Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series

by Helin, Don

Jackie gave him a funny look. “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so. At least that’s all I know for now.”

  She looked away.

  “Really. I don’t know any more.” Sam knew she was upset and assuming he was holding out on her. The rest of the meal, he tried to make conversation but without much success. His mind kept drifting to the meeting that night.

  After lunch, they continued the drive north, crossing the Canadian border about four o’clock and pulling into the outskirts of Montreal at six o’clock—the height of rush hour.

  Sam swerved to avoid a two-trailer moving van. He remembered a trip to Paris during his tour in Frankfurt many years before. French drivers could be absolutely wild. Montreal drivers were proving themselves not that much different from their Parisian counterparts.

  Thanks to the directions they’d received on the phone, as well as Jackie’s map reading skills, they found Rue Stanley without difficulty and now sought out the Manoir Valentin.

  Jackie peered out of the Explorer passenger window at the addresses on the old buildings. “It’s difficult to see the numbers in the dark.”

  Aly had given him the name of the hotel, and his secretary, Vivian, had made reservations for them. “Don’t worry, Sam,” Aly had told him, “you’ll get further information on the meeting after you arrive.”

  “What time is your meeting?” Jackie asked.

  “Another thing I don’t know,” Sam replied. “I’m supposed to find out when I arrive.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Good question, but I don’t know.” Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I know it’s frustrating, but we’ll have to wait and see.”

  Jackie raised an eyebrow but didn’t push any more.

  Darkness settled in like an omen, and the temperature hovered around one degree Centigrade. Light mist in the air made both of them shiver in spite of the heat in the car.

  “Glad it’s not any colder.” Sam edged the car down the street. “We’d be skiing down this hill.”

  “There it is.” Jackie pointed out an aged, three-story brick building similar to the other buildings on the street. “And there’s the sign—Manoir Valentin. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  The buildings reminded Sam of those he’d seen in Europe. These had been built against one another, three stories high, with stone steps leading up to the front doors. The brick fronts had a multitude of designs. Each had at least one dormer window jutting out from the rest of the building. Some houses had a sloped turret on top of the roof, and one even had a helm roof with a weather vane on top.

  The windows on either side of the front door of the Manoir Valentin stood at least six feet high and jutted out toward the street in a series of bay windows. One lonely tree in the front yard, stripped of its leaves by the cold, seemed to be the only symbol of nature along the cobblestone street. Cars lined both sides of the street. Sam didn’t see anywhere to park.

  “These streets are narrow, and the cobblestones are probably slippery.” Sam gripped the wheel and pumped the brakes to prevent sliding.

  “Give you a chance to relearn all your Minnesota driving lessons.” Jackie pointed toward the curb. “Look, we can park there while we unload and check in.”

  Sam backed the Explorer into the tiny space. He opened the trunk and carried their bags up the twenty-some stairs. Jackie struggled to open one of the two gold-framed double doors.

  As they stepped into a narrow hallway, a blast of heat hit Sam and he opened his coat. About fifteen feet down the narrow hallway stood a four-foot high wooden counter. Sam sighed and set down their bags, wiping sweat from his forehead. Music played from somewhere behind the counter.

  “Do you see a bell?” Jackie asked.

  A voice behind the counter sang out to them. “Bonsoir.”

  Jackie laughed. “I didn’t see you back there.”

  A short, stocky woman stood and smiled. “Welcome. My name is Madam Camille.” She looked at Sam. “You must be Colonel Thorpe.”

  “Yes.” Sam extended his hand. “Wish I spoke French, but I haven’t mastered that yet. You don’t want to hear me slaughter your beautiful language.”

  “That’s all right. We all speak English. I understand you’ll be staying with us for three nights.” She patted her tightly combed gray hair. “And you are Ms. Mc-Carthy?”

  Jackie nodded. “It’s great that you’re located right in the heart of Montreal.”

  “All the wonderful sites of our city are within easy walking distance. Have you been to Montreal before?”

  Jackie smiled. “Always on business. I’m looking forward to seeing everything.”

  “If you’ve got sturdy legs, you can see quite a bit during your short stay. We always tell people they’ll want to come back.”

  Madam Camille checked them in. “I opened an entryway between these two buildings a few years ago.” She pointed to Sam’s right. “You’ll need to walk up those stairs, then back down on the other side. At the bottom of the stairs, turn right. Your room is on the first floor with a nice view of the front. Here are your keys.”

  Sam picked up the luggage.

  “You can park in back. It’s pretty small, so I suggest you not move your car while you’re here. Parking is a problem all over Montreal.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Colonel Thorpe, you have a message.” She handed him an envelope.

  Jackie reached over to take the envelope, but Sam set the suitcases on the floor and took it first.

  Jackie gave Sam the raised eyebrow again but didn’t say anything.

  When they closed the door to their room, Sam hung up Jackie’s clothes bag. He was surprised at the amount of clothing she had brought for just three days, but she always looked great.

  He turned away from Jackie and opened the envelope. Inside was a typed, two-line note. “Meet me at the Pasta Basta at seven o’clock. It’s across Rue Sherbrooke from McGill University, only four blocks from your hotel.”

  “What does it say?” Jackie’s voice sounded sharp.

  “It gives the name of the restaurant and the time for the meeting.” Sam glanced at his watch. “I’d better get a move on. It’s 6:15 and they want me there at 7.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Sit here by myself?” Jackie put her hands on her hips. “It’s going to look pretty silly that we’re here on vacation together, and you go out to dinner alone.”

  “It’s not smart for you accompany me to the meeting itself.”

  “Sam, for Pete’s sake, think about it. We’re here in Montreal supposedly on a vacation. We arrive, and right away you go out to dinner by yourself? That makes no sense. Anyone watching us will know that something’s not right.” She stuck out her chin in a pose that Sam knew from experience meant she wouldn’t back down. “And don’t for one minute give me that ‘could be dangerous’ stuff. I’m not some weak-kneed pansy. I can take care of myself.”

  Sam thought for a moment. “Why don’t we walk to the restaurant together? When my contact arrives, I’ll have to leave you.”

  “That’s better. Use your head, for goodness’ sake.” Jackie walked toward the bathroom. “Let me freshen up. Who knows? I may run into a cute Frenchman.”

  Jackie’s cut had hit its mark.

  There was a couch along the wall below the window. Sam placed his bag next to it. “I’ll bunk on the couch, and you can have the bed.”

  Jackie nodded. “Fine.” She walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Sam grabbed his cell phone and pushed in Bob O’Brien’s number on speed dial. “Pasta Basta Restaurant, seven o’clock.”

  He had just disconnected when Jackie opened the door and called to him. “Sam, look at this.”

  Sam peeked through the door. A large sunken tub with a massage nozzle sat in one corner of the bathroom. He laughed. “Gotta love Montreal.”

  Oh, how he wished they were on a real vacation and all he had to worry about was sitting with Jackie in a hot tub.
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br />   CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The tables at the Pasta Basta restaurant were about half full when Sam and Jackie entered. A slender young woman sporting a dishwater blond ponytail and a big smile met them at the door.

  “Good evening.” She motioned for them to follow her. Her ponytail bounced as she walked. She wore a white turtleneck and black jeans covered by a maroon chef’s apron.

  No one signaled to Sam or seemed interested in his arrival.

  The restaurant was arrayed with variously shaped tables: round, oblong, and curved. She seated them at a table with a wood-grained Formica top. The same design decorated each of the pillars throughout the restaurant and then splashed halfway up the walls. From that point to the ceiling, cream-colored tiles with tiny floral decorations brightened what might otherwise have been a dull interior. Sam had to duck under a couple of the hanging flowerpots.

  Their hostess smiled at Sam. “My goodness, you’re a big guy!”

  Sam laughed. “I spend half my life banging my head.”

  The waitress paused while they were seated, then handed them menus.

  “Your English is excellent,” Jackie said. “How did you know we were Americans?”

  She smiled. “I can tell.”

  The smell of garlic and the smoky aroma of baking pizza made Sam realize he hadn’t eaten for a while. Tiny white and pink lights, shaped like bunches of grapes, decorated the center of the table, and lights in the shape of a flower hung over each table. Sam wondered if someone could have hidden a microphone in the centerpiece. Was their waitress setting them up?

  Behind them, four boys and a girl hunched over a table. They were engaged in a discussion about the European Union. It surprised Sam that they were speaking English. Then he remembered that McGill University, across the street, was an English-speaking college.

  While Sam held the wine menu, he again scanned the restaurant looking for his contact.

  Sam ordered a bottle of Viodo di Sasso Merlot and leaned back, resting his hand over Jackie’s wrist.

  “Excellent choice, sir. I’ll get it for you right away.” The waitress hurried off.

  Jackie withdrew her hand and placed her napkin in her lap, folding and then refolding it.

  “Guess we can relax for a few minutes.” Sam glanced around again. “I don’t see anyone who looks like they’re waiting for me.”

  The front door opened. A man dressed in a black turtleneck under a black and white-checked sweater walked in, followed by a redhead who looked young enough to be his daughter.

  They sat at the table behind Sam and Jackie. The man ordered wine, and when it came he filled the young woman’s wineglass. Her words seemed slurred, and her voice got louder when she laughed. The man put his arm around the young woman and kissed her.

  Sam winked at Jackie. “Ah, romance.”

  Jackie bumped his arm. She leaned over. “Mind your own business.”

  The waitress returned and told them the specials for the evening. Sam ordered the pasta primavera, and Jackie, the fettuccini with clam sauce. Still, no one appeared interested in what they were doing. Maybe bringing Jackie had been a mistake.

  Approximately thirty minutes after they arrived, a man about Sam’s height with black hair speckled with gray entered the restaurant. He wore a black leather car coat and carried a black briefcase slung over his ample shoulders. After he entered, he stood by the door wiping water droplets off his small, round spectacles.

  Sam glanced toward him. The man looked away and walked to a table in the back.

  When the waitress brought their meal, Sam poured another glass of wine for each of them. He chuckled as the young woman at the next table tried to talk. Even though she was speaking French, Sam could tell she was having trouble forming words. She gave up after awhile and put her head on her companion’s shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her.

  The wine was excellent; the dinner superb. Sam stayed alert, waiting for his contact. None materialized.

  Finally he relaxed. It seemed his contact would not appear tonight. Background music set a romantic mood. Sam reached for Jackie’s hand, but she always seemed to have something else to do with it. Once, he chuckled when he heard the song “The Great Pretender” in French. “I never thought I’d hear that.”

  Jackie smiled.

  After dinner, they sat and sipped wine, finishing a second bottle. Jackie told Sam about a new couch she planned to buy for the living room of her townhouse. She began to slur her words. They laughed about funny things that had happened over the past year they’d been together.

  Sam told her about his trip to Minnesota to see Emily, and his frustration over missing her sixteenth birthday. It felt good to talk with Jackie again.

  Finally, Jackie moved around the table and leaned her head on Sam’s shoulder. Maybe, he thought. Maybe we can get past this.

  Elizabeth Henley sat on a stool at the bar, sipping her scotch and water. She watched the couple enter the Pasta Basta restaurant. The man had short black hair. Muscular shoulders filled out his sport coat. The woman stood taller than Elizabeth, with black hair and a striking figure. That had to be Colonel Thorpe. Why had he brought someone with him?

  The two followed the waitress to a table and laughed at something while they looked at a menu together. How she hated their intimacy when she stayed so alone!

  Thorpe looked around, expecting someone to contact him. She smiled, knowing he’d have to wait until she was ready.

  Elizabeth sipped her drink and watched, her mind drifting back to that fateful day as it always did. It seemed like yesterday, but it was so long ago. She’d been running along the path through the woods; their path; the trail the two had met on. They later used it to sneak off and spend quiet time together.

  The weather had been chilly that morning, but she’d worn an extra sweater. She never seemed to be cold because of the anticipation of meeting him.

  The snooty federal agents had surrounded the farm, but that hadn’t stopped the two lovers. They had their secret trail through the forest so they could see each other whenever they wanted. The dumb agents never even knew they were there.

  She almost skipped as she neared the crossroad where she knew he’d be. There he stood—tall, sandy haired, tanned, and muscular. He waved to her. She waved back.

  He motioned for her to stop. She did. He must have heard a deer. Food was scarce because of the standoff. He had not been able to shoot a deer for days. His little sisters were hungry.

  She leaned against an oak tree, her heart full of love. He raised his gun, with purpose, took aim, and fired a shot. The noise made her jump.

  He’d raised his weapon again and listened, then fired into a thicket. They’d have deer for dinner. She’d been invited to eat with the family tonight. Deer meat would be so much better than the soup she’d been eating for days.

  She ran forward, but stopped when a barrage of shots rang out. He’d dropped to the ground, clutching at his chest.

  “No,” she cried, running toward him.

  He raised his head and motioned her back. She hid behind a large boulder. What had happened? The sound of footsteps came crashing through the dense underbrush. Three men stepped out of the woods. They looked at the young man prone on the ground.

  The tallest one glanced around, moving his rifle in a circle. “It’s the kid. We’d better get the hell out of here before his old man gets here.”

  They trotted off through the woods.

  She ran to him. Dropping to her knees, she cradled him in her arms. The front of his shirt covered with blood. She could feel no pulse; pulled him to her and cried—deep, wrenching tears. How could this be? So young. So beautiful.

  Voices sounded; heavy footsteps moved through the underbrush. Were the bastards coming back? She laid his head on the ground. Ran to the trees. She looked back, she saw his rifle. Started toward it. She’d show them. Too late. The steps were getting closer. She pushed farther into the woods.

  The anger broiled inside her and th
reatened to explode. How could it happen that this beautiful boy was shot dead by his own government? The bastards—she’d get them back.

  She finished high school. Boys tried to date her throughout her high school days, but she had armor— her armor of love. No one could reach inside.

  She had to leave. No way could she be part of this country anymore. She’d stolen some money from her mother’s drawer and paid for a bus ticket to Canada. The professor had seen her at the bus station. He helped her realize that she had to live. Live to avenge her lover’s death. Finally, she had found someone who understood, knew why she had to strike back.

  Her mind snapped back to the present. Thorpe and his friend ate their dinner. No one should be that happy. Not when she was miserable. Pushing her short blond hair from her face, she sipped her scotch. She waited, wanting to make sure the two had not been followed. What should she do about the woman?

  Reaching down, she took another sip of her drink. There would be no contact with Colonel Thorpe tonight. She couldn’t afford to let the woman see her without approval. Tomorrow night. That’s it. She’d meet Thorpe the next night, and she’d tell him to come alone—no witnesses.

  She finished her drink and ordered another. There was no hurry. The couple languished over their food. That was all right. They deserved this tiny space of tranquility, this last time of happiness. She’d ensure they’d never know happiness again. Colonel Sam Thorpe would be trapped, hopelessly pulled into the middle of the plot, and there would be no way out for him.

  She reached for her phone to make the call.

  Sam slipped the key into the lock of their room and turned it. He kept hold of Jackie’s arm to keep her from falling. “I can’t understand what happened.”

  Jackie’s speech was slurred from the two bottles of wine. “Who cares? We’re on vacation. Let’s enjoy it.”

  Sam couldn’t relax. Why hadn’t the contact shown up? Were they in danger?

  He sat on the edge of the couch and tried to form a plan. Should he call Alex? Had Bob O’Brien seen anything suspicious?