“Oh no, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was thinking about how the words ‘And the truth will set you free’ are inscribed in the lobby of the CIA.”
“Saying those words and believing them are two different things.”
Storm said, “Why are you so sure that justice triumphs in the end? Who taught you that: a Sunday school teacher, a minister?”
He suddenly noticed tears welling in her eyes. “Actually, my father did. He was the most honorable and bravest man I’ve ever known.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. What was he like?”
“Why? So you can make him the butt of some half-witted joke?”
“No,” he said. “Because I really would like to know.”
“My father was a Virginia Highway Patrol officer,” she said. “I adored him. I was a daddy’s girl. One night, he pulled over two men who were hopped up on drugs and speeding in their car. He could tell something was wrong with them and then he heard someone whimpering. He made the driver open the trunk and there was a naked ten-year-old girl in it. The men had followed her from a convenience store, kidnapped her, and both repeatedly raped her. The passenger came out of the car with a handgun and shot my dad. Even though he was mortally wounded, he managed to kill them both. My father died saving that girl’s life.”
“Then your father was a brave man.”
“He’s why I decided to go into the FBI. People like those two men are monsters, predators. They destroy the weak, the innocent. People like my dad are all that stand between the public and the predators. They’re the real heroes. They put their lives on the line every day helping others.”
Storm raised his glass and said, “A toast to your dad.” She could tell he was serious, so she joined him.
They ordered another round.
“What about your father?” she asked.
“Actually, this might surprise you,” Storm said. “In fact, I know it will. Are you ready?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“My father is a retired FBI agent.”
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
The pub’s owner appeared at their table with two shot glasses and a bottle of whisky. “You two are Yanks, aren’t ya?” he asked in a booming voice that echoed throughout the pub.
Storm nodded and the owner said, “We got a bit of a tradition here. You Yanks are always on the telly with your fingers pointed up at the sky screaming you’re lungs out about how your number one—when you don’t even know what real football is. So when we get a good-looking Yank couple like you in my fine establishment, I feel obligated to give you a taste of real English whisky, not that horse piss they serve in the New Country.” He laughed loudly and so did the pub regulars.
“Now,” the pub owner said, “this here is a bottle of whisky distilled in England to commemorate the royal wedding of Prince William and Catherine, and we’d be much obliged if you joined us in a toast to the royal couple and would take great umbrage if the two of you refuse.”
He slammed down the two shot glasses and filled both to the brim. He filled one for himself, too, and hoisted it in the air.
“Will you drink to them with me?” he asked, good-naturedly.
“It’s the least we can do,” Storm said, “given that you lost a war to us.”
The pub owner faked an angry look and announced: “To Prince William and the lovely Catherine, his bride!”
Storm downed it, but Showers hadn’t lifted her glass.
“What’s this?” the pub owner declared.
“C’mon,” Storm said, encouraging her.
She reached for the shot glass and, much to his surprise, downed it easily.
Everyone applauded.
“It would be impolite for me, as host, to let you leave my establishment without also raising a glass to your lovely lady here,” the pub owner said, glancing at Showers. He refilled the shot glasses and quickly lifted them. “To the beautiful young, red-haired maiden sitting here who has to have a bit of Irish in her—judging from her green eyes and fair skin.”
Showers smiled, and the three of them downed the shots as the other pub patrons continued to look on.
“And now,” the pub owner said, “I’m going to leave you alone with a final word.” He broke into a huge grin and said, “Them shots of whisky is five pounds a piece, so I’m adding an additional thirty pounds to your bill. Welcome to London, you Yanks!”
The crowd erupted into laughter and clapping as the pub owner bowed and walked back to the bar, where he declared that it was time for karaoke. A thin man from the bar immediately leaped onto a small platform in the pub’s corner, turned on a portable karaoke machine, and began mangling, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
By the time Storm and Showers left the pub three hours later, they had consumed more shots of whisky sent over by friendly bar patrons in admiration of various British royalty and American presidents. At one point, Showers had seized control of the karaoke microphone and belted out a surprisingly good version of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” that left the crowd clamoring for more.
As they made their way to the Marriott, they locked arms to support each other.
“I didn’t know you were a Lady Gaga fan,” he said admiringly.
“Some of her lyrics are poetic,” she replied. “Have you ever even heard one of her songs?”
“What sort of music do you think I listen to?” he asked.
“That’s easy,” she said. “Country Western.”
Storm replied, “It’s not that I’m dishonest, I loathe reality.” It was from one of Lady Gaga’s videos.
A stunned Showers began clapping.
Storm raised a finger to his closed lips. “Let’s keep this our secret.”
When they reached the Marriott, she said, “So where is your hiding place?”
“Are you asking me if you can come up to my room for a nightcap?” he said hopefully.
“Maybe,” she replied. “Or maybe I’m just interested in where a spy goes to hide out.”
“I’m not a spy, remember? I’m a private detective.”
“Is that true? Is anything that you’ve told me tonight true?”
Before he could reply, she put her finger against his lips and said, “Just take me to where you’re staying.”
When they reached his room, she collapsed onto the double bed. He shut the door and tossed the room’s key onto the nightstand. She waved him over. He sat on the bed’s edge.
“I do find you reasonably attractive,” she said. She reached over and ran a finger over his hand.
He’d bedded many women. All had been easy conquests. He couldn’t remember most of their faces. The only one who had mattered had been Clara Strike. She had been more than a one-night stand. And she had broken his heart. How did he feel about April Showers? Did he want another broken heart? Where could this lead? When he had finished his job and found the traitor, he would be going back to a life of anonymity.
She leaned up and kissed him on the lips. He kissed her back, hard and passionately. He followed that kiss with another and felt the heat that always surfaces when a man and woman anticipate making love for the first time. The sheer joy of discovering a new body. Exploring each inch of flesh. To touch and to be touched.
“If we are going to do this,” she whispered seductively, “I need you to do me a favor. I saw a coffeepot downstairs. I want you to go get me a cup of coffee.”
“You want a cup of coffee?”
“Actually,” she said, “it’s an excuse. A polite way to get you out of the room because I’ve got to pee and I’d rather do that in private. It’s a woman thing.”
He rose and started for the door.
She sprang up, and as he stepped out of the room, she slapped him hard on his butt and laughed.
The moment he was in the hallway, she shut the door, locking it behind him. He realized that he’d left the key on the nightstand.
He gently rapped on the door and said in a quiet voi
ce, “I can just go down and wake up the owner. She’ll let me back in my room.”
“Do you really want to disturb her at this hour?” Showers replied from behind the door.
He’d thought she was drunker than she obviously was. She’d outfoxed him.
She said, “Think of the scandal! A woman in your room. A woman who has been drinking. Who knows what I might say? It might even make the BBC since I’m so famous. What did you tell them? The queen was going to invite me over?”
With his training, it would take less than a minute for him to force open the door. But he didn’t want to force himself on her.
“You should sleep at the Marriott,” she whispered. “You can use my room if you want. Just be careful, they might have installed secret cameras as well as hidden microphones. You’re naked butt could end up on some Internet site. Good night!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Someone knocked on her door. She heard Storm ask: “Are you awake? I brought breakfast.”
She slipped on a terry-cloth robe and let him inside.
“I got this from downstairs,” he said. “It’s an English breakfast. I’ve got scrambled eggs, sausage, black pudding, baked beans, and a slice of tomato.” He waved the tray under her face.
She suddenly felt nauseous. And that made him smile.
“Since I spent the night elsewhere,” he continued, “I took the liberty of ducking into your room at the Marriott and grabbing you some fresh clothes. There in the hotel bag.” He dropped a plastic bag on the bed.
“How come you’re so bright and cheery?” she asked.
“I had to take a very cold shower after you locked me out.”
“Just one cold shower? I figured you’d need a couple.”
“The shower was enough to lower my expectations.”
“Cute,” she said.
“I’m going to fill up the rental with petrol,” he said in a mock British accent. “We need to leave in an hour in order to get to the protest rally. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Showers was nursing the worst hangover she’d had since college as they rode to Oxford. She kept her eyes closed under her sunglasses and fought the urge to vomit each time the car hit a bump or pothole.
The anti-Barkovsky rally was being held in the grassy fields of Oxford University Parks, on the northeast edge of the thirty-eight independent colleges that made up the school. Storm parked on a dirt road near the Old Observatory, and they walked toward a stage that had been constructed specifically for the protest. The platform rose only two feet above the grass and was only large enough for a podium and four chairs. There were about a thousand protesters mingling around it. A young girl told them that everyone was waiting for Petrov, who was running late.
As was his practice, Storm surveyed the crowd and immediately spotted three men who seemed to be out of place at the rally. They were Eastern European and in their thirties. Most of the others in the crowd were younger students or older professors.
“Did you bring your Glock?” he asked Storm.
“Yes,” she said. “You don’t have to yell.”
“I wasn’t.”
Just the same, he lowered his voice when he said, “I’m going to point out three men. If my hunch is correct, you may have to shoot them. If you can’t, give me your gun.”
“I’m not giving you my gun,” she said. “And you don’t have to point them out. The fact that they are wearing London Fog overcoats and the sun is out and it is hot makes them stick out. How do you want to handle this?”
Two black Mercedes-Benz S-Class 600 sedans with tinted windows appeared on a road to the right of the park, about two hundred yards away. When they came to a stop, Petrov and Lebedev stepped from the first car. Security Chief Nad stepped from the second. The two cars’ drivers fell in behind the group, and Petrov and his entourage began walking toward the stage.
“I’ll intercept Petrov and Nad,” he said. “You keep an eye on those men.”
“Do you think Nad and the two security guards are armed?” Showers asked.
“I sure as hell hope so.” He started making his way around the crowd.
Storm had gone about twenty feet when he saw two golf carts speeding from behind the platform. Driven by two students, the carts were decorated with anti-Barkovsky placards and were en route to give the guest and his attendants a ride to the stage. Storm realized it would be impossible for him to reach Petrov and his entourage in time.
One of the golf carts delivered Petrov to the stage. Lebedev and Nad stayed in the back of it. The two bodyguards positioned themselves at the front of the platform, on either side of it.
Nad had only brought two men with her! Both wore PROTEC security badges on their dark blazers and berets. If they were any good, they would notice the three interlopers.
The three Eastern Europeans separated. One positioned himself directly in front of the speaker’s podium. The other two moved to the left and right of the stage, taking spots directly in line with the two PROTEC bodyguards. Showers was on Storm’s left and was keeping an eye on the suspect closest to her.
Storm zeroed in on the suspect in front of the podium. He would be the one responsible for shooting Petrov. The others would be tasked with killing his two bodyguards and then backing up their friend. Storm searched for Nad and noticed that she was not studying the crowd as she should have been. Instead, she was watching Petrov, who was now behind the podium being introduced.
The crowd began clapping as Petrov began to speak.
Picking up his pace, Storm began shoving spectators out of his way. “Move! Move!” he yelled. He was trying to start such a commotion that Petrov and his security guards would notice. Both guards did and slowly reached under their jackets. Nad spotted him, too, but Petrov was too preoccupied with his speech to take note. “Hey, Petrov!” Storm yelled. The Russian stopped mid-sentence.
Everyone was looking at Storm, except for the three attackers in their trench coats.
Storm yelled: “Duck!”
The Eastern European directly in line with Petrov screamed, “Traitor!” and pulled a .45-caliber pistol from under this jacket. He began firing just as Storm tackled him from behind. Petrov collapsed on stage.
The shooter’s two companions drew Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns from under their coats and killed both PROTEC bodyguards with sprays of bullets.
Antonija Nad ran across the stage to Petrov, who had blood coming from his chest. Panic erupted. Some protestors hit the ground; others bolted in different directions, while some stood petrified with fear.
Storm was now lying on the back of the downed gunman. He grabbed the shooter’s right hand, pinning his pistol against the grass. But the gunman was stronger than Storm had estimated. With his free left hand, the shooter pushed his body upward, knocking Storm from his back, but not before Storm was able to break the gunman’s hold on his pistol.
Both men sprang from the grass to face each other. The shooter reached under his coat for a Russian military-issued knife, which he jabbed at Storm. In an expert move, Storm dodged the blade, grabbed the attacker’s hand, and twisted the blade backward, plunging it into the man’s chest. In a move known on the street as “running the gears,” Storm jerked the blade upward, then sideways, then sideways again and finally down into his victim’s stomach before releasing his grip. The shooter’s lifeless body fell limp onto the ground while Storm reached for the gunman’s discarded .45 handgun.
While Storm was subduing the first shooter, Showers had drawn her Glock and fired at the the assailant nearest her. One of her rounds had struck him in his skull, killing him instantly. That had left only one assassin alive, and when he’d heard Showers’s pistol fire, he’d shot a burst in her direction from his submachine gun.
One of the rounds hit its mark, smacking into her shoulder. Her right arm became useless, her Glock falling from her fingers as she grabbed her wound with her left hand and fell to the grass for cover.
Storm fired at the gunman with the ret
rieved .45. Rap. Rap. Two rounds fired at the attacker’s head. Pop. Pop. Another two at his chest. As he fell, the gunman’s finger pinched the trigger of his submachine gun, emptying what remained of its thirty-round clip into the air and ground around him.
Storm ran to Showers, who was fighting to catch her breath. He got her to her feet, put her Glock into its holster, and looked for help.
“Hang on!” he told her.
During the melee, Lebedev had commandeered a golf cart and driven to one of the Mercedes. He was now racing the sedan across the park toward them. A wounded Petrov was being helped off the platform by Nad.
Leaping from the driver’s seat, Lebedev opened the car’s rear passenger door and yelled. “Bring Petrov here!”
Nad screamed, “He’s still alive! We must get him to a hospital!”
Together they shoved Petrov’s huge body into the sedan’s backseat.
With his right arm wrapped around her waist, Storm hurried Showers toward the Mercedes.
“I’ll take her, too!” Lebedev yelled.
“We’ll follow in my rental,” Storm said. “It’s closer.”
Lebedev pressed the accelerator and the giant Mercedes spit a rooster tail of grass and dirt from under its back wheels, leaving Nad and Storm behind.
Storm ran to the parked Vauxhall and had already buckled in and started the rental by the time Nad joined him in its passenger seat. The Mercedes was nearly out of sight as he drove south toward St. Cross Road.
“Turn left,” Nad ordered.
Storm glanced at the illuminated GPS screen in car’s dash. Downtown Oxford was to his right. He hesitated but then spotted the Mercedes on his left just cresting a hill less than a mile away. It was heading away from Oxford, too. Away from the nearest hospital.
Storm felt a pit of dread in his stomach. He pressed the gas pedal, causing the Vauxhall’s engine to scream. The speedometer registered 136 kilometers per hour and was still moving forward.
The Mercedes was now a half mile ahead, but Storm was making up ground. Without warning, the black sedan suddenly slowed and turned off the main highway onto a dirt path. It disappeared into a patch of woods.
A Raging Storm Page 7