by J. R. Wolfe
Like an enthusiastic tap dancer, rain skipped merrily on the umbrella she had bought in the Tower of London’s gift store. Worse, a stubborn cold breeze pierced her jeans and wool peacoat like a sharpened knife cutting soft butter.
She shivered. Needing a distraction, she directed her attention toward the moat that ran below the walkway.
A stream of muddy caramel water dirtied the moat’s banks and splashed against submissive rocks. The downfall pinged the spoiled water like an assault weapon unleashing a volley of bullets.
She fiddled with the collar of her coat. This muck wasn’t the distraction she was looking for. It was more a reflection of the damn mess that surrounded her. Where is Riley? she wondered.
“Beefeater is really a nickname,” the guide said. “We’re Yeoman Warders, and we’ve been in service for the crown since 1485. We of course had a different job in that day, but I’ll tell you more when we’re inside these great historic walls. I’m sure you want to get out of this London rain. So, this way ladies and gents.” He walked backward while keeping his eyes on the dozen or so people in front of him. “For many prisoners, the Tower of London was the last sight they saw on earth. You’ll see it today, and luckily for you, you’ll live to tell the tale. Now, follow me. We’re going first to the White Tower.”
The Yeoman Warder pointed over his shoulder toward an impressive stone palace; it had arched windows and ominous towers that projected upward toward the gray sky. He turned around and marched forward with the determination of a drum major. The drenched and cold troop of tourists hurriedly followed him.
Not wanting to appear out of place, Portia trudged after them like a lost lamb seeking its herd. Her mobile phone rang. She exhaled with relief and dug inside her messenger bag. Riley must be calling to tell her he was delayed, she thought. Finally grabbing the phone, she lifted it to her ear without looking at the screen and answered, “Where are you?”
“Portia, it’s me.”
“Imma?” She stopped walking, hardly able to breathe. Imma’s voice was soft like velvet, just as she remembered. “My God, it’s really you isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Imma answered. “It’s really me.”
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too. Are you alone?”
“Yes, well, I’m at the Tower of London, standing outside in the lawn area.” Portia looked around. “A few tourists are wandering around, but I’m not with anyone. Where are you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Imma said. “Believe me I wish I could, but I can’t. You’re in a great deal of danger and—”
“I’m not leaving London,” Portia blurted, not caring that she sounded stern. “I have to see you. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I’m not asking you to—”
“Where are you?”
Imma didn’t immediately answer. “I called your cell phone number hoping you’d answer.”
She’s clearly dodged my question, Portia thought. But how stupid can I be? Imma is on the run from a terrorist group, so it’s no wonder she can’t say much. I need to slow down. “I was hoping you’d call.”
“You shouldn’t be looking for me.”
“Of course I should be looking for you.”
“Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Yes.” Portia began walking toward the White Tower to get out of the rain, “but you know I don’t listen.”
“I should’ve remembered,” Imma said in a matter-of-fact voice, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
“I know the trouble you’re in. Let me help.”
“I wish you could, but what’s happened is bigger than us both.”
“We have to try don’t we?”
“You don’t understand, believe me.”
“I do understand. I know about Chessa Marsik, her father, and the data stick that contains the schematics of a dirty bomb developed by the People’s Revolution. I know that the People’s Revolution is after them, so they can retrieve the data stick. I also know that Moyo arranged your escape from prison and that Stanislaw Jager somehow included Chessa in the plan.”
“You know more than I thought.” Imma’s voice rang with surprise.
“After Jager told me you were alive—”
“You spoke to Stan?”
“Yes. He came to Chicago to tell me that you and Chessa were free and hiding from the PR. He thought you’d flee to Chicago and find me, but of course you went to London. I told Altan and Riley—”
“So that’s how Riley found out I was alive.”
“Yes, although at first he didn’t believe Jager’s story, since the intelligence concerning your death had been credible. Altan, however, thought Jager could be telling the truth. He actually convinced me to go to Zimbabwe with him to find out if you had escaped from prison.”
“Is Altan in London?”
“Yes. We’ve been searching for you.” Portia finally reached the entrance of the White Tower. Nestling the cell phone between her ear and shoulder, she collapsed the umbrella and rushed inside. “I’m inside one of the castles to get out of the rain,” she said. “I need to find a quiet place to talk.”
“What?” Imma sounded panicked. “Portia, you need to leave the Tower of London. You can’t stay there.”
“I can’t leave, at least not yet.” Portia began weaving in and out of a large group of tourists. “Riley is meeting me here, although he’s late.”
“That’s why you need to leave and now.”
“Why?” Portia made her way to an exhibit hall displaying life-sized figures of kings dressed in battle armor. In front of her was an armored King Henry VIII mounted on a wooden horse adorned in polished plate armor. “Riley is here to help.”
“There’s a mole in the CIA who’s working for a crime syndicate based in Russia,” Imma said. “They want the schematics for the dirty bomb as badly as the People’s Revolution.”
“Who’s the mole?” Portia asked.
“Riley.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it’s true. Stan found him out. He planned to inform the CIA, but he wanted to ensure that Chessa and I were safe first. Unfortunately, we just learned that the People’s Revolution murdered him for plotting Chessa’s escape from prison.”
Portia reflected back on that cold Chicago night when Stanislaw Jager lay dying on the street. “He warned me not to trust someone,” she said, “but he didn’t name anyone.”
“You need to leave the Tower of London right away. A taxi is waiting for you on the corner of Lower Thames Street. The driver will take you to a place where we can meet and be safe.”
“How did you know where I’d be?”
“I’ve been in contact with MI6, and they were able to listen in on a telephone call between you and Riley. So, they knew you were planning to meet him at the Tower of London.”
“I should’ve guessed that my communications would eventually be tapped into by somebody. Why not MI6?”
“Listen, Portia, things have gotten much worse and dangerous.”
“How? Things already seem pretty bad.”
“The People’s Revolution kidnapped Chessa again.”
“Oh my God.”
“That’s why you need to get to safety as quickly as possible. The cab driver is an MI6 undercover agent.”
Portia felt cold. “This really is bad.”
“We don’t have any good choices, just the better of the bad.”
“You don’t fully understand. The British want to detain Altan and me for the murders of three police officers in Zimbabwe. They could extradite us to Zimbabwe. Riley is trying to stop the process.”
“I know about those deaths, but don’t worry. MI6 won’t turn you over to the police.”
“How do you know?”
“I trust this agent. He knows what happened in Zimbabwe.”
“How does he know that?”
“He was there.”
“What?”
�
��It’s a long story.” Imma’s velvety voice was laced with tension. “Please, Portia, follow my instructions.”
“This way, ladies and gents!” A Yeoman Warder shouted. “Let’s keep moving. This tour covers a lot of ground and history.” He led a handful of tourists into the exhibit hall.
A tall man with broad shoulders and wearing a knee-length raincoat and winter boots stood out from the rest. He had familiar almond-shaped eyes that scanned the room with a laser’s intensity and a scar on his cheek that gave him a handsome bad-boy mystique. He held a cell phone tightly to his ear.
Portia’s legs went weak. The man was Riley. She instinctively started to take a step toward him but abruptly stopped. Was Imma right? Could Riley be working for a Russian crime syndicate? That seemed impossible.
“Portia,” Imma said, “what’s happening?”
“Riley just arrived,” she said in a hushed voice. “He’s looking around and talking on a cell phone, but he hasn’t seen me yet.”
“You need to leave. He wants to use you to get to me, which he hopes will lead to Chessa, then Bovra, and finally to the memory stick. Please believe me, Portia. Too many lives are at stake.”
Portia’s throat was parched for a stiff drink. What was the truth? She knew Riley. He wasn’t a criminal, much less a traitor. Yet, she knew Imma even better. She stared at her engagement ring. Marry me, Imma had said. Not because someone else said we can or should, but because we love each other, and we’re not afraid to show it or live our lives together as true spouses, not merely partners. She realized that while the allegation of treason against Riley could be wrong, one thing was for certain—Imma would never place her in harm’s way.
She began meandering through the crowd. She kept her back toward Riley so he couldn’t see her face. Once out of the exhibit hall, she raced toward the front entrance. She looked around to make sure Riley wasn’t following her. To her relief, he wasn’t in the area. Without hesitation, she went outside and ran down the stairs.
The rain had subsided but a bitter wind stubbornly remained, hacking away at the limbs of an old acacia and ruffling the coats of a group of sightseers who were hurrying toward a nearby tower.
“I’m outside,” she said. “How will I know which taxi to take?”
“The last three digits of the cab’s license plate are 310,” Imma said. “The driver is a black man with long braided hair and a full facial beard, nicely trimmed. Tell him you love the rain and Shakespeare. He’ll say I prefer Palm Springs and Mark Twain. If he doesn’t say exactly that, walk away.”
“This is crazy, Imma.”
“I know, but things have gotten crazy.”
“What about Altan? I can’t desert him.”
“We’ll find him and bring him to safety. For now, just worry about finding the taxi. Did you tell Riley you’d meet him inside the White Tower?”
“No,” Portia answered. “We were supposed to meet outside the castle on the lawn area.”
“Riley might’ve gotten impatient and decided to go inside one of the buildings to look for you or he could be tracking you through your cell phone’s GPS. We can’t take any chances.”
“Everything we’re doing is taking a chance.”
“Drop your phone in a garbage can.”
“What? I can’t do that. What if—”
“Please trust me.”
Portia’s throat ached for a shot of vodka. “I’m at the main entrance.”
“Good,” Imma said. “Now find the taxi. We’ll be together soon.”
“I hope so.” She ended the call and headed toward Lower Thames Street.
As she passed a public trash bin, she stopped and squeezed her cell phone. This little device was her easiest way to communicate with Altan. Without it, she’d be truly alone. She told herself that taking risks might be the only way she’d stay alive to see Imma again. After a deep breath, she smacked the phone several times against the edge of the bin and tossed it inside with the other garbage. Dashing toward a taxi with a license plate ending in the numbers 310, she wondered if she’d made the right decision.
CHAPTER 29
Sitting alone at the bar of a local pub in the southern part of London, Altan couldn’t stop watching the big screen television that was suspended on the wall above shelves of high-priced liquor. The dark lighting of the room made the color of the news broadcast stand out even more. City buildings burned bright red and yellow, while looters in sweatshirts and jeans tramped along the streets with the bravado of buffalos stomping the plains.
Altan’s chest tightened. The bizarre spectacle unfolding in London seemed more a Ridley Scott action movie than a real drama, but the violence was real—all too real. After drinking the last remnants of his British bitter, he put down his beer mug and signaled the blonde bartender for another.
The bartender was chatting with two thick-bellied men at the end of the bar, but she turned toward Altan’s wave and flashed a welcoming smile. She strolled toward him with the air of a prizefighter, confident and ready for a tussle. She was in her late thirties with stunning deep-set eyes, long eyelashes, high cheekbones, and luscious lips. Despite her natural beauty, she wasn’t as pretty as Jackie. Her nose was a touch too long and her skin was pale despite makeup. She placed her long hands on top of the bar, showing off long pink-and-white fingernails. “Are you ready for a second round?” she asked, her British accent almost musical.
“Yes,” Altan said.
“Another Gun Hill?”
“Sounds good.”
She grabbed his beer mug. “What’s happening on the telly? Looks like a riot’s goin’ on.”
“It is,” he said.
“Is it in the city?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”
“Just north of here. They’re looting and setting fires to buildings.”
“Bloody hell. What for?”
Before Altan could answer, his cell phone rang. He grabbed the small device from the pocket of his jacket and looked at the screen. He knew the incoming number by heart. “Riley,” he said, “did everything go as planned at the Tower of London?”
“No,” Riley said with a snap of anger in his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Portia didn’t meet me.”
“What happened?”
“Has she contacted you?”
“No, not since I received her text telling me to stay safe in a public place.”
“Where are you?”
“A pub.”
“There’s a thousand plus pubs in London, Altan.” Riley’s voice spit venom. “Are you near Tottenham?”
Altan took a deep breath. “Just south.”
“Get out of there. There’s a riot that’s spreading.”
“I’m watching it on the television. Won’t the police get this thing under control?”
“Early reports are saying that the rioters have the upper hand. This will be very serious before it’s over. Head for the airport. You’re to leave London tonight and fly to Chicago.”
“Without Portia? I can’t do that.”
“I didn’t ask you. It’s an order.”
“Why?”
“You and Portia are wanted for the murder of three policemen in Zimbabwe. The locals are looking for you. If you’re arrested, this mission will be seriously compromised.”
“What about Portia?”
“We’ll find her and bring her in.”
“You should know where she is. She has a GPS tracking device embedded in the wristwatch I gave her.”
“It’s not working.”
Altan’s mind spun with a thousand thoughts, all of which were bad.
“You have your orders,” Riley said. “Now go to the airport.”
The line went dead.
“Damn it.” Altan slammed the cell phone on top of the bar.
“This riot business can be unnerving.” The bartender held a full glass of beer in her hand. “We’ve had ’em before, so don’t worry. The b
obbies can handle it. Is your hotel far from here?”
“What?” Altan said. “No, my hotel isn’t far, and I’m not worried about the riot.” He grabbed the mug from her hand. “Thanks.” He placed several euros in the tip jar.
“All right.” She watched him intently. She finally shrugged her narrow shoulders and strolled toward newly arrived customers.
Altan picked up his cell phone and called a protected telephone number he knew he shouldn’t use. What the hell, he thought, things are desperate.
“Horn, here,” the lovely voice answered.
“Jackie, it’s Altan,” he said gruffly.
“Damn it. You said you wouldn’t go around protocol again.”
“Sorry, but my options are limited.”
She didn’t respond right away. “Are you okay?” Her voice was soft and sincere.
“I’m fine,” he said, “but we have trouble.”
“Is it the riot?”
“You know about it?”
“It’s all over the news.”
“Well, the riot is part of our problem. I just spoke to Riley. He said the GPS tracker in Portia’s wristwatch isn’t working.”
“That’s a negative.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s operating fine. In fact, I’m in my office watching the surveillance of her on my computer monitor, although she somehow managed to slip by us at the Tower of London by following a tour group that went inside one of the castles.”
“Portia had intended to meet Riley. Why would she go there only to leave without seeing him?”
“I don’t know what Portia was thinking or what happened to make her leave unexpectedly. All I know is that your orders are to return to Chicago.”
“Yeah, Riley told me.” But Altan’s main interest wasn’t with orders. “How did Portia elude our surveillance?”