The Renegade Merchant

by Sarah Woodbury

  In fact, this was a crap assignment, and Callum would be the first to admit it. MI-5 usually dealt with threats to national security such as the detection and apprehension of terrorists. These people needed a psychiatrist. They certainly didn’t need to be chased by a dozen agents from MI-5.

  For this mission, Callum had brought two SUVs and a larger van, which he directed to park in the castle’s rear car park. He then dispersed his ten men around the perimeter of Chepstow Castle. They could patrol the exterior until Callum got word that Cardiff had rousted the government official who managed the castle, and he had arrived to unlock the main door. Callum left Ted inside the second SUV with two agents to watch over him. There wasn’t any point in getting him wet until the castle opened for business. Callum got back into his SUV himself just as his phone rang.

  It was Jones. Callum put him on speaker and popped up the tablet that connected the SUV to the computer in the conference room back in Cardiff. His eyes went instinctively to a corner of the screen where Jones had pasted the picture of one of the girls who’d somehow gotten caught up in all this: Bronwen Llywelyn. She’d been an archaeology graduate student in Pennsylvania before she’d disappeared three years ago. Ted had met her and claimed that she’d gone back to the Middle Ages with Meg’s son, David.

  “What can you tell me?” Callum said. “Are we in the right place?”

  “A camera caught their car coming into Chepstow earlier this morning,” said Jones.

  “When this is over, heads will roll,” Natasha said. “You can be sure that Smythe’s will be first, even if he is the current pet of Thames House.”

  Callum glanced at Natasha in the rear view mirror, surprised at the venom in her voice. He was touched if it was on his behalf but sensed there was more to it. Ever since he’d come back from Afghanistan, there were moments when Callum didn’t trust his instincts, particularly with women. He wanted to ask Natasha what Smythe had done to her but now wasn’t the time.

  “Just so long as the head that rolls isn’t mine.” Callum couldn’t allow this mission to get out of control, not with junior MI-5 agents lurking in the wings, waiting for him to slip up. He walked a thin line as it was, having come back from Afghanistan with enough Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (known as PTSD) to feel like he had to hide it. The fact that everyone came back from Afghanistan with issues of one form or another meant that his obsessions were so minor they didn’t prevent him from working. But he didn’t care to advertise them either. As his American father had said, “Son, the war screwed you up, but not so much they feel they should mention it.”

  It might be, for example, that the goons deep in the belly of Thames House knew all about Callum’s secret compulsion to wash his hands a little too often, even if the IT department swore they hadn’t put cameras in the loo. Callum didn’t trust them to tell the truth. Admittedly, that was an occupational hazard.

  “The other news could be better,” said Jones. “Chepstow is having a fair today—hundreds of people are expected.”

  “Bloody hell. We need to shut it down,” Callum said.

  But even as Callum spoke, Natasha was shaking her head from the back seat.

  “Hold on, Jones.” Callum turned to look at her. “What?”

  “If nobody is here, if all Meg sees when she arrives is our men, she’s smart enough not to approach. A crowd might be better,” Natasha said.

  Callum directed his voice towards the speaker again. “I take that back. We’ll stick to the current plan.”

  “A crowd will give them cover,” said Jones.

  “But it will also make them think they’re safe,” Callum said. “We can’t let them get away again.”

  “The men are good,” said Jones. “They’ll see to it.”

  “You’ve got the camera feeds?”

  “Eight of them,” said Jones. “The only difficult spot is the rear of the castle. The cameras in the car park are working, but the two that cover the west side are out. You’ll have to mind that back gate in particular. That’s where we’re completely blind.”

  “The gate was locked when I visited Chepstow a few months ago,” Natasha said. “I know because I wanted to use it, but the custodian told me I couldn’t.”

  “I doubt that something like that would have changed,” Callum said, “but we shouldn’t presume.”

  “Right,” said Jones. “According to the plans I have here, the original entrance was destroyed, and that gate is used only for maintenance.”

  “I’m orienting the men now,” Natasha said, one hand to her ear piece. “They’ll patrol there specifically.”

  Jones disconnected, and Callum scrubbed at his hair with one hand, feeling every one of his thirty-four years. Natasha had deep circles under her eyes too, not surprising since neither of them had slept in twenty-four hours. If they stayed at this much longer, their boss would replace Callum’s team with a different unit. Tired men made mistakes.

  “Worst case, the river patrol has to scoop our fugitives out of the Wye,” Natasha said.

  “I’d prefer it didn’t come to that,” Callum said. “I can see the headline now: Pregnant Woman Evades Security Service, Jumps into Wye River!”

  “Have you ever been inside the castle?” Natasha said.

  “I dated a girl who brought me here soon after I arrived at Cardiff. It was summer, so warmer then.” Callum checked the sky as he slipped his gloves back on. “Though admittedly, not by much.”

  Natasha nodded her head towards the entrance to the castle. Only three people had passed across their line of sight since they’d arrived. “Where should I set up the command post?”

  “You’ll be my point person here and coordinate with the team,” Callum said. “I’ll take the balcony when it comes to it.”

  “They’ll never reach it,” Natasha said. “We could use you elsewhere. Maybe on the battlement.” She gazed up at the crenellations on the closest tower. The rain had turned the normally yellowish stone a dark grey.

  “We’ve underestimated them from the beginning,” Callum said. “I’d like to start thinking two steps ahead.” The driver had left the engine running and the heat bathed Callum’s face. Callum relaxed against the headrest. “We need to move to a less noticeable location. We don’t want to scare them off before we’ve started.”

  It took until eight o’clock to contact the custodian of the castle. By then, the man was already on his way in. To top the morning off right, the rain started to fall again, though the crowd that had gathered to await the opening of the castle seemed unperturbed by it.

  Natasha, talking through her headset, had been patiently directing the men. As the time neared eight-thirty, she tapped Callum’s shoulder. “Have you noticed what everyone is wearing?”

  Too late, Callum realized that the crowds not only would hide Meg, Llywelyn, and Goronwy, but would provide them an easier cover than he had expected: everyone in the crowd that was forming outside the castle gate wore medieval garb.

  Callum grabbed the binoculars and put them to his eyes, focusing on one individual at a time as he worked his way through the crowd. It was one thing to find the three fugitives in broad daylight, but with the rain, hoods were up and cloaks were tucked tight under chins. Callum’s men were going to have a hard time spotting them, even with cameras watching keenly.

  Callum turned up his earpiece. “Driscoll, get Ted to the front gate. We need someone closer who can recognize them on sight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Driscoll said, “but we risk Meg spotting him.”

  “Better that than to lose her entirely,” Callum said.

  “We can watch the crowd for anyone who balks as he approaches the entrance,” Natasha said.

  “I don’t like this.” Callum turned to Natasha. “I need a better picture of what’s happening. I’m too far away.”

  Natasha put one hand to her ear, listening, and held up her other hand to Callum. Then she said, “The custodian has arrived and is waiting for you at the castle entrance.”


  “Excellent.” Callum got out of the car, checked that his earpiece was working properly, and headed towards the castle gate. His trench coat with the collar up didn’t fit in with the re-enactors, but at least he wasn’t in black like his men. Their coats hid their firearms from the crowd, but they still looked like cockroaches on a bed sheet. At this point, however, it was too late to find them medieval clothing. It wasn’t as if Callum could buy that kind of attire at Marks and Spencer.

  Welsh gun laws were more than strict. People weren’t used to seeing weaponry outside of their televisions. Callum didn’t wear his gun openly either. He didn’t want to intimidate the innocent onlookers more than he had to. Callum wanted this to be easy. It should have been easy from the start.

  Callum eased through the crowd, smiling and nodding, trying to blend in and pretend he enjoyed medieval pageantry. All the while, he cursed the rain, the bad luck that had brought Meg to Chepstow on this day, the errant custodian who had only just arrived, and Smythe for his initial heavy-handed approach to their fugitives. Remarkably, Smythe had never learned that much more could be accomplished with honey than with vinegar.

  As promised, the custodian was waiting for Callum at the castle entrance and unlocked the door as he approached. The custodian didn’t immediately push the door open, however; he just stood there, gabbing at Callum. “I don’t understand what this is all about.”

  “You don’t need to,” Callum said.

  “If something untoward is going on, I need to know about it,” the man said. His expression told Callum what he thought of this insult to his authority.

  “No, you don’t.” Callum put his hand on the door and shoved it inward with enough force to knock the door handle from the custodian’s hand. The custodian sputtered his disapproval, but Callum pushed past him and entered Chepstow’s lower bailey.

  He was alone for only a minute before a host of organizers and re-enactors followed. With them came Callum’s men who would watch for Meg from inside the castle. Before they set about their task, Callum took them aside. “I want you on the walls and in the doorways between the baileys. We stay in constant communication.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men said in unison.

  Callum then did a complete survey of the interior of the castle, all the way up to the rear door. It was locked. He returned to the lower bailey and entered the gift shop, looking for the custodian. The man wasn’t happy to see Callum, but he delegated the ticket taking to someone else and gave Callum his full attention. “Tell me about the back gate,” Callum said.

  “It’s always locked,” the man said. “Only the groundskeeper and I have keys.”

  “Is the groundskeeper here today?”

  “He’ll be along in a minute,” the custodian said.

  “Send him to me when he comes in,” Callum said. “I’ll be on the balcony off the wine cellar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Having little faith that the custodian would do as he requested, Callum asked Natasha to let him know when the maintenance worker arrived. He was sorry he’d rubbed the custodian the wrong way, but Callum had a job to do. It was ridiculous for the man to question how he did it.

  Callum made his way through the kitchen, already busy with preparations for a medieval meal, down the stairs, and into the wine cellar. Chepstow Castle was in better repair than many ancient fortresses since it had never been taken by an enemy force in battle. Still, it wasn’t what one might call habitable, having lost its wooden infrastructure—specifically the roofs to all its buildings and halls—centuries ago.

  The room in which Callum found himself now, however, was built in stone. Contemplating the rain, he stood in the doorway to the balcony that overlooked the Wye River. He couldn’t help but think about the men who’d lived here centuries ago when the cellar was full and the purpose of the castle was to stand as a last bastion of English strength against the miles of Wales to the west.

  Seven hundred years ago, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the man Meg claimed was her husband, had died, and Wales had fallen to England. Callum hadn’t lived in Wales very long, but only an imbecile could have failed to notice how many Welsh people wished that had never happened. Callum stared at the puddles forming on the uneven stones at his feet. He wished he could speak to his father, who’d have had a thing or two to say about the day Callum was having.

  From the back of the wine cellar, perched on a building stone that could have fallen off the balcony wall four hundred years ago, Callum called in to Natasha. “What do you see?”

  “I —crackle, crackle— someth — crackle, crackle—”

  “You’re breaking up.”

  “I —crackle, crackle—”

  “Forget it. It’s my fault. I’m coming up.”

  Natasha was right that waiting for Meg in the wine cellar was a waste of his time, especially since the stones blocked the reception for his earpiece. Callum had allowed the knowledge that Meg had eluded them so far to cloud his thinking. He was ascribing superpowers to a pregnant former history professor burdened by two older men, one of whom was fresh out of hospital. If Callum hadn’t felt that his job was somehow on the line, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of his situation.

  Callum came out of the former great hall of Chepstow Castle into a dramatically changed scene. When he’d entered earlier, the castle had just been starting to fill. Now, an expansive pavilion had been set up in the center of the lower bailey. Tourists streamed through the gift shop, heading towards either the pavilion or the middle bailey, where Callum could hear a speaker welcoming everyone to Chepstow Castle. Three of Callum’s men observed the movements of the crowd from the battlement, and two more stood in the doorway between the middle and lower bailey, checking the face of every person who went through it.

  Callum tried Natasha again. “Where are we?”

  “I’ve moved Ted and Agent Driscoll inside the gift shop,” Natasha said. “Ted was getting restless and cold.”

  “How well can he see from there?”

  “He can see better,” she said. “We’re having people remove their hats and hoods once they’re inside—for security purposes.”

  “Excellent,” Callum said. “No sign of them, I assume?”

  “No, sir.”

  That wasn’t excellent. While Callum had been speaking to Natasha, the speaker in the middle bailey had released the crowd, which surged into the lower bailey. A girl brushed past Callum lugging an iron pot. It was so heavy, she needed both hands on the handle to carry it. Steam rose from the liquid inside, wafting the scent of beef and barley stew in his direction.

  Uncertain about his next move and sure that he was missing something important, Callum moved closer to the castle entrance. He spent a few minutes scanning the face of every tourist who entered the castle. With each person who passed by, Callum’s irritation and suspicion rose, until he remembered that he hadn’t yet spoken to the groundskeeper.

  “Who’s watching the back gate?” Callum said, cutting through the chatter amongst his men that came constantly through his earpiece. He hadn’t cut them off earlier in large part because men standing around talking looked more natural than men glaring at the crowd.

  “Agents Jeffries and Leon, sir,” Natasha said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Agent Leon said, “but Chapman and Stevens were assigned to the rear of the castle. Jeffries and I have been up on the wall in the middle bailey for the last thirty minutes.”

  “That’s not right, sir. Chapman and I were tasked with watching the car park,” Stevens said.

  Bollocks. “Stevens, check the back gate. Jeffries, find the groundskeeper.”

  “They haven’t slipped past us from the front,” Natasha said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m going to have a look at the cellar again as a precaution,” Callum said.

  Of all the times to screw up the assignments. That had been Natasha’s job, but it was ultimately Callum’s responsibility. If he couldn’t stop Meg from jumping off the b
alcony, the head that would roll would be his. Callum trotted back into the passageway that led to the wine cellar.

  Tourists’ wet boots had made the stones slippery, and Callum was glad for the good tread on his rubber soled work shoes. No electric light or torch guided his feet as he descended into the darkness of the wine cellar, but as he neared the bottom of the stairs, dim light came from the doorway to the balcony. Callum reached it a second later and pulled up, stunned by what he saw.

  “Stop!”

  At Callum’s shout, the woman—Meg—pushed back the hood of her cloak and glanced over her shoulder, letting the rain sweep into her face. Goronwy, the shorter, squatter, and greyer of the two men, already stood on the wall that overlooked the Wye River. He glared at Callum, who couldn’t blame him, given that for the last twelve hours MI-5 had chased him across the length and breadth of Wales. All three fugitives looked as tired as Callum felt.

  Goronwy’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw his weapon. Llywelyn didn’t even glance at Callum. Instead, he hoisted himself up onto the stones to stand on the wall beside Goronwy. It wasn’t a wide wall, either, maybe a foot deep. Both men balanced there securely, even Llywelyn with his gimpy heart.

  “Please. Let us go.” Meg clutched her skirt in one hand and gripped Goronwy’s hand tightly with the other.

  “Don’t make another move except to step down slowly. I need you to come with me.” Callum put a hand to his ear, noticing the absence of conversation, and realized that his earpiece had gone on the fritz again, blocked by the stones above his head.

  Meg dropped her skirt and reached for Llywelyn’s hand. “We can’t. We have to go home.”

  While Callum watched, helpless to stop them, the two men lifted her onto the wall. Callum took a step forward, one hand out, fumbling with his other hand in the pocket of his trench coat for his phone. What he didn’t do was pull his gun from its holster under his suit jacket. Callum needed to end this before it went further, but not with a bullet wound.