INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  In the shadows between sleep and consciousness. Thinking he was talking about his girlfriend Sarah, explaining to Diana the circumstances of their breakup. No real need to explain. Nothing to say, actually.

  Suddenly a noise. Broken glass, a barking dog, shouts. Tom was out of bed instantly, his gun in his hand, poised at the side of the window, not offering a target. Diana cried out, “What was that?” and ran to his side. “Stay back,” he whispered, pinning her to the wall with his left arm, his pistol next to his cheek.

  More noise. Footsteps, the sounds of a scuffle. Finally coming into view: the harbor police bracing a teenager. Tom at the window now, seeing the broken glass from the stolen liquor bottles. A tall boy with a guard on either side, each twisting one of his arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just a kid trying to steal from one of the motor yachts. The guards caught him.”

  She didn’t move. He turned to look at her. Her back was against the wall and she was breathing heavily. “It’s OK,” he said. “It was nothing.”

  She was wearing a long tee-shirt and as her chest rose with her breathing he could see the outlines of her body. He put his pistol down on the nightstand, put his arm around her and walked her back to the couch. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “It’s still the middle of the night.” She put her arms around his waist as her head fell against his shoulder. She was still warm from the bedclothes and her breath smelled of sleep. She kissed him on the cheek, said “Thank you,” and slowly separated from him.

  He felt as empty as he had when he saw Walt McNeise’s body hurled against the wall, his chest exploding in a mist of smoke and blood and shredded fabric. He reached out to pull her back and she suddenly froze, looking up at him. He dropped his arms to his sides.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I just, somehow, wanted to hold you. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I mean why did you stop?”

  “I didn’t want to take advantage of the circumstance.”

  “The circumstance,” she said, “is that I was asleep, you heard a sound, and you leaped out of bed to protect me. Why shouldn’t you hold me?”

  He put his arms around her. Her cheek was against his neck, cooler now, as the breeze from across the harbor filled their room. His hands fell to the small of her back and he felt her breasts pressed against his chest, full and separate. He kissed her cheek as she had kissed his and she turned her face toward his, trying to search the depths of his eyes in the dark. Her hands were on his shoulders, her arms in parallel, her elbows above his waist. He felt the pressure of her fingertips as he offered more words of reassurance.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Channel

  Thursday, 1:47 p.m.

  The sky was gray, the cloud cover thick, the waters of the channel nearly flat. There were no storms predicted for the next twelve hours, but the uncertainties of the channel were always there. Even with its great bulk and with swells no greater than one to two feet, the ferry seemed to slap the water, keeping legs unsteady and stomachs on edge. The heads did a good business as passengers lost their breakfasts and lunches and washed their green faces with unpotable sink water. Too much motion; too little sleep; too much rich food. The vacations were over. The gulls followed them for the first few miles and then returned to land.

  Tom and Diana sat on the top deck, turning their faces toward the wind. The air was cool and moist. Tom had slipped his jacket around her shoulders.

  “I want to tell you something,” he said.

  “What’s that?” she responded.

  “When I told you that you should have stayed in the car . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t think for a second that I wasn’t grateful.”

  “I know that.”

  “I just think you’ve been hurt enough.”

  “Yes?” She knew there was more.

  “And I wanted you to know that I never doubted you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That you could hold up your end.”

  “I couldn’t if I had stayed in the car,” she answered.

  “I just wanted to protect you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, putting her hand over his. “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat something,” he answered. “Let’s take a look and see what they have.”

  The cafeteria offered four different types of sandwich: ham, salmon, cucumber, and cheddar. The cheese was grated rather than sliced and each of the sandwiches was principally discernible by its color, the filling consisting of a thin line of vague substance bookended by two pieces of processed white bread. Each was packaged in thick plastic and all were wedged together in a glass case next to the beer tap. The case was illuminated and heated by a large white light bulb. There were droplets of moisture along its edge.

  “Lovely selection,” one of the British travelers said. After seeing the Courage tap, he added, “I haven’t had a proper pint in two weeks.”

  “Island cuisine rather than continental. One of the fringe benefits of a British ship,” Tom said. Diana smiled. They bought cheese sandwiches and tea and found an open table in the aft portion of the deck.

  “You were saying that you wanted to protect me,” Diana said.

  “Yes,” Tom answered.

  “You didn’t want me to take out the secret service agent in Heathrow either.”

  “No, I didn’t. The risk was unnecessary.”

  “But if you didn’t doubt me . . . ?”

  “I don’t now.”

  “But you did then?” Her eyes were bright and searching.

  “You’re talking like a wife,” he said, “not like a citizen.”

  “I am? I thought I was talking like someone in pretty decent physical condition who knows where the soft points are on the human body.”

  “I didn’t say that I didn’t like you talking like a wife . . . ”

  “Good answer,” she said. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got the limestone bluffs of France behind us and the cliffs of England in front of us. You know where that puts us?”

  “How about . . . between a rock and a hard place?”

  “Right, and to me that says that we’ll need each other more and more before this is over.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Wait, now you’re doing it,” she said.

  “I thought it was my turn,” Tom answered.

  “You’re good,” she said. “I like someone who stays on task.”

  “So are you,” he answered. “When this is all over . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “And if we’re both still standing . . . ”

  “Don’t say that,” she said.

  “Always a possibility.”

  “OK, and if we’re both still standing . . . ”

  “I’ll take you out for a real sandwich.”

  “Deal,” she said, looking at him closely and not blinking.

  III

  TENEDOS

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday 12:05 a.m.

  Waterloo Station, London

  “We’re set at the Grosvenor House,” Tom said. They were standing at a bank of phones in Waterloo station, their luggage at their feet. The adjacent W. H. Smith bookshop with its bright yellow sign had just closed for the evening, but the pub and the chemist were still open. Families were gathered in small groups to catch late-night trains and individuals were pacing the platforms, sipping coffee from stained cardboard cups and checking their wrist watches, waiting impatiently for arriving passengers.

  “The Grosvenor House is in Park Lane, isn’t it?”

  “Right, but with an exit at the rear. If we need to, we can go into the streets on the east or the park on the west. The hotel itself is also fairly
formidable. It’s used for business meetings and conventions. There are large public rooms as well as corners and cubbyholes. One room is so large it used to be used as a skating rink. I think it’s the perfect place for our purposes.”

  “Fine,” Diana said. “Let’s get a taxi.”

  The smells of York Road were the smells of London: aged earth, diesel fumes, the hint of vats from distant breweries; the smell of whiskey, stout, and cigarette smoke, of fried fish and vinegar, unwashed clothes, wildflowers, and coal smoke hanging in the leaves of giant planes and oaks; the gravel, wood, and stone washed by a tidal river; the smell of black and gold paint, of brass polish, sawdust, and window cleaner, of unrinsed milk bottles resting untouched on porches and steps; and everywhere the steam from damp streets with ground-in dust and grit drying in the wake of taxis and lorries hurtling through the swirling air.

  Southwark was quiet except for the street traffic. The Royal Festival Hall and National Theatre were closed for the night, the County Hall still dark—undergoing massive renovation at the expense of yet another new owner. The Old Vic had let out an hour and a quarter earlier and the pedestrian traffic near the bridge was reduced to a handful of couples returning from the west end and a lone drunk, humming happily to himself and cradling a brown-bagged bottle as he lurched toward an open bench along the Thames.

  The air was heavy but cool, the streets still glistening from an earlier shower. The sidewalk stones were covered with an oily black sheen of city damp. A single patrol boat was cruising the river, shining a searchlight along the Southwark shore and making its way toward the Embankment to check the shoreline and the row of commercial vessels moored there.

  They had gotten the last car in the taxi queue, headed across Westminster Bridge, travelled north up Whitehall, west past the palace, and north into Mayfair. The streets were quiet except for the remaining late diners making their way to their Jaguars and Mercedes. Row houses and mews houses were accented with the colors of blooming cyclamen in window and porch boxes amid glass-globed lights. Gray stone contrasted with sandstone, white marble, brickwork, glass, and flowers. A rich village in the center of a rich city, Mayfair was dotted with antique shops, styling salons, boutiques, brasseries, and small hotels, all neatly separated by grand townhomes, expensive flats, and small parks.

  The back of the Grosvenor House was an open rectangle of upscale shops. Two doormen greeted the taxi as it arrived; the younger of the two took Tom and Diana’s luggage and handed Tom a numbered ticket. Except for an elderly man reading a hardcover book and two women talking quietly on the opposite couch, the lobby was empty. The clerk at the reception desk, a young woman named Emma, checked them in. Her smile was bright and her eyes alert, given the hour. Tom handed her a VISA card with the simple ‘W. Justice’ stamped on it and she put it in the electric imprinter, printed a blank chit, removed them, and returned the card to him. She seemed to do it all in a single motion, taking some pride in her efficiency.

  He thought about the fact that the better the hotel the quicker they returned your credit card. It was a point of honor somehow. They didn’t need the money. They didn’t doubt the probity of their clientele. Besides, they could find you anyway, since they had your name, address, phone number, travel agent’s number, credit card number, frequent flier number, hotel honors number, blood type, fingerprints, and DNA profile. Except with Tom they didn’t have any of those things. He signed the register as Wayne Justice, 5005 N. Harbor Drive, San Diego, California 92106, USA. Which made his happy hearth and home one of the 111 rooms of the Best Western-Posada Inn, just a short hop, skip, and jump from the Zoo and Sea World. Centrally located and always ready to provide the friendliest of service.

  Their room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the park: a mini-suite with an additional three-quarter bath adjoining the sitting area at the base of the twin beds. Tom took the shower and offered Diana the tub. He unpacked his bag as she turned on the water for her bath. She added some lavender fragrance, pouring it directly into the faucet stream, and watched the bubbles spread across the surface of the warm water. After checking the temperature she returned, opened her bag, took out her cosmetics, and put them on the shelf above the bathroom sink. When the tub was full she turned off the blue and red faucets, returned to the bedroom, and looked inside her bag. She took out a silk gown cut like a tee shirt and a fresh set of underwear, returned to the bathroom, and set them on the sink. She closed the door but didn’t shut it tight. He could still see the light and hear her voice.

  Halfway through his shower the lights and shadows in the room changed as Diana walked from the doorway to the heated towel bar, her body momentarily interrupting the glow from the fixture above the sink. He turned and wiped some of the condensation off of the door. He saw the outline of her body as she put the heavy cotton towel on the aluminum shower door handle. She turned and he changed position, leaning closer to the glass, so that he was able to see her walking back into the bedroom. She was barefoot, her hair was wet, her body covered by a white hotel robe. She had been thinking of him, wondering if he needed anything. And then, without hesitation, she had simply walked into the room where he was showering. Did she know that the glass was fogged?

  He dried himself, slipped on his underwear, and walked into the bedroom. She was in bed, on the far side, her nightstand light turned on, but dim. He switched it off and she suddenly moved, turning toward him.

  “Good night,” he said. “Thanks for the towel.”

  She smiled, said, “You’re welcome,” and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Grosvenor House, Park Lane

  Friday, 8:57 a.m.

  As he arranged the breakfasts on the coffee table Tom considered the changes in his life in the last week and a half. His incision was healing ahead of schedule and what pain there was could be masked by a few over-the-counter pills. There was a new person in his life whose interest in him could be personal as well as professional. He was hunting the killer of the most important artist in California and he was doing it with a civilian who was also the victim’s sister. The fact that a number of well-armed men were trying to kill the two of them in violent and unexpected ways somehow seemed peripheral.

  Things were turning, doubts diminishing. For a time he had wondered if he would come out of the hospital on his feet or on his back. Assuming the brighter possibility, he wondered if he would slip effortlessly into his former role or instead nurse a series of constant, perhaps unending uncertainties. Sarah had become more of a nurse than a lover. That part of his life had changed, perhaps irrevocably. She had visited him out of a sense of duty and he wondered if her prayers for his recovery centered on her desire to be free of that responsibility rather than on any hope that they might be able to somehow recover whatever it was that they had shared in the past. It all seemed less important now. He had recovered, he had been able to call on skills and instincts that had not been lost, and he was working a case of great importance with commensurate challenges. Most of the time he now felt that he was equal to them. Moreover, there was someone else along who seemed to agree.

  Or so she said. There were risks on that front as well, risks of self-delusion, risks of loss. But risks were the one thing he had missed and when he was able to handle them he felt as if everything in his life that had nearly trickled off and evaporated in the dust and gravel had come together again in a broad, fresh stream.

  Seeing Diana moving between the bedroom and the bathroom, adjusting her clothes and applying her makeup, he dropped the thoughts of cold hospital rooms with starched cotton sheets, monitoring equipment with electronic displays and monotonous beeps, of food designed by dietitians rather than chefs. He also forgot the gunshots and the broken fingers, the lingering smell of cordite, and the vision of Walt McNeise sprawled like a broken mannequin, his blood spreading into the carpet.

  “Marmalade or preserves?” he asked, trying to focus.


  “Marmalade,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “A little cream, thanks.”

  “Bananas or strawberries?”

  “Let’s split them.”

  “Sugar on yours?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Done,” he said.

  “You’re spoiling me,” she said.

  “My job,” he answered. “By the way, we should be leaving in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she said, picking up a piece of toast on her way through the bedroom. She was wearing light wool slacks and a cream-colored silk blouse, loosely buttoned at the wrists. She was trying to look relaxed, ready to hit the aisles at Harvey Nichols and the halls at Harrods, but she was also unencumbered, ready to climb, kick, or run. “How far away is the Tenedos office?” she asked.

  “A twenty- or twenty-five minute walk or an eight-minute taxi ride, unless we hit traffic.”

  She leaned out from the bathroom and looked at Tom, standing near the window. “Aren’t you eating anything?”

  “I put cream in my coffee,” he said.

  “Lean and hungry, eh?”

  “Yes,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist as she walked past.

  “Let’s go get them,” she said.

  “How did you learn so much about England?” she asked, as he hit the lift button for the ground floor.

  “Two years ago I was the Department representative for a set of Interpol meetings in London. The Chief was otherwise occupied and the lieutenants passed on it. The meetings themselves were sometimes interesting and I had enough spare time to explore the city and any place I could get to on the weekend, which was practically every place.”

  “That sounds like a good job.”

  “I thought so. It was a nice opportunity. The Department is small, but in a key location. Given the problems that we deal with regularly, particularly those involving drugs, illegal immigration, and the protection of high-profile terrorism targets, we get involved in issues that a comparably-sized department in a rural location would not. I think there may also be a hope for reciprocity in the scheduling of future meetings, regardless of the international organization. Everyone wants to come to Laguna.”