Errand of Mercy: How far do you run, and where do you hide?

by William Walker

  “You’re such a gentleman...and an optimist, I might add.”

  Lucy opened her eyes and sat up. “Are you guys going to talk this to death? Daniel, you want me to tell you how everything works?”

  “I think I know.”

  “You two are making me horny.” She waved her hands. “I want the good Italian dinner and the sex in the morning—screw the newspaper and the coffee and just give me a Bloody Mary. And I want someone to connect with all my thoughts.” She rubbed her eyes. “Jeez!”

  “It’s not that difficult, Lucy,” O’Brien said.

  “What’s not that difficult?”

  “Reading your thoughts,” he deadpanned.

  “Screw you, O’Brien,” she said. “Now if you both would let me get back to sleep…”

  “Too late,” he said. “We’re here, and I’ve got to call my cousin.”

  20

  Schoenfeld straightened the stiff vest of his black tuxedo and arranged his tails carefully behind him as he opened his bureau drawer. He settled one buttock on the edge of his polished, maple desktop and withdrew a small bottle of Pierre Ferrand cognac. The amber liquid had begun its aging process before he’d reached his tenth birthday, and that touch of modern-day history seemed entirely appropriate. He measured exactly one quarter of an ounce into a small crystal goblet and allowed the velvet liquid to swirl side to side in the glass. The intense bouquet touched his nose and brushed his senses in complex layers as he brought the goblet to his lips. This was a routine, a formality, but it was also a nice habit and something to smooth his performance on the podium tonight.

  Jutte knocked lightly on his open office door. “Zwanzig Minuten, Herr Conductor.”

  He nodded. “Danke, Jutte.” Twenty minutes remaining. He peered at the gold chronometer on his wrist and instinctively checked the time against the quartz clock on the wall. Everything seemed to be in order and he tossed back the cognac and let it fume his palate for an instant before swallowing.

  Schoenfeld placed the stem of the glass on the smooth surface of his desk and picked up his baton. The one he’d actually be using tonight rested at this moment on the podium alongside the open score of Mussorgsky’s Bogatyr Gates, the Gates of Kiev. In an absentminded fashion he moved the baton to his right hand and performed several ictuses in the air, directing the first few measures of the piece. His brow wrinkled as he reviewed the problems.

  His Russian associates had demanded ‘something Russian’ in the performance tonight, and although on a bet they didn’t know Tchaikovsky from Mick Jagger, he was in no position to argue the point. Mussorgsky’s ponderous work would be a short, separate prelude to Beethoven’s Fifth, which always packed the house. The problem was that the two compositions didn’t fit, neither in key—Mussorgsky’s composition was in E Flat Major, and Beethoven’s in C Minor—nor stylistically. Added to that—

  “Herr Conductor!” Jutte again. Her rapid, heavy knock told him something was wrong.

  He caught the wand midair. “Ja?”

  “The men from London, they are calling.” She switched uncharacteristically to English as she wrapped one hand in another. “The British man says there is a problem.”

  “Shit.” Schoenfeld twisted his features and motioned Jutte out of the room. The American doctor again. He should have killed him months ago. The man was smart and covered himself well, but maybe not well enough.

  He glanced at his watch and punched the lighted extension button on the phone. “Yes, this is Herr Schoenfeld. Tell me that you have the diamonds.”

  Three minutes later Schoenfeld threw the steel baton against the opposite wall. This time it bounced to the floor.

  Starr watched with a wary eye as Murdock snapped his mobile phone shut and glared back at him across the wet hood of the sedan. Fear wormed its way inside him. He pulled on his damp beard and again felt the hot breath from the German idiot called Udo crowding him from behind.

  “I know these people,” Starr emphasized. “Where they’re likely to hole up, to hide out. You can’t find them without me.” He might have made a serious error. Now that he’d pointed out his three companions to Schoenfeld’s men his own life was at stake. They didn’t need him anymore, and he could sense that Schoenfeld had relayed the same in the phone call to the Briton. But the diamonds were still missing, and if they thought about it for a minute they’d see that keeping him alive was essential.

  Meanwhile, they were standing in a parking lot while a sprinkle of rain fell down on his head. Were these people raised in a barnyard? They should be on the road to Brighton.

  “Give me a chance to find them and I’ll get the diamonds back,” he said with emphasis. “Then I’ll kill the thieves for you as a bonus.”

  Murdock seemed surprised. “Were not these people your colleagues, friends?”

  Starr shook his head emphatically. “No one who steals from me is my friend.”

  The Briton twisted his lips into a smile and leaned forward on the hood. “Ah, well. Perhaps Herr Schoenfeld feels the same way.”

  The worm of anxiety crawled around in his gut. One of the bags of diamonds was his, but they couldn’t possibly know he had two. After killing the native worker at the clinic in the hills, he’d been hoarding the diamonds carefully for the final run, and the two bag represented at least double his normal load.

  “However,” the man continued, “for the moment you might be able to provide assistance, and we’ll leave some of the questions unanswered for now.” He opened the driver’s side door and nodded to Udo. Starr found himself pushed into the front seat while the German once again sat behind him.

  The A-23 motorway lead in a straight line from Gatwick to Brighton but traffic was heavy and progress was slow. After a long, hulking silence the German slapped the back of Starr’s head. “Wer war die schone, grosse Fraulein am Zug?”

  Starr coughed. He looked at Murdock.

  “He wants to know who was the tall, blond woman on the train.”

  “Lucy,” Starr replied. “Her name is Lucy. The co-pilot.”

  “Luthy,” Udo repeated. “Luthy is niith. I get Luthy.”

  “Drop us at the Brighton Pier,” O’Brien told the cabbie.

  “Daniel, whatever you and your cousin have in mind, let’s make it quick,” Gina said. “We’re tired and hungry and dirty. And I know you are too.”

  They sat three across in the back seat. O’Brien had stationed himself by the right-side window and he watched as the Middle-Eastern driver flicked a series of glances back at them through the rear-view mirror. He indicated the driver to the women. “Be careful what you say, both of you.”

  The drizzle had ended. O’Brien cracked his window and felt a brace of fresh air straight off the cold water of the English Channel. The breeze smelled clean, and that meant the tide was up covering the low stretches of the rocky beach.

  He’d last seen his cousin Charlie the summer he turned eighteen, and that was almost twenty years before. They’d kept in touch in the lackadaisical manner of extended families. Their folks exchanged photos and Christmas cards, and once in a while a small article snipped from a newspaper was sent along. O’Brien hadn’t heard much since his parents died, and if it was up to him to communicate he and his cousin might as well be back in the Stone Age. He did know Charlie ran a beachfront sandwich and fish and chips stand that did a big takeout business, or as the Brits called it, a takeaway service. Charlie also owned a pub called The Crow’s Gate, located in the narrow alleyways known by the Brighton locals as The Lanes.

  His cousin was not a large man. He’d been a light welterweight kid with fast reflexes, a walking cup of super caffeinated java who was always in motion. During their summers together Charlie was the organizer of the group and always surrounded by a large assortment of friends. He could make a party happen just by being there. No wonder he ran a pub.

  “Is that the pier?” Gina asked. “It’s huge.”

  “That’s it,” O’Brien replied. A dazzling finger of bright l
ights shot outward from the darker edge of the shoreline. At the outermost point on the pier a spinning carnival ride whirled red, blue and green lights into the low clouds of the night sky. Even from the car O’Brien could hear crowd noises and far-off screams of delight. The place would be packed with vacationers on a Friday night in the spring, rain or no rain, and that made it a perfect location to lose the cabbie.

  The driver closed slowly to the crowded entrance and stopped. “So far, she goes!” He waved ahead.

  O’Brien got the message. “This is fine,” he replied. They exited the cab into crowds of pedestrians and skateboarders. He was surprised to see mothers pushing baby strollers at this late hour. The place seemed brighter than O’Brien remembered, however the pier was every bit as noisy. A scratchy recording of Rocket Man thundered from a loudspeaker. But even Elton John could not override the muted roar of the breaking surf and the clamor of families running at full tilt through the spring holidays.

  O’Brien paid the driver and turned his nose into the cloying smell of starch and sugar with a hint of cherry and strawberry flavoring.

  “I smell cotton candy,” Lucy said. “I want a corn dog. Maybe two. I love those things.”

  “Snow cones,” Gina added.

  O’Brien watched the taxi as it disappeared from view. “Let’s go, ladies. We’re not staying here.”

  “Dammit, Daniel,” Lucy grumbled. “You’re always such a soldier.”

  “Danger tends to bring it out,” he said. “Follow me. We’re going to cross that busy boulevard and then we’ll eat.”

  “Amen to that,” Lucy said.

  “Any place in mind?” Gina asked. “Or are you just taking us on a long, ridiculous trek to confuse the cabbie?”

  “That cabbie was born confused,” O’Brien answered. “I’m just looking for a place to eat.” He looked right, let a string of headlights pass, and stepped rapidly across the four lanes of traffic followed by the women. He yelled behind him, “We’re going to a pub called The Crow’s Gate.”

  The Brighton Lanes were a maze of narrow cobblestone alleys, a rabbit’s warren of hideaways that comprised most of the commercial district. Restaurants, shops, and pubs were stuffed ten to a block, and during the evening hours when the sun no longer provided an east-west orientation, one could easily get lost.

  O’Brien navigated through the Lanes using the fog of old memories. The pub was where he remembered, halfway along Saint George Street and recessed into a small courtyard crowded with tables and chairs. A small knot of customers occupied several of the tables. Waiters in white aprons were wiping away the dampness from the last group of vacant chairs as O’Brien and the women approached from the alley.

  He tipped his head toward a table. “Let’s take that one. I’m going inside and grab Charlie, see if he’s got any hair left. I’m ordering lots of food and alcohol. Beer or wine?”

  “Beer,” Lucy said.

  “A pint okay, or is that too much?”

  “Ha, ha, Daniel.”

  “Gina?”

  “Wine. Red. Lots of it.” She took a seat with Lucy as a waiter gave the table a final swipe with a large cloth.

  The interior of the pub was smoky and crowded. A darkly paneled semicircular bar swept toward the entrance like the bow of an old ship, and bar patrons closed in around it like sea foam under the keel. The huge edifice occupied the entire front section of the place, and behind it O’Brien could see restaurant seating packed four or five to a table.

  He felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned to face a bespectacled man with his hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Danny? Is that you? Holy shit.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Don’t look at me like that.” His cousin grinned. “What the hell are you doing here? I can’t believe you just rang me up from the train station.” He gave O’Brien a half-hug with a shove at the end.

  O’Brien cuffed him back. “I’ll explain that, but look at you, man! What’s with the ponytail?”

  “It keeps my hair out of the food.”

  “Well, jeez, I hope so,” O’Brien laughed as he glanced around. “My God, this pub is crowded. You’ve done well, Charlie.”

  His cousin nodded. “Let’s get out of everyone’s way, over here in the corner.”

  O’Brien followed his cousin to a vacant spot at the end of the bar.

  “I think I’ve finally hit it big,” Charlie said. “And best of all, the tourist season is coming on.” He raised his hands. “But how have you been? Look, about your parents...your wife too. Sorry I just couldn’t make the funerals. I had—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” O’Brien gave him a pat on the shoulder. “It was a long way to travel, and maybe a few years back now anyway.”

  “Right, I guess,” Charlie said. “But you’re here now, so what the hell gives?”

  “Yeah, look, something...something troublesome is happening.” He motioned toward the door. “I mentioned I had some companions with me.”

  “Yeah. Two women. Let’s get’em on in here.”

  “Let me explain something first,” O’Brien said. He moved a half-step, allowed a couple to slide past, and watched as his cousin’s expression turned serious.

  “Go ahead,” Charlie said.

  “Actually, my friends and I are in a dangerous situation.”

  “I...” Charlie started. “What can I do? You want my help?”

  O’Brien said, “I’d like your help, but only if you’d like to give it after what you’ve heard.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied slightly off tone.

  “Look, I know it’s been a long time, and I drop in out of the blue and all…”

  “It’s alright, Danny. We’re family. Keep that in mind.”

  “Okay.” O’Brien studied him for a moment. “Maybe it’s better if we get my friends and myself out of the public eye. Have you got a private room or office, somewhere we can go for a little while?”

  Charlie turned his head toward a fat, bald guy with a flat nose standing behind the bar. “Johnny?”

  The man glanced back with a nod upwards.

  “Can you handle the floor for a while?”

  The fat man nodded again through a wisp of steam as he upturned some empty pint glasses into the bar washer.

  “He looks like a handy guy to have around,” O’Brien said.

  “I only get him on the weekends. He works two or three other places and everyone wants him.”

  “This is usually reserved for the locals—poker nights, that sort of thing,” Charlie explained as he led the way into a back room. “And as you can see I use it mainly as an office.” He gave his bifocals a nudge with an index finger.

  The room was small, measuring roughly ten feet by twelve, and sparsely furnished. The walls were lapped vertically with white-washed siding that gave it an odd, French country look, as though his wife had a hand in the decorating process. A rectangular, heavy oak table large enough to seat five or six big guys occupied the center, allowing just enough elbow room to slide by on the outside. In one corner of the floor an adding machine was stacked against an assortment of paper and notebooks.

  Gina and Lucy sat beside O’Brien, and as if by magic a bottle of wine and pints of beer arrived. Thirty minutes later, the glasses were empty and they were talking over the remnants of shepherd’s pies.

  “So that’s it,” O’Brien told his cousin. He ran a hand over a stubble of whiskers. “We haven’t had much time to catch up with all that’s going on, but we’ve told you the basics.”

  Charlie leaned back in his chair. “You’ve always led an exciting life, Danny. All of that military stuff from years back. Somehow this doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Yeah, well, I definitely didn’t volunteer for this.”

  “So what can I do, exactly?”

  “We need to stay out of sight until tomorrow or the next day, whenever we can get a flight to the States. We can’t stay in a hotel, they’d find us.”

  Charli
e nodded. “You’re probably right. It’s a small town, but...hold on, let me think.” He brought a mug of coffee to his lips, took a sip, and centered the mug on his cork place holder. “I’d offer my place but Jenny’s got a cold and my little girl is sick with something, the flu maybe.”

  “We wouldn’t ask that,” Gina said. “We wouldn’t jeopardize you or your family. You’ve got a nice life here, we can see that.” She added, “I can take a look at your daughter if you’d like.”

  “That’s right, you’re a doctor, a pediatrician? You guys were throwing a lot at me for a few minutes.” He took off his glasses and squinted as he cleaned the lenses with a white cloth. He slid them back on his head and continued. “We were hoping to get her in to see someone tomorrow, but it’s the weekend—British medicine and all that.”

  “I’ll be glad to help,” she repeated.

  “I might just take you up on that. Meanwhile, let me call my administrator. I’ve got a beach rental turning over this weekend.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “Back in a second.” He stepped into an adjoining room.

  Lucy glanced at Gina’s plate.

  Gina held up her fork. “Still working on it, Lucy.”

  “I was just looking.”

  “Why didn’t you mention the diamonds?” Gina asked O’Brien.

  He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t make any difference to him or us. I’m convinced those guys’d be after us even if we didn’t have them, and it’d just be more Charlie would have to worry about.”

  “I feel like I’m carrying around poison,” Gina said.

  “We could toss them in the garbage, but they might end up being useful, a bargaining chip or something,” O’Brien said. He pulled out his cell phone. “Before we leave, we’ve got to check flights for tomorrow. That’s if I can access their websites here.”

  Charlie stepped back into the room and brought his hands together. “Good news, Danny. I’ve got a rental that’s been cleaned, but you’ll have to be out by Monday morning, and kind of clean up after yourselves. That okay?”