Moffat's Secret

by J. C. Williams

  Colin Moffat

  Charles Martin

  Archer seconded Moffat’s wish for protection of the bearer. He added – God helps those who help themselves.

  Chapter 112

  Archer rose at four to call the bakery in Jerusalem. He left a new burner phone number and spoke to Gaige ten minutes later.

  He was able to get back to sleep for an hour. Then, under the cover of the last of the darkness, he snuck in the back door of his original hotel. He ran the water and made the appropriate sounds for someone getting up. Wake up everybody, Chad thought. Time to leave.

  Chad drove away from Buxton, going north a few miles to complete the modern era one hundred and seventy miles. He turned east. Should be a caravan behind me, he reasoned. There would be Aman, the breakaway Captain Landau from Aman, the Guardians, Boyer’s MI6 security shadow, and a wild card assassin named Lupa.

  He would have been surprised to know that three of those five were sitting comfortably in hotels in Lincoln, central to his path, following his movement with the car GPS. They had the money and resources to find what he rented, and paid enough to get its GPS tracking number.

  The two behind him were operating old school. By sight. For the moment.

  He weaved a path across eastern England, touching some of the same towns but not the same stops as he did two days ago. He veered north and veered south. Chad added more stops in the large city of Lincoln. Chad gave the people following him a chance to attach GPS trackers to his car. At noon he ate lunch at The 900. His luck was good. The owner was taking the day off. Chad had worried that one of the groups following him might find out he was here yesterday.

  Chad drove north to Mablethorpe, bypassing Ingoldmells. He perused Mablethorpe Hall, which was built in the fourteenth century. By two o’clock, he once again was in the cemetery at Saints Peter and Paul in Ingoldmells. He ducked in the church, found the deacon, and said his hellos.

  Lupa watched from the corner. She was one of the ones following Chad. The other car that followed from Buxton parked a half block away from Chad’s rental. The passenger slipped out, walked past Chad’s car, knelt to tie a shoe and then circled the block. Smooth, she thought. They now have a GPS tracker to follow. Just like the one she placed when he stopped in Lincoln.

  He made a point of looking at several graves and became excited in front of Moffat’s. He hoped his acting was convincing. He took a picture of the gravestone. Hurriedly, Chad took a notepad from his backpack. He wrote on it. Scratched through it. Wrote again. Turning abruptly, he started for the car, making a noticeable, but furtive move to rip off the sheet from his notepad. He crumpled it and stuck it in his pocket. He stopped, looked around, then took the paper from his pocket, ripped it into four pieces, and tossed it in a trash bin.

  Chad sped away south toward Skegness. The passenger of the tailing car retrieved Chad’s scribbled trash. He read:

  Man and stars

  CM

  Colin Moffat

  Guard

  CM = 1100

  CM = 900

  The 900. The pub!

  They drove south after Chad, following their GPS tracker. Lupa followed.

  ------

  “Drop me off just past the entrance,” the Aman Captain said, as they approached The 900 pub and watched Chad turn in.

  He took a radio, left the road and concealed himself in the woods. He saw Chad disappear into the pub and emerge in less than five minutes.

  Chad looked around him, surveying the parking lot. He had the backpack on his shoulder, never leaving it out of his sight. He picked up a small satchel of tools from his trunk, and found the path leading to the farmhouse.

  The Captain followed.

  Chad repeated his actions of the previous day inspecting the chimney and fireplace then removing the stones covering the hearthstone.

  He brushed it off and commenced a pretend-chiseling where there was no longer any mortar between the stones. He thought he could feel eyes watching him. Wishful thinking? This was the dangerous part if the eyes were the Aman renegades. They could kill him now and finish the job themselves. He hoped that they would wait until they were certain this was the locator stone.

  The Captain radioed his driver to join him. They watched from the woods. Lupa watched all three from her familiar position on the hill next to the oak tree.

  Chad cut his work time to an hour. Just after four, he stretched and then took two lengths of rope from his tool bag. He tried once again to lift the stone. He strained and raised one end a couple inches. He tried the other side. He sat down feigning weariness and frustration. He looked through his pack and looked through his bag. Standing, he looked around him. Once toward the woods. Once toward the open fields. Involuntarily his watchers ducked.

  Chad knelt, removed the ropes and covered the hearthstone with a few rocks from the pile of rubble. He placed the ropes back in his tool bag and hid the bag in the fireplace opening. Shouldering his backpack, he left the farmhouse and took the path back to the parking lot. The two men from Aman followed him that far. Chad stopped at the parking lot and played with his cell phone. He made a show of looking something up and then calling a number. He spoke loud enough for the two men to hear.

  “You do have a hoist? How late are you open? Good. I am in Skegness. How far to Lincoln? An hour? I should be there by six then. Do you have a tripod or something to mount that on? Great. I’m on my way.”

  Chad left. The two men verified his route on the tracker screen in their car. They went back into the woods. Lupa never moved.

  Chapter 113

  It was dusk when Archer returned from Lincoln. He wished now that he had placed a small recording camera at the farmhouse. He was sure something had happened in his absence. A local radio station warned of a Fret rolling in this evening. Chad didn’t know what that was, but guessed that if it was rolling in, it would be a fog. He parked down the road, away from the pub, as he had done the day before. He shouldered his pack and collected the ladder, winch, and the two-by-fours he had stashed.

  The fog was not yet into the woods as he passed through it, but there was an eerie quietness. He emerged well away from the path and very quickly was at the farmhouse. The fog was beginning to settle gently now.

  He put down his equipment and peered at the hearthstone lying on the ground. The ropes lay with it, looped through the metal rings. Ah, it did take two men. He peaked into the hole that it once covered. It was empty. Good. No metal box. No stone. There was something wrong. He sensed it. He looked around the ground again.

  It was the stone. The ends of each rope should be next to each other if two men lifted it. They were not. They lay at each corner. Like four men lifted the stone, not two. Four? Two to leave with the locator stone and two to stay behind to ambush him?

  Instinctively he dropped to the ground.

  Archer never heard the zip of a bullet cutting through the air over his head. The 9mm cartridge traveled at 1200 feet per second. The speed of sound is slower, only 1126 feet per second. It was a fraction of a second later that the fog-muffled sound of the gunshot reached his ears.

  Chad leapt for the protection of the fireplace. He rolled behind it, his backpack clutched in his hand. More shots came from the path, north of him, pinging off the stones. He had no idea how accurate their weapon was. Fifty yards? The edge of the woods?

  He couldn’t stay here. He reached in his backpack and took out his flashlight. He threw it toward the west and then ran east. The woods were fifty yards away in that direction as well. It might be futile to try and work his way through the woods toward his car without a flashlight, but he had no choice.

  Gunshots followed the flashlight. He heard voices. He hoped they were going in that direction. The fog distorted the sound.

  Luckily he wore a dark jacket and dark jeans. He walked quickly but carefully through the woods. Visibility was only ten feet. Branches scraped at him. He kept one arm in front of his face for protection.

  He heard more s
hots. He ducked reflexively into a crouch. They didn’t sound the same as the first gunshots. There was more gunfire. Those sounded like the first weapons he heard. Was there another party out here in the fog?

  The shooting slowed. The sounds were more muffled as Chad walked deeper into the woods. He emerged from the trees. He was not as near to his car as he thought. He sprinted knowing every second counted. Chad jumped in and drove away as fast as the fog would let him.

  Back in the fields, Lupa rolled over below the crest of the hill and put away her twenty-year old scoped Remington long-range pistol. Her shots chased them back into the woods and up the path. She could have killed them. She hadn’t. She didn’t kill needlessly. Besides, they were not a part of her contract.

  Chapter 114

  Archer held his breath for nearly an hour driving through the fog. He was glad the rental had the GPS navigation He set it for London, three hours away. The fog hugged him through Boston, the UK Boston, and almost all the way to Spalding. He was not familiar with the route, but he kept his speed as high as he could. Nervously, Chad looked in the rearview mirror as often as he looked ahead. He guessed they were not far behind him. He felt trapped knowing they probably had a GPS tracker somewhere on the car. He thought he should pull over and look for it, but then they might catch up.

  What seemed like a good plan this morning didn’t seem so good now. He had expected everyone to chase the locator stone leaving him free.

  Ideas flashed through his brain. Abandon the car? Rent a car? Find the police? Call Boyer for help? Maybe that was Boyer’s people who were shooting back? Someone sent to watch over him?

  He checked his gas. Enough to get to London.

  Traffic on the A16 was light. The fog was gone this far inland. He didn’t like that and wished he could reach a divided motorway soon. He would feel safer there. More traffic. What would they do? Shoot him with so many witnesses around?

  He got his wish a few miles later as he turned onto the A1(M). Chad sped up. He felt better for only a minute. Then the rain started. He eased up on the accelerator. He glanced at the navigator. One hour and fifty minutes to London. It might be longer. He needed to go to the airport.

  Looking back and forth from the road to the navigator, he changed London to Heathrow airport. Oh, good only an hour and twenty-six minutes. How he would get a flight on short notice, he didn’t know. Security would flag it. Whose name would he use? His new credit cards did not have enough left to fly to Phoenix. What city should he fly to? How could he travel with the urn and the stone he carried? Should he stop and hide them?

  All these questions. No answers. He had less than two hours to resolve it.

  Chad watched a set of headlights in his mirror. They rapidly approached like a large cat bounding after its prey. He winced as they flew past him.

  The rain at first gave him a comfy feeling of being unrecognizable. Invisible. After that last car went past, he realized, how useless any witnesses would be. He couldn’t see anything not directly in his headlights.

  One more question lingered. Sandy.

  I trust her, he told himself. Why, he asked?

  ------

  “You know what you need to do,” the Professor said flatly. It was a question, a statement, and an order.

  “I know,” Sandy said. “But we don’t know where he will stop. Or even if he will stop.”

  “We checked and so far there is no airline reservation out of England. It looks like he will stop for the night somewhere.”

  “No reservation in the name of Archer,” Sandy said. “We know he must be using other ID,”

  “You’re right. Just be ready. And, be close.”

  “I always am. I will be close. I am following the GPS, now.”

  ------

  Archer passed the A428 for Cambridge and saw a sign for London, fifty-four miles. His GPS navigator read sixty-two miles to Heathrow. Traffic was picking up even at nine thirty at night. The rain was now a steady drizzle.

  “What the hell?” Archer screamed as a car swerved from his right, the high-speed lane, and cut in front of him. He turned the wheel sharply to the right, frantically checking his side mirror.

  The car swerved in front of him again making Chad stomp on the breaks and go into a spin. Miraculously missing everyone, his car slid to the left, across the other lane and onto the shoulder. The car that cut him off stopped dead in the fast lane a hundred yards away. Other cars slowed and honked as they passed it.

  Chad got out of his car, knees shaking. What happened? Shit. What am I doing? That must be them. He jumped back in. They maneuvered their vehicle across the road to the shoulder facing Chad and the rest of the traffic. A hand reached out of the passenger side and shot at him. It pinged off the fender. The car slowly approached.

  Chad had no way out. If he tried to pull into traffic, he exposed himself broadside to the shooter.

  He accelerated directly at his attacker. They stopped. He closed the gap. Seventy yards. Sixty. Forty. He was watching his side mirror. Thirty yards. His speed was forty miles an hour and increasing. He covered twenty yards every second. He wasn’t doing the math. He was too busy pulling into traffic. The shooter pulled the gun in and cringed as Chad whipped past.

  A quarter mile ahead was an exit. Chad sped down the ramp, beeping his horn. He passed a car using the shoulder and cut in front of another to turn left.

  He was on some side road. He kept going. Fast. Faster he told himself. Praying some pedestrian didn’t step out onto the road.

  Ten minutes went by. No one caught him. He passed through Potton. Chad saw a sign for Cambridge, eighteen miles. Suddenly, he thought of where he could hide. In Cambridge. He pushed harder, he needed another ten miles with the car.

  He didn’t make it ten miles. Headlights came up fast behind him. They bumped his car hard and fell back. He accelerated. They came at him again. He looked to the right. There was no divider here. Cars were in the lane going the other direction. Do the unexpected he told himself. He slammed on the brakes bracing for the impact. The crash took them by surprise. Both cars swerved. Chad saw an opening to his left and turned. He turned again at the next street. He weaved in and out of the side streets in Barton.

  He saw what he needed. A school. He pulled in the parking lot. Slammed on the brakes. Jumped from the car, grabbing his backpack, and ripping the navigator from the dash. He ran through the schoolyard and out the other side, disappearing into the darkness. They were thirty seconds behind him. Not even close enough to get another shot off. They left their car and guns drawn walked toward Chad’s rental. They argued in Hebrew.

  Two silenced pffts dropped both men.

  She stepped up from behind them. They hadn’t heard her. They wouldn’t. She was a professional. She added a bullet to the head. She always made sure.

  “I tried to warn you off at the farmhouse,” she said aloud. No one was listening.

  She made a call. “Hi. I wonder if I can arrange for some housekeeping. And, a little yard work? I have two kids that made a real mess. I don’t have time to take care of everything. I’ll leave the key under the mat. Oh, yeah. Can you put their bicycles in the garage? There are two of them. Thanks.”

  Translation. Yard work. It’s outside. Two bodies. A real mess - lots of blood. Two autos. Theirs and Chad’s. The people on the other end had the GPS coordinates for her phone.

  Lupa shot out the single parking lot light. The GPS she planted on his car wouldn’t help now. In her car, a block away, she activated a chip in his backpack. She notified the Professor directly.

  He was on foot. No need to hurry. She drove slowly after him.

  Chapter 115

  “Vivian, this is Chad Archer. We met on a plane a few weeks ago. You bought me a proper English breakfast. I’m sorry to call you so late.”

  “Of course I remember you. It’s not late at all. I haven’t even had my bedtime sherry, yet. How are you?”

  “Not so good. That’s why I’m calling you. I can expla
in more later. I’m sort of stranded near Cambridge. I wonder if I could really impose on you. Could you put me up for the night?”

  “Oh my, Chad. You sound like you are in a pickle. Of course you can stay the night. I will make up a bed for you. Where are you exactly?”

  “I’m between Barton and Grantchester.”

  “You’re very close. Let me give you my address.”

  Chad typed it into the GPS. The built in battery should last long enough.

  “Thanks Vivian. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “It shouldn’t take that long to drive here. I’ll have the porch lantern on.”

  ----

  Archer ran down quiet roads and quiet streets. He ducked away whenever he saw headlights. Luckily the GPS navigator allowed him to find a non-highway route to Vivian’s house. He jogged up a picturesque street named Dexter Road. He found her house. The light was on as she said. Along with a streetlamp across the street, there was enough light for Chad to see a cute, pastel green, family home, with a gravel front courtyard, framed by bushes and flowers.

  He knocked on the door.

  Vivian opened the door. “Oh, Chad. You look like a drowned rat. Where is your car?” she asked looking over his shoulder.

  “That’s part of the story,” he said, giving her his most forlorn lost puppy look.

  “Come through. Come through,” she said.

  He stopped just inside the door, standing on a mat.

  “I’m too wet, Vivian. I should take off some of these things here. He removed his shoes, the soaked socks, and his jacket.

  “C’mon upstairs. You need a hot bath. Some dry clothes. I have some old things of Stanley’s. You are bigger than he ever was. I’ll see what I can do. Leave that backpack here.”

  “I have to hang onto it,” he told her. “I’ll skip the bath, but I would appreciate some dry clothes.”