“Brussels got a communiqué from our Seattle Bureau. About investment of suspected terrorist funds.” Ha! Paul knew that would get her attention. Nur acknowledged him with a nod and he went on. “They want someone to check on things…”
“There’s no one in the UK?” There was a catch. She knew it.
“No one with your strength. It’s you or a bulldozer.”
“You know how to pay compliments! A bulldozer!”
“Nur, I saw you stop a forklift.”
A tactical mistake on her part. “Alright, so I can stop moving machinery with my bare hands. What have these terrorists been buying up? Old factories?”
“A prehistoric stone circle.”
Damn good thing she was sitting down. Anyone but Paul, she’d have thought was joking, but Paul didn’t have a humorous bone in his body. “You can’t just buy them! They’re historical monuments, national treasures.” It would be like buying up the Dolmabaçe Palace or the Topkapi. “Aren’t they owned by the government?”
“Most of them.”
“But one just happened to be up for sale, and was bought by a suspect group?”
He nodded. “Should I send out for tea?”
“Coffee, Paul and very sweet.” She didn’t miss the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as he turned to the telephone. He’d hooked her and they both knew it.
“In the name of the Special Investigations Agency, thank you,” Paul said as he put down the phone.
“Just a weekend job, eh? Good! I have a dinner engagement on Monday.”
He gave a flicker of a smile. “Hollrigg is a megalithic stone circle on the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors. Until a year ago it belonged to a local family. One of only two privately owned megaliths in the UK. Recently the aging owner—she was well over eighty I believe—put it up for sale, hoping a local preservation group would raise the money. A business consortium bought it, preempting the proposed arrangement, and paying about five times the asking price.”
“A lot of money for a bunch of old stones.”
“Very old stones.”
“So they need a tax write-off. They are amateur archeologists wanting to preserve the site for posterity. They need a novel site for employee training. Doesn’t mean they are terrorists.”
“The company who bought it, Rudicorp, is based in Yemen, and has definite ties to terrorist funding. They do, admittedly, have some legitimate business operations, and maybe, just maybe they bought it in the interests of preserving western culture,” Paul paused, “but it’s unlikely…and in the present climate, we investigate everything.”
“What am I supposed to do? Pick up the stones up one by one and check for bombs underneath?”
“If you deem it necessary.”
“Very funny, Paul. What am I really supposed to do?”
“Find out what the hell is going on. Lurk around the site, and use your superior hearing and sight to ascertain whatever you can.”
“Why me? You’ve got other agents with special abilities.”
“They are all occupied. We’ve been particularly busy the past year or so.”
“So, you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and calling on me.”
“Don’t talk rot! You’re one of our best. I know you need a break after the last job, but this is more investigation than action. You’re going to look around, that’s all.” She bet!
At a knock on the door, Paul crossed the room. The teenager from the cafe downstairs entered, placed two small cups on the table in front of Nur, and left with a generous tip. Paul handed her a cup. She caught the rich, heady aroma, sniffing appreciatively before tasting. Wonderful! Sweet, hot and thick, she might as well enjoy, she’d not get coffee like this in England.
Paul placed an envelope on the table. “Tickets, driving license, car rental reservation, credit cards, a little traveling money, and the passport you’ll use.”
He’d been that sure she’d agree, had he? Nur scowled and took another sip before setting her cup down and reaching for the envelope. “Yildiz Geçtan? Schoolteacher? Give me a break, Paul!”
“It’s a good cover. People expect teachers to poke around, ask questions, and look at everything.”
“And why am I wandering around the UK in December when I have students to teach back here in Turkey?”
“You have a three month sabbatical, to travel in the UK and improve your English.” She had to smile at that. Her English was better than Paul’s. “You teach at the Dursan Academy in Istanbul. They will back up your story if needed.”
How Paul did these things, she didn’t want to know. She flicked open the ticket. Okay, teachers went tourist class, but… “Tomorrow morning!”
“An early flight. Stay tonight at the airport Radisson, in your traveling name. Your flight leaves at seven.”
“What about minor details, like a toothbrush?”
He nodded towards the end of the divan. “There’s a toothbrush in the bag, Nur, and your essentials. You’ll have the usual supplies waiting for you at the hotel. If you need anything else, use the credit card in the envelope, and be sure to save all the receipts for accounting.”
“I leave in the morning? Drat! I had an appointment for a manicure tomorrow morning.”
“Reschedule for when you get back.”
Paul really did have no sense of humor.
* * * * *
It started off, like the nice easy break Paul had promised: a room service dinner at the Airport Radisson while Nur looked over Paul’s notes before burning them in the bathroom sink and flushing the ashes. Not that they told her much. Paul seemed to think that leaving her to find out for herself was the way to go. Which probably meant there was nothing going on and she was off on a routine mission—not that she’d ever had one of those, and half-doubted she’d recognize one if she tripped over it in broad daylight. But she gave up worrying, enjoyed the grilled shrimp and fish she’d ordered, and indulged in her favorite dessert: rosewater ice cream. She should go out and hunt, but lacked the energy. Tomorrow she’d find some willing Brit and feast.
Chapter Two
From Heathrow, Nur took an internal flight to Newcastle, where a tiny compact car waited—Paul was over-doing the penny-pinching teacher! Flying tourist was one thing, but driving a car little bigger than a bathtub was going a bit far. The incessant rain, and windshield wipers slashing back and forth, was an extra she could have passed on. But it was the flat tire, just after she turned off the motorway that destroyed what was left of her sense of humor. She pulled off the road and bumped her way to the shoulder. Out of patience, she yanked the spare out of the trunk, flicked off the hubcap, unscrewed the nuts with a turn of her wrist, and had the spare on in seconds. It was only after she threw the useless wheel in the trunk, she remembered it would have been easier on her shoulders if she’d used the jack.
By the time she arrived in Great Havering, in the fading light of a dripping, winter afternoon, she was ready to curse Paul Morel, and the malign impulse that ever made her agree to work for SIA.
And to crown it all off, the hotel in the small town was packed.
A hunt dinner? Harvest knees up? Or whatever they did for entertainment in rustic parts in winter? And a police car parked right by the front door. What was going on?
The Four in Hand, smack in the middle of the High Street, was a four-storied, Queen Anne building with a row of dormers like eyebrows across the slate roof. Quaint and historic, but she hadn’t come here for the architecture, or a flat tire and driving rain come to that. She bet Yildiz Geçtan had an easier job.
But the hotel lobby was warm and welcoming, with dark oak paneling, a log fire, a decorated tree with tinsel and colored glass balls, and a red carpet that, while—to her eyes—was obviously machine-made, was a not bad copy of a Ladik. The bar to the left looked busy, and there was a buzz of noise down a corridor to the right. Seemed awfully busy for a small country town in the off season.
“I’ve a reservation,” she said to the clerk
at the desk. “Yildiz Geçtan.”
“That’s right Miss Geçtan,” he replied in an accent so broad, Nur had to concentrate to understand. “Would you be wanting dinner?” Yes, but after the stress of the trip, it wasn’t steak and kidney pie she hankered after.
“Not tonight, thanks. I think I’ll just unpack, and perhaps pick up a snack at the bar.”
“We’re a bit busy tonight, Madam,” he replied. “You might want to get your order in early before the crowd gets there.”
“What’s going on? Bingo?” She’d tangled with village bingo once before.
He shook his head. “A planning meeting. There’s going to be a demonstration about what’s going on up at the stones.”
“At Hollrigg?” If so, her arrival was timely, to say the least.
“Yup.” He snapped the book shut and handed her the key. “I’ll give you a hand with your case.”
Her room was small, but clean, and overlooked the garden at the rear. Perfect if she needed to hop out at night. She slipped the lad a pound, and asked about visiting Hollrigg.
He shook his head. “Bit of a problem now. That’s what the meeting is all about. They’ve closed it to the public, even the footpath. Proper nerve they have, taking over and putting up fences. Folks are really upset. If you ask me, there’s going to be trouble.”
And Paul said it was just a quick, routine job. What the hell did he know? “Oh, and there’s a parcel for you. Delivered this morning.” The lad indicated the package sitting on the candlewick bedspread.
Once the door closed behind him, Nur ripped the box open. Paul had her ‘essentials’ right: a miniature camera, large scale maps of Yorkshire, and a Kevlar vest. (Bullets wouldn’t kill her, but they hurt, and moroii bled more freely than mere mortals). No gun, Paul respected her scruples there. But she gladly hefted the two thin-bladed knives, strapped one glove-soft leather holster on her leg and shook her pants leg down. One should be enough. At least for now. She’d spend the evening reconnoitering and work out what to do in the morning. The protest planning meeting seemed the best place to start, and while there, she could scout out dinner.
Close to a hundred people were packed into the hotel’s function room. Yildiz slipped in the back and stood against the wall between a pile of narrow lumber, and a tall, red-haired man in a check shirt. Actually a rather good-looking red-haired man in a green check shirt, who smelled of fresh air, and rich, warm blood and looked her way and smiled. He had eyes as blue as the sea between the Bosphorus in summer and a wide mouth that…
“Cheers,” he said, nodding. “Just dropped in for the meeting?”
“Yes. I heard about it.”
“You’re not from around here. Come in from York or Hull, did you?”
“From Istanbul.” That got his interest. “I’m on holiday.”
His eyes sparkled and crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “On holiday?”
She wouldn’t have believed it either. “I’m a teacher. I wanted to look over Hollrigg, but when I arrived I heard…”
“That it had been closed up.”
“Yes. Sounded impossible, so when I heard about the meeting, I came to find out what was going on.”
“It’s almost over actually.” Shame that, but she might still learn something. She gave him another smile and turned her attention to the speakers, who were fencing questions and generally trying to contain a good half dozen vocal objectors in the front.
After ten minutes of angry questions about rights-of-way, and interruptions from a group who claimed to be Druids. Nur decided she’d either landed knee-deep in parish politics, or just had the break of her life. Tempers were frayed, and passions were up. Whoever said the English were cold and stolid hadn’t sat in a crowded meeting hall, and felt the collective emotions rising.
“Serves them damn well right if we pull the fences down!” A voice from the front shouted.
“Now, now, nothing precipitate,” a gray-haired man insisted. “We’ll do this legally. We have precedent and law on our side.”
“How long’s that going to take?” the vocal young man went on. “We could be waiting until next year! I say we do something now!”
“Silly bugger,” the red-haired man muttered under his breath. She turned and caught his eye. “My step-brother,” he explained, “I promised our mum I’d go along and keep and eye on him. The silly git!”
“Doesn’t he have a point? If they’ve closed off an old path?”
“Yes, and that’s what we’ll win this over. We’ve got a demonstration planned for Sunday. Representatives of national and local rambling associations are joining us. We’ll get it reopened, but we don’t need loose cannons, like Todd and his lot, kicking up dust.”
“Someone’s going to have to work hard to get this lot ‘organized’ by Sunday.”
His chest shook under his flannel shirt as he held in the laugh. “You could say that! Since you’re interested in Hollrigg, want to join the demonstration on Sunday?”
“Why not?” She met his eyes and held his gaze, deliberately letting a little smile flicker across her mouth. She offered her hand. “I’m Yildiz Geçtan. Perhaps you can explain the local politics and history.”
He grinned. “Brilliant! Yildiz.” He held out his hand. “Mike Proudfoot.” His fingers were long, and his palm, slightly rough, but his handshake was firm and confident, and she felt the steady flow of his pulse as her fingertips brushed his wrist. She was rather taken by his clear blue eyes, and seducer’s smile. Who knew? Perhaps he would be more than just dinner. “Wanna help with placards, Yildiz? We’re meeting afterwards to put them together.”
“Love to!”
* * * * *
She could name better ways to spend an evening with a delectable male, but she was here on business, and having Mike Proudfoot around wasn’t a hardship.
Six of them ended up staying, everyone else preferring the comforts of the bar, or a journey home in the drizzle. She and Mike hammered stakes to placards, while the others lettered “Keep Our Footpaths Open” and “Access to Hollrigg for Ramblers” on large sheets of foam board.
No one questioned her presence after initial introductions. Seemed everyone accepted her on Mike’s word.
They were too darn trusting for their own good.
Amateurs!
Never mind. They’d give her cover, and obviously Paul’s information had been right—something was going on. Could just be a new owner’s mania for privacy, but given the stones were way out of town, in the middle of fields, and there surely had to be a paucity of ramblers this time of year…something was up. She hammered in three more nails—remembering to hold back her strength—no point in getting attention, and turned and gave Mike a slow smile. Yes, definitely worth a taste or two.
Heaven help him! Talk about the allure of the East! The woman was a siren! Mike reached for another tack and held it steady as he raised his hammer. She was not here to study antiquities; of that he was damn certain. Whatever she was up to, he’d better stay right on top of her. He couldn’t help his mouth twitching at the prospect. And, why not? But he wanted to know a little more about her first. He still pegged her as a journalist. Hanging around for a good story perhaps? Or a plant from Rudicorp—the new owners of the stones—their home company was, according to gossip somewhere in the Middle East.
Yes! That made a lot more sense than a teacher on holiday doing the tourist sights. Either way, he’d stay close until he knew exactly what she was up to.
But he had to hand it to her—Yildiz knew how to hammer nails. She had a man’s strength in her arms the way she slammed in two inch nails with three bangs. Hell! She was faster at it than he was. She had to work out like nobody’s business…and where was she really from with a name like Yildiz? Bradford perhaps? Or London?
Trouble was, if she smiled at him like that one more time, he might just forget the cause, and take her for a long, moonlit stroll by the river. Damn shame it was December!
“Want a drink?�
�� he asked, as they stacked the finished placards in a corner and everyone prepared to go home. Todd had skived off earlier, with his mates to the bar, Mike presumed. It was too much to hope he’d gone home. Mum had asked him to keep an eye on Todd at the meeting—he’d done that, and now deserved time to pursue his own interests—which right now were called Yildiz Geçtan.
* * * * *
“Gin and Tonic?” he asked when they squeezed into the still-very crowded bar. “Martini?” He was sticking with beer, but didn’t want her thinking he was tight-fisted.
“Sparkling water, please.”
“Do you never drink?” he asked as he put the glass and green bottle in front of her. “Or just not with strange men?”
“I don’t think you are particularly strange, and I never drink alcohol. It’s against the laws of Islam.”
One lived and learned. “Muslim?” She nodded. “Shouldn’t you keep your head covered then?” He remembered the clusters of chattering women he’d seen shopping in Bradford and Middlesborough.
She wrapped her slim fingers round her glass. “I am not a fundamentalist Muslim. We come in as many shades and varieties as you Christians do.” She picked up her glass and raised it, clinking the ice. “Your health, Mike Proudfoot.” And sipped. Her lips were full, red and more than enough to distract him from his dratted stepbrother. He’d much rather concentrate on a beautiful woman, who, instinct told him, might be just what he needed.
He clinked his glass against hers. “And yours Yildiz Geçtan.” He set the glass down on the table. “Staying long?”
“Just a few days. I want to see Avebury, and Stonehenge as well, and if possible go to Rollright.”
“They let you take time off in the middle of term?”
She swallowed an ice-chip. “I won a grant to study abroad.” Right, a nice grant from SIA.
Winter Warriors Page 28
