Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  “Did you start dying inside before they left, before they went back to Washington, I wonder?” Suddenly Ibex didn’t look as bored, he had a last chance to exert influence and power over John Tyrell before he vanished into the night, disappeared somewhere warm where two million dollars would buy a lifetime of pleasure.

  Because he hadn’t spoken, Ibex assumed he was getting to him. He righted his head, affected a mournful look that was about as sincere as a bouncing cheque, and nodded sagely. “Must have been hard for her, the whirlwind romance with the rugged British spy; exciting, intoxicating. She fell pregnant quickly didn’t she? Were you trying, or did she trick you?” Ibex didn’t wait for a response. “It doesn’t matter really. Must have been quite a culture shock for her; going from Washington society, to a semi just outside of London. I’m guessing she wasn’t the Surbiton sort.”

  Tyrell drew strength from the fact that even Quintus Armstrong, two steps ahead of the game at all times, wasn’t infallible. He assumed Tyrell had taken those photos down out of guilt, or sadness, or shame, but in fact he’d taken them down because they referred to strangers. Even seeing himself in some of the pictures didn’t help. They might as well have been mock ups, what was it called, photo-shopped or something? They didn’t make him feel sad; they just looked weird.

  “Nothing to say, John.” All pretence of empathy had vanished now, the mask had returned.

  Tyrell smiled, and drew more strength from the flicker of surprise on Ibex’s face. It wasn’t much, a twitch of the jaw, but it showed he’d spooked him. When Tyrell raised his gun and aimed, two handed, at him, Ibex’s cheek flickered again.

  “You should get going,” said Tyrell, resolute. “We need to get Tom to a doctor.”

  Ibex offered a tiny bow of his head. “Adieu to you both.” And then he started walking backwards.

  “One thing though…”

  The American paused, too quickly for Felix who bumped into him. Ibex responded by jerking him onto his toes again for a moment. Felix responded with another whimper.

  “Yes, John?” Wearisome now, bored again.

  “Just so you know. If Chalice doesn’t kill you, I will.”

  Ibex said nothing. He backed through the doorway, ordering Felix to take the handle of the outer side so he could close it after they were through. The entire time he kept his eyes on Tyrell and Chalice, flickering between the two of them. Tyrell kept smiling, kept pointing the gun at him, until Felix pulled the door shut.

  The moment the door snapped back into place, Tyrell’s smile was swept away. His knees had gone to jelly, and it was all he could do to stagger over to the table. The gun skidded across the polished surface as his trembling hands splayed against the wood. He stood there, holding himself aloft as his breath came in ragged, uneven clumps.

  After a moment he realised that Chalice was beside him. From below he could hear the soft gasps of Cheung breathing in, followed by the gurgles of his exhalations.

  He turned his gaze towards Chalice. She was stood just far enough away that she could hold her pistol at hip height, aimed towards him. Her eyes were narrow, cold steel slits in a face of stone.

  “Take my gun if it makes you feel safer,” he said softly. “Tie me up, I don’t care, but whatever you’re going to do, do it quickly because I meant what I said. We have to take care of Tom.”

  Her eyes flickered towards the gun he’d dropped, but she didn’t make a move towards it. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to, he knew what she was thinking. I’ll trust you for now, but at the slightest hint of betrayal I’ll blow your fucking brains out.

  Given everything that had happened here it seemed fair enough.

  Chapter Forty one.

  Ibex had meant what he’d said, about letting Felix go as soon as he reached the gatehouse, but now as they walked across the parquet floor of the entrance hall, he was revising that decision. The temptation to just shoot him was growing.

  “Stop snivelling and get to the door,” he muttered, jabbing the barrel of the gun in the kid’s back.

  He’d let go of him the moment the door was closed, but even though he knew there was no way Chalice or Tyrell would be coming through that door after him, still he couldn’t stop glancing back every few seconds.

  At the jab, Felix snuffled again. “Please, please don’t…” he started to plead between terrified gasps.

  Another jab. “Shut up and I won’t hurt you, but damn it boy, keep whining and I just might. I Got plenty of bullets in this gun, and I sure as hell won’t need but one of ‘em to shut you up.”

  He regretted the threat as soon as he’d uttered it. This situation, this house was finally getting to him, and that was why his accent had slipped, the Nebraskan boy always seemed to sneak out when he was nervous, as rare as that was.

  Even though his main focus was keeping the kid compliant, and even though he was on guard for the MI5 agents next door, or this damn house, to try something, a portion of his brainpower was tasked with what he’d do next.

  He’d already decided disabling of the Range Rover and Felix’s car would have to be crude; he didn’t have time to waste. A bullet to each car’s radiator, one more to each front tyre. Then take the Audi and go. But go where? Before he let Felix go, if he let him go, Ibex was going to quiz him about their location. He had the sense that it was Oxfordshire, but he wasn’t certain. He’d kept his eyes open during the journey in, tried to note the signs as they passed them, but the driving rain hadn’t always made it easy, and once they were off the main roads the signs had become more sporadic.

  Felix would tell him exactly where he was. Already he had mentally discarded his former plan. The likelihood of anyone, even Sir George, knowing of his escape route was infinitesimal, but Quintus Armstrong hadn’t stayed alive and out of prison this long by ignoring his instincts.

  No, Malta would have to wait for another lifetime.

  The first thing to do was get to the nearest town or city. That would probably be Oxford, or else maybe he could backtrack to Milton Keynes. It really didn’t matter where it was; he just needed somewhere with a train station.

  The two million was already in his bank account, and by the time Chalice got to a phone, if she could even get out of the house, he’d have already made the call to begin the process of transferring it between a slew of other accounts. He’d do this before calling Mellanby; he didn’t trust the old bastard not to have a way of clawing the money back.

  They’d made it to the front door. Felix made to open the alarm cupboard but Ibex stopped him. “No time for that, your mother can scream all she wants, just open the damn door.”

  As Felix started fumbling, Quintus looked back at the drawing room door.

  He’d abandon the TT with the keys in the ignition; hopefully some enterprising soul would take it for a joyride. He’d also leave his credit cards, with the pin numbers handily attached. He wasn’t about to use them himself but again it would lead his pursuers down blind alleys. All he had was about two hundred and fifty pounds in his wallet…until he could get at the two million it would have to do.

  Not that the money would last as long as he’d…”What is it?” he asked, noting that Felix had turned away from the door, a perplexed look in his eyes.

  “There’s no key; I can’t open it.”

  Quintus’ first thought was that the kid was playing for time, and he had to mentally restrain himself from pistol whipping the boy for this act of betrayal. But the glazed look in his eyes bespoke innocent stupidity.

  “You got keys don’t you?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. Of course.” And he jabbed his hand into his jeans pockets.

  “Sweet Jesus,” muttered Quintus. He cast another glance over his shoulder. Not at the drawing room door this time, but at the staircase leading up, at the landing midway between the ground and first floors. Nothing but shadows, but still…

  No, two million wouldn’t last nearly as long now he’d be on the run, now he’d need a
nother new identity or three. That villa in Malta would likely give way to a small apartment somewhere colder. Canada maybe, his accent would blend in a lot better at least. Irrespective, he’d be alive, and if not wealthy, then at least comfortable.

  As Felix unlocked the door and began to open it, Ibex allowed himself a sneer of triumph. He wondered how much it would cost to hire someone to burn this fucking house down.

  An icy blast of early morning air drove these thoughts from his mind. Ignore the future for now, focus on the present. Disable the cars, and then get the hell out of dodge.

  Quintus Armstrong; often challenged, never bested.

  Chapter Forty two

  Thomas Cheung was conscious, though in truth part of him wished he wasn’t, because then he wouldn’t be in so much agony.

  It was an odd pain, not at all what he’d have expected from a knife wound. He’d have expected something sharp, a stabbing—ha bloody ha— pain, but instead it was dull, flat agony that didn’t even seem localised to the knife sticking out of his chest, instead it seemed to run from his chest, down his spine, across both buttocks and down his right leg.

  He hadn’t even realised he had been stabbed until the lights came back up and he could see. When darkness had fallen he’d instinctively got out of his seat, had automatically been on guard. It hadn’t done him a lick of good, because suddenly a runaway train roared out of the darkness and smashed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs, and any sense of balance out from under him, and he’d tumbled to the ground.

  Around him he heard movement, voices. He heard Chalice calling out his name, but when he tried to reply he found he couldn’t catch his breath. And then the lights had come back on, and though it hurt to move, still he caught a glimpse of the tableau that had unfolded, and he heard every word, every word. So, this whole sorry mess was Tyrell’s fault, Tyrell’s idea!

  The fact that the man had no memory of his actions, or that Mellanby and Ibex were equally culpable, didn’t mitigate against the hate Cheung was now feeling, and even the obvious concern in Tyrell’s voice as he faced down the American wouldn’t have stopped Cheung from putting a bullet in him.

  If he’d still had his gun, and if he’d had strength to lift it.

  Instead he just sat there feeling sorry for himself as Ibex made his deal with Chalice. He thought about Nancy first and foremost, his fiancée, the woman he loved, had loved since the first time they met during Freshers’ Week at uni. The woman he’d likely never see again. They were supposed to get married soon, well in two years; weddings weren’t cheap, and a civil servant’s salary didn’t go far. She was still studying for her PhD, and was an orphan, so no help would be forthcoming from her parents.

  The thought of parents made him shift his mental perspective. Now, as Felix and Ibex slowly backed towards the door, he thought about his own mum and dad, and the cruel vagaries of fate that determined they should have to deal with the death of not just one son, but two. They’d been born in Britain, considered themselves British, but things like family and honour still dominated both their characters. That they would have no grandchildren, that the family line would end when they died, would break their hearts.

  Ibex was gone now, the threat from Tyrell no doubt still ringing in his ears. Cheung would have smiled if he could have mustered the energy. As threats went Tyrell’s assertion was as hollow as the average Easter egg.

  Somehow he found the energy for a petulant frown. Beyond love and family, it was the little treasures of life he was going to miss; he’d always really loved Easter eggs…

  “So unfair,” he muttered.

  “Still with me, eh?”

  It was then he realised he’d been staring at his own lap, at the right hand that hung limply there. He looked up as Chalice spoke, and was surprised to see her crouched beside him, smiling.

  He tried to smile back, but wasn’t sure if he’d managed it. “For the moment,” he said. He barely recognised his own ragged voice.

  Chalice was peering at the knife embedded in his chest now, eyes narrowed, concerned. Her fingers gently touched his torso around the blade. He winced despite her delicate touch.

  Her face twitched in sympathy. “Sorry.”

  “It’s ok.”

  She leaned back on her haunches. “Where else does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere,” he said, feeling like a whiny child.

  She was nodding. “Probably shock, and probably you hurt yourself falling.”

  “You know what they say, it isn’t the fall that kills you it’s the knife in your…” his feeble attempt at humour ended in a wracking cough that made every inch of his body scream.

  “Well at least the blade obviously missed your sense of humour.” Chalice had a cockeyed smile and there was hope in her eyes.

  “Why’d you look so pleased?”

  She shrugged. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Good,” he managed before coughing again.

  “The good news is you’ve coughed several times and, though it was pretty disgusting, I didn’t see a single fleck of blood, so I’m guessing there isn’t too much internal damage. Plus the knife’s actually nearer your shoulder than your heart. Finally, judging by the blade Ibex let me find, I’m guessing it isn’t a long one.” She pointed at the haft. “When you cough the handle wobbles.”

  “What… you a battlefield medic now?”

  “You have no idea…There’s bad news though.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I can’t pull the blade out, for all I know it’s actually preventing you bleeding. I have to do something about your cough though ‘cos that’s likely not doing you any good.” Another shrug, coupled with a frown. “Trouble is the only liquid we have is poisoned.”

  “This’ll help.”

  He somehow forced himself to tilt his head upwards. He couldn’t move it much, so all he saw of Tyrell were his legs, but he also saw a hand reaching down from heaven, holding a small bottle of tonic water, the lid missing. “From the drinks cabinet,” Tyrell added by way of explanation.

  Even though he couldn’t see the other man’s face, Cheung knew that Tyrell would be able to see his, so he narrowed his eyes and sneered.

  “It you want I can take a drink first?”

  “That isn’t necessary, give it here,” said Chalice, and practically snatched the bottle away from Tyrell. Now she leaned in and lifted the neck of the bottle towards his lips. Though he could move much, still he pulled his head away.

  She looked him in the eyes. “Tom, if John wanted us poisoned he’d have let Lucy do her work earlier.” Cheung saw it in her eyes though; she didn’t quite believe what she was saying.

  Yeah Tyrell had saved their lives, but that was earlier, before he, before they all, knew the truth. Who knew what direction his addled mind was pointing now? In the end a desperate thirst overcame his paranoia, and he let her place the bottle to his lips. After a few drops he gave up any pretence and tried to gulp the liquid down.

  She pulled the bottle back. “Hey watch it, buster. You’ll start yourself coughing again.”

  “Sorry,” he managed. She cautiously returned the bottle and he took a handful of sips, fighting the urge to gulp the whole time. Eventually she took the bottle from him and took a drink herself. There was perhaps a quarter of the bottle left when she handed it to Tyrell. This was the test, he knew, if the old man didn’t drink then it was all over…

  He couldn’t see, but he heard well enough to know the bottle was empty when Tyrell placed it on the table.

  “Didn’t realise how thirsty I was,” he said. “There are a couple more over there…”

  Chalice shook her head. “Maybe later; First things first, I need to pad the knife, then find some plastic if I can to put over the whole kit and caboodle and…”

  Her words trailed off as a voice boomed out overhead… “Entry violation; Front door.” Chalice was frowning, and Cheung didn’t understand why, it was the alarm system, the one they’
d heard earlier, and it meant Ibex was getting away. The voice sounded again and still Cheung didn’t understand the tremor of something like fear that caused her cheek to twitch.

  She obviously saw his confusion, because she explained. “That isn’t Antonia.”

  When the alarm repeated once more, Cheung finally understood. The house’s alarm voice was French accented, and a woman. This voice sounded male, sounded American, and sounded like no one Thomas Cheung had ever met.

  Chapter Forty three

  “Must be broken,” said Felix nodding towards the alarm box. His voice was hoarse, in part down to fear no doubt, but also down to the recent presence of Ibex’s arm tight around his neck.

  Quintus didn’t really care, he had other things to worry about.

  Felix had pulled the door inwards and now in the rain lashed darkness outside Quintus could see the nose of the Audi, and Felix’s old banger too. He knew if he were to step outside and look to his left that he’d see the Range Rover.

  He didn’t move.

  Felix, though clearly not the sharpest tool in the box, noted this curious turn of events and frowned. “We’re not leaving?” he said. He actually looked disappointed.

  Ibex almost laughed. You wouldn’t be so downhearted if you knew I’d been considering killing you, he thought.

  He didn’t laugh. The voice overhead kept repeating itself, but though he hadn’t heard that particular voice in decades, not since the night the Wall fell in fact, he really didn’t need it repeated in order to recognise it, he’d known who it was the first time it spoke.

  An icy wind, colder than autumn merited, was blowing in from outside, but Quintus knew he’d have shivered even without it. In his mind he heard the voice again, remembered the last words that voice had spoken to him all those years ago.

  “You know, Quinny…” the words had been slurred, broken by a childish giggle. “People say you’re a…you’re a dick!” The last word practically shouted. “You’re not though. You’re an all right guy.”