by Orca Various
“I’ve had worse beatings from better interrogators. Besides, we were covered. There were agents and surveillance outside the building at all times. Those men we saw on the monitors were British SIS getting ready to break into the building.”
“Then why didn’t they just come in and…Wait! the Russians had to get away. How did you know we’d be able to escape?”
“I didn’t. We had another plan in place—not nearly as dangerous as the one you executed,” he explained.
“I guess I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“I understand about the Russians, but why would the CIA try to interrogate you? Aren’t they on our side?”
“As I said before, everybody is on their own side.” He smiled. “Although, believe me, the CIA is going to be paying for that little error in judgment. You know, your grandfather would have been proud of the way you handled yourself.”
“You did know him, right?”
“Very well. Very well indeed.”
“Then you need to tell me about him, about what he was, what he was doing. Was he a spy or a double agent? A sleeper or a traitor?”
“I’ve already told you much more than I should have.”
“You have to tell me! You owe me that much.”
“DJ, let’s say I did tell you. I gave you answers. I told you all about him. Would you believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
“After all you’ve seen, all you’ve been through, do you still feel that you can believe anything? This whole world of espionage, intelligence and counterintelligence is nothing more than a journey through the looking glass.”
I thought about what he had said. How could I believe anything? I shook my head.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me about your grandfather.”
“He was my grandfather.”
“But what sort of person was he?”
“I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Yes, you are. Tell me about him, the things you know for certain.”
I thought about it before I answered. “He loved to tell stories and jokes. He played golf. He liked everybody. He always said strangers were friends you hadn’t met yet. He was always there for his daughters and grandchildren. He was kind and decent…and honest.”
“He was also somebody I’d trust with my life. Somebody I did trust with my life. He was somebody who always did what needed to be done,” Sir March said.
That’s what it said in the notebook. I always did what needed to be done. Nothing more and nothing less.
“Isn’t that enough for you to know?” he asked.
“I guess it is.”
“Good. Now get out of the cab and go after that girl.”
“I don’t think she wants me to go after her.”
“And I think you don’t know what you’re talking about. She was practically begging you to go after her.” He extended his hand, and we shook. “It was a pleasure—but you know that none of this ever happened.”
“None of what?”
He laughed.
“It is all right for me to leave you? What if there are other Russian agents around?”
“I think they’d be foolish when you consider that our cab driver is also one of our agents.”
The driver turned around and gave a slight wave of his hand.
“And the cab in front of us contains two more MI6 agents. Not to mention the car three back, with three more agents. I think we’ll be able to just get by without your assistance, although your not wanting to send me home alone…well, that shows real class. You weren’t prepared to abandon the helpless old man even when it put you in danger. Now you know I’m safe, so you have to go…now!”
I jumped out of the cab and went to close the door, then stopped. I had one more question. “David McLean—that really was my grandfather’s name, right?”
“His name…and yours. Goodbye, David McLean.”
I closed the door and hurried off.
EIGHTEEN
I moved through the throng of people. They all were happy and laughing and enjoying the gigantic street party. I glanced at my watch. It was almost the New Year—time for a fresh start, a new beginning. The music got louder as I got closer to Trafalgar Square. I could see Nelson’s Column in the distance, but I wasn’t going to make it in time. The crowd had almost become a solid mass, and I could do no more than shuffle forward a few inches at a time. I wondered if Charlie had been able to push through to get to her date. I hoped she had…no, I hoped she got what she wanted. She deserved that.
A loud, metallic voice came from a PA system. It started to count down to the New Year. There was a huge explosion, and a roar went up from the crowd. The entire sky lit up as fireworks shot into the air. With each explosion, the crowd roared again, faces lit up. Car horns honked, noisemakers squawked and people jumped up and down, screaming. Couples hugged and kissed, and handshakes were offered all around. Glasses were raised in toasts, and people in the crowd were singing. And I was alone. I had no one to hug or even shake hands with—
“Happy New Year!” a girl yelled in my face. She grabbed me and gave me a big hug and a kiss.
“Happy New Year to you—”
She was already off, kissing the next person in the crowd. Here I was, alone in the middle of a gigantic crush of people. I shuffled sideways until I was shielded by a storefront and then pulled out my phone. I’d send a greeting to the only person I felt like sending a greeting to.
Happy New Year, bro. Hope you are bringing in the New Year in style with Laia. See you in a few days. Love, DJ
I stayed sheltered against the wall as the fireworks went on and on, bigger and brighter until there was a final explosion and the crowd went wild. Then the last burst fell from the sky and it was over. The crowd started clapping and cheering, and I joined in. It had been quite the show.
I edged forward. I wanted at least to be able to say that I’d been in Trafalgar Square at New Year’s instead of close to it. That was part of it. The other part was that I wanted to make sure Charlie was okay, that she’d made it, that she was safe.
The fireworks had stopped, but the party was continuing. The music began playing again. It was practically wall-to-wall people, and everybody was friendly and happy. More than a few people had had a little liquid happiness poured into them. I really was at a gigantic party, yet I couldn’t help but feel like the uninvited guest who didn’t know anybody.
Nelson’s Column soared up directly in front of me. I was close enough that I could see the giant lions guarding it. Off to both sides were big, beautiful, brightly lit fountains. People waded in both of them, celebrating and cheering. I couldn’t help but think of the CIA agents in the fountain at the lobby. That had been fun. Behind the fountains, in the distance, were the steps of the National Gallery. That’s where she was meeting him.
It would be good—and awful—to see them together, but at least I’d know she was safe and that she’d gotten what she wanted. Maybe I could even go up and wish them both a Happy New Year—and give him a piece of my mind. Anybody who had to question whether she was up to his “standards” didn’t deserve to be with her in the first place. I didn’t care if he was royalty. I didn’t care if he was the King of England. I’d just go up to him and—
“Hello.”
“Charlie!” She was standing right in front of me. “Didn’t you make it?”
“I made it,” she said.
That could only mean one thing. He had decided not to show. “I’m so sorry that he wasn’t there.”
“He was there.”
“But—but what happened?”
“Now you look as confused as he did,” she said. “I told him I’d made a mistake. He wasn’t the person I wanted to kiss at the stroke of midnight.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“And yes, I do mean you and not Sir Bunny. Where is he?�
�
“He’s safe and on his way home…but…me…you want to be with me? Why?”
“Because you took my nana to the top of a mountain and took care of her. Because you wear your grandfather’s beret. Because you saved my life. Because you couldn’t abandon an old man in a warehouse. Because I hope that you think I’m up to your standards and, most of all, because you still blush a little whenever you look at me.”
She got up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around my neck, and the world seemed to explode in flashes. We were surrounded by paparazzi, cameras out, flashes going off.
“I think they finally got that picture they wanted,” I said.
“Not yet. Let’s give them something worth taking a picture of.”
She reached up even higher, and we kissed.
NINETEEN
JANUARY 3
I looked up at the big board announcing arrivals. My mother’s flight had just landed in Toronto, and she and Aunt Debbie would be through customs soon. The plan had always been for me to pick them up after the cruise. What they wouldn’t know was that my plane had gotten in from London an hour before their flight, and I’d just cleared customs and stashed my bag in the trunk of the car. I’d had time to send a couple of texts—one to Steve to tell him I had landed, and the other to Spencer, telling him I was back from my adventure and would be picking up his mother along with mine and driving her home. Neither had answered back yet.
Now that I was standing here in the airport, the whole last week seemed like a strange dream. Spies, guns, being kidnapped and held hostage, assorted car chases…somehow, those things all seemed more real than my time with Charlie. We’d spent the entire time on the first and second of January pushing Doris around London in a wheelchair, seeing the sights and meeting what seemed like all of her wonderful family, who were so kind to me. Except for Charles, who was still a git.
It was all pretty unbelievable. And, of course, unworkable. We lived six time zones and one big ocean apart. She was moving on with her life, and I was going on with mine. Still, we’d agreed that I’d come back—as originally planned—for a couple of weeks during the summer, along with my brother, Steve. I had to admit, I understood better now why he’d had to get back to Spain so soon.
I was looking forward to seeing my mother. I figured I’d let her settle in for a few days before I told her where I’d been and what I’d discovered. Before any of the cousins did anything, though, we all had to talk—share what we’d discovered and agree on what we were going to tell our parents. That meeting, I was looking forward to. What came after we told our parents, not so much.
The big doors slid open and my mother appeared, pulling her suitcase, pushed along with the crowd of other passengers. She waved and smiled when she saw me, and I waved back. I was so happy to see her. But where was Auntie Debbie?
I ran over and threw my arms around her. It was good to have her back safe and sound.
“How was the trip?” I asked.
“Very relaxing, for the most part.”
“Where’s Auntie Debbie?”
“Unfortunately, she got called away on business and had to leave early. And how were things with you?”
Her tone of voice worried me. “Things were good, fine, uneventful.”
“Really? If this is uneventful, I wonder what you’d consider an event.”
She handed me a newspaper. It was opened to a photo of me and Charlie in Trafalgar Square, kissing. The headline said, Our Charlie with a Colonial !
My mouth dropped open. “I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can, and you will,” she said. “But before that, I have one question. Is she a nice girl?”
“Top two,” I replied.
“Who’s the other?”
I pointed at her, and she laughed. “If you think you’re going to charm your way out of this one, well, you’re probably right. And you’re going to have to tell me everything.”
“I can tell you,” I said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean you’re going to believe me. It all began at the cottage…”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Throughout the book, I’ve embedded subtle and not-so-subtle references to some of the great mystery, spy and adventure novels I’ve read over the years. My thanks to all of those incredible writers who inspired and entertained me…see if you can find all the references.
Eric Walters began writing in 1993 as a way to entice his grade-five students into becoming more interested in reading and writing. At the end of the year, one student suggested that he try to have his story published. Since that first creation, Eric has published over eighty novels and picture books. Many of his works have become bestsellers, and he has won over one hundred awards. Often his stories incorporate themes that reflect his background in education and social work and his commitment to humanitarian and social-justice issues. He is a tireless presenter, speaking to over 70,000 students per year in schools across the country and throughout North America. Eric has three grown children and he lives in Mississauga, Ontario, with his wife and two dogs. To find out more about Eric, visit his website at www.ericwalters.net. Sleeper is the sequel to Between Heaven and Earth, Eric’s novel in Seven (the series).
JOHN WILSON
BROKEN ARROW
O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S
For Jen, my traveling companion.
PROLOGUE
The man sat on a flat rock on a barren hillside in southern Spain, a pair of high-powered binoculars on his lap. It was much warmer than any January day in the man’s home country, and the glaringly bright sun almost blinded him as he stared out over the blue Mediterranean Sea.
In the clear sky above, a white jet stream showed where a large plane was flying in wide, lazy circles. The man ignored it and kept his eyes fixed to the west. At last, he spotted something and raised the binoculars. Another plane leaped into focus. The man could see that it was a big four-engine jet with long, swept-back wings. The line of white cloud it painted across the sky was heading straight toward him.
Lowering the binoculars, the man returned his gaze to the first plane. It had stopped circling and was flying in a gentle arc that would bring it onto the same course as the new arrival. As the man watched, the two jet streams slowly converged. He raised the binoculars once more. The two planes were very close now, the second behind and slightly below the first.
All at once the first plane lurched down toward the second plane. A blinding flash made the man cry out and tear the binoculars from his eyes. He blinked rapidly until the world came back into focus, and then he looked up. Where the planes had been there was only a fading orange fireball. Burning pieces of wreckage fell to earth, trailing long plumes of dark smoke.
The man put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the sky. He recognized the tail of one plane, an engine and a large section of wing spiraling away from the explosion. Then he saw the orange-and-white parachute with a body hanging below it. Other parachutes blossomed across the sky.
The man placed the binoculars back on his lap. Everything seemed to be happening in eerily silent slow motion. With the naked eye, he could only see the largest pieces of debris—the tail, the section of wing—but he knew there must be a lot more. Finally, a deep, booming sound reached him. He focused on the parachutes, not the few carrying men, but two larger ones. Each had a long silver container suspended below. One was coming down fast, the parachute only partly open. The other was higher and drifting out over the sea.
The man watched the drifting parachute, surprised that it was traveling so far while everything else was coming down more vertically. Then the debris began to land around him. Most of the pieces were small; the larger bits of plane and the parachutes were landing around the village on the plain below him, but one large piece crashed into the hillside nearby.
When things stopped falling from the sky, the man went in search of the large object. It didn’t take him long to find it lying at the end of a ragged scar on the hillside. It was round and shi
ny and slightly larger than a soccer ball. Like a soccer ball, its surface was divided into interlocking hexagons. One side of the sphere was badly dented. The man stood for a long time staring down at the object, then stepped forward and attempted to lift it. It was extremely heavy, but by a combination of dragging and rolling, the man worked his way back around the hillside to the rock from which he had watched the drama.
Many years before, part of the nearby hillside had slumped, forming a rocky scar that was so overgrown it was hard to see unless you knew what you were looking for. A couple of days before, an old shepherd had shown the man the scar and told him a local legend about the ghosts of long-dead Roman soldiers coming out of a hole in the hillside and stealing sheep. The shepherd had scoffed at the tale, calling it a “fairy tale to scare children,” but he had found a hole that unwary sheep could fall into and blocked it with a large rock.
The man moved to the side of the scar and located a rock that looked less weathered than the others. With much effort, he worked the rock loose and shoved it to one side. A cool draft of air from the dark hole chilled the man’s sweat-stained face. “Ghosts,” he said under his breath and laughed. As soon as his heart rate slowed, the man mopped the cooling sweat off his forehead and set to work hauling the piece of debris up the slope and into the hole. A final push saw the round object disappear into the dark. The man listened as it rolled away. When there was only silence, he wrestled the rock back into place. He scattered some dirt to make it look as if the rock had never moved, then sat down to recover his breath.
When he felt better, the man went back to where he had found the object and kicked dirt and small rocks about to hide the mark where it had landed. He took a last look around and then hiked back over the hill to the next valley, where he had parked his small car on a disused dirt track. He glanced at his watch. The unexpected events of the morning had delayed him, and it was now midafternoon. He would have to hurry. He had a lot to do.
