by Bill Walker
“And the PM agrees with this?”
MacKinnon remained silent, his eyes blazing.
“You’re all out of your minds, it’ll never work.”
“Oh, it will, Sandon, I assure you. And I’ve purchased a little insurance to make sure it happens.”
Reaching across his desk, MacKinnon pressed a button on his intercom. Sir Robert heard the muffled buzz through the wall.
“Yes?” came the reply through the speaker.
“Have him come in, now.” MacKinnon ordered.
The door leading to MacKinnon’s antechamber opened and in stepped a man in his late sixties. His hair was salt and pepper gray, with streaks of what had once been a fiery carrot-red still evident. And though he was of less than average height, there was something powerful about the man, like that of a coiled spring. It showed in the graceful, catlike way he moved when he walked out of the shadows toward the desk. The man wore a Harris tweed jacket over a chambray shirt and tight denim pants held up with a silver conch belt. His feet were shod with expensive lizard-skin boots in the style of the American West.
The man halted midway between MacKinnon and Sir Robert, his mouth twisting into a crooked grin as he placed his hands on his hips. Sir Robert caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster and the dull gleam of blued metal.
“Well, well, Roger, me boyo, we meet again. And it’s been far too long, I might add.”
Sir Robert saw the rage in MacKinnon’s face transform into his characteristic mask of aloofness. He also saw something else: loathing, and maybe a touch of fear. Somehow, this made Sir Robert feel better for the first time since walking into MacKinnon’s office. Any man who could elicit this response from the Home Secretary deserved his respect.
“Sir Robert,” MacKinnon said, beginning the introductions. “This is—”
The older man stepped forward and offered his hand. Sir Robert took it and found the Irishman’s grip surprisingly strong.
“Corwin Brady, at your service, me lord,” he said, his lopsided grin widening.
Sir Robert allowed himself an ironic smile of his own. “Are you always this irreverent, Mr. Brady?”
“Only to those that deserve it, sir.” Brady chuckled, releasing his grip on Sir Robert’s hand.
MacKinnon interrupted. “Mr. Brady is what you might call our Odd Job Man. From now on, he’ll be in the thick of it. Wherever Thorley and the girl go, he’ll be waiting in the wings...watching.”
“And then what?” Sir Robert asked, already regretting the question.
“If the Russians fail to resolve the situation as we anticipate, Mr. Brady will step in. His orders are to have all evidence point to Moscow. You are to cooperate in every way. Is that clear?”
Sir Robert turned and faced Brady, who now eyed him with the cold gaze of a sociopath. It was at that moment Sir Robert knew that his career hung by a thread. Early retirement was now out of the question, perhaps any retirement at all. He was caught up in sea change far beyond his control, and he was in it up to his bloody neck.
“Very clear, sir,” he said finally.
MacKinnon nodded. “Right. Be so kind as to close the door behind you, that’s a good man.”
His face turning red from MacKinnon’s casual rebuke, Sir Robert stalked out of the Home Secretary’s office wanting very much to have another drink.
Brady watched Sir Robert leave, and wondered what it was about the man that made him take the crap that MacKinnon dished out. Fear? Weakness? It didn’t really matter. The point that kept raising its ugly head was that he, Corwin Brady, was no better, coming at MacKinnon’s beck and call like a prized poodle. It was at the precise moment the Home Secretary had dismissed his underling that Brady decided he’d had enough. He’d spent the better part of the last twenty years on his farm and that’s where he wanted to be. Not in this godforsaken country. Oh, he was a hypocrite, that was for sure, taking the odd job over the years—as MacKinnon had so eloquently put it—so that he could maintain himself in the style to which he’d become accustomed. But now, with his diversified investments he didn’t need the work any longer.
“So,” MacKinnon said, easing himself back into his chair, “is there anything you require?”
Brady stared at the man, wanting to wrap his hands around his smug Limey neck. “That is as loaded a question as I’ve ever heard.”
MacKinnon smiled. “Perhaps, but a legitimate one, nevertheless.”
“Just a first-class ticket home.”
The smile slid off MacKinnon’s face. “This is no time for your peculiar brand of humor, Brady. You’re needed here.”
“Only because you boyos keep getting your Shillelaghs caught in the proverbial crack. I’m retired, MacKinnon. I want to stay that way. So, if you’ll pardon an old sod—”
“SIT DOWN!”
MacKinnon’s outburst came close to the edge of hysteria, and Brady reasoned it fell short only because the man was holding himself in check. MacKinnon was scared. And that made Brady uneasy. Seating himself into one of the chairs facing the desk, he kept his expression neutral.
MacKinnon leaned forward, his lips a tight angry line. “Understand something, Brady,” he said. “You have no choice, here. If it weren’t for my predecessors and their largesse, you’d be rotting away the rest of your life in Wormwood Scrubs, a convicted terrorist.”
Now it was Brady’s turn to anger. His voice remained steady, but the heat could be seen blazing in his eyes. “No one could prove I had anything to do with that bombing.”
“We don’t need proof, you bloody bastard.” MacKinnon said, picking up the phone. “All I need is to make one call and you’ll be in prison. How much effort do you think it would take to make it stick for good?”
Brady remained silent, knowing the old sonofabitch was right.
“All right, you win. But I want your assurance that this is it. Once this job is over and all the loose ends tidied up, I’ll want a letter exonerating me of that IRA nonsense. You and I both know I was never with that bunch. Is that clear?”
“You’ll have it.”
And though he watched the man’s every facial nuance, Brady was sure, as God was in His heaven, that Roger MacKinnon was lying, and that he’d have to go on killing for Queen and country until they decided his services were “no longer required.” And it didn’t take a bloody genius to figure out the lay of the land on that one.
If it weren’t so bloody tragic, Brady would have laughed—right in the pompous old bastard’s face.
Inside his embassy office, Pavel Hedeon hung up the phone and sighed. The Premier was getting nervous, and that meant trouble for everyone. The man had all but ordered him to end the Thorley business. “What they start, Pavel Kolenkovich, we will finish,” he’d said, “This can still embarrass us.” And this from the man who’d invented Perestroika.
Openness, hah! What a fat lie that was.
The man was just like everyone else with their dirty little secrets...and their fear. And yet, Hedeon was sworn to obey them, to defend the Motherland—the Rodina—no matter what.
If the order came, he would have to kill the girl...and the boy....
Scowling, he reached across his desk, pulled out a Cuban cigar, snipped off the end with his solid silver cutter and lighted it, puffing it until the end glowed like a tiny red sun. The heavy aroma filled his nostrils and he leaned back in the chair, watching the smoke drift upward toward the ceiling.
He thought of his counterparts across Hyde Park in Grosvenor Square, nestled in their block-long building and smiled. No doubt those decadent American bastards would love to know what was going on. And maybe they did. After all, they were always trying to listen in, just as his people tried to listen in on them.
Chuckling at the absurdity of it all, he checked his watch, and saw it was after seven. He would have the car brought around in fifteen minutes to take him back to the Dorchester for an early dinner. He was getting too old for these twelve-hour days. For now, there was time enough to enjo
y a fine cigar and try to figure a way out of this mess, one that would satisfy both the Kremlin and the yearnings of his own heart.
A knock sounded on the door. “Da, come in.”
The door swung open and a young KGB man entered. Hedeon smiled. “Ah, Feliks, sit down, have a cigar.”
The young man looked nervous. “I beg to report, Comrade Colonel....”
Hedeon frowned. The formality could only mean bad news. “What is it, Lieutenant Danya?”
Danya cleared his throat. “I have just received a report from Fifth Directorate. Another of the Hitlerite conspirators has been eliminated.”
So, perhaps the news was not all bad. “Which one?” Hedeon asked, not really caring.
“Manfred Valdemarr.”
“Then the only ones left are Jarmann, and von Arnwolf.”
Danya’s nervousness increased, irritating the older man. “Out with it, Lieutenant, I cannot abide waiting for bad news.”
“Comrade Colonel, von Arnwolf has disappeared. His detail lost him during a visit to the cinema.”
Hedeon nodded, remaining calm. “They must be aware they are being hunted by now. Tell Malkovich to notify all informants that the usual reward shall be doubled for any information regarding von Arnwolf’s whereabouts.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
“What about Michael Thorley?”
Danya hesitated again. Now, Hedeon grew alarmed.
“What, what is it?”
“I—I beg to report that someone tried to kill him early this morning.”
Hedeon bolted to his feet, cigar ash tumbling to the carpet. “What!”
“He had been arrested by the British Secret Service. Two men in a silver-gray Jaguar chased them down and killed everyone in the vehicle except for Thorley and his female companion.”
“Fools! Idiots! Who authorized this?”
Danya shifted from one foot to the other. “Thorley’s tail did not recognize the men but heard them speaking in German.”
Hedeon slumped into his chair, the news rocking him. “Mueller....”
The phone rang, shattering the momentary silence.
“I want Thorley watched around the clock,” Hedeon ordered. “Do you understand? I want him alive!”
Danya turned on his heels and marched from the room. When the door closed, Hedeon snatched up the phone and brought it to his ear. “Yes.” He listened a moment, his expression softening. “Svetlana. I am so glad you called. Yes, I just heard.... I know it was not supposed to happen. It was not our doing. Someone else has interfered, someone I know very well.... I have not forgotten my promise, my love. I will let no harm come to them. This I swear.”
Dover Harbor stretched out before them, overshadowed by the famous white cliffs, a maze of piers, warehouses, and freighters all crammed together on a spit of land that appeared far too small to accommodate the massive structures. Loading cranes on tracks stood quayside like silent sentinels, their spiderlike arms reaching silently skyward, red lights blinking a warning to passing aircraft. They reminded Michael of the giant insects from the monster movies he’d loved as a child, and that thought offered a moment of amusement in an otherwise strained atmosphere. He watched Erika staring out across the inky-black water toward their destination: Ostend, Belgium. She appeared outwardly cool, yet there was something underneath that studied calm, something he could not put his finger on. It unsettled him. Except for that wild horrific ride through Whitechapel, she’d been the epitome of cool under fire.
“I can’t be here,” she’d said.
Why had she said that? Not “I don’t want to be here,” but “can’t.” It was an odd thing to say, and at the time, he’d let it go. Now, it boiled up into his conscious thoughts, and he fought the urge to ask her about it. After all, she was panicked, and people often said and did things that made no sense when caught in its grip. And who wouldn’t want to get out of a situation like that?
That was it, wasn’t it?
Still, he wondered if it would happen again. He needed her cool, steady nerves if they were going to make it through this ordeal. The taxi driver, a reed-thin Cockney with one eye permanently crossed, interrupted his thoughts.
“Where’ya want to be dropped, Guv?” the man said, tobacco-stained teeth flashing.
“The Ferry terminal.”
“Right-o, Guv.”
The taxi pulled up to the main terminal a moment later, and Michael shoved two five-pound notes into the driver’s hairy fist. The man smiled and bowed.
Outside, the damp fetid air embraced them, smelling of equal parts diesel fuel, salt, and rotted fish. Mist rolled in off the Channel, and somewhere off in the distance a ship’s horn blew.
For the hundredth time, Michael felt the pocket of his jacket for the passport, taking a measure of comfort from its heft. It also fed his fear of discovery, gnawing at him like a rat desperate enough to chew off its own leg to escape a trap. Erika grabbed his hand and squeezed.
“Maybe we should try the airport,” she said. “It might be safer.”
Michael shook his head. “First place they’ll be looking. The second is here. We’ll buy our tickets and walk to the ferry. If anything looks out of the ordinary, there are a hundred places we can get out.”
He led her to the terminal, a large ultra-modern building, brightly lit and kept far cleaner than he would have assumed. Even at this late hour it was choked with people.
Michael turned his attention to the ticket counters. Hugging the walls, they fronted a section of glassed-in offices, with each passenger line represented. He scanned the dizzying array of signs until he spotted one halfway down that read: Dover-Ostend Ferry in bright red type.
The ticket agent smiled when they approached.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Two for Ostend, please,” Michael said.
The young woman nodded. “That will be twenty-two pounds.”
Michael reached for the money in his trousers and felt icy fingers crawling up his back.
Someone was watching them!
He knew it. The feeling was strong, nearly corporeal, and it sat on his shoulders whispering into his ear with a tiny insistent voice: Get Out!
While the agent punched up the tickets, he turned first one way, and then the other, trying to discern who among the throng might be surveilling them.
Calm yourself, Thorley, you’re getting paranoid. Take it easy.
He took a breath and thought it through. None of the people he saw looked the type, none looked like a trained killer, though perhaps that was what made them professionals.
Stop it.
If any of these people were after them, would they really sit by and wait to act? Not bloody likely. They were safe for the moment. They were—
“Here you are, sir,” the ticket agent said, reaching over the counter. “Two for Ostend.”
Tickets in hand, Michael and Erika walked quickly through the terminal toward the entrance to the ferry. A line of people waited to check in, delayed by two Immigration officials who were examining each and every passenger, checking their faces against a pair of photos in their hands. Michael pulled Erika up short and they melted into the passing crowd, taking a strategic position next to a newsagent’s kiosk.
“What now?” Erika asked, her blue eyes flashing.
Michael pretended to study the newspaper headlines while he pondered their next move. The ferry was out of the question. They’d never get past Immigration without being apprehended. And even if they somehow managed to get by those two goons, it was more than possible that someone waited on board, someone who wouldn’t be satisfied with an arrest. And who would miss two fugitives gone overboard in a dark, choppy sea? Suddenly, he smiled as an idea kindled in his mind.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand.
Retracing their steps through the terminal, Michael led Erika out of the gate and down the narrow road leading back into town. The mist had thickened, rolling in off the harbor and wrapping th
em in its damp arms. Staying to the seaward side, they passed through Dover proper and on to the Prince of Wales docks. It was quieter here, the sounds of the Ferry terminal lost in the lapping of the waves and the groan of the fishing boats against their moorings.
Every craft lay dark and silent, their owners long since gone home. There was nothing to do but go back to London, or try the ferry and risk imprisonment, or worse.
“You wanted to steal a boat, didn’t you?” Erika said, giving voice to his idea. It sounded reckless and stupid coming from her.
“I didn’t know what else to do. I just realized that I know next to nothing about them.” He turned to her. “I don’t suppose you know how to hot-wire a boat and navigate through this.” He pointed to the fog, now nearly impenetrable.
Erika shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
And then he heard someone whistling. Aware that sound carried further on nights such as these, it nevertheless sounded close by. He recognized the tune. Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.”
Motioning her to follow him, Michael led the way further down the quay, taking each step with caution. Up ahead, he spotted the faint amber glow from an oil lamp. The closer he drew to the whistling’s source, the more he could discern the outlines of an old mahogany fishing boat, its wood and metalwork gleaming. Painted on the stern in a flowing script, was the name: Molly’s Revenge.
The whistling grew louder, and Michael spotted a man exiting the hatch leading down to the cabin below. Thin to the point of emaciation, his face resembled toughened leather tooled into deep chasms from years in the wind and rain. A soiled yachting cap sat perched on a balding pate above two kindly eyes separated by a razor-thin nose.
The old man bent down, grabbed a wrench from an open toolbox, and started back down the steps, still whistling. Michael took up the tune, harmonizing with the old man, who
stopped and turned, eyes squinting into the fog.
