by Davis Bunn
Behind him, the bruiser hesitated in the act of climbing onto the motor’s ledge. The ship’s officer was headed for a red alarm box. The attacker shouted an oath and clambered off the barrier. He raced after the officer.
Val turned and did a monkey scramble in the opposite direction. He slid off the motor, leapt over the railing, and raced back down the catwalk toward the stairs.
The oil on his hands and feet and knees turned the curving stairs into a nightmarish assault on a slippery metal mountain. Val clawed his way up. The young officer sprawled on the upper landing, moaning and moving slowly. Val leapt through the doorway, left an oily stain on the opposite wall, and plunged down the hall. The young woman in the office-cabin called weakly for help. Val scrambled up the final stairs and reentered the ship’s public space. The antechamber was full of passengers astonished by his sudden appearance.
Only then did Val realize that his head was bleeding again.
Val took the most likely avenue of escape, which was up. The stairs ended in a small antechamber with a door to either side. He flung one open and entered the rainswept maelstrom.
The rain was turned into blinding pellets by the wind and the vessel’s speed. To his left, a few passengers huddled within an open-ended chamber and shouted against the din. Ahead, the grey hulk of Jersey emerged from the storm.
Val could not risk becoming trapped in the passengers’ steel-sided alcove. He gripped the wet rail and started around the back of the central smokestack.
Val turned the corner and came face-to-face with the second man.
The attacker gripped the railing with one hand and his gut with the other. He gaped in utter shock at Val’s appearance, then reached below his jacket and shouted a name, or started to.
Val did not think. He roared his anger and his fear and raced forward until he slammed into the thin man.
The attacker slid backwards until he rammed the opposite rail. Val continued pushing, trying to fling the man into the flying spray and the slate-grey water. To his left, the passengers huddled within the second metal-walled alcove gaped in shock at their struggle.
The man was smaller than Val, but he was streetwise and vicious. He was also fighting for his life. The first punch connected with Val’s leaking temple and almost blinded him with the pain. Val hung on and struggled with all his might to shove the attacker over the railing. Below them, the vessel’s wake was a constant roaring wave.
Voices shouted and moved toward them. But Val did not loosen his grip until the hands forced him. Countless hands. Too many for him to fight against. The pain in his temple was a great booming force, stronger than the thrumming motors. His vision leaked with the spattering rain.
Val shouted against the wind and other voices, “Who sent you?”
The man struggled against other hands gripping him. He stared at Val with a manic gaze and said nothing.
“Who sent you?”
The boat slowed as it passed through the Jersey harbor entrance. Somewhere overhead a horn blasted.
The door behind Val blew open. The bruiser from downstairs shoved his way forward. He reached over the knot of people surrounding Val and grabbed for him.
“Jocko!”
The bruiser hesitated.
“Move it!”
The brute flung aside the other passengers and freed his mate. The two of them raced toward the stern. Val watched the pair slip down a ladder, then another, until they stood on the lowest open deck. They stripped off rain-washed jackets, then waited as the boat slowed further. The smaller of the pair turned and looked back up at Val. He leveled a finger and took aim. Then the bruiser gripped his arm.
Together the pair dove over the side.
“SIR, THE PORT AUTHORITIES WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO HAVE A word with you.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to anybody you want.” Now that the battle was over, he had to fight the words out around chattering teeth. “But they’ve got to come here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. This boat keeps to a very tight schedule.”
“I have no problem with that.” He nodded his thanks to the orderly who brought him a cup of strong black tea. Val needed both hands to bring it to his mouth. He blew, sipped, said, “Let’s take off. Now works fine for me.”
The officer wore short-sleeved whites. They were seated in a room across from where the woman now lay being tended by the ship’s first-aid officer. Val’s temple throbbed beneath his new white bandage. His duffel had been located, and he wore a dry tracksuit. A blanket was draped over his shoulders. His tremors rocked the cup he held. He did not feel cold now so much as utterly drained. His voice sounded raw and empty to his own ears.
The officer had the no-nonsense air of former navy. He was seated upon the fold-down desk opposite the bunk where Val sat. “You’re saying you do not wish to disembark on Jersey?”
“You kidding? Those brutes are out there waiting for me.”
“I presume you mean the pair of men who reportedly attacked you over football.”
“Crazy, isn’t it? I had no idea they were that drunk.” Every word needed to be pried from a brain that felt gummed solid with fatigue. He named the only British team that came to mind. “Or Manchester United winning some cup was all that big a deal.”
The officer crossed his arms. “Indeed.”
A young sailor knocked on the open door. “Customs says his documents are in order, sir.”
He reached over and accepted Val’s passport. His eyes never left Val’s face. “Thank you.”
Val hid his relief at having his passport back within grabbing distance by sipping from his cup.
“My officers confirm that you were the victim and the large man the attacker.” The officer tapped Val’s passport on his thigh. “What I fail to understand, Mr. . . .”
“Adams.”
“Is why you felt it necessary to go after the man on the deck.”
“I saw he was going to attack me,” Val said, still examining the dregs of his teacup. “I didn’t want to give him a chance.”
“And yet the passengers claim the man had spent the entire voyage being extremely ill.”
“Like I said, none of this makes any sense to me.”
A young woman tapped on the door frame. “Master’s compliments, sir. We’re ready to begin boarding.”
“Carry on.”
“Sir.” She departed.
“I agree, Mr. Adams. None of this makes sense.” The officer pushed himself off the desk. “But I have no reason to deny you passage home, much as I might like. I can, however, insist that you spend the journey isolated in this compartment.”
“Could you have someone bring me a sandwich?” He tried futilely to dredge up a smile. “I missed lunch.”
Val woke to the drumming of the engines and the motion of a ship at sea. The vessel did not rock so much as slice the waves. It buffeted, but not harshly, like an ax cleaving the sea’s surface. Val struggled to sit upright. He glanced at his watch. But he could not recall what time it had been when the ship’s officer had finally left and he had lain down.
A tray had been brought in and left while he was asleep. He reached across the narrow cubicle and pulled out the stool hidden beneath the desk. Val seated himself and ate with ravenous appetite. Val’s temple throbbed and his body ached. His shoulder throbbed from being struck by the door, his hands from abrasions as he flew down the stairs, his knees and ankles from scrambling along the motor.
A mirror was embedded in the alcove wall. He finished eating and stared into his reflection. The face looked flaccid with exhaustion, the eyes cavernous. Val examined his features, seeking a simple answer. What was he to do? And once he knew, would he have the strength to do it?
He lay back down. In an instant he was asleep once more.
The boat’s altered motions woke him. This time he felt far more alert. He glanced at his watch. He had been asleep for almost two hours. The motors were rumbling at a lower pitch now. Val rose and entered the
cramped washroom. Whoever had brought him lunch had also left a disposable razor and a small bottle of mouthwash. The motions helped loosen the muscles still cramped and sore from the attack. His mind was sluggish, however. There was still a sense of being disconnected. Whether this was from jet lag or the attack, he could not say.
The young male officer who had returned Val’s passport unlocked the cabin door. “Ship’s docking, sir.”
“Thank you.” Val stuffed his wet belongings into the duffel bag and headed out. The officer refused to meet Val’s eye. “Just up the stairs ahead of you.”
“I know the way.”
“Certainly, sir.” There was a toneless etiquette to the young officer’s voice. Like a prison officer on public view. He dogged Val’s steps, hanging just far enough back to keep from tripping over Val’s feet. At the top of the stairs he said, “To your left, sir.”
The entry salon was empty save for three cleaning staff. They did not look up at Val’s passage. He had the sense of being officially declared a leper. To look was to risk infection. Unclean, their silence shouted. Unclean.
The officer halted at the gangplank. No farewell word. Nothing. A pair of customs officers awaited him at street level. They had clearly been forewarned. Their search of his bag, his passport, and his body was extremely thorough. Val maintained his story, and kept his tone mild. A day trip to an island he had read about but never visited had been disrupted by two drunken louts. He was terribly sorry for all the trouble he had caused, and extremely glad to be back in England. He gave as his address the West End hotel where he had stayed the last time over. The customs officers had no reason to keep him, and finally let him go.
Val crossed the ferry port’s vast parking area, taking great draughts of free air. The evening smelled of sea and salt and rain. Trucks passed in a slow convoy, headed for the continent. He was soon drenched. He did not mind in the slightest, though he had no more dry clothes. The rain helped wash away the mental fog. He left the port area and headed down the main road. There was bound to be a nearby bed-and-breakfast catering to the trucking crowd and accustomed to admitting bedraggled men.
Mental gears meshed begrudgingly as he walked. Clearly his attackers were still on the island. The bank was definitely going to be watched. Which meant he could not access his funds. He and Marjorie had arranged the numbered accounts so that their money could be withdrawn only in person.
Which meant Val was now extremely stuck.
He had less than three hundred dollars to his false name. He was as incognito as he could have asked. A nameless man, unloved by all, seeking freedom from a stranger’s past.
TERRANCE AND WALLY JOURNEYED ACROSS THE ATLANTIC IN A Gulfstream IV outfitted like an elegant hotel suite. Wally tried hard to pretend it was all part of the game. But the private steward and the crystal decanters and the kid-leather seats and the walnut burl table and the filet mignon with fresh truffle sauce left her gaping. When they finished dinner, the steward turned the seats into two beds with Sea Island cotton sheets behind hand-painted privacy screens. Five hours later, they were awakened by coffee served on a silver tray and fresh-baked croissants.
The bathroom was cramped but contained a miniature shower. Wally came out toweling her hair and announced, “I’m busy making a list of everything I didn’t know I needed until right now.”
They landed in a fog so thick they saw nothing until touchdown. Terrance peered through the soup. Waiting upon the tarmac was an elderly gentleman standing beside a vintage Bentley.
The old man stepped forward as the steward released the stairs. Only then could they get a clear look at his face. Wally halted Terrance with a hand to his arm. “That isn’t my guy.”
Terrance waved the steward away. “What are you telling me?”
“The suit. He’s not who I called.” Wally took another worried glance beyond Terrance. “My guess is, we’re looking at our guy’s boss.”
“So? This is good, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what it is. I don’t like changes in plan. Especially not this one.” Wally had the tight look of taking aim. “This deal is my ticket out. The score that is going to get me out of the hole once and for all.”
The gentleman halted at the base of the plane’s stairs and called up, “I’m looking for a Mr. Terrance d’Arcy.”
Terrance asked her, “Aren’t we overreacting a little here?”
“Maybe.” Wally squinted through the grim day. “But where’s my guy, that’s what I want to know.”
The gentleman called, “I say—”
Terrance ducked under the doorway. “I’m d’Arcy.”
“And right on time. How splendid.” The man’s smile was far brighter than the overcast day. “Josef Loupe, at your service.”
The air was heavy with a chill foretaste of rain. Terrance met the outstretched hand as he stepped off the bottom stair. The skin was papery with age, but the muscles underneath were firm. “How do you do.”
“Such an honor, Mr. d’Arcy. I have so looked forward to this encounter.” He bowed slightly over Terrance’s hand, in the manner of bygone courtiers, then indicated a uniformed gentleman waiting two steps back. “If I might trouble you for your passports, we can make your arrival official.”
As the customs officer leafed through their passports, Terrance inspected their contact. Josef Loupe wore a camel-hair overcoat draped across what once had been very powerful shoulders. Now he had a scarecrow’s frame and a face to match. Up close, the smile revealed capped teeth so white they appeared painted. The man’s age was impossible to tell. Somewhere between sixty and eighty, with a calculated tan and eyes dead as cold tar. He chatted lightly through the process. “Such is the pleasure of private aircraft these days. No queues, no intrusive inspections. One lands far from the tourist hordes and is treated with proper respect. You cannot put a price on such items. Either you can afford it, or you cannot.”
The officer demanded, “What is the purpose of your visit to England?”
“Just a quick stopover before continuing on to Jersey.”
“How long do you intend to remain in the United Kingdom?”
“Not long. A day.”
Loupe cleared his throat. “Regrettably, events might require you to remain here a bit longer.”
Behind Terrance, Wally huffed as though taking a blow to the gut. Terrance glanced over. Wally refused to meet his eye.
“I should think three days would be more than adequate,” Loupe went on.
The officer stamped both passports, then nodded at the cases that the steward had set on the tarmac. “Anything to declare?”
“Nothing.”
He handed Terrance both passports. “Enjoy your stay.”
Terrance waited until the officer was well away to say, “We were expecting to be met by someone else.”
“Your contact is seeing to matters in Portsmouth.”
“Matters?”
“A temporary setback, nothing more.” Loupe indicated the waiting limo. “I shall endeavor to explain everything once we are underway.”
The car was a vintage Bentley with a front end long as a polished blue locomotive. Terrance let the elderly man settle him into a seat soft as rarefied butter. Loupe slipped the overcoat from his shoulders and handed it to his aide. The attendant was neither tall nor big, but carried himself with a pent-up menace. His face was professionally blank, his motions as tightly silent as a panther. Wally watched while Loupe’s man loaded their bags, then climbed into the front seat. She never looked directly at Loupe. The old man did not seem to register her on his radar. Terrance heard Wally sigh as she shut her door. Her disengaged attitude was more irritating than worrisome.
The Bentley’s rear compartment was so spacious Terrance could stretch out his legs and still not touch the front seat. Terrance faced a triple set of television screens set in sterling silver frames, with clocks to either side. A bar extended to form a tongue of walnut burl. On it rested a coffee service and a silver tray
holding magazines and the day’s Financial Times. Loupe indicated the coffee service. “May I offer you something?”
“It’s not necessary.”
“No, please. I insist.” The faintest tremor touched his hands as he filled the delicate porcelain cup.
The Bentley pulled through the airport’s security gates and powered away so smoothly the coffee did not even sway in the cup. “Where are you from?”
“Ah. The accent. Over fifty years in this country, and still I talk like an immigrant.”
Terrance leaned back and took a sip. Perfect. “On the contrary, your English is better than mine.”
“You are too kind. I came to England in 1947. Before that time, I carried the same name as the town where I was born. Josef Lubavitch. You have heard of it?”
“No. Sorry.”
“No matter. It was a place of mud and misery. Stalin should have destroyed it. He started to, then stopped. Don’t ask me why.” He gave an old man’s smile this time, a thinning of his lips. Perhaps the first genuine gesture Terrance had seen from him. “When I was fourteen I began fighting in Stalin’s army. Just another child soldier meant to feed war’s ravenous maw. We all were given different names, part of building camaraderie in the face of coming defeat. I was known as Loupe, French for wolf.”
Loupe opened the door beneath the coffee service and offered Terrance a linen napkin. There was an elegant servitude to his gestures, a subtle layer of messages. He unpacked sandwiches and set two on a bone china plate. The bread was white and cut very thin and the crusts had been trimmed away. Terrance was not hungry. But he did not refuse. The old man’s actions were not about food.
“My battalion commandant was a rarity, a nobleman who had survived Stalin’s purges by being the most fervent Communist alive. As a youth he had spent his summers taking the waters at Cannes. He returned to fight alongside his Russian brothers. As I said, a genuine fanatic. He liked to sprinkle his addresses with French. He said it added a certain dignity to our cause.”