The Weak Shall Die: Complete Collection (Four Volume Set)

by Taylor Michaels

  "That doesn't change anything. If you give me any more messages like that, think it through first. Take your time and break it gently."

  "OK, sorry. But, I'm still worried mostly about tomorrow and the next few days."

  "We have to plan our future carefully. We don't want to die from starvation if we're lucky and don't rot with the plague."

  "Now, who's forgotten to be subtle? Who's dealing in cold hard facts with no sugarcoating?"

  Cho nudged John on the shoulder. "She right. You stop worry, John. Stop feel sorry for self and start doing or we leave you behind."

  "Right. I recommend that none of us go into the greeting card business."

  The door was opened by a man about John's age, tall, thin, brown hair. "You're delivering a greeting, John. Is that it? It looks like the message inside is that you have more women than I do. But, I always knew that."

  "Tom, is that you? I wasn't expecting to see you at your grandfather's house."

  Stepping aside and motioning for the guests to enter, Tom replied, "He called and said you were coming. So I ran right over. I wouldn't miss this for the world. I only live a few blocks away, in my father's old house. Remember, we used to call it 'spy central.' We kept notes on anybody and everybody. If a car came down the street, we recorded its description, plate number and where it stopped."

  "The good old days."

  "Good old days over. You forget good old days. Now we have hard new days. Then, good new days."

  "Put that on a greeting card and send it to me."

  Tom led them into the parlor with its dark wood-paneled walls, high ceiling and crystal chandelier. His grandfather was sitting in front of the fireplace, the orange flames crackling. Cho and Masako must have felt the chill of the April wind as they immediately hurried over to the fireplace, to either side of the senior Porter. Charles collapsed into a chair in the corner. He looked like he could use a rest and now, at last, he felt safe enough to take it.

  "Looks like you aren't doing badly at all, my boy."

  The elder Porter stood and extended a hand. After all the introductions were made and everyone had drinks and seats, the senior statesman said, "Where were you, John? I thought I remembered you had some plum job. Made me wish I were fifty years younger. Looking at these young ladies, I still wish I were fifty years younger."

  Masako was the first to answer. "On vacation in Singapore for three weeks. That's where Cho's from. We had to skip China, with the virus outbreak. So John promised to show us his old home place in the US. It sounds so picturesque, an idyllic Eden, the way he always describes it. The red and orange sunsets over the mountains. Deer in the fields. Hummingbirds in the lilies. Turkeys under the chestnut trees. Anyway, this virus scare may take a month or two to blow over. Remember SARS? That took several months." She looked at Terry Porter to see if he was buying any of it. Her spy instinct told her he wasn't, but he wouldn't make a fuss.

  Terry Porter fidgeted in his chair. John thought Terry appeared a little nervous. Perhaps he was thinking of the uncertain future, not wanting to show that he was not the all-confident spy of his earlier days. However, when he spoke, he exuded an air of authority and certainty. He always spoke in a loud voice, as if he were on stage and wanted everybody in the back rows to hear him. Maybe he was speaking so that all the bugs in the house could pick up everything he was saying. That way nobody would feel the need to break in and plant more.

  "That sounds fantastic, young lady. My grandson has wanted to go to the States for the longest time. But I wouldn't have it. Too much violence, you know. Too many guns. We threw them out, a long time ago. Damned nuisance, I say. Always needed cleaning. Most of the people who were killed with guns were shot while they were cleaning them. Damned nuisance. But if Tom went with you, I wouldn't worry about him. Not a bit. He'd be safe."

  Terry Porter looked into John's eyes. John thought Terry was a man who could read another man's mind as easily as most men could read a billboard. It was as if a giant invisible cable had attached itself between their brains and terabytes of data flowed both ways in a nanosecond. John was certain that Terry knew volumes about China and the virus. Looking around the room at his companions, he felt that even Masako knew it. Cho knew it. And Charles knew it, although he looked half-asleep in the comfortable-looking, overstuffed, red chair in the corner. But that was Charles; He could go from asleep to fighting form in a heartbeat.

  John's career as a spy always made him worry that his conversations were being bugged. He had bugged enough people to believe it was something everybody did to everybody else. Especially those in government. So, he always tried to speak without actually revealing the context of what he was saying.

  "Of course! Tom is always welcome. A great guy and a good friend. He can stay as long as he wants. I was planning to be here in town for only a short while, though. Maybe take in a few plays. Can you be ready in two days?" John said, turning and looking at Tom.

  "Certainly. As Granddad said, I've always wanted to see what The States is all about."

  "Great. What happened to that girl you used to think about marrying, Elspeth?"

  Terry Porter laughed. "He still thinks about it, from time to time, but not often enough and not seriously enough. At this rate, I'll be an old man before I have any great grandchildren. I keep telling him it's time to step up or keep his end up -- or something like that."

  "Will she be coming too?"

  "If there's room," said Tom. "Quite good of you, really."

  "Sure. The more the merrier. As I recall, she was a lot of fun at parties."

  "Pretty girl, but she never could hold her liquor. Seven drinks and she was dancing on the tables, if she wasn't under one."

  "Come on, Grandfather. That's a bit much, don't you think? In the US, they say women are drunk after three drinks. You are setting the bar quite high, right?"

  "The bar was never too high for Elspeth. Drank like a fish. She could drink it, but she couldn't hold it. Maybe, women are like that in The States, my boy, but British women are made of stouter stuff."

  "By the way," John said, walking up to the elder Porter, bending over and whispering in his ear. "We will need passage on a freighter. I've been thinking of either Liverpool or Southampton. Can you arrange it? Five or six rooms. The less the ship has the better. That way, we'd have less people to be involved with. We'd prefer a ship that goes directly to the US, somewhere near North Carolina, but that may not be possible."

  As John stepped away, Terry Potter turned up the volume and replied. "Of course, my boy. I'll look right into it. I'll be happy to get you some theatre tickets. I know just the man. Owes me a favor or two. Front row center. Only the best for my grandson's best friend," the senior Porter said, still speaking to the back of the room or to the bugs in the next room.

  Another long look at each other and the cable was disconnected. No more data need be exchanged. They had both communicated what they wanted and agreed on the price to be paid. John needed safe transportation across the Atlantic and Terry Porter wanted his grandson protected. They all knew what was happening and what had to happen.

  "I was hoping you would agree. Anything special he should bring."

  "No, just the usual stuff for a vacation in the US. He probably won't need swimming trunks. We're not near the coast."

  Based on what the elder Porter had said about the US, John hoped that would be interpreted as bring firearms. "Try to travel light. One suitcase and maybe a small shoulder bag. Elspeth, the same. I have a few errands to run. Make sure you bring the package I left with your grandfather. It's important. It's not private, so you can look inside. It might help you decide what kinds of things to bring." John figured that that would answer any questions as the package contained a revolver and a box of five hundred bullets.

  "Of course. How shall I contact you?"

  "I'll call your grandfather and we'll pick a meeting place. Tomorrow night."

  * * *

  Back in the hotel, Charles excused him
self, saying he wanted to check out the local scene and would be back in a few hours. Cho asked, "What the plan, John? What errands you have? You not say. You keep us in dark, again."

  "You have to trust me. If one of us were to be picked up by the police, the less each one knows, the better. I have to go to France tomorrow, to pick up another bug-out bag. Masako can go with me. It would be best if you stayed here -- out of sight. Charles will watch out for you. Then, we'll be back the next day and we'll all go to the US on the freighter."

  "Not need Charles. Take care of self. You stay away from Masako. Cho go and take care of you."

  Masako frowned at Cho and John ignored Cho's comment.

  "From now on, we need to be especially careful. You will stay here, out of sight, and take Charles' help and you will not try to avoid him. He's able to protect you far better than I can and that's what I want. I have too much invested in you to lose you now. You understand?"

  "OK. John so romantic. Make Cho blush," Cho said, nodding her head and giving a hard stare to Masako.

  John had to smile knowing that Cho's stare surely said, "Stay away from my man. Or else."

  "You have to admit he's different," Masako said.

  "Everybody different. Charles just weird."

  "He's OK. And he will do whatever is needed to keep you safe. I promise."

  "And Porter? He strange too."

  "He'll take care of things. No need to worry."

  "You sure he do it? Maybe we need Plan B. You have Plan B, yes?"

  "Of course. But he'll do it. Definitely. Especially since we're taking his grandson and possibly the mother of his great grandchildren. He'll call in favors. He was high in the Civil Service. A great many people owe him a great many favors. You saw that look. He was worse than worried. Worse than desperate. He knew more than we did. I didn't need to tell him about the body on the street. He knew that staying in London was a death sentence. Too many people too close together. A couple cases of the virus and they will all be history. Looks like it's already started."

  "I didn't think it would start that quickly," said Masako. "You think that we have only a little time?" Masako shivered and then shook herself.

  "Yes. Very little. Maybe less than a week here. He could send Tom to the US alone or even out into the British countryside or to the highlands, but what then? Before Tom could set himself up, the whole world will have collapsed. It's hard to even buy a property in a month here. We'll have housing, heat and water already provided, but it will be hard enough for us to set ourselves up before it hits. When we arrive, we will have to shop for everything. Clothes, vehicles, tools, weapons, food, security. We will need enough food for at least five or six months and we'll also have to get the garden started. A tall order for such a short time. We'll be busy. Tom wouldn't be able to do it by himself, even with his grandfather's influence."

  "Now John think about future. Finally on board. Cho happy."

  * * *

  The next day, John and Masako took a taxi through the early morning darkness to St. Pancras Station to board the Eurostar. The station looked to John like someone had gone crazy with a giant erector set. The ceiling fifty feet above was made of thousands of pieces of steel all fastened together.

  He couldn't help feeling aloof from the bustle of the people in the morning rush, all heading for work. No more would he be going to work as a spy. His life as he knew it was over. Yet all of these people were busy and had no clue of the horror that was coming.

  Short bursts of cold air rushed past him as the people plodded to and from their trains, reminding him of ghosts and for a second it reminded him of his last day in China.

  They found the gate easily and the spotless blue and white and yellow train. As they walked along looking for their car, John again saw his image reflected in the windows of the train. Again, he was seeing the ghosts of the past, but now they walked alongside the ghosts of the future.

  John always thought that going through the tunnel under the English Channel was weird with twenty minutes of darkness, although the train's interior lights popped on. Two and a half hours later, they were at the Gare du Nord in Paris. Next was a thirty-minute trip to Gare du Lyon and then the Bullet Train to Dijon with a change for Beaune. The whole trip took five hours.

  Something about train travel felt calming. He needed calming because his mind was racing, his skin was crawling, the lights were bright. Too many things to remember. Too many possibilities. Too many problems. But sitting on the train, watching the countryside zip by, he felt peaceful. He hadn't had any peace of mind for a week.

  He began to feel guilty because he was not actually doing anything, other than sitting on a train. He felt that he should be working at something more than waiting to round up his last bug-out bag and possibly recruit additional members for his group. But as Milton said, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' After leaving the train, they walked five minutes to the Hotel Concordiene and John asked the desk clerk to speak to the manager, an old spy friend.

  Chapter 12 - Francois and Marceau

  When John's father worked in Paris, his main contact with the DST, French Intelligence, was Francois LeBlanc. Unlike John or even the spies in the movies, Francois didn't believe in a flamboyant lifestyle. To the world, he was an unassuming and hospitable hotelier and a modest master chef -- never a spy. His hotel had twenty rooms, two hours from Paris. His restaurant had earned three stars from Michelin, a singular distinction in a country passionate about food. Many of the rich and famous made the trek from Paris, such as it was, to taste his culinary delights. Most of those spent the night in his hotel, an old chateau he had renovated with the help of funds from his employers.

  All the rooms were tastefully redecorated and carefully bugged. All conversations were recorded with state of the art equipment and forwarded to Paris for analysis and data mining, earlier via courier, now via internet. Francois had learned the art of making people feel at home and happy. A good skill for a hotelier and a great skill for a spy. Like John, people called him 'charming.' All good spies were charming. To let people know your true capabilities was the worst mistake a secret agent could make. Anyone who thought you were only a cook would never think to hold their tongue in your presence. Such was the arrogance of those who deserved to lose their secrets. The bugs were for all the others who were also to lose their secrets.

  One of the skills John learned from Francois was how to gain people's trust. Having other people trust you was essential if you wanted to learn their secrets. And the easiest way to gain someone's trust was to give them your trust, completely. Confess your sins, real, imagined or made-up on the spot. It didn't matter. John didn't believe it at first, but then tried it. When other people believe you trust them, they automatically trust you. It's something built into the human brain. Something humans can't control. Trust is not earned, as the old saying goes. Trust is shared.

  Francois had studied psychology in his early years and had a degree from the Sorbonne. One of his best tricks in gaining trust was to ask someone to take care of a stack of cash. The bills were all counterfeit except the one on top and the one on the bottom. The risk was minimal. Even better, anyone violating his trust and stealing the money would be arrested as a counterfeiter. However, that never happened.

  He would tell the person that he had just received this money, legitimately, maybe he'd won a bet, but he was afraid someone would find it and take it. That someone could be his boss, his coworkers, his wife, his children. It didn't matter. The point was that Francois trusted this person more than he trusted his boss, his wife, his children and every other person in the whole world. It always worked. Almost like magic.

  He would give someone the stack of cash and an envelope. A standard hotel envelope. They, not Francois, would put the cash into the envelope and seal it. That showed what great trust he had. He would tell them he would ask for it to be returned in a week. Then, after a week, he would not ask for the cash back. He would wait until the person volu
nteered to return the cash before he would take it back.

  Once they gave it back, he would open the envelope, and shove the cash into his wallet along with his other money. They would ask him to count the cash. But he would just shake his head. "Not necessary," he would say, "We're friends. We trust each other." Within days, usually hours, sometimes minutes, the person was confessing all their sins. Every one, from the minute they were born to the present second.

  Marceau was Francois and Marie's only child and the pride of their life. She had shown interest and aptitude in preparing food and they had sent her to the Cordon Bleu school and many others. Francois and Marceau had spent almost endless hours in the kitchen preparing basic dishes as training.

  She was a year younger than John and when John lived in Paris, he also made the trek to Beaune, at first for the food, and then in later years for the wine and later still for Marceau. She was thin and tall, had brown hair and brown eyes, and unmistakably had the je ne sais quoi for which French women were renowned. She was feminine but in control, sexy but demure, alluring but distant. She was self-obsessed, competitive with other women, blunt, but also admirable and loyal. She never seemed to eat, only peck, never gained a pound, never exercised and never dieted. She always had a glass of wine in her hand, but rarely had a refill and never became drunk. Women hated her, but admired her. Men loved her and she loved them. All these things she learned from her mother, Marie.

  Francois had spoken to John many times in Paris when John's stepfather had invited Francois and Marie to various social functions. Some years later, John agreed to spend the weekend at the hotel to learn more about the French Intelligence services and trust. He also learned about Marceau.

  Like most men, those who were really men, John was attracted to Marceau as well as her food. She liked John's self-confidence and his easy going, self-effacing manner. They became friends quickly and lovers just as quickly. Their relationship lasted for a year until John moved to Tokyo.