Assignment- London
Page 4
“What?” he said by way of greeting.
“Blow me,” came Perry’s reply.
“Pass.”
“We’re in the air.”
“What the hell? I hope there’s a plane involved.”
Perry paused. Burke knew he’d gotten the dark entendre. Lyndsey had been in the air too. Far too briefly and with no flying machine around her.
“We’re going to get you through this.”
“Whatever. What the hell are you doing on an airplane?”
“Coming to make sure you’re drinking enough alcohol.”
“Perry, you really—”
“Listen, pal, it’s too late. We’re on the way. We’re going to get you through this, and it’s difficult to do that while on different continents. And, since you keep refusing to come home, we’re coming to you.”
“Goddamn you both.”
“He might, but I doubt it because we’re both so darn cute. Listen, I’m pissed that I haven’t been able to do more. I don’t know why Moore decided to send us half a world from each other when he knows damn well I’m the only one who can help you.”
“How are you going to fucking help me? How, really? You don’t even believe she’s still alive, so unless you’re planning to open my chest and rip my goddamn heart out, I’m not sure what you can do.”
“There’s a way to get through this.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“You will. I’m going to teach you a way.”
Burke took the phone from his ear and just looked at it, as if doing so would make that statement sound any less outrageous. “Are you drunk?” he asked at last.
“You know I only drink that much when we’re lost at sea together,” Perry answered, causing Burke to chuckle in spite of himself. It was true that the last time Perry had been drunk was when they, along with Moore, were on a life raft in the North Atlantic with no certainty of rescue and two bottles of very good rum.
For nearly a full minute, neither man spoke.
“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Perry said finally. “I know what I just said to you sounded like utter bullshit. But trust me for a little longer. Nothing is going to take the pain away, but I’ll show you something that will help you when the troughs are the deepest.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I know. It’s impossible for me to find words that will make sense right now, Burke. Because this shit is beyond words and it’s beyond making sense. But trust me a little longer.”
Burke let out a loud sigh. “Why not?” he said. “Just hurry the fuck up, okay?”
“Outta my hands, at least till we land. I can threaten a cabbie and make him go faster. Probably not a good idea to threaten a pilot these days.”
“Concur.”
“Alright. I’ll see you before sunrise. Way earlier than you’re going to want to wake up.”
“I don’t sleep.”
Again, Perry paused. “I know. I know.”
The man in the long black coat stood in a corner created by two adjoining buildings, a dark recess made more impenetrable by the fog that had settled over London's infamous East End. It was one night such as this when Jack the Ripper lurked the streets of Whitechapel, searching for his next victim.
The man reached into his coat, withdrew a blade, and tested it on his thumb. Sharp as a razor, the keen edge drew a thin line of blood with the most minute pressure, and the man stared at the blood in fascination. Soon there would be much more blood, although not his own.
The click-click of a woman walking quickly in heels echoed through the heavy mist and the man tensed, readying himself. The woman drew nearer, the sound of her heels echoing through the man's head as he waited. The moments just before a kill were the most maddening and exhilarating a human being could experience. The knowledge that one could—and was about to—take another life, to play God, was nearly enough to intoxicate the man.
Click-click, click-click.
The woman was nearly parallel with the hiding place. The man moved out quickly, the blade glinting in a stray bit of light that had somehow found its way through the fog.
The woman did not scream. Instead, she moved as if anticipating the attack, turning once in a full circle to avoid the initial attack and then counterattacking without hesitation. Deftly avoiding another slash with the knife, she delivered a vicious blow to the man's neck that left him choking and staggering backward. Not satisfied, the woman moved in, jabbing with sharp, calculated blows. Her attacker had caught his breath and recovered from the unexpectedly adept defensive maneuver. Now he re-entered the fight, the blade held low.
Swish, snick-snack!
The knife slashed and flickered, probing for an opening that would end the struggle. But the woman was a mongoose to the cobra's fangs, dodging and striking, tiring out the aggressor, her movements certain and deft.
Then she struck.
The knife blade dropped for an instant, and the woman moved in, the edges of her open hands falling like hammers. The man pulled back, found himself at a decided disadvantage, and then turned and fled into the darkness.
The woman did not pursue, but rather stood still, her chest heaving, struggling to control her heartrate. Then she placed a finger to a tiny device in her ear.
"This is Bombshell. I was attacked on Mile Road but repelled the assault. I don't know if it was our man or not, but he seemed to know what he was doing."
There was a moment of silence and then a male voice responded, "And he escaped?"
"Given the circumstances, it would have been nearly impossible to bring him in without killing him first. And I thought the purpose was to bring them in alive."
"Quite so. Very well, Bombshell. Report back to headquarters and we will reassess."
6
Adabelle and Perry landed in London and wasted no time hailing a cab. Once on the way to their hotel—the same one where Burke was staying—Perry sent his friend a text to update their plans.
BE AT HOTEL IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.
There was the briefest of pauses, after which Burke’s reply message popped up on Perry’s screen:
THANKS FOR THE WARNING. JUST ENOUGH TIME FOR ME TO LEAVE.
A smile flirted with Perry’s lips as he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Adabelle rolled her eyes, but she too was smiling. “The bromance still going strong, I take it?”
“That it is, hot stuff,” Perry said. “Jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Definitely. Have you see the abs on that guy?”
“Yours aren’t bad.”
“Yeah, but you could scrub laundry on that washboard of his.”
“Aw, you’re cute when you have a crush on a guy.”
Perry’s face sobered. “Honestly, I’m just happy to have him back to being snarky. I worry when he treats me nicely.”
“You two have the strangest relationship.”
“It works.”
The cab slowed for a traffic signal, and as they waited, Adabelle’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen and then answered.
“Yes, sir.”
Perry raised an eyebrow and Adabelle mouthed the word “Moore” in exaggerated fashion. Perry scowled. He wasn’t in the mood to operate in an official capacity. He was more than happy to help out his best friend, but he didn’t need Moore poking his nose into it. There was a part of him that resented the SpyCo chief for not doing more to ensure Lyndsey Archer’s safety. Naturally, one never knew what would transpire on a mission, but Perry wondered if perhaps further intel would have alerted the powers-that-be to the true dangers that had awaited the deceased agent. It had been Moore who sent the training crew to Dublin, not realizing they would be entangled in a situation that should have warranted at least twice as many agents.
Moore should have known, Perry thought. He should have known.
Adabelle was still speaking. “Yes, sir,” she said again. “I understand. Will do.” She disconnected wi
thout saying goodbye, but Perry knew that was only because Moore had done it first, as was his wont.
“And what does the hoary head of SpyCo desire?” Perry asked.
“He found out we’re in London and wants us to follow up on a piece of intelligence while we’re here.”
“And what’s that?”
“It seems criminals are going missing.”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“Well, the intel Moore has seen is suggesting they might be disappearing for a specific purpose. Namely, that they’re being harvested.”
“How does one—and why would one—harvest a criminal?”
“That’s what Moore would like to know. I think he’s concerned someone is marshalling forces.”
“Recruiting?”
“Exactly. A little like Zmaj was doing in Ireland with the IRA.”
“Does he suspect Zmaj this time?”
Adabelle shook her head. “It didn’t sound that way. At least, he said there was no evidence of it.”
“That’s both bad and good, in my opinion. It’s good, because I’m not in a hurry to face that guy again, and it’s bad, because now we don’t know who to blame.”
“I’d like to face him again,” Adabelle said quietly. “And put a bullet into him.”
Perry looked grim. “I hope to God you get that chance. For now, what’s the plan from Moore?”
“He’s leaving the details to us. I think he knows we’re in London for Burke’s sake, and doesn't want to step on our toes.”
“That’s surprisingly thoughtful of him.”
They rode in silence, both watching London roll past as the cab made its way toward the hotel. At last, they were there. Perry got out and then walked around the car to hold the door for Adabelle. She smiled and gave him an adorable mini-curtsy.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, madam.”
“Oooh, well, let’s get to our room so you can do just that.”
To Perry, there was nothing sexier than listening to Adabelle talk dirty. In general, he found that sort of thing ridiculous and hated it when books and movies made a big deal of it. But coming from Adabelle’s shapely mouth, it was almost unbearably arousing.
There would be no time for a tumble in the sheets, however, as Burke was waiting for them in the lobby. On first glance, he appeared normal—quite a bit better than normal, actually. Perry was not a terribly good judge of male attractiveness, being staunchly heterosexual, but even he knew James Burke was a “hottie.” Standing six feet two inches, with broad shoulders and a trim waistline, Burke could have been a prototype for the American male. His brown hair was classically cut and styled, while his face, sporting a stylish scruff that accentuated his firm jawline, was equally timeless.
Yet Perry saw past the façade and, looking into his friend’s eyes, saw the agony deep inside. He stepped forward and, before Burke could protest, enveloped him in a bear hug. Perry felt Burke tense at first, but then relax and return the embrace awkwardly. Burke was not known for his being in touch with his emotions, preferring to meet hardship with a stiff upper lip and a wisecrack, but Perry knew his friend well—perhaps better than Burke knew himself. James Burke's inscrutable mask—one he'd developed from childhood—had a crack running from top to bottom.
Losing your lover will do that to a man, Perry thought. Aloud, he said, "It's good to see you, man. How are you holding up?"
"About as good as could be expected. The good news is that there have been plenty of developments to keep me busy and my mind occupied. I suspect that's at least part of the reason Moore assigned me this little babysitting side gig."
"It never hurts to stay busy," Perry said.
Adabelle stepped forward and gave Burke a peck on the cheek. "Despite everything, you're looking good, James. Although you do seem in need of a good meal."
Perry couldn't hold back the laughter. "And she thinks she has no maternal instincts."
Burke looked embarrassed and shrugged. "I'll admit that eating hasn't exactly been at the top of my priority list."
"You could have fooled me," Perry said, poking an index finger into his friend's mid-section. "Is that an ounce of flab I detect?"
Burke growled and swatted away the probing digit. "Poke me again and you'll lose an ounce of finger."
Perry nodded sagely and turned to Adabelle. "You're right; he's hungry. Hangry, to be precise. A good steak and a cocktail should set him to rights. And I just happen to know of a good place not far from here."
Over a delicious meal of steak and mixed drinks, the SpyCo operatives filled one another in on everything that had occurred.
“So anyway,” Burke said, “Moore has me on this demeaning babysitting job, to check on his housekeeper’s son or some shit, and I just had a meeting with my father, hoping to get some information about Lyndsey. He gives me an address, but when I show up, the contact is dead.”
“Waste of time,” Perry observed sagely.
“No, you know what? It was worse than a waste of time because in the middle of him buying rounds and telling bullshit stories, some dickhead calling himself The Velvet Glove pops in and informs us that he’s planning on killing my dad, which by then didn’t sound like such a bad idea.”
“The Velvet Glove!”
Burke and Perry turned to see a shocked expression and a visual paling of Adabelle’s brown face.
“Stupid, I know,” Burke said, “but that’s what he said.”
“This is not good,” the beautiful agent said.
“Offing my dad would not be the worst thing in the world.”
“No, no. Not that. When we were in Dublin, we got sidetracked by a low-level weasel affiliated with Zmaj, and we ended up in his apartment, where Dot introduced him to the great beyond.”
“Okay, I’m with you so far,” Perry said.
“While we were there, dead chap and all, a very suave-looking fellow let himself in and introduced himself as—”
“The Velvet Glove!” Burke and Perry said in unison.
“Exactly. He claimed to be the owner of the building, which we were fine with, and we let him know his late tenant had a rather foul-smelling collection of severed heads under his bed.”
“What?” Burke and Perry said, repeating their miniature vaudeville routine.
“Consider that an aside, but the point was he was very unfazed by the news and went on to reveal that his business was ‘killing people.’”
“Copy that,” said Burke. “He told us the same thing.”
Adabelle frowned. “Did he make you as SpyCo?”
“I don’t think so. He seems to have a thing about giving people longwinded nicknames and mine was the Sad Hot-shot Corporate Lawyer. If he knew who I was, he probably would have chosen something else.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t know you at all,” Perry said. “You hate lawyers. Anyway, it sounds like it’s a good thing we decided to join you. Maybe a little backup wouldn’t be the worst thing. If this Fuzzy Mitten guy wants to take out your dad, what’s to keep him from keeping it in the family and coming after you next?”
“Calling him ‘the Fuzzy Mitten guy’ would probably be a good way to antagonize him,” Adabelle said.
Perry scoffed. “Whatever, babe.”
“Anyway,” Burke said, “Moore said to come home after I checked on Poindexter, or whatever the housekeeper’s son’s name is. Aloysius, maybe? Wait, no, Alfred. I’m feeling like things might need a little more checking on here. And besides I’m still… not ready to leave the UK.”
“Then keeping busy is just the thing, as much as I hate to admit Moore could be right about something,” Perry said.
“Or it could just be that he hates me and is making up meaningless tasks, so I’ll quit the agency to save him the trouble of firing me.”
Perry grinned and then drained the last few drops of his drink. “Moore would never fire you. You know where too many of the bodies are buried.”
&nbs
p; 7
Burke and Perry, after a little advice from Google Maps, found the address that Moore had provided, and realized it was near the Whitechapel District, which was where Jim Burke had arranged to meet with his son the previous evening. Perry, who was a bit of a Jack the Ripper junkie, was excited to see the area firsthand. For all his visits to London, this dream had never been fulfilled.
“Seriously? You’re excited to see Whitechapel? Want to swing by Waco after we wrap here, or do you want to get straight to Jonestown?”
“Hey, you’ve got your weird obsessions too.”
“Name one.”
“Friends.”
“That is a great show!”
“You told me yourself you only watched it in hopes Rachel’s nipples would be poking through her shirt.”
“That alone made it a great show.”
They were in a cab, or at least it appeared that way to the casual onlooker. SpyCo recognized the danger of using real taxis in many cases, and as such maintained a small fleet of vehicles in most major world cities so that an agent could enjoy conveyance without constantly worrying that he might have to shoot the cabbie. This was one such vehicle. It also meant the agents could speak freely, as the driver was in the agency’s employ.
“This Velvet Glove guy sounds like quite the character,” Perry said.
“I thought he was pretty weird before I heard what Adabelle and… the girls experienced in Dublin. Severed heads, though?”
Perry caught the catch in his voice. He couldn’t even mention Lyndsey in a group without having to steel himself. “Well, to be fair, they could have been that Colin guy’s. But either way, just plunking them under the bed? Does that sound smart to you?”
“It sounds cocky. Like a guy who couldn’t care less who found his collection.”
“Most likely because the finder would probably end up as the latest collectable.”
“But he let the girls walk.”
“All part of being a weirdo, I suppose. I guess I can relate to inconsistency. There are people I’ve let live that needed killing. And I’m sure there are people I’ve killed that probably should have been allowed to live.”