by Noel Hynd
There were two of them. Brown, gray, and black with up curled lips and raging white teeth. Two of the largest German shepherd guard dogs Thomas had ever seen. He stood in the path, transfixed with fear and afraid even to run. The dogs charged him. The walls around the villa were too large to scale. He was too far from the gate. Running toward the house would only incite the dogs further.
They were no more than fifteen feet away from him. His feet were rooted to the ground as they charged. Then Thomas and the dogs both froze when they heard the sharp commanding voice of their master, George McAdam. A. one-word command had stopped the animals.
Thomas looked back to the villa. The solid front door was wide open now. A large, graying, heavyset man stood in full view. He wore a brown herringbone jacket, white shirt, and regimental tie which was slightly crooked.
"You're Daniels?" asked McAdam.
"Yes." Thomas alternated his gaze from the animals to McAdam and back to the German shepherds. He felt an incipient resentment at having been needlessly menaced. But he said nothing.
"You're alone?" McAdam asked.
"Absolutely."
"You'd better be telling the truth." McAdam glared at him as,he studied his visitor. Walk slowly toward me," he instructed.
"Be gracious enough to hold out your hands slightly. About the height of your armpits."
Thomas obeyed, aware that the dogs were following closely behind him.
"What the hell's this all about?"
"I'm planning to frisk you," said McAdam.
"You may stop right there" Thomas was six feet in front of Leslie McAdam's foster father.
"I assume you have no objection ' "I'm hardly in a position to have any objections. I hate dog hair."
"I have my enemies," said McAdam. It was in no way an apology.
I'd never have known, Thomas thought. But he didn't say it.
McAdam stepped forward, a severe limp now discernible. He was balding slightly and had mean gray eyes. His face, like his body, was thick and solid. Then, with agile hands which knew what they were doing, McAdam thoroughly frisked Thomas. The hands moved up and down Thomas's trouser legs, the belt, his jacket, torso, and sleeves., "Lucky for you," said McAdam when he was finished.
"You. passed' He stepped backward into the foyer of the villa. Thomas was instructed to walk in front of him. The dogs followed.
Thomas was directed to a small library to the left of the foyer.
He sat on a small sofa while McAdam assumed a position behind a desk.
As McAdam was seating himself, Thomas glanced around the room quickly.
The furnishings were sparce. Books were in most of the shelves but other shelves were completely empty. On one wall, too far away for Thomas to examine carefully, there was an engraved certificate, an official document of some sort from the British Empire to George McAdam. Meanwhile, the dogs had settled tranquilly but alertly directly between the two men. Thomas got the message very clearly:
Even if an intruder had gotten this far with a weapon, he'd not be able to get a shot off at McAdam without being torn apart immediately afterward. The Alsatians were still facing Thomas. He shuddered slightly.
"Talk," said McAdam.
"I wanted to talk about your foster daughter."
"I thought of her as my daughter," McAdam countered.
"Your daughter then " said Thomas.
"And I didn't come to tell you anything as much as to ask you a few questions " "I've never seen you before in my life," he said.
"What makes you think I'd give you the time of day?"
"If she's your' daughter as you phrase it, I'd think you'd want to help her."
"Help her?" he snapped. His face was a very belligerent scowl.
"Does that sound so strange?"
"It's beginning to."
"Why?"
"Daniels" chafed McAdam.
"You are in my home. I'll ask the bloody questions!" He glared at the younger man.
"Why are you here?"
"Your daughter is in New York at this moment. She is trying to collect a multimillion dollar inheritance which may justifiably belong to her."
McAdam continued to glare for a few moments. Then his hands closed before him and he rubbed his palms together. His gray eyes softened slightly.
"You don't say?"
"You sound as if that's impossible."
"I want to hear more" "Your daughter happens to be the biological daughter of a wealthy American. Arthur Sandler. A man who is legally dead, but-" "I know who he is' McAdam said sharply.
"I know you do. and I know all about you, also. Retired from British Secret Service. Wounded in Suez, vacationing in Majorca when Leslie killed the Italian" "Who told you all that?"
"Leslie, of course."
"Leslie," he muttered.
"Certainly," he added coldly
"You see her often, do you?"
"She's my client. I'm representing her in her claim against the Sandler estate."
"Ah. I see," he said.
"Money. You bloody Yanks Thomas felt himself starting to boil. He looked at the dogs and thought better of it.
"I'm here because she told me her story. Who she is, how she came to live with you, how she went to Canada. I want you to confirm it or deny it."
"Proceed," said McAdam cautiously.
Thomas began, repeating Leslie's story point by point as well as he could remember. Then, barely breaking stride, he launched into an explanation of Arthur Sandler, of Sandler's fortune and Sandler's participation in Allied intelligence work. Thomas concluded with an explanation of how a young woman claiming to be Leslie presented herself in New York with full documentation and asked Thomas to represent her. He omitted any mention of the fire.
McAdam listened intently, but his reaction to a ten minute summation baffled Thomas. There was very definitely something unsaid in the air, some central and crucial detail still missing from the picture.
"You say you're a barrister?" was all McAdam would say.
"I've explained all that."
McAdam eyed him coyly.
"So you have," said McAdam.
"And against my better judgment, I'm beginning to believe you. You're not a lunatic, I can see that. You may be here in all good faith."
"What about the story I just told you?"
"Substantially correct. As far as the details of Leslie's past are concerned, your story is wholly factual. How's that?"
"What's not correct?"
"Have you been to London recently?"
"What?"
"I said, have you been to London recently."
"I just came from London. You know that."
"I think you should make another trip. I think you'd enjoy it."
"Cut the riddles."
"I'm offering you Arthur Sandler. Do you want him or not?"
The proposition seemed so tidy and easy that Thomas was immediately suspicious. Why an unexplained giveaway after initial hostility?
"Well?" pressed McAdam.
"Yes or no?"
"Why don't you explain for a change?"
"Oh, it's very simple, Danielsi" scoffed McAdam.
"I suspect you are a New York lawyer. You look like one. And I think you very well may have a client going by the name of Leslie McAdam.-And I think," he concluded, 'that a return journey to London would be of enormous interest to you." He almost smiled.
"Do you sense my meaning? I'm going to send you to someone."
"Who?"
"A man named Whiteside. Peter Whiteside" Thomas frowned, trying to recall.
"Yes," McAdam answered to the unspoken question,
"I'm sure your Leslie mentioned him. Her Majesty's Secret Service.
Peter Whiteside placed Leslie with my late wife and me."
"Of course" said Thomas, remembering.
McAdam reached to a pad of paper on his desk. He scribbled a name and address on the paper and slid it across the desk.
The dogs lifted their heads quickly a
s Thomas rose. McAdam spoke to the animals soothingly. Thomas was allowed to step gingerly past them and retrieve the paper. He glanced at it quickly, saw a London address he didn't recognize, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.
"Does he?"
McAdam's hand rose, the flat of his thick palm extended rudely toward Thomas.
"Absolutely not!" he snapped, shaking his head.
"I can't tell you another thing!"
There was silence. McAdam got to his feet, struggling slightly on the bad leg.
"Your questions will be answered in London as best they can be. Now, sir. He motioned to the door with his head.
Thomas remained seated, contemplating the man before him.
"One final question" he said quickly.
"It has nothing to do with Leslie."
McAdam eyed the younger man in silence.
Thomas spoke.
"Was it worth it? I'm just curious."
"Was what worth it?" McAdam asked defensively, "Your career," said Thomas.
"Here you are, a man in his final years. You hobble around from a twenty-year-old wound, you live alone with no one close to you, and you're so damned scared that someone's going to come and get you that you surround yourself with a brick wall and attack dogs. This is where all the "For Queen and Country' stuff has gotten you. I was just wondering.
Was it worthwhile?"
"Daniels," he replied without changing his expression, you have fifteen seconds to be out of my sight. Thirty to be off my property.
After that, I unleash the dogs " Thomas was on his feet instantly. The heads of the dogs were upraised and the alert eyes and ears were pointed in his direction.
In twenty-two seconds Thomas was on the sidewalk outside the iron gate, closing the latch firmly behind him.
Chapter 13
British Airways Flight 012 from Geneva to London touched down on Runway 7 at two thirty, London time. The day was brisk and damp, but clear. Thomas enjoyed the long walk from the debarkation ramp to Immigration.
Thomas waited for his suitcase to reappear on the round conveyor belt bringing baggage in from the airplane. Then, with his bag in his hand, he waited for several minutes in the non-Commonwealth line through passport control. It was not until he handed his passport to the young uniformed immigration officer that Thomas sensed something amiss.
The young man studied the passport for a moment.
"Your name?" he asked, loud enough to be heard by others nearby. He'd asked no one else that question.
"Thomas Daniels."
"Place and date of birth, sir." The young man's eyes glanced almost imperceptibly to the left.
"New York City. October 14, 1943." Now Thomas was aware of a thick, pudgy man in civilian clothes moving casually toward him.
The man was bearded, wore a bowler and an overcoat, and had a round, moon-shaped face on top of a thick ursine body. Two uniformed policemen walked behind him, cautiously and slowly, each looking every bit of six and a quarter feet tall. A show of force, obvious yet not excessive.
The young clerk whacked Thomas's passport with an inked stamp.
"Enjoy your stay in the United Kingdom, sir," he said. The passport was pushed back into Daniels's hands. He was moved along from the immigration booth.
"Mr. Daniels?" said the thick round man, moving directly alongside Thomas. The uniformed policemen stood directly behind them. They were far enough from other travelers so that they couldn't be heard.
"Yes," sad Thomas.
The man's thick squat hand disappeared quickly into his inside pocket.
Out came a small card and a badge.
"Rogers Hunter. Metropolitan Police Department."
"I'm innocent" said Thomas.
Hunter managed a forced smile.
"I'm here to accompany you to Mr. Peter Whiteside Distrusting, Thomas eyed Hunter quickly up and down. The two police in the background were watching him.
"I have his address" said Thomas.
"I think I can find him by myself."
Thomas started to step away but an incredibly powerful hand grabbed his rightarm just above the elbow. Hunter stopped Thomas in his tracks.
"I insist" said Hunter.
"I don't need help' Thomas tugged his arm but the grip remained.
"I see," said Hunter reflectively, not put off in the slightest.
"Am I to assume that you'll not be coming with me voluntarily?"
"You may assume what you like" "VM well: said Hunter, releasing the arm gently. He turned and nodded to the two uniformed officers, then looked back to Thomas.
At the time, the two policemen moved with remarkable speed for large men.
"In that case" said Hunter with a sly smile of appreciation,
"I'm placing you under arrest. I'm terribly sorry."
Thomas resisted slightly. Then it was nothing more than a blur as he was separated from his suitcase and shoved roughly against a concrete wall. By the time he looked down to his wrists there were handcuffs in place.
Chapter 14
Thomas was led from the immigration area and placed in the backseat of an unmarked dark-blue Rover. His luggage was placed in the trunk. He pulled slightly at the cuffs on his wrists and shuddered at the feeling of freedom diminished. He saw that the backseat of the car, which was separated from the front by a wire screen, had doors that could not be opened from the inside.
One of the uniformed men drove. The other stayed behind.
Hunter sidled into the front seat in front of Thomas, his expansive shoulders filling practically half of the frontarea. The Rover pulled away from the curb.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Thomas.
Hunter turned to face his prisoner.
"Are you worried?" he asked.
Thomas didn't answer. The porcine bearded face slowly creased into a grin.
"I wouldn't worry," grunted Hunter.
"You're going exactly where you wanted to go. You really had very little choice about it. Mr. Peter Whiteside wants to see you himself."
The Rover was on the motorway heading toward London.
Thomas looked out of the car apprehensively.
"How did you know where I was coming from?" he asked.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Daniels" said Hunter in a baritone chuckle.
"George McAdam?"
"We could have picked you up in Switzerland if we'd liked. But that might have been sticky, as well as unnecessary. Thank you for flying British Airways" Thomas settled back in the seat, calming slightly and seeing no alternative.
"Why couldn't I have gone to see Whiteside myself."
"Because you have a nonexistent address:' growled Hunter.
Thomas looked at the back of Hunter's neck, a neck that must have measured eighteen inches in circumference.
"Really, Mr. Daniels, you're horribly naive" The car traveled through the bleak working-class neighborhoods surrounding London. It passed through several unrecognizable sections of the city. Then Thomas recognized Victoria Station before the Rover turned left and within three more minutes was pulling to a curb in front of a Belgravia townhouse.
Hunter stepped out and quickly unlocked the back door. Thomas stepped from the car and looked into Hunter's drooping eyes.
Thomas held out his captive wrists.
"Are these still necessary?" he asked.
"You don't think I'm letting you run away now, do you?" asked Hunter harshly.
"They weren't necessary at all. But you insisted."
He took Thomas by the elbow and moved him toward the unmarked front door of a solid sandstone townhouse.
"Come along" Hunter said absently.
Thomas allowed his overcoat to be draped across his wrists.
Hunter pressed a thick finger to a doorbell and the townhouse door opened seconds later.
A plain clothed security guard surveyed them. The guard obviously recognized Hunter. Thomas was led inside as the driver from the Rover carried in his luggage.
They entere
d a small white rotunda where still another security man stood. A colored institutional portrait of the Queen hung on one side of the round room, a Union Jack stood on a standard on the other side.
Thomas was led down a hallway which was carpeted with thick maroon runners. He recognized that he was within a gracefully aged Edwardian townhouse which had been converted to Government offices of some sort.
Hunter stopped him before a door.
"Now," asked Thomas's bear shaped keeper, "you're not going to do something foolish if I unlock you, are you?"
"Certainly not," said Thomas flatly
"I'm so happy to be here."
Hunter hardly batted an eye. He unlocked Thomas's wrists and then let Thomas into a small office off the hallway. Thomas's instructions were to sit down and wait, which he did, as Hunter closed Thomas in and stood outside.
Thomas seated himself on a comfortable sofa in a small plain room with no window. The room had an empty wooden desk, an armchair, sound insulation, and a few perfunctory decorations such as the British coat of arms on the wall behind the desk. The room offered very little other than privacy, of which it offered an abundance.
Thomas remained seated as an austere, elegant older man in a dark classically tailored pin-striped suit entered. The man was in his mid seventies but his body was trim and moved easily, giving no indication of its occupant's age. The man's eyes, as he glanced at Thomas Daniels, were sharp, blue, and alive. His hair had resisted grayness and was instead a yellowish white. In earlier years this had obviously been a remarkably handsome man, lean and athletic, a man to whom flabbiness of flesh would have been as repugnant as flabbiness of thought.
His movements were epicene. He offered his hand to Thomas.
"I'm Peter Whiteside," he said.
"Did you enjoy your trip?"
They shook hands. Thomas was still cautious.
"From Switzerland to London? Or from the airport to here?"
"No matter. Either." Whiteside sat in the armchair and studied the younger man. He sat with his legs crossed and both hands on the top knee.
"Was that your gorilla who picked me up?" asked Thomas.
"That's not very kind of you at all," said Whiteside, 'attributing bestial characteristics to my associate, Mr. Hunter."