by J. R. Wolfe
“Wanna nut?” the parrot yelled.
“Did you teach him to talk?” Portia returned her gaze to the lovely Briton.
“No,” Samantha said, “the friend who gave Charlie to me taught him to say a few words.” She tilted her head slightly to the side. “Why hasn’t Dr. Thoms contacted you or returned to the States?”
“I wish I knew.” If Simmons knew the whole messy story, Portia feared she might be too afraid to help. The less said the better. “Imma’s time in captivity must’ve been terrifying and traumatic. She’s obviously not thinking clearly. I doubt she trusts the police or anyone else in authority.”
“The poor dear. It’s no surprise she’s mentally unstable after what she went through, but don’t you think you should still let the police know you think she’s in London? They must deal with this sort of paranoia all the time with other people they’re looking for, like runaways.”
“Informing the police would normally be the right thing to do,” Portia said, “but I’m afraid Imma might go deeper underground if she thinks the police are searching for her.” In truth, informing the authorities about Imma’s escape with Chessa Marsik could have disastrous results. No doubt the People’s Revolution would be willing to pay an informant top dollar for such prized knowledge. Equally without a doubt, there would be someone on the inside who could do with a little cash, no matter the cost to others. “Who knows what Imma’s worries are?” she said. “So, I’d like to try to find her by using more subtle, but hopefully effective means. If this doesn’t work, I’ll have no choice but to go the authorities.”
“I suppose you know best,” Samantha said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “And what matters is that we find her. What can I do?”
“Imma has many friends in ZIRP. She may have secretly contacted one of them for assistance, or someone in ZIRP may have heard something that can lead us to where she’s hiding. Will you ask around?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I trust you’ll be…well, discreet.”
“I understand.”
Samantha’s iPhone began playing Whitney Houston’s “When You Believe.” She quickly picked up the small device and put it to her ear. “This is Samantha Simmons.” She stared past Portia toward the yellow-painted walls of her office. “Okay… Yes… I understand… Are you sure there aren’t alternatives? I see… Yes, I’ll do my best… Me too. Good-bye.” She placed the cell phone on her desk. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I’m going to a charity event tonight and that was my—” She rolled her eyes. “Date.”
Samantha stood, her slim, six-foot-two height impressive and perfectly squeezed into a tight-fitting white blouse and blue pin skirt. The scent of her perfume, capturing a spring morning, suffused the room. She strode toward the parrot’s cage with the slow, graceful strides of a model walking down a runway. “Hello, Charlie,” she said.
“Hello, hello,” the parrot said, “hello.”
Samantha turned and looked at Portia. “You must’ve seen these parrots when you were in Zimbabwe.”
“No.” Portia got up and walked over to the cage. “I wasn’t paying attention to the wildlife, I’m afraid.”
“Charlie is a Meyer’s Parrot.”
“That’s quite a gift.” In actuality, Portia didn’t know much about these beautiful birds, except that they were popular in the pet trade, despite their expense, and could learn to speak dozens of words. “Your friend must like you.”
“Quite, but he’s an earache.”
“An ear what?”
“Earache. He talks incessantly.” Samantha turned and walked to a modern credenza that had an antique box sitting on top. She opened it, reached inside, and scooped up a handful of various nuts. “Charlie loves to snack.”
“Hello,” Charlie said. “Snack. Snack.”
Samantha returned to the birdcage, opened the door, and placed the nuts inside a food bowl. “Portia, your timing is impeccable.” She watched her special pet enjoy his unexpected feast. “There’ll be a number of people at the party tonight who are involved with ZIRP. It’s a perfect chance to ask about Dr. Thoms. If I find out anything, how do I contact you?”
“You can call my cell phone,” Portia answered.
“Hold on.” Samantha went to the desk and picked up her iPhone. “I’ll add you to my contact list, so I have it at my fingertips.” She started to tap the phone’s screen, but it began resounding again with Whitney Houston’s rich voice. She quickly placed the device to her ear. “Hello,” she said. “Yes. I’m still in a meeting. I’d like to talk with you first… I realize this is important, but… I didn’t say that. Hold on.” She looked up, her eyes misting with a fog that hid her true feelings. “I’ll be right back, Ms. Marks.”
Portia started to say she was in a hurry with little time to wait, but before she could speak, Samantha hurried into an adjoining room. The interruption was unfortunate. She wanted to connect with Altan and visit several homeless shelters on the chance that Imma and Chessa were staying at one.
A traditional ringtone resounded from inside Portia’s messenger bag. She hurriedly reached inside the bag and grabbed her cell phone. She’d decided to travel with her own phone and phone number in case Imma tried to contact her. “Imma,” she answered, “is it you?”
“I’m afraid not, Portia.” The Boston accent was prominent and familiar, albeit disappointing since his voice wasn’t the one she wanted to hear.
“Riley,” she said. “This is a surprise. Is something wrong?”
“Is something wrong?” he repeated her words three octaves higher than his normal voice. “Of course, something is wrong. You went to Zimbabwe after I told you not to go. Why didn’t you tell me what you and Altan were up to?”
The heavy boot of guilt pressed against Portia’s chest. She took a deep breath and twirled her engagement ring with her left thumb. She walked over to the window that had a view of Salter Road and stared outside.
Bloated clouds the color of milk chocolate loomed in the gray sky, unleashing a bombardment of rain fitting for a large-scale battle. A wall of umbrellas, all colors and sizes, paraded along the wet sidewalk, their owners hiding underneath like bandits on the run.
“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d try to stop me,” she said. “You think Imma’s dead, but Riley, she survived her imprisonment.”
“I know,” he said, “and I’m very happy that she somehow escaped to Great Britain.”
“So, you believe she’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Our intelligence concerning Imma’s death was unreliable, thanks to Stanislaw Jager. I told you to give me more time to look into Jager, but you wouldn’t listen. Instead, you let Altan lead you into a very dangerous situation.”
She bowed her head. Altan had been wrong about Riley. He was actually the friend she thought him to be. “I’m sorry, Riley.” She meant it. “I had to know if Imma was alive.”
“You’re both in big trouble,” he said. “You have no idea what you’ve caused.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain everything when we meet, but right now, you need to leave Simmons’s office immediately.”
“How do you know where I am?”
“You arrived in London two days ago to search for Imma. I figured you’d seek help from ZIRP sooner or later, so I looked into them. But Ms. Simmons isn’t the right person. She believes that you’re a murderer.”
“That’s insane. Why?”
“You killed three police officers in Zimbabwe and fled, remember? The officials at ZIRP think you’ve lost your mind. Simmons has called the police to arrest you. She’s trying to keep you in her office until they arrive.”
“Shit,” was all Portia could mutter. “Those officers were going to kill us. Altan acted in my defense. He saved my life.”
“That’s obviously not the spin that’s been put on the situation,” he said, “or what has been told to ZIR
P officials. The Zimbabwe government wants you and Altan arrested and returned to their country. You were lucky you weren’t taken into custody yesterday when you went to different hospitals and clinics asking about Imma.”
“The British won’t extradite us to Zimbabwe,” she said. “We need to contact our embassy.”
“I’m afraid you can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“This is complicated and very delicate.”
“What could be delicate about false charges and extradition?”
“Extradition to Zimbabwe would take the approval of the Secretary of State and the courts. Still, murder charges, particularly of peace officers, are very serious. Who knows how the British may view what Altan did in Zimbabwe. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“What should we do?”
“Meet me at the Tower of London. I’ll explain everything, but leave there now and take a taxi to the tower. I’ll be waiting for you where the tours begin.”
“Why should we meet at the Tower of London?”
“Lots of tourists visit the tower complex, making it easy to find places to hide. The police won’t think to look for you there.”
“What about Altan?”
“For now, until I learn more, it’s better that you two stay apart. The police want to arrest you both, and they might be tailing Altan by now, hoping that he’ll lead them to you. Do you have a way to secretly communicate with him?”
“We text each other using a code we devised.”
“Contact him and tell him to stay in a safe location, somewhere public.”
“I’ll tell him. See you soon.”
CHAPTER 27
“How could I have let the People’s Revolution kidnap Chessa?” Imma paced back and forth in the living room of Robert Montgomery’s apartment, trying not to let every fiber of her body break down in anguish. She couldn’t help but dread what those criminals would do to her dear friend. “It was my idea to go to church.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Bovra sat in a maroon chair as motionless as a headstone. “You couldn’t have known what would happen nor could Chessa. Besides, they had you outnumbered.” He sighed. “We thought we were well hidden, but we were wrong. They managed to find you and strike when the moment was perfect.”
“I gave them that moment.”
“There’s no real escape from them.”
His answer wasn’t a surprise, but a truth Imma knew all too well. She tried to console herself that there must be solutions. “MI6 can arrange for undercover agents to be at the fashion show to ensure that Chessa is safely turned over to us.”
“Perhaps,” he said without enthusiasm, “but MI6 didn’t prevent her from being kidnapped again.”
“How could they? We’ve been in contact with Agent Stanton, but we didn’t tell him where we’ve been hiding.”
“We haven’t been in contact. You have, and I didn’t want you to communicate with MI6. It’s too dangerous. I understand that you wanted to talk with your fiancée and convince her to return to the United States, but—”
“Your efforts to contact Portia weren’t successful.”
“I just needed more time.” He took a heavy breath. “Stan warned me that there was a spy in the CIA working for a Russian crime syndicate. Perhaps there’s one at MI6 as well.”
Her body tightened at the thought. She stopped pacing and faced him. “Anything is possible, but I’ve only spoken with Agent Stanton once. We’ve never met.”
“It was dangerous and unnecessary.”
“Portia’s life is in serious jeopardy. Trying to help her isn’t unnecessary.” Be calm, she told herself. He wasn’t backing down, but who could blame him? She’d betrayed his trust by going outside their small and vulnerable group. “So, given you think I’m a fool—”
“I didn’t say that.” He shook his head. “Your decision was imprudent, but we have to move on. Chessa’s safe return is all that matters now.”
“You can’t trust the PR.”
“I know. That’s why I left a message for Stan.”
“You tried to contact him before, and he didn’t respond.”
“He’s in a cat-and-mouse game with the People’s Revolution, like we are. But once he learns that Chessa has been kidnapped again, he won’t hesitate to help us get her back.”
“He’ll want to help us, but who knows when he’ll get your message. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I have to try. We don’t have a lot of options.”
She sat in a maroon chair next to him.
“You’re right. We don’t have a lot options. That’s why I told Alec where we’re staying.”
“What!” Bovra hopped up. His light blue eyes that had the shimmer of a Siamese cat were on fire, and his lean body shook with anger. “Why? You should’ve talked to me first.”
“You would’ve told me not to tell him.”
“Damn straight I would’ve told you no.” He ran his hands through his short silver hair.
“Alec insisted on knowing, so he could meet us here,” she said.
“Why?”
“He wants to discuss our situation and Chessa’s kidnapping.”
“He only wants to know our whereabouts.”
“You’re selling him short.” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “We need help, Bovra. We’ve got the weak hand.”
“This isn’t poker. This is war.”
“What are you saying?”
“Terrorists are stubbornly resolved to their own cause and ideology, and boundaries don’t exist, which means rules are for the losers.”
“We can’t beat them on our own.”
“You’re right about that.” He turned to look out a bay window that had a panoramic view of a busy London street bustling with cars and pedestrians who were oblivious to any plight but their own. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Robert is still at his studio working. He said he’d be here in an hour.” He turned to face her. His blue eyes were now speedballs. “What time will Agent Stanton be here?”
She started to reply, but she was interrupted by a loud knocking sound. A man said, “This is Alec Stanton. Please open the door.”
“We can’t tell him about Stan,” Bovra said, “or the fact that I don’t have the flash drive anymore.”
“All right.” She stood. “But I believe we can trust him.”
“We can’t trust anyone but Stan.”
She didn’t agree, but now wasn’t the time to argue about it. She sped to the front door and opened it.
A tall man with an impressive build and wearing aviator sunglasses and a knee-length wool coat and blue jeans dashed inside. His braided black hair fell below his shoulders.
“You must be Dr. Thoms.” Alec took off his sunglasses to reveal deep-set, lively eyes and long, dark eyelashes. “And you’re Bovra Marsik.”
“Yes,” Imma said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Bovra stared at their guest and remained silent. Only the downturn of his mouth showed his displeasure.
“I wish it were under better circumstances,” Alec said. “But as we briefly discussed on the mobile, there are recent events you need to know about.”
“We obviously know that the People’s Revolution kidnapped my daughter,” Bovra said.
“Yes,” Alec said, “and I’m sorry, Mr. Marsik. We’ll do everything in our power to ensure her safe return. Unfortunately, that’s not our only worry.”
“What else has happened?” Imma asked.
“Your fiancée is here in London with an undercover CIA officer, Altan Boyer.”
Her mind raced with a million questions. Yet, she could only blurt, “Altan isn’t an agent for the CIA. He’s an interpreter.”
“You know him?” Alec asked.
“I treated him for injuries he received in Iraq. We became friends.”
“Well, he’s a CIA field officer, and one of their best. Unfortunately, he ran into trouble in Zimbabwe—”
“Yes, you
told me a group of local criminals assaulted him,” she said.
“I’m afraid the truth is that—”
“The truth is that you lied, didn’t you?” Bovra said. “Imma, I told you that you couldn’t trust the authorities. They only care about the goal of their mission. The number of body bags they create along the way doesn’t matter.”
Alec looked at him with compassionate eyes. “Please believe me, Mr. Marsik. Any lies I’ve told have been for their good and yours.”
“Well, don’t lie about this,” Imma said. “Are Portia and Altan uninjured and safe?”
“They’re alive. But they’re also wanted for murdering three Zimbabwe policemen. The sergeant survived and was able to identify them. The local authorities have put out a warrant for their arrest.”
“Can’t this be easily resolved,” she asked, “since Altan works for the CIA?”
“Just because he’s a CIA undercover agent doesn’t mean he’s immune from the law.” Alec’s smooth forehead creased into ruts of concern. “Unfortunately, the issuance of the arrest warrant is the least of their troubles or ours.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Your fiancée is walking into the mole’s trap.”
CHAPTER 28
“Welcome to the Tower of London.” The Yeoman Warder, blocky in stature with a short beard and rascally brown eyes, strode back and forth. He wore an undress uniform of a tall, round cloth hat and blue frock coat trimmed in scarlet with a large ERII cypher on the front. “I’m your guide today,” he said. “Now, you may wonder why we’re called ‘Beefeaters’. It’s probably because they used to pay us with beef, veal, and mutton instead of money.” He flashed a mischievous smile of cornsilk teeth. “Today, given this bloody recession, we’d rather have the money and decide what we’d like to eat. Besides, some of us are vegetarians, you know.”
The dozen or so visitors, all wrapped in thick coats and huddled under umbrellas, laughed heartily. Portia stood near them but wasn’t able to join in their merriment. Her worried mood wasn’t over Altan, however. Shortly after leaving Simmons’s office, she had texted him in the secret code they had devised to stay safe in a public location, as Riley had instructed. He responded that he would. Her immediate concern was over Riley. He was nowhere to be seen. To add to her discomfort, the weather was dreary.