“He has a shark tank?”
“Did have. He has since abandoned the castle he’d purchased. Grimstark, he had called it, although for centuries, it had been known as Drimnnagh. I must confess that I don’t know if he had the sharks removed, or if he left them to starve until they turned upon one another.”
“That seems more his style,” Perry said grimly.
“Indeed. Needless to say being shot and left for dead, as well as having your pet fed to the aforementioned sharks (apparently, Zmaj forced him to watch his dog so treated), will sour any business relationship. I’m of the opinion that Zmaj may not even know the Wolf survived, as all that would have tipped him off, two dead soldiers, ended up nicely hidden in the bellies of the sharks. But whether he’s aware or not, there is no way he could know what the Wolf is doing.
“Much like Zmaj, he’s building an army. Smaller than the madman’s but equally dangerous and designed for one purpose: revenge. He wants Zmaj dead as I’m sure J. Carlton Moore does. And you, James Jr., I know you hold him responsible for the death of agent Archer.”
At the mention of Lyndsey’s name, Burke’s blood suddenly came to a full, rolling boil. “You are not allowed to speak her name!” he said loudly enough to draw the attention of some of the pub’s other patrons.
“Bad form, bad craft,” said the Velvet Glove. “Now is not the time to draw the attention of the great unwashed masses.” He paused, watching as Burke’s anger showed no signs of abating. “But it is an understandable breach of protocol, and admittedly, I was indelicate. I humbly apologize.”
Burke hadn’t been expecting that, but it pulled him back from the Red Zone. “Go on,” he said simply.
“The Wolf’s army is being made up of common criminals. Do not misunderstand me. Every one of them is potentially very dangerous. He is culling the cream of the European crop. He’s set himself up here in London to lessen the chance of his maneuvering being noticed. Bigger population, more anonymity. Also a bigger pool of thugs to draw from, although his ‘invitations’ have reached out beyond the borders of the UK.”
“You said the word ‘invitations’ with a heavy dose of irony,” Perry commented.
“Mmm, yes. Good catch. Apparently, if the recruit declines, the recruit dies.”
“So to say he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer would be accurate, then?” Perry asked with a crooked grin. The VG returned it.
“He’s not even accepting ‘maybe.’ The three men whose profiles we recently modified were the most recent team of employment agency… what’s the word you Yanks so love? Ah, yes. ‘Wannabes.’
“I had already repelled two such attempts.”
“I assume you’d be the apex feather in his cap,” Burke said, once again calm enough to speak in low tones.
“Clearly,” said the Velvet Glove, almost dismissively, as if this would be common knowledge, or at least a foregone conclusion. “But let me set you both at ease, should any lingering doubt remain. Although I am no fan of Zmaj, except perhaps in terms of his style, I would never work for the Wolf.”
“Why is that?” Perry asked. “Clearly you enjoy what you do. Wouldn’t the chance to kill for profit appeal to you?”
“Perry. I am hurt. I thought you and I understood one another better than that. A true artist must create art. Money almost vulgarizes it.”
“Even van Gogh had to eat.”
The Velvet Glove smiled again. It seemed almost everything Perry Hall said was a new nugget of delight. “Van Gogh shot himself in the one-eared head, Perry. I shall not follow his lead. No, I cannot support the Wolf. He is ruthless, and that I admire, and he is talented in his own right. But his methods are crass, and his so-called army will fail. Should he fall into Zmaj’s hands a second time, he will not survive the encounter. I never back a team destined to be eliminated.”
“What about our team?” Perry asked. The question caught both Burke and the Glove by surprise, although the VG recovered quickly and smiled once again.
“Hmm. Yes. Align myself with SpyCo. What an absolutely delicious proposition! Normally, I’d refuse out of principle. ‘Good guys’ tend to be so boring. But you two seem different. Especially you, Perry Hall. A good guy with so many bad guy qualities I could almost kiss you.”
“I wouldn’t,” Perry said, once again displaying the meandering grin.
“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” the Velvet Glove said, holding up his hands in a gesture meant to diffuse. “Don’t worry, Perry. I don’t favor blondes. But we digress. I think we could help one another.”
“How?” asked Burke.
“My best-case scenario would be eliminating both the Wolf and Zmaj. Clearly that would benefit SpyCo as well. My opinion is that the best way to do that would be to get someone close to the Wolf. Although I could have easily assumed that role by accepting the offers of the men I chose to kill instead. But the Wolf, unlike the majority of the seven billion potential heads-under-the-bed walking this planet, knows me by reputation. He would be wary, even if I chose to join him, about letting me too close, and about revealing too much of what he’s planning. It would have to be a criminal about whom he knows nothing, but who catches his eye sufficiently to warrant an invitation.”
“Do you know anyone like that?” Burke asked, his interest quickly rising as he saw the value of the Glove’s idea.
“Yes, James Jr.,” he said, staring straight into Burke’s eyes. “I am looking at him.”
“Zmaj knows Burke,” Perry said, shaking his head.
“But does the Wolf? Oh, everyone in the espionage fraternity knows everyone, of course. Don’t take my train of thought as naïveté. But the Wolf has never met you, and your lot does seem to be at least minimally effective at keeping your identities out of the spotlight.”
“One more problem,” said Burke. “I’m not a criminal.”
“Well, then,” said the Velvet Glove, slipping into easily one of the most evil smiles either agent had ever seen, “I guess you’re going to need to commit some crimes.”
13
Moore looked at his Ulysse Nardin watch and went from being completely annoyed to fuming. Burke should have called by now. And if not Burke, that idiot Hall, who was, after all, there of his own accord to keep Burke from jumping off Big Ben or whatever. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked at his watch again. “God damn them!” he said, smashing his fist on the hard surface of his mahogany desk.
There was little chance of such a gesture disturbing the position of anything important. Moore kept his workspace spotless and wondered about the mental stability of anyone who didn’t. The only thing on the dark surface that wasn’t an essential piece of office paraphernalia was a small imperfectly shaped coin. It was a Roman denarius from the 1st Century A.D., made of silver and bearing the visage of Emperor Trajan. He reached for it. Mrs. Fischer had more than once chided him for not placing it in some sort of protective covering, but he knew that the coin wasn’t really that rare or valuable. Apparently, it was a common practice in ancient Rome to bury little hoards of cash when the shit was about to hit the fan. Unfortunately, the convergence of feces and fan-blade often meant the frantic burier was soon buried himself, and the coins waited for excavators to find them centuries later.
He looked again at the watch. Oddly, the watch and the coin had come from the same source, that being the body of one of Zmaj’s henchmen, plucked after Burke and Hall had decimated the vile man’s squad of bodyguards in Istanbul. Moore had liked the look of the watch, so as they were leaving the scene, he took it. It wasn’t until much later that he learned that it was valued at $1.25 million dollars. He almost didn’t wear it after learning that, partially for fear of damaging it, and partly because he thought it marginally obscene that a wristwatch could cost that much. As he was sliding it off the dead man’s arm, the coin fell out of the pocket of his jacket, and Moore scooped it up as well.
Now as he looked away from the blue face of the watch, he flipped the coin. Heads he would
call and scream at Burke, tails Hall would be his target. As it traced a parabola in the air, a light knock sounded at his office door and he took his eye off the coin. It hit the desk, then bounced on the carpet floor, out of sight. “Yes, Mrs. Fischer?” he said, making no effort to hide his ill humor. The door opened just far enough for her to poke her head through.
“Any word?” she asked.
It was a legitimate question and Moore knew it, and so as angry as he’d already been, he didn’t let her intrusion, or the temporary loss of his coin, make him focus that ire on his housekeeper. The softening of his tone took the woman by surprise.
“No, not yet,” he said, almost apologetically. “I was just about to call for an update.”
“Very well. You’ll let me know?”
Moore could see the woman was bravely trying to keep her emotions in check. In the years she’d been in his employ, she’d never lost it like she did when she’d told him about her son. At least not in his presence.
“I will let you know the instant that I find out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Moore.” And with that, she closed the door as quietly as she’d opened it.
Moore pushed his chair away from the desk and looked on the floor for the denarius. Its once shiny silver had long since tarnished and now the coin blended perfectly with the high pile of his grey carpet.
“Bloody hell,” he said, giving up the search almost at once. Robbed of the delicate scientific tool that would have told him which of his mentally challenged agents to call, he picked up the phone and hit the contact entry labeled “Vixen.” As he waited for the call to go through, he thought, not for the first time, that it was a good thing he had never married. It might be hard explaining to his wife why his phone contained contacts named “Vixen” and “Venus.”
“Hello, boss!” came Adabelle’s far too chipper voice.
“Fox! Are you with one or both of the morons with whom you work?”
“Negative. They left a couple of hours ago to look for your housekeeper’s son. Either they’re having trouble finding him, or the three of them hit it off brilliantly and are in some nearby pub swapping lies.”
“Swapping emblems of their idiocy more like it.”
“If I hear anything, I’ll either call you myself or have one of them do so.”
“See that it happens. Soon.”
Adabelle was about to ask him how his day was going apart from this issue, but the disconnect tone sounded in her ear before she could. “Just plain grumpy,” she said to herself as she slipped her phone back into her clutch. She was standing in front of a shop that specialized in evening gowns. The number on display would be perfect if they indeed made it to the theater that night, and she knew that it would show off her assets in a way that Perry would find irresistible. She giggled at the thought of him talking her into leaving before the final curtain.
Pulling the phone out once more, she sent him a text: “News?”
An instant later, the screen showed that Perry was typing a reply. His answer was almost as brief. “Found. Wait till you hear. Just wait.”
Now she was intrigued and hoped he’d return soon. “Theatre tonight?” she typed.
“Probably not. Unexpected change of plans. Won’t be back till late.”
She frowned and looked at the shop window. The gown was perfect, and she wasn’t about to let a cancelled date dissuade her from buying it. “Whatever, Hall.”
She knew that wherever he was, Perry was smiling. He always smiled when he pissed her off, which happened infrequently and usually over insignificant matters.
The phone chimed. “You mad, bro?”
She laughed out loud. “Fuck you,” she replied and stuffed the phone away as she entered the shop.
Adabelle’s Turkish heritage had given her many things that she considered assets. Her dark skin was one such, but there had been times in her life when she’d felt that she was instantly judged for her adumbral complexion. This was one such instance.
Upon the shop door opening and the quaint bronze bell above it tinkling to inform the staff that a customer had entered, a young girl appeared from behind a curtain, which apparently led to some employees-only section of the store. When she saw Adabelle, her face, which had come out of hiding with a smile, shifted to a blank expression, which clearly denoted that a lesson would likely need to be taught.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “Can I direct you to the shop you’re actually looking for?”
With a happy lilt in her voice, Adabelle said, “Oh, I’m right where I mean to be, thank you. I was interested in the gown you have on display in the window.”
“Of course,” the girl said, aggravated that the darky did not take the hint. She turned to go behind the curtain to retrieve the dress, when she seemed to have a thought. “That dress is rather pricey, ma’am,” she said, making no effort to hide her meaning – “You can’t afford this.”
“I expected it would be,” she said, withdrawing a platinum Visa with her name stamped proudly upon it. “How much? A thousand? Two?”
The clerk smiled depreciatively and said, “A bit more. Thirty thousand.” With that, she vanished behind the curtain.
Adabelle was glad she had, so that she didn’t see her gulp at hearing the price of the gown. She considered using the clerk’s departure to allow her own, but then a smile came across her face. She slid the card back into her clutch and extracted another: a JP Morgan Chase Palladium Visa bearing the name “Perry Hall.” She waited for the clerk to return.
“Here we are, size one,” the shop clerk said a moment later, stepping triumphantly from the curtain. Adabelle thought she saw a trace of surprise upon seeing that she hadn’t run away in embarrassed shame.
“Perfect. Oh, what a lovely shade of blue your boxes are. A bit derivative of Tiffany, though, don’t you think?” she said, placing the card on the counter.
Clearly nonplussed, the woman took the card and ran it through the reader. She was even more obviously surprised when the payment was immediately approved. As the girl placed the blue box containing the gown in a likewise hued shopping bag, she offered both it and the credit card back to Adabelle.
“Thank you so much for your attentive service,” Adabelle said, turning to leave. Then she looked back over her shoulder at the visually stunned girl and said, “Oh, and you might want to check your condescending attitude. The next dark-skinned girl you prejudge might not be as amiable as me.”
She left the shop and the girl, standing silent.
Approximately ten seconds later, Perry’ text tone sounded, and he smiled, thinking Adabelle was ribbing him again. What he saw instead was a notice from the bank informing him that his card had just been used to the tune of $35K.
“She always wins,” he said aloud. “Every time.”
“Beg pardon?” said the Velvet Glove as he led the two agents along the streets of Whitechapel.
“Nothing,” Perry said. “Just girl issues.”
“Ah, yes. Women and all their messy entanglements. Best avoided.” He turned from a street that had undergone considerably less urban renewal than other parts of the district, into a narrow alley that no doubt looked every bit as bad as it had in the 1800s, when the Ripper might have ducked into it to avoid detection.
It was late afternoon now, and in places where the sunshine was able to reach the ground, shadows were lengthening. But there was no light in this place.
For its narrow gauge, the alley was long, running the entire length of one building, and from what Perry could tell, a fair portion of another building, facing out a block over. It was a little bit of an odd configuration and apparently Burke thought so too. As the Velvet Glove began to stroll without care into the thin route, he grabbed Perry by the arm.
“Dude, are you sure it’s a good idea to follow a serial head-repurposer into a dark alley? In Whitechapel? For all we know, he’s Jack the Ripper’s son!”
“Mathematically unlikely. Probably great-grandson at b
est.”
“Not the point, Perry!”
“Look, on paper, this is probably a bad decision. But I’m looking at it as a divine convergence. I have a feeling what he has in mind runs nicely parallel to the way I was talking about.”
“The way. It sounds more like a cult every time you say that.”
“It is. It’s the Cult of Angry Survivors. And guess what else. You’re not a charter member. Neither was I. People have been doing this in some degree or another for all time. It’s the genesis story of most of your better superheroes. You think Bruce Wayne becomes Batman without his parents getting offed in front of him?”
Burke was sure this was dangerous logic. Or at the very least, shit logic. But he was having trouble finding the flaw. He looked to the Velvet Glove, who had stopped and turned about halfway down the alley and was waiting for them. For him.
“Screw it,” Burke said and started toward the urbane madman at a quick march. Perry smiled and fell in behind.
“Having second thoughts?” the VG asked as Burke met him.
“Second, third, hundredth. All I fucking do is have thoughts.”
The Velvet Glove looked into Burke’s face intently. “I do not want to know what has made you so sad. But I think we can use whatever it is to get to the Wolf. You have to channel, James Jr.”
Burke scoffed. “What kind of New Age bullshit is that?”
The Velvet Glove laughed. “No crystals will be involved, I assure you. And no tarot, although that, technically, has been clumsily co-opted by the new lot. But channeling, James Jr., is very real.”
“He’s right, Burke. When I lost Trina, there was instantly two people inside of me. There was Perry, and there was the guy whose world had just ended. After a while, a third guy showed up. That was pissed-off guy.”
Assignment- London Page 8
