by Paul Starkey
“Not bad,” said Quintus Armstrong as he opened his door. “I was expecting a seedy flat or a cheap B and B somewhere, this is nice.”
“Bit posh for the likes of me, I guess you grew up somewhere like this though, Luce, eh?” said Brendan, elbowing her gently in the ribs even as she tried to clamber out.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the tinted glass; saw the hurt and fear etched into her own eyes. She had a few seconds in which to turn to look back at him though, and in those few seconds she composed a smile. “Are you joking? The house I grew up in was twice the size.” She got out then, leaving him chuckling on the back seat. She closed the door slightly harder than she needed to, the act dissipating a fraction of the rage building in her at least. Ibex had closed his own door much more quietly, and he looked back at her now, their eyes meeting. He said nothing.
“Ok people, this is it,” said Chalice now and all eyes turned her way. “Our home away from home.” She smiled. “At least until tomorrow. Welcome to White Wolf House.”
Chapter Sixteen
Brendan Fox knew he should be paying more attention to the house, and its surrounding environs. Knew he should have been picking sightlines from various windows that would cover the driveway. Knew he should have been scanning the tree line, just in case he saw a flash of metal within.
He did none of these things, because all he could think about was that he needed a piss. In fact he’d needed a piss for the last fifteen minutes, and the jostle of Cheung’s uneven driving had done little to alleviate the pressure on his bladder.
Even the sight of Lucy Parrish’s pert little arse as she stood there listening to Chalice Knight did little to take his mind off his need to urinate, and he hoped Chalice would finish her little tour guide routine soon and let them inside.
“…belongs to Burgess and Antonia Carmichael.”
Yeah, we know that, Fox thought.
Not being remotely psychic, Chalice carried on talking. “This isn’t an official safe house, and neither Burgess nor Antonia are on MI5’s payroll. Nor should they, or this house, be on the radar of any other organisation. They’re cleanskins. Antonia is a solicitor and Burgess owns a small publishing house.”
Oh god, please don’t go into their bios, he thought. He’d folded his arms now, left hand gripping his right bicep, right hand doing likewise to the Beretta in his shoulder holster. The toe of his right foot began to dig between bits of gravel.
“The Carmichaels are well known in the local area, and split their time between here and a small townhouse outside of London, and they work odd hours. Nobody will think it strange that they’re home on a Thursday evening, and as far as I’m aware nobody in the nearby village ever comes round to borrow a cup of sugar.”
Cheung tittered at the joke. Brown noser, Fox thought. He wondered where this mysterious village was, because he was pretty sure they hadn’t passed through it on their way here, not unless it was that small collection of houses they’d driven past in the blink of an eye, but that couldn’t be a village, could it? It didn’t even have a pub.
For some reason the thought of a pub led to a thought of a tall frosty glass of lager, and that made him want to go even more.
“The Carmichaels have taken a trip away, as I said. They have a teenaged son but he’s away at university so we don’t need to worry about him.”
Come on, COME ON!
Chalice was looking heavenwards. “I need to fill you in on the security arrangements, but we can do that once we’re inside. It’ll be dark soon and I don’t like the look of those clouds. So let’s grab our gear, lock the cars and head in.’
“Finally,” he muttered, although the thought of having to heft Lucy’s box of goodies again didn’t exactly fill him with joy. Chalice very obviously headed for the house’s front door. She wasn’t one to fetch and carry. Very obviously Ibex and Lucy trailed after her. Despite this supposedly being the age of equality it seemed that didn’t extend to women, or traitors.
He paused in his mental griping to nip round the back of the Range Rover before Cheung. As such he was able to grab the twin holdalls. They were nowhere near as heavy as the box of goodies—Lucy seemed to think they were away for the weekend—and he hefted them easily, something metallic jostling inside one as he did so. He smiled at what he suspected was inside. Part of him hoped he’d get a chance to use it, whilst another part of him really hoped he wouldn’t. He was looking forward to a restful operation, but even after years around guns, firstly as a member of the Met’s tactical firearms unit and, latterly, as an MI5 operative, he’d never quite lost his boyish excitement when it came to fully automatic weapons.
Cheung arrived to discover he was on grocery detail. “Unlucky,” said Fox with a wink. He quite liked Tommy, even if he did act like he had something rammed up his arse most of the time.
As he turned away from the open boot (he figured since Tommy had the keys he could lock up) he almost collided with John Tyrell who was hovering nearby, hands rammed into his jacket pockets, head lolling like an unkempt schoolboy.
“Sorry,” muttered the other man. “I need to get my bag.”
Fox knew it wasn’t Tyrell’s fault, what had happened to him, but still he couldn’t help detesting the man. He’d met him once—though he doubted the other man would remember—and he’d been impressed. The John Tyrell he’d encountered had been sharp as a scalpel, mental acuity balanced with a physicality that belied his age. Sure he’d been brusque, but Fox actually quite liked that in a person, he called a spade a spade and tended to gravitate towards people who did likewise.
This John Tyrell though…he was a completely different person. The keen intelligence he remembered from his eyes gone, replaced with a vague drowsiness. And he’d let himself go physically as well. When Fox had met him he’d been 48, maybe, but looked a lot younger. Only a couple of years had passed, but now he looked a decade older at least.
Despite his penchant for smoking Fox was actually quite obsessive about his health. He liked to think he was fitter than most men his age, and smarter too—even though he’d never gone to university. That was one of the things he disliked about Cheung’s generation, despite there only being about five years between them. He and Tommy were on the same grade, but that had less to do with aptitude than paper qualifications, and that rankled.
Still he knew he was better, and that was what counted. Tyrell though was an uncomfortable reminder that, no matter how good you were, how strong, how smart, something could come along and pull the rug out from under you just as you were on your way to collect your Knighthood. Fox should have felt pity for the other man, instead he felt distaste.
“Sure you can manage it?” he sneered as Tyrell grabbed his bag. It barely looked like it had anything inside.
“I think so,” replied the older man with a weak smile.
“Don’t mind him, sir,” said Cheung as he picked the box up. “I think he was looking forward to some time off and taking his kids to Alton Towers.”
Cheung seemed to be struggling with the box and, never one to miss a trick; Fox snatched the bag from Tyrell’s hands and dumped it on top of the box. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “Tommy will carry your bag.” He uttered throaty laugh then headed for the front door where Chalice was inserting a key in the lock. He didn’t look back.
Chalice had the door open and had stepped through by the time he reached it. Even as Ibex gentlemanly gestured for Lucy to go next, Fox heard the telltale beep of an alarm system.
Quintus Armstrong went to enter next, even as Fox endeavoured to push his way past. “What,” he asked. “You don’t want to look at my arse?” He grinned.
The American didn’t even smile. “Already have, I didn’t like it. Excuse me.” He gently pushed Fox aside and stepped inside.
Freak! Thought Fox and followed. As he stepped over the threshold he saw that Chalice was standing at an alarm box bolted to the inside wall to the left of the doorway. She punched several buttons and th
e beeping of the alarm stopped.
Looking back Fox saw Cheung and Tyrell walking towards the house. Without a second thought he hooked the door with his heel and kicked it shut.
“Brendan!” said Lucy.
He winked at her, then looked at Chalice. “No offence, boss, but there’d better be a lav nearby.”
Chalice raised an eyebrow. “Charming.” She pointed towards a door at the far side of the reception area. “Through there, first on your right.” He put his bags down and started towards the door. “Oh and Brendan…” He paused and looked back. Chalice was grinning. “Don’t forget to flush.”
He smiled but it died once his back was turned. Brendan Fox didn’t like anyone else being a smart arse. He took in very little as he headed for the door. The reception area felt as big as a hotel lobby and he noted a wide staircase leading up. This aside the only other thing that stood out was the way his heels clicked on the parquet flooring beneath them.
The door, when he reached it, looked old; solid oak stained almost black. The silver doorknob was obviously more modern though, not that Fox cared much for interior design. The handle turned smoothly, and he pulled it open. Immediately he saw an identical door opposite the one he’d opened. He ignored it and turned right, discovering he was in a narrow, wood panelled hallway that was perhaps a metre and a half wide. The corridor trailed off into the distance before ending at the foot of a flight of stairs, well he saw three steps and presumed more continued upwards into the darkness beyond.
The corridor was gloomy; the only light came from the reception area behind him, and from several small windows embedded in the right hand side of the corridor wall.
The room Chalice had identified as containing a toilet was just on his right, little more than a wide doorjamb separating the toilet door from the doorway he’d passed through. As he stepped towards it and opened the door, the first door swung silently shut.
A soft gust of wind below past him, and in the pitiful shafts of light streaming in through the corridor windows he saw dust motes dance like agitated fairies. He also saw something else, or thought he did. For just a moment, there at the end of the corridor, he could have sworn he’d seen something on four legs scampering up the stairs and into the void beyond.
He’d halfway opened the toilet door, but now he took his hand from the doorknob, jamming the toe of his right foot against the door to stop it closing. There was little light emanating from within but still he found comfort in it. With his newly free right hand he reached under his jacket and snapped open the leather restraining strap of his holster. He gripped the butt of the Beretta and had withdrawn the pistol perhaps a few centimetres from its nest when he paused.
A moment later he nervously chuckled to himself. The house was empty, Chalice had told them as much. Empty and secured via an alarm. If he had seen an animal—a dog not a cat judging by the size—then he’d have heard it as well, but the corridor was silent, he couldn’t even hear the others so he assumed the doors must actually be as solid as they looked.
Slightly annoyed at his skittishness he slid the weapon back into the holster then stepped into the small bathroom, although as he did so he did pause, for just a moment, and stared at the base of the staircase in the distance…just in case.
Chapter seventeen
“I can’t believe he did that,” said Tyrell as Fox kicked the front door shut.
Beside him, Thomas Cheung smiled. “Really? Most people figure Brendan out pretty quick. Me, I totally believe he did that. Lucky for us Chalice is in there so he won’t be able to bolt the door.”
“You ok with that?” asked Tyrell as Cheung hefted the box to slip his arms further under it.
He felt slightly guilty that all he had was an almost empty bag to carry, and had wanted to offer to help, but in truth he wasn’t sure he could lift something as heavy as the box looked. He could have taken some items out, but he thought it might look a trifle ridiculous if he started shoving cans of beans and jars of coffee into his bag. John Tyrell had enough embarrassments these days; he didn’t need to add acting like a crazy shoplifter to the list.
“I’m fine, sir,” said Cheung.
Tyrell winced. “Please don’t call me that. I feel like an old man as it is, that just makes me feel older. It’s John, and you, Thomas, Tommy, Tom?”
“Not Tommy,” snapped the young man reflexively. His face softened an instant later. “Sorry, it’s just that Tommy always sounds kinda disparaging for some reason. Makes me sound like a kid, plus it’s a bit of a cliché to do that to the name of someone with Chinese heritage. Tommy, Johnnie and all that.”
Tyrell wanted to point out that clearly Cheung was a kid, relatively speaking, and also that he was clearly Chinese, well of Chinese extraction. He decided he’d better err of the side of caution though, so instead he made what he assumed would be innocent conversation. “So, your parents, did they come from Hong Kong, Singapore…” he paused when Cheung stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at him.
“My grandparents came over from Hong Kong fifty odd years ago. My parents were born in Sheffield, same as me; British, same as me.” He said it with a jovial smile on his face, but something in his tone indicated that it’d been the wrong question to ask, Tyrell had hit a nerve. He wanted to apologise, but given that Cheung hadn’t actually said he was offended, saying sorry would appear odd, so instead Tyrell just stood silently until Cheung started walking again.
They made it to the front door with just a few more steps, and a deathly silence seemed to descend once their footfalls on the gravel ceased. The door was windowless, a single wooden barrier, stout oak, painted a blue so dark as to be almost black. There was no number affixed to the door, but there was an elaborate silver knocker.
“Can you?” Cheung asked, hefting his burden once more.
“Sure,” said Tyrell and he reached towards the knocker.
It was a curious thing, perhaps the size of a fist and in the shape of a wolf’s head, the creature’s jaws open wide as if about to swallow something. The actual hinged knocker part formed the lower part of the wolf’s jaw, so when Tyrell lifted it, it had the effect of closing the mouth. He knocked three times and it was as if the wolf were snapping at them.
The door opened and the somewhat evil looking wolf was replaced by the altogether prettier and more innocent smile of Lucy Parrish. “Hope you’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses?” she grinned.
“Worse,” Tyrell found himself saying. “We’re MI6.”
He didn’t really think humour had changed that much in seventeen years, but evidently it had changed enough that he wasn’t anywhere near as funny as he used to be—or maybe his timing had gotten worse since the neurons in his brain stopped firing quite so fast. Whatever the reason, he’d got used to keeping his mouth shut when something funny came to mind.
So he was surprised he’d made the joke now. Pleasantly surprised as it turned out because Lucy giggled as she opened the door wider to let them in, and even the somewhat stoic Cheung chuckled. Seventeen years might have passed, one century slipping into the next, but evidently SIS were still the butt of the Security Service’s best jokes.
“Wow,” said Cheung as they stepped inside; Lucy closing the door behind them.
Tyrell looked back, catching a final glimpse of the Range Rover, of the outside world, before the door slammed.
“Bolt it,” said Chalice. Lucy complied, sliding bolts at the top and bottom of the door into place before turning the key in the lock. For some reason Tyrell couldn’t help thinking of a prison door being secured.
He shook the thought away and turned to admire their surroundings. He understood Cheung’s reaction. The entrance hall formed a large, open space, uncluttered by much in the way of furniture aside from a couple of dining room chairs parked against a far wall, and a large coat stand that stood like a lonely old man in one corner. The floor was polished wood, an elaborate parquet pattern of dark and light timber making it look like high quality crazy pa
ving.
The staircase faced the front door, and dominated the space. It was wide enough that five people could walk side by side up it, and the tread of each step was deep, the bannister was composed of wooden columns the thickness of small trees. The staircase only rose up a handful of steps before reaching a small landing. Here Tyrell could see smaller staircases curving left and right to continue the journey upstairs. He imagined you’d be able to look down on the small landing from the one above.
Above the mid-level landing there was a large rectangular window composed of a multitude of coloured panes. The waning sunlight was shining against it, making the panes shimmer and flicker like a control panel on Star Trek, although the light seemed feeble, weak, as if the main computer were slowly dying. Tyrell knew that if he were to stare at the window long enough the panes would go dark, and the thought disturbed him so he cast his gaze elsewhere.
There were slender pedestals either side of the window, and vases filled with flowers sat atop each of them. A deep red carpet flowed down the stairs like a bloody waterfall. The stream of red trickled over the last step before pooling at the base of the stairs, where it had been tacked into place under a silvered metal edging strip.
He glanced away from the stairs now, to the dark oak panels that seemed to line every centimetre of wall that wasn’t a door or a window. As far as he could make out aside from the front door there were only three other doorways; two to his left, one to his right. Chalice was standing between the front door and one of the ground floor windows. Affixed to the wall at chest height was a slender cupboard, the door swung open.
It should have been a lovely space, but for some reason Tyrell found it oppressive. The flooring was too busy and hurt his eyes, and the profusion of oak panels just made him feel like he was standing in the workshop of a coffin maker. Then there was a smell. A subtle hint of lavender did little to mask the more astringent smell. He knew nothing about the Carmichaels but it seemed they owned a particularly dirty dog.