Sheppard leant forward, peering into the thick fog and looked towards the looming bridge. The train was now slightly ahead of both cars and would soon be crossing in front of the bridge, blocking access to all vehicle traffic…trapping his adversary. The other car seemed oblivious to the onrushing train. It just carried on speeding towards the crossing. The realisation of what the driver was attempting then struck Sheppard…my God, they’re going to try to beat the train to the bridge. It was sheer madness to try to outrace a moving locomotive.
Sheppard could see that a mere hundred yards separated the train and the fleeing car, but the other driver never once hesitated, or slowed. The train’s engineer saw the fleeting image of a car speeding through the fog and sounded the locomotive’s horn, trying in vain to warn the driver that there was no chance on heaven or earth that he could possibly stop in time. Racing him to the crossing would be suicidal.
What happened next took place so quickly that Sheppard’s mind barely had time to register it all. He watched in horror, as the escaping car seemed to leap forward, like a charging lion in front of the train only to be hit in the side by the full force of the speeding locomotive. Sparks flew everywhere, illuminating the night as the car folded inwards from the impact and was effortlessly thrown away from the tracks, tumbling through the air like a child’s toy, before wrapping itself around a tree at least fifty yards away from the bridge. The sickening sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal filled the night air.
“My God,” mumbled Campbell, looking over at the wrecked car.
Sheppard shook his head at the futility of it all. He changed gears, slowed down and then drove over to where the smouldering wreck lay. “Come on Harry, let’s see if anyone made it,” said Sheppard, honestly not expecting that anyone could have survived such a horrific crash. Jumping out of the car, Sheppard dashed over to the wreckage. He could see that the car was utterly destroyed; it was bent unnaturally at an angle after wrapping itself around the thick oak tree. Steam hissed like a snake as it rose into the air from the car’s perforated radiator.
Campbell walked over beside Sheppard. “Good God sir, no one could have made it through that,” said Campbell, solemnly removing his cap.
Sheppard didn’t say a word. He knew Campbell was right. The occupants were both dead. Bending down, Sheppard peered inside the car. The driver lay over the steering wheel, a horrible, lifeless, bloody heap. Looking over at the passenger’s side, he saw the woman still in her seat, her once golden hair now thickly matted with blood. Slowly reaching over, Sheppard checked for a pulse. As he expected, there was none. Stepping back, he shook his head in dismay at such a senseless loss, and then noticed that the dead woman appeared to be dressed in a tight form-fitting red leather outfit that must have been hidden beneath her dress.
Sheppard was at a loss to understand why someone had risked it all and for what purpose. Thinking back, he tried recalling what had been said during the confusion at the manor house. She had been caught stealing from the prince...but stealing what?
“Harry, please go back to the car and fetch a torch, would you?” said Sheppard, his eyes focused on the dead woman.
Campbell made his way back to the car, grabbed a torch, quickly checked that it worked and then passed it to Sheppard. Leaning over, Sheppard started to examine the wreckage. He found a pistol, a German Army Luger, lying on the floor beside the dead driver. Reaching in, he pocketed the pistol before continuing his search. After a few more seconds, he found a small leather case with an odd-looking seal on it. Shining the light upon it, Sheppard saw a two-headed eagle surrounded by stars. He had never seen such a symbol in his life, but somehow he knew that this was what the young woman was willing to kill and to die for.
“Who are these people sir?” asked Campbell, rubbing his hands to stay warm in the damp night air.
“I haven’t the foggiest Harry, but they killed two people tonight and nearly killed us as well, and I believe it was all over this,” said Sheppard, as he showed Campbell the briefcase.
“I think it’s time for us to go sir,” said Harry, taking the briefcase from Sheppard’s hands.
“Don’t you think that we should wait for the police?” Sheppard asked, looking down at the wreckage.
“No sir, not tonight. I think we need to get as far away from here as soon as possible. Something about this isn’t right. My gut tells me that we need to get away from here right away. If need be, we can contact Scotland Yard in the morning,” said Campbell, taking Sheppard by the arm and gently pulling him back towards their idling car. “We can talk about this in the morning sir, but for now, I think we need to put some distance between ourselves and this mess.”
Sheppard was about to say something but saw a look of resolve in Campbell’s eyes and decided to follow his advice.
Together they walked back to their car and got in. Campbell tucked the briefcase under his seat for safekeeping. In the distance, the train came to a halt. Sheppard could hear the sound of people calling to one another as they ran back towards the wreck. Not wanting any more surprises that night, he took the confiscated pistol out of his jacket pocket and placed it between his legs. The whole experience left him feeling drained and exhausted. Taking a deep breath, he started the ignition, slowly changed gears, and then headed off once more into the dark towards home.
Sheppard and Campbell remained silent for the entire return trip, both lost in their own thoughts over what had taken place. They safely arrived in London two hours later. With his brother’s estate mostly taken care of, Sheppard had moved out of his late brother’s home and taken a room in a new upscale hotel located on the outskirts of Hyde Park.
Stopping the car in front of their hotel, Sheppard took the leather briefcase from Campbell, pocketed his pistol, and then wearily asked Campbell to park the car. No sooner had Sheppard stepped inside the hotel than the night receptionist called out to him from behind his counter. Sheppard was exhausted, all he wanted to do was go to his room, have a glass or two of scotch and then pass out. However, the receptionist looked insistent, so he reluctantly walked over to him.
“Captain Sheppard, please forgive me sir, but this was left for you after you left the hotel earlier this evening,” the receptionist said as he handed Sheppard a small manila envelope.
Sheppard took the envelope. Turning it over, he was surprised to see that there was no name on it.
Seeing the look on Sheppard’s face, the receptionist said, “Sorry sir, but the man wouldn’t give me his name. Odd wouldn’t you say?”
After what had happened earlier, nothing seemed odd to Sheppard tonight. Thanking the man, he slowly made his way upstairs to his suite, feeling as if he had just run a marathon. Once inside, he locked the door, poured himself a tall glass of scotch, and proceeded to gulp it down in one shot. The rich amber liquid burned as it went down, warming his insides and dulling his feelings. Slumping down on the bed, Sheppard felt as if he could sleep for a week. He was about to lie down and get some sleep when curiosity suddenly grabbed hold of him. Sheppard was genuinely puzzled as to why someone would send him a letter so late in the evening. Grabbing a sharp knife from his desk, he carefully cut open the letter, shook out its contents onto his bed, and then poured himself another drink to sip on while he read the letter. Sheppard saw that it was a hand-written note from his uncle Alexander Fletcher, his mother’s much older brother, a retired Royal Navy Admiral, who now worked for the Foreign Office in London. The cryptic message simply read: Royal Navy Association, eight o’clock, bring the package, and come alone.
Sheppard was genuinely puzzled. First, he had been sent on a late-night rendezvous that had ended in murder, and now, his uncle wanted to meet him under unusual circumstances. “This is most peculiar, Christopher my old boy,” Sheppard muttered to himself as he downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp, feeling it burn as it slid down his throat. Looking over at the bottle, Sheppard thought about it for a long moment and then decided that he had had enough for on
e night and placed his empty glass down, just as there was a knock on the door. Campbell called to him from outside. “All okay in there, sir? Do you need anything for tomorrow morning?”
“I’m fine Harry,” replied Sheppard, “Get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“All right sir, you be good to yourself and go easy on the Scotch tonight.”
“Good night Harry,” replied Sheppard politely.
Sheppard heard Campbell’s footsteps fade away down the corridor. He knew Campbell was just doing his job, but he didn’t think that he drank that much...well once or twice perhaps since coming back to England. Turning away from the door, Sheppard looked down at the leather briefcase on his bedside table. Its unique red wax seal made him inquisitive. Deciding that if someone was willing to die for whatever was inside, he wanted to find out why. With a sharp tug on the seal, Sheppard broke it open and spilled the briefcase’s contents onto his bed. He found himself looking down at two worn-looking letters. What was so damned important about these letters that people had to die?
CHAPTER 3
LONDON
The night was short, too short. Sheppard only managed to grab a couple of hours of fitful sleep, waking up with a dry mouth and feeling as if he had been run over by a three-hundred-pound rugby player. Grudgingly, he forced himself out of bed. His bones cracked and popped as he stretched out his aching back. His muscles were sore and tired from all the pounding they had taken the previous evening, and they let him know it. He swung his feet off the bed and slowly stood, wondering if his stomach might turn. Thankfully, he hadn’t drunk near enough to cause him to be sick this morning.
Standing in front of the mirror, Sheppard saw that his muscular frame was still in good shape, and the white scars on his body, gifts from the Kaiser – as he called them, still stood out. Sheppard managed to keep himself quite fit and active and was looking forward to getting back into a regular workout routine as soon as he got home. After washing and shaving, he dressed casually in a brown suit and tie with a freshly pressed white shirt, and his favourite grey ankle-length leather jacket. Before leaving, Sheppard stopped at the mirror to make sure he was presentable. His hair was a mess, as usual, and his green eyes were a little tired-looking this morning. Grabbing the leather briefcase, Sheppard was about to leave, when he thought of the events from the night before. For protection, he decided to pocket the appropriated Luger.
The note had said to come alone, so Sheppard decided to let Harry sleep in. Since it was such a beautiful, sunny, spring morning in London, he decided to walk the small distance from his hotel to the Royal Navy Association to clear his mind. Not a naturally suspicious man, Sheppard had decided that he had been through quite a lot in the past twenty-four hours, so he moved along briskly, eyeing anyone who looked remotely dubious along the way.
Sheppard entered Hyde Park through the Palace Gate entrance off Kensington Road and proceeded straight through the park. It was a quiet morning in the park and aside from a young couple strolling arm-in-arm, he met no one else on his short walk. Arriving precisely on time at the Royal Navy Association’s building, Sheppard saw that it was an old Tudor house with a tall mast from a Napoleonic-era man-o-war proudly flying the white ensign of the Royal Navy. Sheppard entered the building and was met by a weathered-looking, white-haired coxswain who had long since retired and worked the front desk. The man still proudly wore his dark blue naval service uniform. He told Sheppard that his uncle was here already and was waiting for him and then led him to a private room in the back of the building.
For some odd reason, the hair on the back of Sheppard’s neck went up. He found the whole business disturbing, and for the first time in his life, he felt uncomfortable and nervous about meeting someone from his family. He and his uncle had never been close. What he knew of him came almost exclusively from stories told to him by his mother. However, since arriving in England a few months ago, Sheppard had met his uncle on a couple of occasions, but never for very long.
Sheppard was escorted to a small room that had countless pictures and mementoes from the many ships in the fleet hanging from its white-painted walls. Looking around, he saw his uncle sitting before a roaring fireplace, sipping from a glass of sherry. Sheppard was taken aback to see another man sitting on a chair beside his uncle. Both men looked like they had just stepped off a ship. They were dressed alike in dark-blue suits and had their white hair and beards neatly trimmed. From a distance, Sheppard thought you could have easily mistaken them for brothers.
“Uncle Alexander, how are you on this fine morning?” said Sheppard, walking over to his uncle. “I see you are into the sherry early today.”
His uncle, now close to seventy, had an infectious smile and bright, roguish, blue-green eyes that Sheppard didn’t doubt for one moment had once charmed women all around the world.
“Fine my dear Christopher, I am quite fine,” replied Alexander as he indicated to Sheppard to take the empty seat beside him.
Sheppard sat and looked over at the other man.
“Where are my manners,” said Alexander. “Christopher, I would like you to meet my executive assistant, Captain Ryan Scott, late of the Royal Navy,” he said warmly. “You can say whatever you want in front of Captain Scott, he's a trusted friend.”
Sheppard and Scott firmly shook hands.
“So how are you after last night’s events?” asked Alexander.
Sheppard was surprised at his uncle’s choice of words but didn’t let it show. How did his uncle know what had happened? Looking over, he replied, “I’m fine sir. However, I must respectfully point out that I don’t believe that you have kept me fully in the picture as to why you asked me to deliver a note to Prince Alekseev last night.”
“Oh and how is that Christopher?” replied his uncle, sipping his drink while eyeing the briefcase in Sheppard’s hand.
“I was asked by yourself to hand deliver this note,” which Sheppard took from his jacket and passed it back to his uncle. “And then I was to take possession of a letter, or something like that, from Prince Alekseev in exchange for that note.” Sheppard paused for a moment to gauge his uncle. “However, I believe that this briefcase and its contents are what you were really after. I am correct, aren’t I?”
His uncle only smiled.
Sheppard slowly reached over and then deliberately placed the briefcase on the table in front of his uncle. “As I have no doubt that you already know, both the prince and one of his servants are dead, murdered in cold blood in front of a house full of guests by a mysterious woman who, along with her driver, are also now dead.” Sheppard took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “She died trying to steal this,” said Sheppard, pushing the worn leather briefcase towards his uncle. “I thought you wanted me to go there because I speak fluent Russian, yet I suspect that you, and perhaps your assistant, Captain Scott, may have had ulterior motives,” Sheppard said with a feigned smile as he eyed both men guardedly.
His uncle looked down at the briefcase, smiled and then spoke. “Christopher, do you know what I do?”
“Mother told me that you worked for the Foreign Office, that’s all I honestly know,” answered Sheppard.
“Chris my boy that is somewhat true, I do work for the good of the nation,” Alexander said. Pausing, he looked over his shoulder to see that they were still alone in the room. Seeing that they were, he looked back and said, “Have you ever heard of the Secret Service Bureau?”
“No sir, should I have?”
“No, I suppose not, and that in itself is a good thing, for you see the Secret Service is the leading intelligence-gathering agency for his majesty’s government. Since the end of the war, I have worked what we call the Russian desk, as has Captain Scott, my closest confidant,” said Alexander, indicating to his compatriot. “Our mission is to keep a close eye on Russian intelligence agents here at home and throughout the Empire.”
Scott leant forward in his seat. “Captain Sheppard, I am sorry, but all of this is m
y fault. I was the one who advised your uncle to send you to meet with Prince Alekseev, as several of our usual contacts have already been eliminated by Red agents operating in this country,” explained Scott. “What I wanted you to obtain last night was far too important for us to lose to a Red agent. You were not a known commodity to our enemies—that is until last night. I thought that it would be relatively easy for you to drive up there undetected, pick up the information that we wanted and return here unscathed. Evidently, I was wrong and for that, I apologise.”
Sheppard sat there not knowing what to say. He was pissed but tried not to show it in front of his uncle.
Alexander patted Sheppard on the knee. “Christopher, I see that you have already opened the briefcase, and if you are half as curious as I am, then you have most probably already read what is inside,” said Alexander, with a mischievous wink at his nephew. “I can’t blame you. I would have done the same. Now be a good fellow and tell me what is in there as your Russian is far better than mine will ever be.”
Sheppard reached forward, grabbed the briefcase, and then opened it. Reaching inside, he brought out two letters and held them in his hands. “Sir, the first letter is a personal correspondence from Major-General Prince Alekseev to his brother Viktor asking him to look after the contents of the briefcase so that, as he put it, ‘one-day, Russia can once again be free of the Bolsheviks and be returned to the natural rule of the Romanov Czars of Russia.’ He also asks his brother for forgiveness for having failed in his duty to protect Mother Russia. The second one, however, is quite interesting, as General Alekseev claims to have intimate knowledge about the whereabouts of a daughter of the late Czar,” said Sheppard. “That would, I believe, make her a potential, if not the only living heir to the Romanov throne.” Sheppard paused and then looked his uncle in the eye. “I thought that the Reds murdered the Czar and his entire family in the summer of 1917?”
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 4
