by Jon Land
Locke’s father was an English diplomat assigned to Germany in the mid-thirties. He knew in a matter of months what was coming, and his reports were listened to but not acted upon. He married a young German girl and spirited her back to his homeland when channels of diplomacy broke down and Hitler’s war machine started to roll.
Their son, Christopher, was born in London in 1942 amid the turbulence and despair of a battered country. By then his father had become an advisor to Churchill’s cabinet, disappearing for long days at a time without contact, always to return to the loving arms of his wife. Charles worshipped her and the feeling seemed mutual, for Chris’s mother, Rosa, was forever grateful for being saved from Hitler’s wrath. Chris could vaguely recall the lingering hugs his parents shared.
In his final ramblings, the man who became Charles Locke when he reached America told his son tearfully of the pain memories of those hugs evoked, because any love his wife ever showed him was part of her cruel disguise. For years Hitler had operated a remarkably successful spy network within England capable of betraying British plans to the Fatherland almost as soon as Churchill passed them on to his subordinates. All members of the British Cabinet and ministry were urged to take special precautions against the possibility of someone close to them being a turncoat.
Those last days in the nursing home had brought back to Charles Locke all the agony of his subsequent discovery in cruel, vivid strokes. He told his story to his son as if to purge himself. He talked of suspicions arising from the peculiar number of walks Rosa took late at night when she thought he was asleep. He spoke of waiting outside their house one night after pretending to rush out for an emergency Cabinet session and watching his wife emerge into the street dressed in dark clothes. He had followed her to a warehouse where he watched in horror as others arrived, all apparently subservient to her. The meeting was held in German, and although Charles Locke was too far away to pick up details, it was obvious that his beloved Rosa was the head of a subnetwork operating in London not two miles from their home!
Charles Locke returned home that night and loaded his gun, fully intending to use it first on his wife and then himself. It was the sight of his son sleeping peacefully in his crib that changed his mind. The boy could not grow up an orphan, especially amid war. Nor could he grow up in the shadow of a man who had killed his mother for whatever reason. Charles Locke doubted anyway that he could have shot his beloved Rosa. He still loved her too much, but he also loved his country. The choice was excruciatingly simple: Ignore what his wife was or turn her in. He couldn’t see himself living with either alternative, but a choice had to be made. When Rosa returned hours later, much surprised to find him waiting in his study, Locke told her he was going to call the proper authorities and would give her a two-hour headstart. There were no tears, no pleas. Just hushed whispers exchanged as Rosa packed one small suitcase. They were professionals, after all. Charles waited the promised two hours, made the call, then cried well past sunrise.
The worst thing of all, he told his son from his deathbed, was that Rosa hadn’t as much as kissed Chris good-bye. Her love for him was nothing more than a facade to better enable her to perform her role as spy. Charles had hoped nevertheless that the headstart would be sufficient for her to escape the country. The British authorities, though, responded quickly and apprehended Rosa even as a German submarine was approaching to pick her up. She was tried, sentenced, and hanged all in three days. Charles was the only one who attended her funeral, not bothering to argue over the lack of a headstone. She was above everything a spy who had betrayed his love and his country. He felt the pain of emptiness, of losing something he never truly had.
Through no fault of his own, Charles lost the trust and confidence of his peers and compatriots. Eventually higher powers arranged for new identities for him and his son and shipped them to America, where they might start afresh. But Charles had left too much behind. He was never able to adapt to his new life, nor did he seem inclined to. He withdrew inside himself, leaving his son to grow up without affection or security, apart from financial. He started swallowing Scotch and ultimately it swallowed him, stealing his liver and kidneys long before his heart failed. Charles Locke lived in pain the last ten years of his life but he seemed to prefer it. And only in those last days in the hospital did Chris feel anything but bitterness and alienation toward his father.
He had long before resolved to be a different kind of father to his children. He wanted them to trust him as he had never trusted his father. He wanted to be everything to his family that Charles Locke had never been to him, and in the process tried too hard and seemed to screw everything up. You don‘t get second chances had been a lesson from the Academy, and he had done a nice job of botching up the only chance he would get.
Chris felt himself thrown forward as the 747’s tires grazed the runway, bounced, then settled finally as the pilot applied the brakes. One last opportunity to grasp an impossible second chance—that’s what had made him accept Charney’s offer. The money was nice too but it wasn’t the major thing.
Locke started coming out of his daze as the stewardess went through yet another series of perfunctory instructions. It was early morning in London, near seven-thirty A.M. and Locke was bone tired. Still, there was Customs to negotiate and luggage to retrieve. The details seemed endless, as did the line at the British Customs station. Grimly he took his place in line.
“Mr. Locke?”
The sound of his own name shocked him and he swung to his right, to find himself facing a man in a perfectly tailored blue Customs uniform.
“Mr. Locke?” the man repeated.
Locke shook himself from his daze. “Yes?”
“The name’s Robert Trevor, sir,” the man said in a British accent, extending his hand. Then, lower. “I’ve been sent to expedite matters a bit.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Charney thought you’d appreciate the courtesy.”
“Of course,” Locke said, and allowed Trevor to lead him to the right, bypassing the long Customs entry procedure for a single, isolated room. The Englishman closed the door behind them.
“If you’d be good enough to show me your passport,” Trevor requested. Locke obliged. The Customs official stamped it twice. “I’m having your luggage brought in first and set aside. I’ve also hired a car to take you to the Dorchester.”
“How thoughtful …”
“You have Mr. Charney to thank again. He’s very thorough. The Dorchester has your suite all prepared.”
“Suite?”
Trevor nodded. “And there’s one last thing Mr. Charney asked me to provide you with. Quite irregular but understandable.” The man from Customs unlocked a drawer in the windowless office and slid it open. “I believe you are qualified with this,” he said, extracting a .45-caliber pistol, standard army issue.
“It’s been years,” Locke said, not reaching for it.
“But you’re qualified,” Trevor repeated.
“Yes,” he admitted, and reluctantly accepted the pistol. Charney had mentioned nothing about guns. What had changed?
“Simple precautions,” Trevor explained, seeming to read his mind. “Mr. Charney didn’t want to unjustly alarm you before. He wants you carrying a bit of protection until he arrives.”
“But carrying guns is illegal over here.”
“Officially, yes. But exceptions are made for men with legitimate needs. We have worked with Mr. Charney often in the past. His requests are always well founded and never refused. Please carry it until he advises otherwise.”
Locke stuck the .45 in his belt, made sure his jacket covered it. “Fits rather well,” he said, not quite comfortable with all this. Brian would not have issued him a gun unless a chance existed that he might have to use it. Something was wrong here; new factors were being tossed into the game. It was too late to turn back so Locke had to play along. Still, delivering a gun under these circumstances through a subordinate didn’t seem like Charney’s style. Then ag
ain, he was full of surprises, and Locke knew that if guns had been mentioned in the States, this mission would have ended before it began.
“Let’s collect your luggage and get you on your way,” Trevor said, handing him back his passport and ushering him toward the door.
They reached the claim area, and sure enough, a porter had already loaded his luggage on a pushcart. Trevor tipped him, then pointed Locke toward a waiting cab.
“I’ll be moving on now,” he said, grabbing Locke’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Thanks for everything.”
Trevor smiled, tipped his cap. “Enjoy your stay in London, sir.”
Locke started for the taxi.
The ride to the Dorchester from Heathrow took longer than he expected, and Locke passed it off to impatience and anxiety. He wanted to get to his room, get settled and refreshed, perhaps grab a short nap before contacting Alvaradejo at the Colombian Embassy.
At quarter-past eight he was ushered into a newly redecorated suite, the rooms lushly done in browns and apricots. There was a fully stocked dry bar in the living room’s far corner and beneath it a refrigerator packed with mixers. Locke pulled the blinds open to let in what little sun the morning had to offer. It was a dreary day, the temperature not yet fifty and promising to go little higher. The weather was typical for London in the springtime. All sun was a bonus.
Locke plopped down in a plush chair, feeling like a boy with a new toy. It was all very exciting to him, being treated like royalty in one of London’s finest hotels. He was too charged up to sleep and chose a shower instead, hoping that by the time he had redressed in a new suit of clothes, Charney would have arrived at the contact number.
He turned on the water as hot as he could take it and waited until the bathroom was filled with steam before stepping under the jets. He soaped up quickly and then stood with eyes closed under the warm stream, washing all the travel fatigue from his weary muscles, feeling himself come alive again. He switched off the water after twenty minutes, totally refreshed. He toweled himself dry and inspected his face to see if a shave was in order, found it was, and pulled his travel razor from the bottom of his suitcase.
The task of unpacking seemed monumental, and Locke had barely half finished when he grew bored and decided to put the rest off until later. He pulled Charney’s contact number from his memory and punched it out on the phone in the bedroom.
“Your message?” a male voice asked simply.
“I, er, Brian Charney please,” Locke stammered.
“Your name and number.” Stated flatly, mechanically.
“Christopher Locke.” And he proceeded to read off the Dorchester’s number along with that of his room.
“Mr. Charney is unavailable.”
“I’ll call back soon.”
Locke hung up the phone. Even though Charney hadn’t yet arrived in London, he felt more secure. The shadowy phone number made him feel less alone, as if he was part of something greater. Reassured that larger forces were backing him, he felt ready for his next move. Charney had been specific about not waiting for his arrival before calling Alvaradejo. It was almost nine o’clock now; the embassy would surely be open. The hotel operator put the call through for him.
“Colombian Embassy,” a receptionist answered in Spanish-laced English.
“Juan Alvaradejo, please.”
“Whom should I say is calling?”
“Christopher Locke. He won’t know me but I have important business with him.” Locke hesitated. “A friend said I should call.”
“One moment.”
A pause.
“This is Juan Alvaradejo speaking” came the diplomat’s voice. “What can I do for you, Mr., er—”
“Locke.” Chris recalled Charney’s instructions. Get right to the point. “I need to see you, Mr. Alvaradejo. It concerns your meeting with Alvin Lubeck.”
Silence filled the other end of the line, broken only by sporadic breathing—nervous breathing, Locke thought.
“Mr. Alvaradejo? Are you there?”
“Yes, señor. You wish to see me.”
“As soon as possible. I’ve traveled a long way.”
“And you were an associate of Lubeck?”
“A friend.”
“Where are you staying, señor?”
“The Dorchester.”
Another pause. “Are you familiar with London?”
“Somewhat.”
“Meet me by Achilles Statue in Hyde Park in one hour.”
“How will I know you?”
“Just stand by the statue, señor. I will know you.”
“One hour,” Locke repeated. “Thank you. I’ll be—”
But Alvaradejo had already hung up.
The Dorchester overlooked Hyde Park, the sprawling grounds that had once been used by Henry VIII for hunting boar. It was a short walk to the statue, fifteen minutes at most. That gave him forty-five minutes to kill, so he ordered a light breakfast from room service. It arrived just as he had finished dressing in fresh clothes. He gobbled up the croissants quickly and waited until the last possible minute to try the contact number again.
“Your message?” the same male voice droned.
“I’m calling Brian Charney.”
“Your name and number?”
Locke gave them.
“Mr. Charney is still unavailable.”
“When he comes in, tell him the meeting is set and I’ll report on it soon. Oh, and thank him for the … gift.”
“Acknowledged.”
The phone rang off.
Chapter 7
IT WAS COLD ENOUGH outside to warrant an overcoat, which made Locke’s .45 totally inconspicuous. In his mind, though, every person he passed knew he had the gun and he found himself glancing down regularly at his left hip to make sure the bulge wasn’t showing.
Of course it wouldn’t be. They had taught him how to tuck a pistol into his belt so it wouldn’t be seen even if he had only a sweater to cover it.
My God, how did I remember that?
Locke stood for a few seconds outside the Dorchester before inspecting the bleakness of the morning. Whatever hope there had been of the sun appearing was gone. A mist had risen, and Chris turned up his collar as he started across Park Lane for Hyde Park. Park Lane was actually composed of two different streets, running one way in opposite directions. Locke made it to the median strip separating them and had to wait for upward of a minute before a traffic light permitted him to dash across onto one of the many paths that crisscross Hyde Park.
He followed the path to Serpentine Road, the largest of all routes in the park, and swung left toward the Achilles Statue by the famed Carriage Road. Locke leaned against the base of the statue and checked his watch. He was right on time but there was no one else in sight. He rubbed his hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves, then stuck them in his pockets. The air was raw. The minutes passed.
Still no sign of Juan Alvaradejo.
Locke felt his nerve strings tugging at him. His life in academia revolved around order, precise and unvarying. Everything was scheduled. He had grown accustomed to minutes passing just as they should. Alvaradejo had chosen the time and the place, so where was he? Locke’s uneasiness grew.
“I knew you’d come, señor.” Alvaradejo’s voice came from the right side of the statue, the Carriage Road side. “I knew they’d send someone.”
Locke turned with a start, the sudden appearance surprising him. “Mr. Alvaradejo, I’d like to—” Locke stopped when he saw the pistol in the Colombian’s hand.
“¡Carniceros!”he screamed. “Butchers! Animals! You will pay! You will all pay! The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged!”
Alvaradejo started to raise the pistol.
In that drawn-out instant, a thousand thoughts ran through Locke’s mind but none pushed forward. Instinct born of long-ago training took over. Drills, incessant and repetitive, came back to him.
Move and keep moving! An elusive target creates a pa
nicked shooter… .
The Colombian’s pistol spit once, twice, bullets splintering cement where Locke’s head had been only an instant before. He hit the ground hard and rolled twice, trying to use the statue’s base for cover.
More cement showered over him.
“Bastards!” Alvaradejo ranted. “Killers! ¡Asesinos!”
Locke ripped the .45 free of his belt. At that moment, survival was all that mattered. There was no time to consider what he was doing.
He rolled away from another blast onto the grass. Alvaradejo charged at him, still bellowing.
“¡Ases—”
Locke pulled the trigger. The gun went off with surprising ease, the kickback easily controlled. He fired three shots in rapid succession, the motions of his finger automatic. The first bullet pounded into the Colombian’s stomach, the second blew his chest apart, and the third missed him altogether as he was hurled backward.
Locke struggled back to his feet, every inch of his flesh trembling. He moved as in a dream to the Colombian whose feet and hands were twitching in death throes. The whole scene seemed unreal to Locke, impossible in its implications.
A man had tried to kill him and he had killed the man… .
Impossible!
Locke tried to shake himself awake.
Alvaradejo stayed dead, the ragged chasm in his chest pouring scarlet, mouth open wide and spilling blood.
Locke looked up suddenly, senses alive again. Footsteps pounded the pavement toward him. Alvaradejo had tried to kill him. What if he hadn’t come alone?
Reflexively, Locke jammed the .45 into his overcoat pocket and started running away from the footsteps toward the Carriage Road. He crossed it quickly, glancing back only once, heart lurching in his chest. He cut a diagonal path toward the traffic sounds of Park Lane. There was safety in numbers, camouflage anyway. Another lesson.
An unoccupied taxi stood at a stand.
Locke glanced back again. If there were others, he couldn’t see them. He had to get back to the Dorchester fast, had to get out of view, had to call Charney.