Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “Mr. Boyer,” he said. “There’s an emergency. You’ll need to come with me.”

  Altan’s hands perspired slightly. If he left the building, the jamming device might not work. “You’re mistaken. I’m not—”

  He stepped closer. “Please Mr. Boyer. These are your orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Chief Horn.”

  “I don’t understand. This doesn’t make—”

  “You will understand.”

  Had Jackie lied to him? Was she working against him? “You’ll need to tell me more.”

  He pulled back the edge of the raincoat, revealing the barrel of an automatic pistol that had a silencer on it. He quickly covered the gun again. “Come with me. Fox Hunt is in danger of failing if you don’t.”

  Altan lowered his head. There was only one way this guy knew to mention Fox Hunt—he was CIA. “If I leave, there’s the danger that the PR will set off the dirty bomb after they’ve retrieved the USB flash drive.”

  “Chief Horn has ensured that won’t happen.”

  “How?”

  “There are other agents in the building. Plus MI6 and the Metropolitan police have been alerted.”

  “What about the duke and duchess?”

  “It hasn’t been formally announced, but they won’t be coming. Let’s go.”

  Altan felt his chest tighten. He hated leaving Portia and Imma, but he couldn’t disobey orders. “All right.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  Altan walked outside with the agent closely following on his heels. Drizzles of rain continued to fall. A small but dense crowd of spectators holding umbrellas milled about waiting for the duke and duchess to arrive. Several officers of the Metropolitan Police, dressed in dark blue uniforms with yellow jackets and helmets, were posted around the parameter of Smyth Square. Their focus was on the small crowd.

  “Where to?” Altan asked.

  “Keep walking,” the agent said. “There’s a car waiting for us a couple blocks away.”

  He turned. “Why so far away?”

  “I didn’t ask.” The agent wore a blank expression on his rough-skinned face. “I just follow orders. I suggest you do the same.”

  Altan stayed put for a moment. He knew that this was how things worked. Agents were only told information they needed to know for their role in a mission and no more. That way, if captured, the agent would have limited value to the enemy. Still, it didn’t feel right that a fellow agent would hold a gun on him. Yet, he was being accused of being a mole for a Russian crime syndicate. As much as he didn’t like it, he realized that the organization was being understandably cautious.

  They walked another block until they came upon a parked limousine with darkly tinted windows. The agent opened the back passenger door. Altan got inside and sat down. Facing him was a gray-haired man in a pressed suit with deep-set, puppy-like eyes and an angular jaw. His high forehead was creased, as though he’d spent his life in worry.

  “Agent Boyer,” he said in a scratchy British accent, “it is nice to meet someone who understands the wrongs of the United States.”

  This guy isn’t CIA. “Who the hell are you?” Altan asked.

  “A friend.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We know who you are and what you’ve done.”

  “What do you think I’ve done?”

  “I see why the Golden Triangle recruited you. The experience and training you have to stay undercover is remarkable. That’s why you’ve only been recently identified as an operative for them.”

  Altan cringed, as though he’d been splashed with cold water. This guy was in the high ranking cadre of the PR, a leader, and there was only one way the PR knew about that false rumor—they had an operative in the CIA who believed it and who also knew about Jackie and Fox Hunt. But he’d worry about that problem later. Everything he’d been told by the giant whom he thought was a CIA agent was false. He needed to make a quick exit and get back to Smyth Square. “I should go.”

  His thinning, gray eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  “You’ve found me, which means the CIA will as well. I need to go into hiding.”

  “You might go back to Smyth Square to disrupt the exchange we’ve arranged. Marsik for the USB flash drive.”

  “Why would I do that? You’ve blown my cover.”

  “The Golden Triangle wants the schematics for the dirty bomb.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were at the auction to steal the flash drive before we made the exchange.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know your employer well?”

  Altan leaned forward and ran his hand through his short brown hair. Resting his elbows on his knees, he said, “Yes. I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Do you?”

  “They don’t like failure, so there’s a terrible price to pay for it.”

  He studied Altan. “You do see what I’m getting at, but as I said, we are friends.”

  “How?”

  “You have information we are willing to pay for and protect you for.”

  “You want information about the CIA and the Golden Triangle.”

  “We will pay you enough money to—”

  “Retire?”

  He flashed a smile of white crooked teeth. “Yes.”

  “I’ve been wanting to retire for a long time.”

  “Good.” He reached down and pushed a button on the intercom system. “Let’s go.”

  The motor of the limousine sounded with a deep roar. Altan looked out the window. Oncoming traffic was thankfully heavy for the moment, which meant the limo wasn’t going anywhere. He stared at the PR leader in front of him, realizing he was probably in his late forties. He spread the two front fingers of his right hand into a stiff V shape and poked the leader’s eyes with such vengeance that he screamed in utter pain and covered his eyes with his hands.

  An awful, bloody goo soaked Altan’s fingers. He withdrew his hand and hastily wiped his fingers on the leader’s pants. Then he jumped out of the car and hit the sidewalk running toward Smyth Square. He glanced back.

  The driver, a short man with a buzz haircut, and the giant who’d pretended to be a CIA agent exited the limo and began running after him. Altan turned the corner at the first side street and crashed into a man walking with his girlfriend. They both toppled to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” the man shouted. “Watch yourself.”

  Altan staggered to his feet. He’d lost valuable time. “Sorry,” he managed to say before he took off running again.

  Ahead was a group of well-dressed diners entering an upscale Italian restaurant. Altan dashed inside and found himself with a swarm of happy Londoners enjoying a night out. He began wiggling his way through the crowd, hoping he’d find a back exit. A young woman dressed in a white shirt and black skirt, her manner urgent and serious as though she were handling a plane of panicky passengers, stopped him.

  “Sir,” she said, “can I help you? Do you have a reservation?”

  “No,” Altan said. “How long is the wait?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “That works. My girlfriend will be a little late anyway.”

  “So there’s two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your name?”

  “Jones. Where’s your restroom?”

  She pointed. “The loo is back there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Altan looked around. His pursuers weren’t in sight. He walked past tables of diners. Laughter and high banter infused the room with a happy mood wholly lost on him. The smell of fresh baked bread and roasted meats was overwhelming. He started for the restroom, hoping he could exit through a window, when he glanced at the kitchen and stopped. Cooks dressed in oil laced white uniforms were slaving over grills or mixing ingredients in large metal bowls. A back door leading to an alleyway was wide open. Loud shouts erupted from the dining room. Someone shouted, “Hey watch it!” Altan fled into the kitchen
and grabbed a copper frying pan hanging on a rack.

  A skinny cook looked at him. “Is a flatfoot after you?”

  Altan didn’t bother to respond. He darted out the door and stood with his back against the concrete wall of the building. With conscious effort, he began slowing his breathing by taking big silent breaths. He widened his stance and held the copper pot at his shoulders like a baseball bat.

  The rain was now a light mist, and the alleyway was darkly lit. A red Fiat was parked across the way. At the end of the alley, the street and sidewalk were visible. Cars drove by kicking up puddles of rain, and a sprinkling of pedestrians, all carrying umbrellas and wearing raincoats, strode along as if it were a cloudless, moonlit night.

  A tall, lean man with a buzz haircut ran through the door into the alleyway. Altan recognized him immediately—he was the limo driver. As he turned, Altan whacked him in the face with the copper pot. The driver dropped a handgun and fell to the pavement unconscious. Altan quickly bent down to pick up the weapon when a blunt kick to his midsection knocked him over. He lost hold of the copper pot but bounced to his feet.

  The giant stood before him seeming now to be nineteen feet tall. He pointed an automatic at Altan’s head. Without hesitation, Altan leapt in the air and kicked the weapon out of his hand. The giant punched Altan in the jaw with the rage of a maniac. Altan staggered back, a sharp pain searing his face. But worse than the pain of the blow was the realization that he might be prevented from stopping the detonation of the dirty bomb.

  Altan quickly found his balance and clenched his hands into tight fists but, before he could strike, the giant hit him again in the jaw and his head bounced back. This time, instead of pain, he felt anger. With knockout fury, he smashed the giant in the nose. The giant fell to the pavement and should’ve stayed down. Yet, he sprang to his feet with the agility of a pro wrestler. Altan braced himself for another round.

  CHAPTER 37

  Worry knotted Portia’s stomach. She stood next to Imma in the King Charles Banquet Hall under a pricey masterpiece of the Thames River. The patrons, smartly dressed in formal evening wear and glittering jewelry, roamed the room holding glasses of wine as they waited for the auction to begin. Chandeliers with teardrop lighting that glistened like stars hung from the gold-paneled ceiling. Classic oil paintings that captured stunning landscapes of England decorated the white walls, and poster-sized color portraits of African children were displayed on easels.

  “There must be over a hundred people here,” Portia said, “but there’s no sign of Altan. He should’ve followed me in.”

  “He might’ve had a problem with security,” Imma said. “Perhaps I should find him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Whoever is guarding Chessa has an eye on everything. We don’t want the People’s Revolution to discover our koomkie. We need to be patient. This isn’t about time, it’s about—”

  “Timing.” Imma kept her attention focused on the giddy crowd of guests enjoying their drinks, conversation, and the anticipation of being at arm’s length from the royal couple. “If our timing is right, everything will fall into place.”

  “Exactly.” Portia wondered what the passing of seconds had felt like for Imma while she sat in a horrible prison cell. Each passing second must’ve inflicted a new wound with the sharpness of a steel blade. The difference between time and timing, she decided, was something Imma knew well—all too well.

  Their reflection in a beautiful, bevel-framed mirror caught her eye. She and Imma both held glasses of white wine, not to enjoy, but to give the appearance of fitting into the festive, philanthropic atmosphere. Imma was breathtakingly gorgeous, but all that was familiar was her soft and caring expression, like that of an angel looking down from heaven. Otherwise, Portia wouldn’t have recognized her. She wore stiletto heels, false eyelashes, and a long blonde wig that had jagged bangs. Her satin gown, with a cowl neck and bejeweled waist, accented every curve of her slender body and was meant for a carefree time that didn’t involve terrorists trying to murder innocent people.

  Portia assessed her own disguise. The wig of short reddish hair with spiky layers she had chosen to wear was a call to the wild she liked. The strapless gown and matching high heels she had grabbed from Chessa’s closet blended seamlessly with the elegant attire of the other attendees. Yet, her hazel eyes, despite the camouflage of heavy eyeliner and mascara, were nervous bonfires. “At least the royal couple hasn’t arrived yet. Do you see Chessa?”

  Imma surveyed the swarm of guests. “No…wait… There she is. She’s the tall brunette in the blue gown. The man standing next to her must be her escort. He’s a terrorist and kidnapper, but he looks as calm and unassuming as a duck on a lake.”

  Portia zeroed in on the couple, her heart sinking. Imma was unfortunately right.

  Chessa’s escort maintained a watchful eye on the room while talking to her as though he were enjoying the upscale charity event rather than being hell bent on committing an atrocity that would rock the world. His arm was wrapped around Chessa’s tapered waist with the firm lock of handcuffs, but no one would’ve guessed she was his captive. He looked the rich playboy in a tailored black tuxedo, silk white tie, and polished Italian dress shoes. His shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back behind his ears in a Brad Pitt style, and he had a nicely trimmed royale beard. Long black eyelashes accented his round eyes, which danced with a boyish excitement.

  “Altan still isn’t here,” Imma said, “and they’re approaching us.”

  “We’ll do this on our own,” Portia said. “We first need to get the cell phone away from him.” She reached inside her purse for a foam earplug, but it was too late.

  “Good evening,” the escort said.

  He held Chessa tightly by his side. The delicate features of her oval face, perfectly shaped and proportioned, were striking. Her ocean-blue eyes should’ve sparkled with life but were instead dulled by fear. Staring at Imma, she somehow managed a half-smile that was more depressed than happy. “It’s good to see you again,” she said in a broken voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” Imma said. “I couldn’t protect you.”

  “What happened wasn’t your fault,” Chessa said.

  “Be quiet.” The escort hurled an angry stare at her. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He looked at Imma. “You’re Dr. Imma Thoms. Who is this?”

  “My friend,” Imma said.

  “Where is Marsik?”

  “He’s not well,” Imma said.

  “He must be very sick not to have come for his daughter. What is wrong with him?”

  “He was beaten up pretty badly by a rioter,” Imma said. This was the lie they had decided to tell. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Chessa’s makeup couldn’t hide the sudden paleness of her cheeks. “Is he alive?”

  Imma nodded. “Yes. He’ll be fine.”

  The escort rubbed his beard and studied her carefully. “Why did you bring your friend?”

  Imma took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to do this alone.”

  He studied Portia for a moment. “You are Portia Marks.”

  Fear bristled Portia’s neck. “Yes,” she said, “I’m Portia Marks. Who are you?”

  “You can call me Caleb,” he said. “We don’t have time for niceties. Dr. Thoms, give me the flash drive, and I’ll give you Ms. Marsik.”

  Before Imma could respond, the chatter of the patrons heightened to a distracting racket. A rush of energy and excitement electrified the room. Everyone stood still and began clapping.

  A tall handsome man in a black tuxedo shook hands with the guests as though each one were a dear friend. He had baby blues that were haunting and a titanic smile so contagious, the guests couldn’t help but smile too. Next to his side was a pretty, slender woman with wavy brunette hair that fell below her shoulders. She engaged each guest with small talk Portia wished she coul
d overhear. If it weren’t for her satin, V-neck yellow gown, glistening with red and gold jewels, one would’ve thought she was a cherished sister greeting her family rather than the future queen of England performing her duties.

  Portia reached into her purse and took out the flash drive. Holding it up, she said, “This is what you want.”

  Caleb tried to snatch it from her, but she pulled her arm back.

  “Not yet.” She pointed toward an alcove that was relatively unseen from the banquet hall. “I’ll give it to you there.”

  His nostrils momentarily flared. “All right. Ladies first.”

  Portia, Imma, and Chessa exchanged worried glances, but they walked side-by-side to the small room, which had been made into sitting area with two Victorian-style chairs. Caleb followed them inside. They turned to face him.

  “Give me the flash drive,” he said.

  Portia nodded and placed the small device in his hand. He examined it and shook his head.

  “This is not the flash drive,” he said.

  “Yes it is,” Portia said.

  “No it’s not,” he said. “There should be four numbers stamped here.” He pointed to flash drive. “Those numbers are missing. Do you have it or not?”

  Portia quickly scanned the banquet hall. Most of the patrons, including the duke and duchess, were now out of sight. They’d probably gone into the adjoining section of the hall for the auction. She next studied Caleb. He was focused on her as well, his black eyebrows knitted together, waiting for her answer. His arms were by his side, and the right pocket of his pants bulged with what was certainly his cell phone. She purposely widened her eyes, as if she saw something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Without hesitating, she stepped forward, placed his right hand into a wristlock, and yanked down. He flinched but twirled so quickly that she lost her grip. He drew his arm back to hit her, but she immediately kicked the side of his kneecap with the pointed toe of her high heels. Gasping, he bent over and held his wounded knee with one hand. Before she could strike again, he dug into his pants pocket with his other hand.