding look from Brandt restrained him.
“ ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay,’ ” Alice quoted contritely, ignoring the pejorative.
“Quite right, Alice,” said Nelson approaching.
Alice reacted to the sound of the Inquisitor’s voice with resignation. The end was at hand. Nelson continued to speak to Alice, while putting on a surgical glove.
“But as you know, the Lord works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”
Nelson bent down to pick up the fallen knife.
Picton thought: Oh My God! Surely he is not going to kill her in broad daylight, in a West End hotel right here in front of me? These people are out of control. He was about to protest when Nelson grasped the knife and in one fluid motion rammed it into Picton’s solar plexus. The doctor bent double, sucking in air with an agonized wheeze. Amid the pain of his dying moments, he heard a voice of belated self-reproach. He was already a prosperous doctor before he had succumbed to Nelson’s blandishments. His life, so full of achievement, with greater wealth and honor ahead, was now to be cut short and end in ignominy through his own folly. Nelson twisted the blade, thrusting it upwards, puncturing the aorta, then pulled the knife out. Blood streaked the gleaming chrome and dripped from the tip. Picton pitched over dead. Alice squirmed in Brandt’s grip, expecting the next thrust. But Nelson laid the carving knife on the carpet, careful not to smear the girl’s fingerprints on the hilt.
“You can let her go now, Angus.” Brandt released Alice.
She saw no point in trying to run. She had just seen the Inquisitor Córdoba murder his ally, Sir Giles De Fries. “You...are a man of God,” she stammered, “ ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ”
Previously, Dr. Picton had filled Nelson in on Alice’s delusions. For Nelson, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Oh; so she thinks I’m a priest. Perfect. I can use that. “Justice, Alice. I am empowered to kill evil men, just as your father was.” Nelson locked eyes with her. The girl was apparently tormented by confusion. Excellent. He was pleased that she was in her Alice persona; it would make it easier to get her out of the hotel under his control, if he managed it skillfully. He would offer her what her heart most desired: reunion with her lover. Then he would require a series of simple tasks from her that she believed would achieve this goal. “I am the righter of wrongs,” said Nelson.
Alice now understood that the only way that she might save James would be to give herself up to their enemies who had hounded them from one world to another. She took a deep breath and straightened her posture: “You condemned me as a witch; why should I trust you?”
“I am a different man now, a better man.”
Brandt’s thoughts were elsewhere, as they generally were when he was dealing with the dead. He hid the body from view with a tablecloth draped to floor level. He fantasized momentarily about the body being discovered later that day in the middle of a wedding banquet, and mass panic breaking out. The bride screaming, waiters dropping trays of dishes, everyone dashing for the doors. Some taking their wedding gifts back. He chuckled ruefully. You think of the craziest things in this job.
Nelson gestured the way out. “My Lady...?” Alice nodded her compliance.
Brandt watched, in awe of Nelson. He could sure pull the chestnuts out of the fire.
Alice knew that she was caught in a trap. But she seen many a river eel lie quiet then slip from the net as the catch was hauled aboard. The James of old was dead. Nothing could change that. She would face whatever came to save the James of this world, even if it meant sacrificing her own. She would play the village gull he took her for. She would bide her time.
CHAPTER 38
Revolving Doors
In the mezzanine laundry room, Paul struggled to make his way, inch by inch, up the chute to the next hatch. He was almost there. The hatch opened. Three laundry sacks, one large, two small, were pushed out onto the floor. His hand grabbed the rim. Then Paul hauled himself out, panting from his exertions. He looked around cautiously and moved off into the mezzanine.
Paul concealed himself beside a pillar and looked out over the railing. To his shock and dismay he saw Alice crossing the lobby escorted by two of their pursuers. Alice was walking between them, keeping up with their brisk pace. She showed no signs of being under duress. What had happened? Had they somehow turned her? Was it Alice or Jane? He raced to the stairs.
Nelson and Brandt were heading through the crowd to the entrance. There was still time to connect the package with the target as per the original plan, but they needed to launch soon. Jones was waiting near the lobby doors. He and Nelson exchanged a look. Jones nodded. He was to continue watching the hotel for a while in case the American was still hiding there. Jones hoped that he would be the one to trigger the capture, redeeming himself in Nelson’s eyes for letting the American outmaneuver him. Jones remained scanning the lobby as Nelson guided Alice into the revolving doors to the street.
In spite of herself, Alice reacted to the doors with glee. She turned to face the glass door that had bumped her from behind. It’s like skipping around the Maypole, she thought. She did not step out when the doors opened to the street. Nelson reached for her too late to stop her continuing for another whirl around. A giggle of childlike joy broke through her anxiety.
<
br /> Nelson and Brandt extracted Alice from the revolving door, and ushered her into a waiting Lexus. Was she Jane now? Paul asked himself. Not likely, judging by her second circuit around the revolving door. He had slipped out of the hotel’s side exit and was watching discreetly from the corner. Or could she be a new personality he hadn’t encountered yet? Paul watched the car drive off. He’d lost her. Paul refused to believe that Alice would betray him. But Jane? He could not be certain. Maybe they had persuaded her that he was rogue and not they. It was possible. But if he was to save her, he could not think about that now. He had to figure out a way to penetrate the conspiracy and strike at its core. Why this girl? How were they planning to use her? Something deadly was going down, and soon.
***
Minutes later, a taxi pulled up outside the U.S. Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Paul got out and paid the driver. While the gate guards processed a prior arrival, he waited in line, using the instant calm breath method to fight back the tension he felt showing in his face. He needed to appear composed and rational if his improbable tale was to be believed. When summoned, Paul walked forward, gave his name, and announced that he was carrying a weapon in a back clip. Within seconds two submachine guns and a pistol were pointed at his head.
Paul was led to the CIA interrogation room deep under the embassy, off limits to staff. He sat alone at a table. Agents took his gun and phone, locked him in. A camera was built into the table to record interrogations, but nobody had come to commence the process. Perhaps the notion he could just walk into the embassy and summon the cavalry had been naive. Paul spoke right into the lens.
“Hey! Anybody out there? Terrorist alert! Something is going down. Something bad, if you don’t act quick! Jesus, guys! This is important.”
Silence.
An interval passed. Then a slightly aggrieved voice came from the speaker beside the video camera in the interrogation room: “Why are you here?”
Paul was at last getting a hearing. He quickly debriefed.
Then the voice interrupted: “Our files show no record of authorization for you or any other agent to engage in a covert operation in England, which I would remind you is one of our staunchest allies.”
“That’s nonsense,” replied Paul, “Call Rick Almaraz’ office right now. The number in case you don’t...”
The voice cut him off before he could continue. “Section Chief Almaraz died in a car accident yesterday. Who else can corroborate your story?”
Paul had feared that his mentor was dead but confirmation hit him like a hammer. Grief momentarily overwhelmed him. Paul struggled to regain composure. His worst fears were realized.
Two men in the next room watched Paul on a video feed. Paul was being covertly subjected to voice stress and micro-expression analysis. The interrogator was Josh Levinson, a former agent turned independent security contractor, carrying out work the Agency wished done at arm’s length. Farrell had been his handler for three years and Levinson had always delivered. So when he found out there was a Ratcatcher meddling with their plans, Farrell brought in the toughest men he knew to plug the leak.
Levinson put his finger onto the screen highlighting an involuntary twitch in Paul’s cheek. Stress. Farrell nodded. So this was the man who had caused so much trouble. Smart enough to run rings round some top British operatives, but dumb enough to walk into the lion’s den and offer up his head. Well, that would take about five minutes to arrange. He wouldn’t wait. He would clean up this loose end himself. Farrell switched off the microphone, and turned to Levinson.
“Go quiet for a couple of minutes. Is your team ready?”
Levinson nodded.
“Then come into the room,” Farrell continued, “offer sincere apologies, say you’ve had a call from Langley, they have confirmed his story, the rogue agents involved have been intercepted, you have a car waiting to take him to where they are being held for identification. He’ll ask you about the girl. Keep saying you have no information. Make sure he’s never found. Same as the others. Are your guys up for that?”
Levinson nodded again. “An extra 50K each, sure.” That was only reasonable for the third termination, dismemberment and incineration he had organized for Farrell this week.
“25,” said Farrell firmly, “Don’t be greedy.” The sudden steely undertone made Levinson reflect a moment. He always tried to negotiate the best deals he could for his team, but Farrell was a good customer, he wasn’t going to jeopardize the relationship.
“25 it is.”
Farrell didn’t care about the money. His financiers had trillions at their disposal. It was the principle of the thing. The costs of privatized covert ops had been skyrocketing in recent years. People always had their hand out, asking for more, when really they should count themselves lucky to be working.
CHAPTER 39
At the Dorchester
In her suite at the Dorchester Hotel, Pamela van Doren stood in front of a mirror, holding a handwritten list of bullet points, rehearsing answers for the Q&A that would follow her talk at the conference in New Delhi. Spontaneity takes practice. She would be announcing the opening of a seed bank that she had funded for propagating and distributing indigenous, non-GMO seed stocks at radically subsidized prices to urban farmers on the Indian subcontinent, a program set later to be expanded to included subsistence farms and, ultimately, large commercial operations.
Pamela always wanted to hear the weight of her words as they sounded out loud, rather than inside her head. She tried changes of phrasing and cadence. More gravitas here. A lighter touch there. Her summation had to be fluid and well-reasoned, constructed through a series of interlocking sound bites. Every answer had to be quotable, yet fireproofed against media distortions.
Pamela put the finishing touches to her makeup, arranged her distinctive red-gold hair in a casual up do, grabbed her hat, jacket and shoulder bag and stepped out of her suite to join Emily and Paige for a champagne brunch. Then off to the Tower. What fun!
CHAPTER 40
The Millstone of Justice
Nelson drove, Alice beside him, Brandt in the back. Alice’s stomach was in knots. Wicked knots. Brandt sensed her unease. “Dinna fret yourself, lass,” he said, using his soft Scottish brogue. “You’ll join him soon enough.” He caught Nelson’s sardonic smile in the rearview mirror. Gallows humor helped him deal with the “processing” aspect of their work, which was troubling Brandt more than usual this time.
Alice nodded. She was trying to puzzle out what was happening, and how she should act. Now that she was becoming accustomed to the miracles of this world, her mind was freed to think more deeply about her situation. What most perplexed her was that although people from her old life had reappeared here, they seemed to be unaware of it. The Inquisitor Córdoba called himself Nelson; his henchman Cedric, Angus. And the rest. She was not convinced that Nelson remembered his other life at all; he was merely trying to dupe her. Even her James insisted that he was a man named Paul. Why could she alone see who these people truly were?
It became hard to think. The noise from outside their carriage became oppressive, unlike anything she had ever heard. She heard the sound of a dozen grinding mills, punctuated by a sharp high-pitched unearthly keening. Giant moving iron trees were lifting loads to the top of a castle that people were building in a street full of castles. Alice felt assaulted by unnatural sounds, sights and smells.
Nelson’s car pulled up outside the abandoned building next to a large construction site in the London Docklands, Nelson’s secret HQ. He turned to look back at Brandt, who nodded.
“Won’t be long,” Brandt said as he got out of the car.
Nelson remained with Alice. He watched Brandt unlock the padlocked gate and disappear into the building. At the same time he checked Pamela van Doren’s Twitter feed on his tablet. Her assistant Emily had tweeted “Champagne brunch at the Dorchester, then off on our way to 12 acres o
f History!” with various hashtags and a Smiley Face emoticon.
Alice watched as swirling images and text changed at the flick of Nelson’s finger. Her attitude to sorcery was beginning to change. She was no longer afraid of these objects with strange powers. Perhaps they were akin to the Talisman of legend. She wanted one for herself.
Brandt had gone inside to put the final touches to the terrorist’s lair to be discovered during the forthcoming investigation. Wearing gloves, he scattered radical literature among the laptops. Evidence of terrorist barbarism would be found on their hard drives. It amused him to place some hummus and falafel in the mini fridge. Stereotypes work. Then Brandt moved to the next room to prepare Mr. Broken Teeth for his part.
Brandt opened the padlock and slid back the razor wire fence that secured Broken Teeth’s makeshift cell. Over his arm, he carried an overcoat, a smart gabardine. Broken Teeth lay on a cot, reading a girlie magazine, a mug of tea and a half-eaten hamburger on the floor beside him. Brandt placed the gabardine carefully on a table.
“What d’you want?” growled Broken Teeth without looking up.
“Got to see if this fits.”
“Why?”
“For your TV appearance.”
“When’s that? ’cos I’m fed up with being cooped up in this shithole. I mean, are you buggers for real?”
“Just a few more hours and you will be on your way. So let’s put the coat on, see that it fits.”
Broken Teeth looked up and peered at the elegantly stitched gabardine. “I’m not wearing that poncey thing...” growled Broken Teeth, testing what power he might have in this new relationship.
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