by Bill Walker
Michael and Erika sat facing Welles, who examined Michael’s new passport, flipping through it with the same infuriating expression of smug amusement on his face. Michael wanted to punch the man. Welles reminded him of all those arrogant bureaucrats who used the system to heap abuse on those less powerful. He’d run into them his entire working life and he hated them with unspoken passion. Here was one, however, that had real power. And it scared him.
Welles closed the passport and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “A nice job, really. Too bad your friend won’t have the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Forging a British passport is a serious offense. Of course, so is using one....”
“You can’t prove I was going to,” Michael said.
That smile again. “Perhaps not.... But I believe Scotland Yard would very much like to see you right about now.”
“I don’t know anything about what happened to Ferguson.”
“Didn’t presume you did, old boy. But the murder of the old man at the East Grinstead Home is another matter entirely.”
The tone in Welles’s voice made his blood turn cold. “What are you talking about?”
Welles drew out the moment like a consummate actor.
“Martin Cadwallader was found dead this afternoon. Someone injected the poor old sod with air. Left the bloody syringe right next to his head.” He paused again, letting the silence do his work. “The nurse also found your business card on the floor.”
“We visited the man earlier today, I didn’t—”
“And these were delivered to Scotland Yard not two hours ago.... Anonymously.”
Welles reached into a pocket built into the car’s door and pulled out a collection of black and white 8x10s showing Michael and Erika exiting their car and entering the East Grinstead Home. Seeing these, Michael lost his self-control.
“I’m being set up!” he shouted.
Welles stared back, his gaze cool and penetrating.
“I know.”
“You know?” Michael stared back, incredulous. He felt the reassuring pressure of Erika’s hand on his arm.
Welles reached over to a console of buttons and pressed one. The whine of a motor behind him told Michael the privacy window was being raised between the driver’s and passenger’s compartments. Welles leaned forward, his eyes taking on a predatory glint.
“We’ve been monitoring you ever since your office began inquiring about the Royal South Wessex business.”
Erika’s grip tightened on Michael’s arm. “Then you admit it did exist,” he said.
“Oh, quite. But that’s all I can tell you.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Erika asked, speaking for the first time since entering the limousine.
Welles glowered at her, but his voice remained icy calm. “You’ve no doubt heard about what happened to Sir William Atwater?
Michael nodded, sensing the MI6 man was about to reveal something important. Welles continued.
“We believe he was killed by Russian agents bent on not only keeping a lid on this business, which could prove to be very embarrassing for them, but also to keep a sleeper agent from being discovered. Someone who has been in place for a very long time. It’s imperative we discover who the sleeper is.”
“Then why don’t you bastards go public?” Michael demanded. “Tell the world. Make them squirm.”
Welles sighed and looked out through the tinted windows at the passing landscape. They were coming to the market section of Whitechapel, now as quiet and deserted as a churchyard.
“I wish I could. But it could be embarrassing for us, as well....”
Michael sat forward on his seat, his anger returning. “Why? What was that regiment doing in Finland?”
He asked the question reflexively, not really expecting the man to answer, and yet, Welles appeared to consider it. A moment later, he nodded.
“All right, you deserve to know at least that much,” Welles said.
Michael’s pulse raced. Now, at least he would know why people were chasing him, why people were being murdered, why his father had died.
Welles smiled. This time it was warm and relaxed. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re on your side.”
“Really. You people all look the same to me. And you all play the same dirty tricks with no regard for anyone. Like Jalil.”
Welles’s expression hardened. “Your friend is a criminal. And he’ll get what he deserves.”
It was Michael’s turn to smile. “Us, too, I imagine.”
“You’ve got nothing to fear,” Welles said, opening up the bar. He extracted a crystal decanter and poured himself a whisky into a glass tumbler. He nodded to Michael. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “Just get on with it. Why was the Royal South Wessex in Finland?”
Welles was about to speak when a small hole appeared in the window next to his head, sending a spider web of cracks running to all four corners and the patter of broken glass on the leather upholstery. Welles’s eyes widened, suddenly devoid of all expression. Then his mouth dropped open like a trap door releasing a torrent of blood. The car jounced and Welles slumped against the door, dead.
Erika screamed when the silver-gray Jaguar roared out of nowhere and slammed into the side of the limousine, sending it into a fishtail. The driver twisted the wheel in the direction of the spin and tromped on the accelerator. Tires screeched and the car rocketed forward, the Jaguar keeping pace.
They raced side by side for two city blocks, each trying to gain the advantage. Because of the late hour, the streets were nearly deserted.
Reaching a portion of the road that narrowed, the Jaguar fell behind and Welles’s driver used the opportunity to make an evasive maneuver. He slid the Daimler into a sharp left turn, tires screaming. The Jaguar made the turn easily and closed the distance between them, staying half a car length behind.
Inside, Welles’s body had been thrown against the opposite side of the car and threatened to topple off the seat.
The chatter of machine gun fire rent the air and bullets slapped into the limousine, another piercing the window next to Welles’s lolling head. It continued through the car, shattering the privacy shield behind Michael and Erika. Without a moment’s thought, Michael grabbed her and hurled her to the floor.
“Stay down!” he screamed, throwing himself on top of her. She squirmed, fighting him.
The two MI6 agents, having gotten over the shock of their superior’s untimely death, tried to lower the windows and found them inoperable.
“Kick them out!” the driver yelled, putting the Daimler into another sharp turn.
Not wasting any time, the two men kicked out the windows and fired at the Jaguar from both sides. The Jaguar fell back behind the limousine, making itself a more difficult target. The agents leaned farther out. Suddenly one of them screamed and fell back into the car, his hands clutching at his throat where a bullet had pierced the carotid artery.
Erika, covered with the man’s blood and screaming hysterically, threw Michael off of her, and clambered up the seat, wrapping her arms around the driver’s neck.
“Stop the car!” she shouted. Stop it, now!”
The driver struggled, trying to keep control of the car. “Get her off me! Goddamnit!”
The car began to swerve and the men in the Jaguar took this as their cue to start ramming the Daimler from behind. This made Erika even more frantic. “Stop the car, I have to get out! I have to get out!”
“Get this bloody bitch off me, or we’re all going to die!” the driver said, his voice almost choked off.
Bullets slammed into the car again and the driver took the next right turn, throwing Erika over and nearly succeeding in choking him. Michael reached up, wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her back. The driver rubbed his throat and checked the rearview.
Erika, still in a panic, began hitting Michael with her fists. “Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!�
�
He had no choice. Rearing back, he slapped her across the face, hating himself when he saw the raw look of betrayal in her eyes.
“What’s the matter with you, are you trying to get us killed?”
More bullets hit the limousine, sounding like hailstones.
“You don’t understand!” Erika shouted. “I can’t be here!”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
An odd look flashed across her face and she began to cry. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean for this to happen. I—”
Michael grasped her shoulders. “Of course, you didn’t,” he said.
The two cars were now traveling through the market district, each side of the road lined with empty stalls that, during business hours, offered fresh produce and other sundries.
Michael frowned, remembering something. “We’ve got to take the next left to Tower Bridge,” he shouted, “or we’ll end up in a dead end.”
“I know, mate,” the driver said, eyes flicking to the rearview. “We’ll take the next left.” He paused as he saw a truck backing into their path. He smiled. “We got the bloody bastards now!”
He stepped on the gas and Michael saw what he was trying to do. If he could get past the truck, the Jaguar would be trapped, forced to go a whole block out of its way in order to find them. By then, they would be long gone. But the driver didn’t see what Michael saw: a long piece of metal hanging off the back of the truck.
“STOP!” Michael yelled.
The driver, seeing the problem, stomped on the brakes. But it was too late. The limousine went into a spin, and the driver tried frantically to compensate when it careened into the truck with a frightening sound of tearing metal. Michael was thrown against the seat just as a piece of steel plunged through the windscreen neatly decapitating the driver.
Dazed and bruised, Michael saw his passport jutting out from beneath Welles’s body. He grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and got up to look out the window. Outside, the silver-gray Jaguar screeched to a halt fifty feet away, the doors popping open. Two men leaped out and moved forward, Skorpion machine pistols clutched in their hands. Through the shattered window he heard one of them speak German to the other, a joke, something about English scrap metal. The one who’d spoken, the taller of the two, had a head shaped like a bullet and walked with a swagger in his gait.
The surviving MI6 agent struggled to reach his weapon, which had flown out of his hands on impact and now rested on the road three feet from him. The bullet-headed German reacted, instantly riddling the agent with .32 caliber slugs.
Erika whimpered, her eyes shut against the horror, and Michael placed himself in front of her. It was a noble if futile gesture, he knew it, but if he was going to die, he wanted to face it head on. He realized his knees were shaking. The bullet-headed man stopped ten feet from him, and Michael could see the blackheads in the man’s nose.
The man raised the Skorpion machine pistol and grinned, revealing short stubby teeth.
The driver of the Jaguar leaned out of car and called out in German, “Karl, we must leave, there is no time.”
“I’m going to end this crap, now,” he replied, his voice sounding harsh and guttural.
Michael felt Erika grab onto him as she rose to her feet and stood beside him. Suddenly, the one called Karl straightened up, his eyes widening.
“Karl! Let’s move!” the driver of the Jaguar shouted.
Karl took one last look at them, eyes round with fear, and then he ran to the Jaguar. Tires spun when the driver stomped on the accelerator, and a moment later it was gone. Erika stared after the departing Jaguar, her expression oddly calm.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked.
She gave him a wan smile. “Yes.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Come on, there’s a tube station nearby.”
Grabbing her hand, they started for the station, which lay a block away. A large club crowd had gathered, heading home on the last train, making it easy to lose themselves within it. Michael bought tickets with his remaining pocket change, and when they reached the stairs leading to the Underground, he saw Police and Emergency vehicles streak by, their sirens dopplering as they passed.
The Whitechapel Underground station was several degrees hotter than aboveground and packed with travelers staring into space or into the eyes of soon-to-be loved ones. A train had just arrived and was disgorging passengers. Michael checked the sign displaying its destination and saw it was headed for New Cross, completely the wrong direction. Then he remembered the station was a hub for the District Line and would take them back in the general direction of Kensington. He checked the clock, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. The last train to Wimbledon was due any moment, and one of its stops was South Kensington. Erika joined him at the map, her face etched with worry.
“Where are we going, Michael?”
“We’ve got to get some new clothes,” he said, indicating the blood on her dress. “How are you fixed for cash?”
“All the English money I had was back in the limousine.”
She pulled out a wad of German Marks and Michael saw that most of the bills were large denominations. He sighed and leaned against the wall, shaking his head.
“That means we’ll have to risk the bank first thing in the morning.”
“But surely they won’t react that quickly,” she said.
“Never underestimate the British government. But you may be right. The bank will most likely be clear. It’s the ports we have to worry about. They’ll probably have people stationed at all the exit points. It’s the chance we’ll have to take. The problem is we have no place to go until then. Even if a hotel would take your money, they’d take one look at us and turn us out.”
A gay couple clutching each other’s derrieres, passed between them, giving Michael an appraising glance. Their eyebrows arched when they noticed the condition of his attire. Erika gave them a withering glare, then turned back to Michael, who drew her over to a spot near the wall.
“I have other friends...in Sloan Square,” she said.
“No, I don’t want to involve anyone else. It’s too dangerous. We’ll keep moving until daylight. When the bank opens, we’ll exchange some of your money. I only bloody hope they don’t arrest us.”
Another train pulled into the station, and Michael saw it was the Wimbledon train. “Come on, this is it.”
They ran for the train, slipping inside just as the doors clattered shut. Michael let Erika have the one seat available and stood in front of her, holding the bar overhead. He tried not to notice the stares of the other passengers, for he knew they were both a frightful mess. And even though their position was a precarious one, this was not what was continually nagging at his mind. It was the look of naked fear in the eyes of the German gunman, the one called Karl. It was a look of a man who was staring death in the face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Reprehensible! This is absolutely reprehensible!” Roger MacKinnon shouted. He stalked back and forth across the carpet in front of his desk, his cheeks mottled with rage.
Sir Robert Sandon, the object of his ire, sat facing him in one of the straight-backed chairs, looking grim.
“You told me you were handling this situation, Sandon. And I expected you to be bloody well discreet! Now, we have four dead bodies in Whitechapel, the press crawling all over us asking their blasted questions, and nothing to show for it!” He stepped closer to Sir Robert, bending down like a parent scolding a child. “You were told to keep me informed, and you let Welles go off half-cocked on some bloody safari!”
Sir Robert’s pushed himself up from the chair and met MacKinnon’s fiery gaze, his blood pressure rising.
“I won’t be talked to like this! My men were brutally murdered, God only knows by whom, and I will have to be the one to break it to their families...”
“They were East German,” MacKinnon snapped.
“...and I resent the imp
lication— What did you say?”
“They were bloody East German! MI5 and Special Branch have been tracking them since they entered the country.”
Sir Robert’s eyes widened. “And you let them kill my men?”
A little of the hot air seemed to leak out of MacKinnon. He moved behind his desk and dropped into the leather-covered swivel chair. “Up until now, all they were doing was shadowing Thorley and the German woman,” he said, his hands toying with a letter opener resembling a miniature Excalibur. “There was no reason to expect that they would try to take them out.”
“Then it looks as if MI5 and Special Branch are to blame, doesn’t it? Besides, what have the East Germans to do with the South Wessex affair?”
MacKinnon slammed his hand down upon his desk. “That’s what MI5 was trying to find out! Welles should never have picked up Thorley and the girl! Not without my approval! It wasn’t his province to do so.”
“But we have it on good authority that the two of them are about to flee the country.”
“Precisely, old man, precisely,” MacKinnon said, steepling his fingers and offering a hawkish grin. “I have every reason to believe they’re heading for West Germany. And when they arrive, the Russians will resolve the situation. With Thorley and the girl dead, we’ll expose the bastards for the bloody savages they are.”
Suddenly, Sir Robert understood everything. It was as crystal clear as a bright summer sky. “My God, man.... You don’t give a damn about Thorley, the girl, or the bloody D-notice. You want to hang the Russians....”
MacKinnon leaned forward, trembling with excitement. “By their bloody balls. When all this comes out, the PM will make a statement to the press that will absolve Britain of any complicity then...and now. Can’t you see it, Sandon? It will mean the end of the Iron Curtain!”
“Yes, but at what price?”
“Bugger the price. We’ve been crushed between the Soviets and the Americans for forty bloody years. Become a second-rate power begging scraps at their table. No more. It’s time we reasserted ourselves and took our rightful place among the superpowers as equals.”
