Assignment- London

by Craig A. Hart

  Assignment: London

  S. J. Varengo

  Craig A. Hart

  Copyright © 2018 by Craig A. Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  The SpyCo Series

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  The SpyCo Series

  Assignment: Athens

  Assignment: Paris

  Assignment: Istanbul

  Assignment: Sydney

  Assignment: Alaska

  Assignment: Dublin

  Assignment: London

  Prologue

  By all rights, Lyndsey Archer should have long since been well-digested fish food. Her fall from the Cliffs of Moher should have killed her instantly, so she should have drifted into deep water and become an appetizing meal for a variety of marine life. She had fully intended to sacrifice herself to save Burke.

  But as Dr. Ian Malcolm says in Jurassic Park, “Life finds a way.” She did not die, did not drift out to deep water. But she did come very close to dying. And she actually did some drifting, but it was mercifully into the Shannon Estuary and eventually to the shores near the town of Kilrush, where it was her good fortune to have been found by an off-duty nurse named Anna Russell.

  She didn’t regain consciousness for several days, even after being brought to Kilrush District Hospital, and when she did, Anna was by her side.

  “Good morning! Welcome back to the land of the living,” the nurse had said to her. Lyndsey had been intubated and could not immediately give a response, which was a good thing, as it gave her time to consider the situation.

  She remembered everything in vivid detail, up to the point she let go of Burke’s ankles, and to be honest, the five seconds that followed that act. She did not remember hitting the water or anything that followed until the moment the lovely Irish nurse welcomed her back to life. A moment later, a doctor in her mid-fifties with a very kind face had examined her. After a thorough going-over, she said,

  “Hello. My name is Dr. O’Tiegen. You’re a very lucky woman from what I’ve been told, but we can talk about that later. Right now, I’m going to talk to you about that tube you have jammed down your throat I’m thinking we can do away with it now. Would you mind if we got that out of you?”

  Lyndsey wanted to smile, but her face did not cooperate, and since her right arm was in a sling, she gave the doctor a thumbs-up with her left hand.

  “Alright, then,” O’Tiegen said. She instructed the nurse to hold Lyndsey’s left hand. She leaned down and whispered, “I’m going to pull it on three. Are you ready?”

  The battered blonde agent nodded.

  “Right! Okay. One…” With a swiftness that took Lyndsey completely by surprise, the doctor had removed the tube. As she gagged slightly and looked at the doctor with bulging eyes, O’Tiegen said, “Forgot! I can only count to one.”

  Lyndsey’s mind, still cloudy from drugs and unconsciousness, struggled to process, its gears grinding into motion. She wanted very badly to call the doctor a long list of naughty things, but her throat hurt more than she ever imagined it could. And then she realized the doctor was speaking once more.

  “I’m truly sorry, but you have someone who’s been waiting to see you. I’ve told him to make it brief.”

  An image of James Burke immediately flashed into Lyndsey’s mind and she didn’t even try to mask her disappointment when a much older man, whom she recognized as SpyCo Chief J. Carlton Moore, appeared in the doorway.

  The doctor made a discreet exit, and the man came to Lyndsey’s bedside.

  “Venus, I’m glad to see you’re still with us.”

  “Where’s…Burke,” Lyndsey managed to croak.

  “Safe,” Moore said.

  “I need to…talk to him. To tell him I’m…alive.”

  Moore coughed lightly and shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, yes,” he said. “About that.”

  Lyndsey’s heart hiccupped. “But you…said he was safe.”

  “Oh, he is. Quite safe. In fact, he’s been refusing to leave the UK.”

  “Then I can see him?”

  “About that,” Moore repeated. “You may not see this now, but this little accident of yours has given us the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  1

  Lyndsey Archer stood in the shadowy doorway, waiting until a gaggle of revelers passed by. Not that they would have noticed a damn thing, as it was patently obvious they were all drunk off their gourds. Still, caution was ingrained in the star agent’s psyche, and she had no desire to begin developing any bad habits.

  She slipped quietly up the dark steps to an even darker landing and then stopped to listen. Nothing but the distant sounds of people having fun.

  Damn them, Lyndsey thought.

  For the thousandth time that day, she felt her insides twist as she missed the man she loved. There were benefits to working alone, but it took some getting used to. And intermingled with the loneliness was a distinct sense of guilt. The one she missed the most was also missing her…and what’s more, he thought she was dead.

  Across the landing was a door. It stood, seeming to return her stare in the murky shadows, and as she stepped toward it, there was an almost palpable sense of resistance pushing her back.

  “Easy, girl,” she whispered. “Don’t let your nerves get you now.”

  She fished in her pocket and came out with a pair of black rubber gloves. She pulled them on, her heart stopping once as she lost her grip on one and the rubber snapped back against her bare skin. She stopped dead. And listened. There was nothing.

  She moved forward, reaching inside her jacket for the Glock 26. Feeling the presence of the 9mm subcompact calmed her nerves, and she walked to the door and gripped the knob. It was, of course, locked, but she pulled out her wallet and removed what appeared to be a credit card. She bent the card in half and, as if by magic, a set of metal lockpick tools appeared, cleverly set into the card. It took her thirty seconds of fiddling to unlock the door, causing her to breathe a word of thanks that she wasn’t on a SpyCo training mission—thirty seconds would mean a failing grade. In all fairness, she reminded herself, picking locks wasn’t something she did every day, not to mention the fact that she was being careful not to leave any telltale scratch marks on the lock’s mechanism.

  She tried the knob again, and the door swung open.

  James Burke turned onto Mile End Road and headed toward The Blind Beggar Pub. Once there, he took a quick look around to see if anyone was following before ducking into the establishment. Inside, he looked around once and spotted a man with greying hair sitting in the corner, a glass of light ale on the table before him. The man glanced up and then took a slow sip of ale, his eyes never leaving Burke’s face. Then he gave an almost imperceptible nod and Burke moved forward.

  “Nice night,” Burke said, once he’d reached the table.

  “If you like this sort of thing,” the man replied.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “George Cornell.”

  Burke smiled. The Blind Beggar Pub was notorious as the site where East End gangster Ronnie Kray shot George Cornell in the head. But tonight, there wa
s no indication of such violence. It was quiet, with only a few patrons in attendance, most drinking alone.

  The brief exchange had also exactly followed the established code, which meant Burke was now sure this man was the one he sought.

  “Did you bring it?” he asked.

  The man took another sip of ale. “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Perhaps I changed the plan.”

  Burke frowned. “On whose authority?”

  “My own. I don’t work for you or your agency.”

  “Altering the plan is a good way to get killed.”

  “I have to be sure no one connects us,” the man said. “How do I know you weren’t followed?”

  Burke stared into the man’s dark eyes, which glittered out from beneath bushy eyebrows. “I’m not exactly a newbie at this job. No one followed me. You should have brought it with you.”

  “I wanted to see you first. To be certain.”

  “Certain of what?”

  “Your trustworthiness. It’s been a long time.”

  Burke’s patience was waning. “And did I pass the test?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “I don’t have time to play games,” Burke said. “I was under the impression this would be a quick swap and go.”

  “Why the rush? Stay a few moments. Have a drink with me.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  The man put a hand to his chest, as if Burke’s words had pierced his heart. “You wound me, James. I have few illusions concerning our relationship, but I thought at least we could check the friendship box.”

  “I’m afraid that ship has sailed. I just want what you promised so I can get the hell out of here.”

  “You used to love London.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “You know very well what. That’s why we’re here.”

  The old man shrugged, took another drink, and leaned forward. “Very well. I didn’t bring anything with me, as committing such things to paper is a singularly bad idea. I will tell you what I know, but I must ask that you not write anything down either. I trust you still have that steel-trap memory?”

  “I got it from you, didn’t I?”

  “True enough.” The man leaned in even more, and Burke smelled the fetid breath of a long-time alcoholic. “The man you seek lives not far from here, which is why I chose this pub. Apart from its history, of course. Do you know about The Blind Beggar?”

  “Stick to the information, please,” Burke growled.

  The man scowled but proceeded to whisper an address into Burke’s ear. Then he sat back and resumed drinking his ale.

  “And you’re sure that’s the man?”

  “I’m only sure that’s the man who has the best chance of knowing anything about anything.”

  “Including…”

  The older man nodded. “Yes. But do me a favor and don’t go in with guns blazing. I would stake my next drink that he had nothing to do with it. This man rarely ventures into the field. Rather, he is a font of information and earns his living by knowing things. People pay him to talk and people pay him to be quiet. He does quite well for himself, although you wouldn’t know it by his living quarters. Lives in a real dump.”

  “What does he do with his money?”

  “He buys people.”

  “Human trafficking?”

  “No, no, nothing so horrid. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say he buys influence over people. He disdains possessions, preferring power and notoriety.”

  “Sounds like a real peach.”

  “His dealings generally work out for everyone.”

  “I can only imagine.” Burke began pushing out of the booth.

  “Running away won’t solve anything,” the older man said. “You’ll have to face it eventually.”

  “I don’t need advice on life from you, okay? And don’t talk about her like she’s dead.”

  “I just don’t like to see you suffer.” The man reached out to take Burke’s hand, but the SpyCo agent jerked it away.

  “You don’t?” Burke said, his voice even more venomous than he’d intended. “Since when?”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I have no right to give you advice of any kind. It’s just that I wasn’t there when you needed me before and I have this yearning to help you now.”

  “Is that why you were willing to help me?”

  “To be perfectly honest, yes.”

  “It won’t bring us back together, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  The man shook his head vehemently. “I only wish to help you. You’re my son, James. I don’t even have the right to call you that, but it’s true. There aren’t many fathers who have failed their sons like I have, but now I can do something to help. If you truly believe she’s alive, then I want to help you, even though I must be honest and say you are only setting yourself up for more heartbreak.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Burke said, standing up.

  “Sit with me and have a drink. Just one drink, James. Have a drink with your old man.”

  Burke stood and looked down at the man he’d once called father. The man was a good deal smaller than he remembered, the grey hair and worn face a testament to the long-lost years.

  “Sorry,” Burke said. “I have more important things to do.”

  He turned on his heel and left the pub.

  Lyndsey moved through the apartment as quietly as she could, stepping carefully in case there were people on the floor below. She doubted the occupant of this apartment was particularly close with his neighbors, but there was no reason to chance it. She had checked all of the obvious hiding places and turned up nothing of interest, so now she began a deeper search.

  She was just about to begin prying apart the backs of the dining chairs when she heard a sound at the door.

  A key in the lock.

  Had she remembered to lock the door after entering? Yes, she had.

  The key turned, the sound of the tumblers seeming to echo through Lyndsey’s head. She sidestepped into the room just off the dining area, and her hand gripped the butt of the 9mm.

  The front door opened, and someone entered, whistling a lively rendition of “Strangers in the Night.” There was a metallic clatter—keys being tossed onto a shelf—and then sprightly footsteps as the owner of the apartment headed toward the dining area. A shadow fell across the threshold and then a man appeared. He was average in almost every way. Average height, build, and weight. His hair was a medium brown and thinning in exactly the same way as most other men his age, which appeared to be around fifty years.

  “Time for a little nightcap,” the man said, heading toward the refrigerator.

  “Make that for two,” Lyndsey replied, stepping out from the shadows with the Glock pointed right at the man’s head.

  The man gave a little squeak of surprise and put his hands in the air without being told. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Your date, of course. What are we drinking?”

  For all his mediocrity, the man recovered from his fright a good deal faster than average. He coughed once, cleared his throat, and then said,

  “A little vodka and orange juice?”

  “Perfect. Make them slowly and with your hands in sight at all times.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  The man went to the refrigerator and took out the juice. He removed two glasses from one cupboard and the vodka from another. He mixed the ingredients and then glanced over at Lyndsey, who was still pointing the gun with a steady hand.

  “I prefer a wedge of real orange with mine. And you?”

  “Fine.”

  The man took an orange from a fruit bowl on the counter and pulled a knife from a block. He expertly sliced the orange, placed the knife on the counter, and stuck a wedge of the fruit on the lip of each glass.

  “There we go,” he said, smiling. He picked up on
e glass and held it out toward Lyndsey. “I guess that ought to—”

  With one smooth motion, the man threw the contents of the glass at Lyndsey’s face and then whirled to grab the knife from the counter. Lyndsey pulled the trigger on the Glock, but had instinctively moved to avoid the flying liquid, and the bullet burrowed harmlessly into the wooden cupboard.

  The man was on top of her, the knife held high and then flashing downward. She rolled aside, shoving the man away, trying to put enough distance between them to bring her weapon to bear, but the man was like a leech, clinging to her every move.

  The knife stabbed and sliced, and Lyndsey felt a searing pain along her left arm—and then the sickly warmth of fresh blood. Rather than weakening her, however, the pain only made her furious, and she lashed out with her leg. The kick drove Lyndsey’s booted foot into the man’s rib cage, sending him back against the edge of the counter. He spun, gasping for air, but still held the knife. He lunged forward, his mouth open as he tried to drag air into his lungs.

  And Lyndsey put a bullet straight down his throat.

  2

  Burke had to fight the urge to go directly to the address his father had provided. He didn’t believe his father would have set him up, but his training told him to exercise caution. He rose early, showered, breakfasted, and had a leisurely coffee before heading out into the morning London mist.

  His father had not been kidding around about the lack of pretension. To say the neighborhood was not upper class was an understatement of immense achievement, and Burke decided he’d made the right decision by waiting until daylight. Jack the Ripper once walked these very streets, a cloaked and shadowy figure, obscured by fog as he searched for his next victim. And even though the horrific murders occurred over one hundred years ago, and it was fully light out, Burke felt as though a knife were even now raised behind him, ready to strike.