by Jon Land
“As a matter of fact, no,” Locke said, blessing his luck as he took her hand warmly.
“Glad to hear it.” Nikki squeezed her features into a tight mask. “I didn’t mean that. What I mean is that since you’re not with anyone, we can sit together.”
“I’d like that,” Chris said.
They passed through the Customs station where a woman was casually checking passports. Locke reached into his pocket for the one Forenzo had obtained for him, along with his ticket.
“Where did I put the damn thing?” Nikki was asking herself, letting all her bags slide to the ground. She gave up on the handbag and tried a pocket in the jeans jacket that was faded the same color as her pants. “Here’s the damn thing. God, can you imagine leaving it in the hotel or something?” she asked Locke.
“I’ve done that,” he told her, handing both passports to the Customs woman, “a couple of times.”
Boarding came ten minutes later right on schedule, and Chris carried one of Nikki’s bags onto the plane as well as his own. Her presence was a godsend to him. A couple, or what seemed to be a couple, traveling together aroused almost no attention whatsoever. If the Committee had people looking for him, their task would be more difficult now.
Once they had taken their seats, Chris’s attitude toward her changed. She had served her purpose and he wished now only to be left alone for the duration of the flight. He made himself smile through her constant chatter, occasionally responding just to assure her he was paying attention. It went on like that for some time before his words became terse and impatient. Finally he snapped at her after the drinks were served, and hurt, she became silent and lost herself between the standard set of earphones deposited on each seat.
Chris dozed briefly, awakening suddenly to a horrible thought. What if Nikki had been sent by the enemy? What if the plan was to have her kill him in midflight? Certainly for people capable of using a wine cork as a murder weapon, the means would come easy. He watched her stealthily through partially opened eyes, resolved to keep his vigil for the entire flight. And a weapon, he needed a weapon on the chance that—
No! No!
Locke shuddered inwardly. What was he becoming? Had he changed so much in order to stay alive? No, people couldn’t change that fast … unless they had it in them to begin with. Burgess had said he was right for the job because it was in his blood, part of the legacy his mother had left him. Maybe the big Brit was right.
And what of his son? Chris wondered what he could do to save Greg, if the boy was still alive. Just considering the problem, though, formed a knot in his stomach. He didn’t even know where to start. Even his mother’s legacy did not include sufficient resourcefulness for that.
Locke shrank down in his seat. The effect of the painkiller was wearing off and he didn’t want to be dull-witted when he reached London. Greg was beyond his reach, just as so much in his life had been. Barring a miracle, he would have to carry his son’s death on his conscience for the rest of his life. Chris wondered about Brian Charney’s conscience. How many similar burdens had he carried? Not that they prevented him from taking on a few more.
Locke thought of Lubeck dying alone in a godforsaken South American town and of Charney spilling his blood on a thick carpet inside the Dorchester Hotel. They died as they had lived, Chris realized: empty, alone, a vacuum where their morality had once been. They too had been running, afraid to look back, just as he was. So he wasn’t alone there, wasn’t the only man to suffer through such a crisis. Maybe all men did. Some were just better at the running—and the dodging—than others. You could fool the others but you couldn’t fool yourself. The Luber had resisted being retired, because then the running would have to stop and all that lay behind—the truths—would catch up. So he had run to San Sebastian and died there and maybe it was better that way. And Locke had run to London, Liechtenstein, Italy, and now back to London again.
But dying wouldn’t be better.
Because he had something Lubeck never had and Charney had lost: a family. His marriage was no better or worse than anyone else’s; it just was and he had been a prima donna to believe otherwise. And what kids these days didn’t want to break from their parents at younger and younger ages?
Locke felt chilled suddenly as his thoughts came back to Greg. Was running to the American Embassy the best way to arrange for a rescue? Or would the Committee keep Greg alive only as long as Chris kept his mouth shut? If he was still alive. There were no answers, only decisions to be weighed and a chance taken either way. No black or white, just gray. Men like Dogan were used to the gray. For Locke it was a new shade.
When the jet came down in London, Nikki gave him one slight smile and moved into the farthest aisle. Chris felt the guilt chew at him. He cursed himself for even considering she might have been part of the opposition when, in fact, it was he who had placed her life in very real danger by using her to help him escape from Rome. He wondered if he should call her back and warn her quietly to be on her guard, that he had behaved strangely out of fear. But she was already too far away, still hurt and confused by his treatment of her. It was probably better that way. A thinly veiled warning would have led to questions and to her acting out of apprehension rather than routine. It was safest to leave her ignorant.
Nikki moved down the ramp into the Heathrow terminal ahead of him, never looking back.
Locke’s next problem was making it through Customs. The passport that had gotten him out of Rome could never get him past the far more diligent officials in London. During the long flight he had come up with a shadow of a plan but lacked a method to implement it.
A female representative from the airline stood just inside the terminal greeting the disembarking passengers with smiles and well wishes, hoping on behalf of the airline that they had enjoyed the charter and would book it again. Locke’s method of implementation was suddenly clear. He approached her straightaway, not waiting for the woman to pick him out.
“A problem, sir?” she asked, her smile dimming.
“Yeah, I suppose having my passport stolen on the plane could be called that.”
“Stolen?”
“Somebody yanked it from my jacket while I was asleep.”
“Did you inform the stewardess?”
“Yes, and she told me to see you as soon as I was off the plane. Not much help at all really.” Locke gritted his teeth. “Hell of an operation you’re running here.”
The woman’s face reddened. This was probably the last thing she’d expected or wanted to hear. “We’d better go somewhere and get this straightened out.”
“That would be jolly.”
“Follow me.”
They moved beyond the regular Customs lines into the same bank of offices where Chris had met Robert Trevor, the man who had given him the gun six days before. Wouldn’t it be something to meet up with him again? The woman ushered Chris into one of the small offices and offered him a chair.
“I’ll find one of the supervisors and be back presently,” she explained. “The airline will represent you every step of the way and will take whatever steps are necessary to expedite matters, Mr., ah—”
“Jenkins, Peter Jenkins.”
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins,” she said moving for the door. “I’ll only be a minute.”
When she was gone, Chris sprang immediately from his chair. He had penetrated this part of Customs, but getting into England proper remained the real obstacle. There was only one chance.
Locke stepped out of the office and wandered into an area prohibited to passengers, all the time keeping his eye peeled for the return of the airline rep.
“See here, what are you doing?”
Locke turned to his right and found a man in a blue Customs uniform approaching.
“This is a restricted section,” the man charged. “No one’s allowed in here without an escort.”
Locke made himself look puzzled. “They sent me to the receiving area. My young nephew’s coming in on—”
&n
bsp; “Well, sir, you’ve missed the receiving area altogether,” the official snapped. “De-boarding passengers don’t even pass this way.”
“But I—”
“You’ll have to exit this area immediately.”
Locke sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and started down the corridor with his bag in hand. He had done it! But that gave him little cause for celebration. He still had to reach Falmouth and the safe house. If the girl was a professional, she’d be expecting him. With Burgess dead, this was his only recourse. She’d know that, and Locke felt equally certain that Colin would have left her with detailed instructions on how to proceed. The big Brit must have known they would get him all along. He would have taken precautions.
Chris quickened his pace to a fast walk when he hit the main concourse of Heathrow. Speed remained the paramount concern but a trot would have made him too noticeable. At the exit he talked with three cabdrivers before finding one willing to make the five-hour journey to Falmouth. Chris agreed to his exorbitant fee. His funds were dwindling, but money meant nothing to him now. It was a tool to be used like any other.
The sun had just set when they reached a large housing development a mile from the center of Falmouth. Locke had the driver drop him off around the corner from the girl’s house at 205 Longfield, opting to walk the final stretch in case the house was under surveillance. The development’s homes were all pleasantly similar, terraced and fronted by small, tidy gardens. Two-oh-five Longfield was colored medium brown, virtually indistinguishable from the rest on the street, except for the lack of a garden.
He scanned the area carefully, passing the house three times before deciding it was safe to approach. Other than the barking of a few dogs and the low hum of music coming through an open window, the dark street was silent and the only cars parked along it deserted. Locke kept his pace steady up the walk toward 205 Longfield’s front door.
He rang the bell. Waited. No answer.
He rang it again. Still no answer.
Locke wanted to bang as hard as he could on the door but that might attract notice. He would have called the girl’s name had he known it.
He tried the bell a third time with the same results.
Reflexively his hand slipped to the knob and turned it. The door creaked open. Chris entered without hesitation and closed it behind him. Obviously the girl had gone out, leaving the door unlocked for his expected arrival. Those would have been Burgess’s instructions.
Locke moved into the foyer and froze. The girl hadn’t gone out at all.
Her naked body dangled from the high ceiling, toes about even with Chris’s head, suspended from a light fixture by a rope strung in layers around her throat. Her face was purple and her bulging, crossed eyes seemed focused on the black, misshapen tongue hanging out between her lips.
Locke stumbled backward and fell. His breath had gone and his eyes couldn’t leave the girl’s corpse. Then the room spun briefly into darkness and he shook himself from the spell.
He had clawed his way back to his feet just as the front door burst open and three men in suits rushed in, tackling him hard. Locke knew he hit the floor but never felt it, nor did he bother to resist. The hands treated him roughly, grasping and pulling. Then he was yanked back to his feet as a fourth man stepped through the front door. He had silver hair and looked tired.
“Christopher Locke, I presume,” the man said plainly, extracting an identification wallet from his suit jacket.
Chris just stared as the picture ID stopped inches from his face.
“MI-6, Mr. Locke,” the silver-haired man continued. “The name’s Colin Burgess and I’d like some answers.”
Chapter 24
“I’M NOT SURE I follow this.”
The Secretary of State lowered his eyes back to the portion of the file Calvin Roy had handed him.
“Simply stated, boss, somebody exchanged mud for manure in Charney’s file. Damn thing’s been doctored.”
“How?”
“It’s obvious, ain’t it? Six pages detailing all of Charney’s field assignments with never more than one month between entries, except here,” Roy said, standing up and touching his finger to the section of a page the Secretary was looking at. “Seven months missing, boss, and if that don’t tell us somethin’ I don’t know what does.”
The Secretary’s eyebrows flickered. “You checked further into the missing seven months?”
“Sure did. Dug up Brian’s old travel vouchers from records. Took some time but it was worth it when I got to the bottom of things: Charney was in England for almost the whole period bumped off his file.”
“We lost Locke in England.”
“Yup, because we checked all of Brian’s contacts there except the right one. Somebody wanted to make sure we missed him.”
“Find out who it is yet?” the Secretary asked.
“The contact, you mean? Cross-checkin’ now, boss. Won’t be long till we know but it won’t matter much ’cause it’s too damn late. Fact is, though, we got snookered good.”
“By somebody high up,” the Secretary acknowledged.
“And I don’t like it one bit. Access to these kinda files goes a long way beyond simple restricted. Only a few fingers in the whole city can call up this kind of info on their boards … and erase it.”
The Secretary looked straight ahead. “We’ll have to find the person behind those fingers, of course.”
Roy held his stare. “Already working on that too, boss.”
“And Locke?”
“We think he’s headed back for England. He called a certain number there from both Liechtenstein and Rome. We handed the info over to MI-6. They got a watch on the place, probably a safe house arranged by Charney’s British contact whose name was yanked off his file.”
The Secretary sighed. “What in hell did this Locke get himself into over there, Cal?”
“It’s what we got him into, boss, and now we gotta get him out. And it’s not just over there either. I pulled his family out soon as I could but I missed one. His son’s disappeared.”
“We’re dealing with pros, then.”
“We’re dealing with maggots, boss. Something superbig’s about to go down and lots of people, startin’ with Lubeck, have been killed to keep us from knowin’ what. Hell, there’s bodies all over Europe buried with pieces of what’s goin’ on, and I’ll bet the barn Locke’s the only one who can put them together.”
“What’s your next step?”
Roy didn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna trace the snookerin’ with Charney’s file back to the fucker responsible. When I find him, he’ll lead me to the rest of the maggots.”
“What about Locke?”
“I’ve had a man on his phone twenty-four hours a day. So far he hasn’t called home. That might mean he’s dead already.”
“Then you better get to it, Cal. Pull out all the stops.”
“That’s the idea, boss.”
As soon as Calvin Roy had left the room, Secretary of State David Van Dam reached for his phone.
“You’re who?”
Locke heard himself ask the silver-haired man the question but it didn’t register. He felt himself tilting back on his heels and might have tipped over if it wasn’t for the men holding him at either shoulder.
The man calling himself Colin Burgess grabbed Locke’s lapels and yanked him so close that Chris could feel the heat of his breath.
“Look, you bastard, I’m in no mood for games. I’ve got scores to settle here and they might as well start with you.”
“No,” Locke pleaded, “you don’t understand. I thought you were dead. But it wasn’t you. It was—”
Burgess shook him hard. “What in hell are you talking about?”
“The other Colin Burgess. He helped me but it must have been a setup to make sure I’d get where they wanted me to go.”
“Make sense, boy!”
“Brian sent me to him—to you.”
Burgess’s fingers, locked on Chris’
s collar, almost choked his breath off. The foyer’s only light, the sole break in the darkness, danced across Burgess’s enraged face.
“Brian Charney?”
Locke tried to nod. “He recruited me. He was dying so he gave me your address. Bruggar House in Cadgwith Cove.”
Burgess’s grip slackened. “I haven’t been to Bruggar House since my wife died. That’s over a year ago.”
“They knew that and used it. You don’t realize who we’re dealing with here. They’re capable of anything. Anything! Oh, God, they must have had this all planned out from the start.”
“And just who are ‘they’?”
“The Committee.”
Burgess released his grip altogether. His eyes clouded with uncertainty.
“I think it’s time we got this whole thing straight, mate.”
They headed through the misty darkness for Plymouth and the Holiday Inn in Armada Way. It contained a restaurant Burgess had used for important meetings in the past. He referred to the establishment as “safe,” but Locke knew nothing was safe, not so long as the Committee was moving closer and closer to implementing its plans. Their conversation began in the backseat, with two of Burgess’s men in the front and two more in a car following.
“They’ve got my son,” Locke said desperately, “maybe the rest of my family too.”
“Just your son, according to the latest reports we received. The rest of your family is under government protection. You can speak with them later.”
“Oh, thank God.” Locke sighed, feeling relieved for the first time in longer than he could remember. “Wait,” he said suddenly, alert again. “Latest reports? What are you talking about?”
“Operatives from every major intelligence service in the free world have been looking for you, mate. Man named Roy in the States seems determined to bring you in.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I get my son back. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to!”
“In time, in time. My stake in this is personal too,” Burgess said grimly. “I’m supposed to hand you over straightaway to Roy’s men but first I’ve got my own questions. Whoever took your son killed Brian. That’s the score I’ve got to settle.”