The Caliphate Invasion

by Michael Beals

“Quit with the games. This little .32 is more than enough to get the job done. Who are you with, anyway? MI5 or 6 would’ve sent a whole team after me. Not a lone honey trap.”

  Kat batted her lashes and jutted out her hip. Werner just tightened his grip, the equivalent of cocking the trigger of a normal revolver.

  “Christ, fine! Here you go. What is it with men and their guns? Takes all the sport out of things.” She snaked a slim hand under her skirt.

  “Left hand and two fingers!”

  “I’ve got a finger for you…” Kat yanked the cigar out of her garter belt and handed it over, while babbling on full auto.

  “Look, I don’t care what you’re doing with that, but my employer could get you a lot more reliable information at a fraction of the price you’re paying this weasel. From the French too. Did you know the Maginot Line has…”

  The cigar slipped from her grasp a split second before Werner’s outstretched hand touched it. The older man wasted a millisecond transitioning from listening to focusing on the cigar. With the mind distracted, his subconscious ordered both hands to catch the precious falling object.

  Crack

  He managed to squeeze off a single shot as Kat swooped in, but the few centimeters his wrist drifted were enough to send the shell smashing through her jingling pearl earring. Werner’s second shot murdered the ceiling as Kat seized his wrist and shoved his gun hand high. He never got another round off before she pried up her elastic hem and slipped her favorite Shanghai stiletto out from between her thighs. When Werner swung his free hand out to block her, she buried the blade in his exposed armpit, slicing a jagged line through the subclavian artery.

  “These earrings were a gift from my mother, du Arschloch!”

  Before he could even gasp, she wrenched the knife out and stitched him a half-dozen more times in each inner thigh. Both femoral arteries geysered while she hummed. Less than four seconds after the first strike, she gently pried the gun from his cold fingers.

  Spraying the palace furniture with a pint of blood every second, the old Kraut could only gurgle as he sagged to his knees. His heart pumped mostly air by the time he smacked face-first onto the carpet.

  Kat fished the cigar out of a dark puddle flooding the Persian rug. She wagged it in the air to dry and whistled at the only other thing stirring in the room.

  “Excuse me, your highness. Mind if I use your telephone?”

  The low-crawling duke shrieked and bounded to his feet, racing for the door. He just touched the doorknob when someone from the outside kicked it in. The duke toppled over again as the flying oak barrier busted his sliced-up nose and flung him to Kat’s feet.

  Both King’s Guards in the doorway raised their semi-automatics and clicked their safeties off as one.

  Kat simply blinked down at the butcher shop refuse under her skirt and flashed her pearly whites.

  The only part of her face not streaked in blood.

  “Oops.”

  She combat-rolled into the bedroom just as the guards opened fire. Kat kicked the door shut a split second after a lead stinger scorched her bum.

  “Oww! Now you’re just being a pain in the arse.” She emptied the last six rounds of Werner’s palm gun through the door, aiming high on purpose.

  Not that the guards appreciated her professional courtesy. A third Kingsman joined in, this one rocking a submachine gun. She snagged a half-full bottle of 120 proof schnapps from under the bed and sprayed it all over the covers and gorgeous wall paneling. As a final departing gesture, she fired up the Zippo on the nightstand and chucked it on the pillows. She duck-ran through the blue flames racing around the room and flopped into the passageway, all while the troops shredded the door and most of the room with 9mm vengeance.

  As soon as the dresser hatch slapped shut, Kat rammed her Shanghai pig sticker through the inside lock, blocking the way.

  “Goodbye, my old friend.” She gave the only present that she ever treasured from her stepfather one last kiss and darted down the stairs.

  At the bottom, she kicked the mirror open and charged, but only Dieter’s shocked hands met her. The skinny little redhead hiked up her skirt and wiped her red-splattered face. The banker’s draw dropped.

  “Kat, where the bloody hell have you been? What are you doing?”

  “Give me your coat. It’s cold.”

  He tugged off his dinner jacket and wrapped it over her shoulders. “Is that…blood? Are you okay?” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

  “Let’s just say, I have a feeling the queen would not be delighted.” She tugged at his stubborn arm. “How about we blow this joint and head back to your flat?”

  A squad of Royal Guardsmen charged past in the main hall, their rifles all at the high ready. Dieter snapped his fingers.

  “We need to get you help. Hey, soldier!”

  She locked lips with Dieter and shoved him against the wall, shutting him up fast. One of the Guardsmen stopped and whipped his weapon around the corner.

  “We’re evacuating the palace. Get moving, sir!” The shooter rolled his eyes at the young girl wrapping a long, naked leg around her excited beau’s waist and went back to work.

  As soon as the coast was clear, Kat dragged Dieter into the men’s room. She tossed him into a stall while his eyes bulged out. “No, sweetie, not like this. Your first time should be special.”

  Kat cackled as she slid off his belt. “Oh, honey, not my first time for any of this.”

  Before he could squeak, she slipped the belt between his wrists and torqued it down. She knotted the excess around a handrail mounted into the wall.

  “What the furkgmgh?” She locked his tie around his mouth and yanked the rest of his clothes off before dropping her own dress.

  Ten seconds later, she tied off his trousers around her waist and shoved some toilet paper into the coat’s shoulder pads, buffing them up a bit. Her bare feet flopped around the oversized shoes, but at least her short red curls blended well inside his bowler cap.

  “For what it’s worth, you were a real gentleman, and kinda cute. Too bad we didn’t meet under calmer circumstances. Don’t take too long working your way out of those bonds. The fire is right above us. Stay safe!”

  “Frk eww!”

  She ignored his fiery eyes and pecked the screeching, half-naked man’s cheek before skipping out of the stall.

  A siren wailing throughout the palace drowned out her humming.

  An hour and a quick swim across the Thames later, Kat couldn’t see any more roadblocks full of bobbies. Just a lone beat cop on foot popped out as she crossed under the first streetlight she’d seen in a while, marking the boundary into a “respectable” neighborhood.

  “Oye, sister, there’s no work for you here!”

  “Tell me about it, sugar. I’m only headed home. This night’s been nothing but murder!”

  The copper lowered his stick and softened when she turned her wet face his way, the makeup smeared in every direction. “Jeez, no kidding. You and the other girls can always come to me if a john is gettin’ rough. I’ll make sure you’re out of the pokey by the morning, right about when the arsehole’s in the newspaper with a black eye.”

  “Thanks, sweetie, but nothing a hot bath can’t fix. Niiiight!”

  She jiggled her hips and waved, but darted down a side alley the second he turned his back. Which took a bit, since the short skirt and translucent top Kat bought from some random prostitute left little to the imagination.

  A block later, Kat finally slipped inside a working phone booth. An older gentleman picked up her collect call on the first ring.

  “Papa? Could you pick me up? I’m waiting at the corner of King’s and Rodham. I’m sorry to say you were right. My date didn’t work out so well.”

  “Eh? I told you he was a buffoon.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. What an orangutan. More like King Kong.”

  The playful voice on the line turned to ice. “Shit. I’m on my way. Ten mikes,
babe.”

  Nine minutes and fifty seconds later, a black cab rounded the corner on two wheels. It flashed the headlights with two quick and one long bursts before pulling to the curb. The driver waved a sawed-off shotgun in the air while scanning all around.

  She dived into the back door as soon as it flicked open. The hatch slammed shut by itself when the driver gunned the engine a quarter second later.

  “Did you have a chance to dispose of the target’s body?”

  Kat snagged the offered Tommy gun, but tucked it between her legs. She gave the dapper, middle-aged gent across the bench a sheepish grin. “I left him where I found him, Captain. On the floor of the queen’s private apartments inside Buckingham Palace. Beautiful place. You should see it sometime.”

  “Good God… but ok. We can still clean this up. I need to make a few calls.” Captain Lyons lowered his own Tommy gun and hollered at the driver, without taking his eyes off the rear-view mirror. “Forget the safe house. Head to the ops center.”

  “Um, boss, there’s a spot of collateral damage.”

  Lyons forced out a grin and winked at the rarely humble girl beside him. “Well, how can things be worse? At least you didn’t off a royal…” He cut his eyes as she fiddled with the machine gun’s safety switch.

  “Right?”

  “You have to understand; Werner’s contact wasn’t in the War Ministry. Things go much higher than that.” She whipped out the blood-stained cigar and cracked it open. Captain Lyons pocketed the microfiche roll and took a ragged breath.

  “What in the bloody hell happened?”

  “I tried to avoid contact, but when you’re trapped, well you know how it goes. Now, the duke was still breathing when I left, I swear! And the Royal Guardsmen must have had a doctor on duty. I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit any of them with the gun. Of course, I can’t say what happened after the fire started.”

  Lyons blinked. “Duke? Guns? Fire? Shit, I send you on a simple intercept… What did we step into?” He slid Kat a handkerchief and squeezed her shoulder. “Not your fault. I shouldn’t have tasked any agent on a kinetic op against an Abwehr operations chief all by themselves. I screwed the pooch; at least thank heavens you got out alive.”

  Kat patted his cheek. “Well, the night’s still young. We need to talk with V in person, right now. He has to hear our side of things before the palace comes calling.”

  “The head honcho himself? The section chief doesn’t exactly take walk-ins, you know. Especially at this hour. Even generals and admirals book appointments weeks in advance.”

  They shoved their weapons to the floor as a line of 5-ton army trucks barreled past in the dark, bulging with troops and barricades.

  “Boss, trust me. I have a feeling he’s burning the midnight oil tonight.

  After another half hour and a curt phone call, their taxi bounced over endless railroad tracks and landed on a gravel road.

  “Is this really the right place? I was picturing something a little more… stately.” She pinched her nose at the hog pens and coal ovens flanking them in the industrial King’s Cross district.

  “Hey, even MI6 is on a budget. Seems like only the bad guys have any real money.”

  The driver killed the lights and cut the engine, rolling to a stop in front of some unmarked, rusting warehouse. Only the reinforced, eight-foot high rolling chain fence seemed new.

  From a tiny box to their front left, a young and quite fit night watchman in civilian clothes barked.

  “Cottonmouth.”

  Lyons kept his hands on the ceiling, just like the rest of the passengers. “Adler.”

  The watchman popped his head out of the shadows and leaned over the sandbags lining the inside of his shack.

  “You and your asset can dismount, sir. No one else is cleared to enter.”

  Kat and Lyons hopped out while the taxi sped off. Lyons just stared ahead while the watchman frisked them and scrutinized their ID books. Kat rapped her foot. The guard never took a step past his sandbagged bunker, but kept both of them in the open. While he ran the back of his hands between her legs, she gritted her teeth and focused on the focal point of the field of a fire—yet another guard post deeper inside the warehouse. The watchman there glared back over the inverted magazine of a Bren light machine gun.

  “Hell of a warm reception. Is it always like this?”

  Lyons winced. “How should I know? Six years and I’ve never met the old man face to face.”

  The guard stood straight up, but hesitated. “You’re cleared to proceed… good luck.”

  An elderly secretary met them at the steel door with a fake tin façade. Without even a nod, she guided them through a sprawling network of cubicles and radio operators. She rapped on a corner office and tossed the door open, disappearing without a word before they even stepped inside.

  Captain Lyons marched to the desk inside and snapped his spine straight. “Sir, I need to report a—”

  “Save it, son. The prime minister himself woke me in the middle of the night. I think I get the picture.” The old buzzard leaning against the desk clapped his hands behind his back. He circled the room, tracing ever tighter rings around the blood-splattered and still damp prostitute in his office.

  “How long have you worked for my department, young lady?”

  “Since ‘36, sir. The captain recruited me in Barcelona. You see, what happened was…”

  “In three years you haven’t figured out the cardinal rule of wet work? No matter how cocked up things get, never let an enemy see your face and live to tell the tale.”

  V’s lips were invisible behind that massive, old-timey Imperial mustache, but his voice sneered loud enough. Lyons stayed ramrod straight and barked at the wall.

  “Sir, it was my mistake. Not hers. I failed to expect that Werner’s mole could be someone in the royal family. I didn’t give Ms. Wolfram clear rules of engagement.”

  “Shut up, Captain. Don’t you understand? I’m trying to determine which one of you to sacrifice on the altar.” V snatched an amber tumbler of scotch from his desk and drained the whole thing. “Agent Wolfram, you damn well know you don’t engage a target unless you can kill everyone in the room.”

  Kat rubbed her sore shoulders, fighting the urge to scratch the tingling flesh wound on her bum. “You weren’t there, sir. I mean, this was Buckingham Palace, for God’s sakes, not some fascist-held town in the middle of the Spanish Civil War. The situation called for finesse, but at least I extracted the evidence.”

  “Finesse? Like torching the queen’s favorite apartment?”

  The MI6 chief just grunted and snapped his fingers, while shaking his head. Lyons passed over the microfilm and relaxed into parade rest. Kat and Lyons didn’t breathe while V slipped it into a magnifying reader.

  “Hmm. Impressive.”

  Kat beamed and settled into a chair, unoffered.

  “But doesn’t change a damn thing.”

  Lyons turned up his nose. “Sir, if this is a political issue, then we have the upper hand. More than enough proof there to bury this son of a bitch, no matter his connections.”

  “You’re assuming any of this will ever see the light of day, Captain.” V topped off his glass, but slammed it down, sloshing most of the booze over his desk.

  “You should know better. The Krauts just violated the Munich Agreement and invaded the Czechoslovak Republic. They’re mobilizing like we haven’t seen since the Great War. The last thing this impotent government needs is a distracting, epic domestic scandal. This shit show could bring the whole system down, at the worst possible time. Chamberlain may be a coward and a fool, but he knows he’s only still in power thanks to the king’s favor. He’ll do anything to stay in his majesty’s good graces.”

  V plopped into a chair and laced both hands behind his shaved scalp. “Next time, finish what you start. Evidence of high treason against a dead royal is something we can work with. Evidence against a living and pissed off cousin of the king, one who wants your head o
n a platter, is ‘he said, she said’ gossip at best, and a liability at worst.”

  Kat recoiled and hissed. “Oh, come on! What is this, the Middle Ages? Who gives a damn about those inbred rich bastards and their silly titles nowadays?”

  “You sound just like the German’s propaganda. Go figure, after so many years living in der Fatherland. Wonder what other sympathies you might share with the Huns.”

  Lyons shot his hand out and shoved Kat down as she leapt to her feet.

  V folded his scarred hands across his lap, not a trace of emotion on his gaunt visage. “I know about your family and your… peculiar situation. You don’t have to convince me of your loyalty. I’m just giving you a taste of what the lawyers are going to throw at you. The duke also claims he caught you selling military secrets to Mr. Brauchtisch.”

  Kat counted to ten, but didn’t make it past two. “Well, bring it on! The SIS can afford some pretty fancy lawyers of their own, I’m sure. Let the duke sling as much mud as he pleases; I’m going to enjoy testifying against him. Maybe you could get me on his firing squad.”

  “You poor, naïve thing. You deserve better.” V rubbed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desk.

  One missed the top and tapped something on the underside.

  “What the fuck is this, sir?”

  Lyon clenched his fists and spun on his heels. Four agents rushed through the door, each with their sidearm high.

  V simply cradled his chin in his hands and growled. “Katelyn, you don’t work for MI6 any longer. As far as the records will show, you never did. The royal family and Scotland Yard know your face, but nothing else, as far as we can tell. Although the duke is quite incessant that you must be some type of spy. We have no choice but to turn you over before they turn this whole agency inside out. Wouldn’t that be quite a coup for the Abwehr, eh? For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Lyons, stay behind for a chat.”

  The section chief cracked his neck and shuffled to the room’s lone window, turning his back on her. One of the guards jangled a pair of handcuffs.

  “Katelyn Wolfram, you’re under arrest for sedition against the United Kingdom and for the attempted assassination of the Duke of W—”