Sleeper: The Seven Sequels

by Eric Walters

  I stopped at the intersection. There on the curb, in big letters, were the words LOOK RIGHT! Only in London were there crossing instructions for dummies. I did a quick look to the left before really looking to the right. There was nothing coming. I started to cross, and a black BMW with tinted windows rolled by. I startled slightly, thrown by its appearance. It kept going and disappeared at the next corner, hanging a right-hand turn. Big deal—the world is full of black BMWs, I told myself.

  At each crossing, I looked to the right not just for traffic, but for motorcycles, black BMWs and white cars in particular. It was easy enough to see at least one of those on each street. I also became more aware of the people around me. Hadn’t that woman been behind me for the last few blocks? And that man with the dog…I didn’t recognize him, but that dog certainly looked familiar. This was becoming ridiculous. I was becoming ridiculous. At least Charlie had a reason to think she was being followed.

  The river loomed up ahead. I could smell it, a scent even stronger than the faint dampness in the air itself. The wind was blowing down the river and I could feel it through my jacket. I pulled up my collar and fought the urge to turn around and go back to Doris’s house, remembering she had said she wasn’t going to let me in if I came back too early. It wasn’t cold like back home, but there was a rawness that made it seem colder than it was. At least the rain was still holding off.

  I turned my back to the wind and pulled out my phone. This was probably a good time to text Steve.

  I need you to look in Grandpa’s war journal for any references to a man named Kim Philby. He could also be called Stanley. Let me know asap. This is important. Thanks. Hope all is good.

  I pushed Send. Now I’d just have to wait for his answer.

  The path I was standing on was wide and well traveled by joggers and cyclists and people pushing baby carriages. I passed by more than one couple around my age walking hand in hand. I fantasized about seeing Charlie walking hand and hand with her man friend and played around with what I’d say to her—or him. I wondered if I’d know who he was. Was she dating some musician or movie star? That was probably as far-fetched as my thinking I was being followed.

  Anyway, she wasn’t going anywhere public with this mystery man. How special did he think he was that he had any doubts about being seen in public with her? What did that even mean? Was he a celebrity, or was it something else? Was he married? Was that it? I felt terrible even thinking that. I figured Charlie was better than that.

  “Excuse me,” a woman called out. She had a heavy foreign accent. I stopped. “Do you think you could take a picture of my husband and me?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “It is a very tricky camera,” the man said. His accent was also very thick…something Eastern European. “First you stand with my wife and I will take picture… set it up…then you take our picture.”

  “Yeah, I guess I—”

  She grabbed me by the arm and, with remarkable strength, pulled me forward and to the side.

  “Say smiley!” he called out. I gave a weak smile and the flash went off. Then it went off a second and third time.

  “Now you take us picture…come, George,” she called out to her husband.

  He handed me the camera, and then he and his wife posed. I positioned myself so that I could frame them in one side of the picture with the London Eye visible behind them.

  “Okay, smile,” I said.

  I took one picture and then a second to be safe. “I think I got a good one.”

  “Thank you so much,” he said as he took back the camera.

  “Yes, thank you. People here are so friendly. What is your name, so I can put it down in my trip memory book?”

  “It’s…um…Nigel. Nigel Finch.” I don’t know why I told her that, but I did. It popped out without thinking.

  “Good to meet you. If you gave your email, we could send you a copy of picture if you’d like,” he said.

  “That’s all right, but thank you just the same. Have a good evening.”

  I started off again. It was good to talk to somebody, yet somehow it made me feel even more alone. Everybody walking along here seemed to have somebody except me. I was by myself—whoever that self was. Why had I said Nigel Finch when I’d been asked my name? Was it because I didn’t want them to know anything about me, or was it because I was trying out another name? What if we found out my grandfather really wasn’t David McLean? Would we take on the family name Finch? I certainly couldn’t see myself as a Nigel. It was still strange enough to be called David instead of DJ. For years I’d just been DJ—David Junior—named after my grandfather. It was after his death—in the letter he’d written me—that he said I could be called David now.

  I looked up and saw the Parliament buildings looming in front of me. I wasn’t any less alone, but I felt a surge of excitement. It all came back in a rush. Here I was, standing beside the Thames River, in London, England, beside the very seat of modern democracy. This was all pretty darn cool. But maybe my grandfather had worked to try to bring about the downfall of democracy—that wasn’t so cool. I had to stop thinking like that.

  Just downriver and on the other side, the London Eye rotated slowly, a gigantic Ferris wheel rising above the river. It glowed red and white in the darkening sky. I’d read that it was 135 meters high. I don’t like planes, but I don’t mind heights—well, not as much. From up there, I was sure, I could see the entire city.

  I crossed over the bridge to the other side of the river. I bought a ticket and joined the line for the Eye. Looking up, I counted the cars—thirty-two—each an enclosed glass container that held a couple dozen passengers.

  “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” a man asked me.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “You’re Canadian,” he said.

  “Yeah, I am…how did you know?”

  “The accent.”

  I hadn’t said more than a few words. Was it that obvious?

  “It’s easy for me to tell because I’m a Canuck too.”

  He didn’t sound Canadian. “Really?”

  “Well, I guess it gets a little blurred because I lived in New York for a long time, eh?”

  “Yeah, that could be it. You do sound more like an American.”

  “And we Canucks don’t want to be mistaken for American, right?”

  I shrugged. “I like Americans. It’s no big deal.” Unless a beautiful girl didn’t know the difference.

  We continued to shuffle forward in the line.

  “We’re moving pretty quick, eh?” he said.

  This was one really friendly guy, and he was making me super uncomfortable.

  We got close to the front of the line. A big capsule stopped and the glass doors slid open. The attendant herded a group of people in. I hoped I’d get in this one—and that my friend wouldn’t. I got on, but he got on with me. One out of two wishes granted.

  While others flocked toward the glass sides, I took a seat in the middle of the compartment, on a circular bench. I felt more comfortable with a little distance between me and the sides. As others crowded in, I had a wall of people as protection.

  “You nervous around heights too?” a familiar voice asked. Before I could answer, my “friend” said, “Maybe it’s a Canuck thing, eh?”

  I’d never heard anybody use “Canuck” so often… or say “eh” so much.

  “Rob. Rob Davies,” he said, offering his hand.

  I hesitated for half a second. “Nigel Finch.” At least I was consistent. Besides, I didn’t want him to know my real name.

  “Pleased to meet you, Nigel.” He gave me a hearty handshake. “So what brings you to London, business or pleasure?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “It’s good to have friends. I make them everywhere I go. Speaking of which”—he tapped the shoulder of a man standing just in front of us—“can you take a picture of me and my new friend Nigel?”

  He handed the man the camera and then crowded in close to
me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. Before I could react, the man was taking a picture, and then another. Captain Canuck released his grip on me as he took back his camera. I took the opportunity to escape.

  “I want to get a better view,” I explained as I got to my feet and walked away from him.

  Everybody always talked about big cities being unfriendly. I might have to start visiting bigger cities.

  ELEVEN

  DECEMBER 30

  I pulled up the garage door and the Jag smiled at me with its big chrome grill. I smiled back. It was going to be wonderful to drive it one more time. I stepped inside and ran my hand along the hood. “Hello, my darling,” I said.

  Charlie grabbed the door and swung it down, sealing us inside. I gave her a questioning look.

  “I thought the two of you might want to be alone.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be outside the door?” I asked.

  “I am leaving, and you’re coming with me.” She took me by the hand, and an instant rush of heat surged through my body. She led me through the little side door and out into a small alley beside the garage.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “We’re not taking the Jag,” she said, leading me down the alley.

  “Why not?”

  “I was followed here today by two men on motorcycles…paparazzi.”

  I skidded to a stop. “So you think somebody might take your picture, and I might be in it. That’s why I can’t take the Jag?”

  She looked embarrassed.

  “So what are we going to do instead—walk across the city?”

  “I was thinking a cab or the underground. Those are both genuine English experiences.”

  “As is driving a Jag,” I said.

  “Please. I’ll even pay for the alternate transportation.”

  She looked at me with big blue, pleading eyes. She was using me against myself in this argument. And I was losing. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  She dragged me, still holding my hand, between the garages, through a little gate and then over a small fence that we just stepped over. We came up to the side of another house. She peeked out and then retreated back behind the house. She released my hand—my very sweaty hand—and pulled something out of her bag.

  “Put this on,” she said, handing me a baseball cap.

  “Gee, and I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Just put it on. It’s a disguise.”

  I removed my beret, carefully folded it and put it in my pocket, replacing it with the cap. She pulled out a brown wig, put it on and tucked all her hair underneath it. Next, she put on a big floppy hat.

  “How does that look?” she asked.

  “It looks like you’re more paranoid than you think I am. What now?”

  “I’m going to walk down to the main intersection, and you’re going to wait for a minute or two and then follow. Hopefully, by the time you get there I will have hailed a cab, and we’ll be off.”

  “Should we synchronize our watches?” I asked. “Or maybe we should have a password if we suspect danger. How about I say ‘Tower of London’? Would that work?”

  “I don’t have a watch, but you can say anything you want. You know, you really do wear that beret better than the baseball cap. See you in a minute.”

  She trotted off, and I stood there watching. I wanted to drive that Jag, but I wanted to be with her more. I looked at my watch. It had been long enough. I ran after her. She had already climbed into a big black cab, leaving the door open. I jumped in after her and closed the door behind me.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said to the driver. She was slumped down in the seat, with only the top of her head—the part covered by the hat and wig—showing.

  “The address is—”

  “Just drive for a while,” Charlie said, cutting me off. “I want to show my friend a little bit of London. Head toward the East End.”

  Without being asked, I slumped down in my seat as well. It was a big old cab, the sort you see in movies set in London. As we started to travel, I inched up in my seat. If I wasn’t going to drive, at least I could take advantage of being a passenger. Coincidentally, we headed along a route almost identical to the one I’d walked the previous night. The Houses of Parliament were on one side, the Eye on the other. Despite its height, and the pushy “Canuck,” I’d enjoyed the Eye—the ride and the view. It was a beautiful city. After this little adventure came to its inevitable dead end, I’d have a couple of days to enjoy the sights before I headed back. I might even take in New Year’s Eve in Trafalgar Square. I wouldn’t be with Charlie, of course, but it was a free country, and I could still enjoy the evening with thousands and thousands of other people.

  “You can give him the address now,” Charlie said.

  “To 4030 Coventry Lane, please.”

  “Oh, that’s a classy part of town. Very old-money,” the cabdriver said.

  “Could you drive by the house first, please?” Charlie asked when we got to Coventry Lane.

  That sounded like a good idea. I’d felt increasingly nervous as we got closer. What exactly was I supposed to say? I eyed the house, which was similar to all the homes along this street. It was large, brick, partially covered by ivy, set back from the road by a lawn and marked off by a stone wall. One difference was that 4030 had a higher wall than the others and a grated metal gate.

  “Pull over here, please, just around this corner.”

  The driver pulled into a narrow alley, and the house was lost from view behind another house’s perimeter wall.

  “Here’s the fare and another fiver,” Charlie said, passing the money over the seat. “I want you to wait five minutes or so. We might be right back.”

  “Sure thing,” the driver replied.

  This was the first time I’d noticed the driver; his accent made it obvious he wasn’t English.

  We got out, and I started toward the front of the house. But Charlie headed down the lane, and I went after her. She pulled off her hat and wig, and I pulled off my baseball cap as well. She stuffed everything into her big purse.

  “I thought we’d walk around the grounds first, just to have a look,” she explained.

  That made sense. Anything to delay having to knock on the front door made sense. What was I going to say? Hello, I’m David McLean. Do you know my grandfather? And by the way, was he a spy or a traitor or a sleeper agent? Yeah, that was a good opening line.

  The wall surrounding the property was slightly taller than me, so while I could see the house, I couldn’t see the yard at all. When we passed by a metal gate, we saw an old man puttering in the garden. We stopped.

  “Hello!” Charlie called out.

  He looked up from his work, peered around in a confused manner and then saw us. He waved back, smiled and gave a little tip of his hat. Still holding the shovel, he slowly limped toward us. As he got closer, I saw that he was of my grandfather’s vintage. He could have known him.

  “Good morning. Your garden looks lovely,” Charlie said.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “And this is your house?” she asked.

  “I hope so, or I’m tending somebody else’s garden… although I’m afraid this spring weather has been so unpredictable that it’s made for a bit of a hodgepodge.”

  He must have meant springlike; compared to home, this was spring. It certainly wasn’t like the winter where I came from.

  “I’m Charlie and this is my friend DJ.”

  “I’m Bernard,” he said.

  “I’m afraid my mother would be very angry at me for addressing somebody who is my elder by their first name,” Charlie said.

  “Your mother is obviously a person of breeding. My name is Mr. March.”

  He reached out through the grating, and we each shook his hand.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. March, sir,” I said.

  “We’re just out for a stroll. Would you like to join us?” Charlie asked.

  “I have so much work
to do, but it would be nice,” he said.

  I went to open the gate, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Locked,” he said, “but I do believe I have the key right here.” He searched his pockets and finally produced a full ring of keys. His hand was shaking.

  “Besides, it would give me a chance to see how much damage was done last night,” he said as he fumbled with the keys, trying to find the right one.

  “Damage?” I asked.

  “From the bombers. They must have been close, because it felt as if they were going to shake me out of my bed.”

  Charlie and I exchanged confused looks.

  “I hope there weren’t too many casualties. It’s hard enough when soldiers are killed in war, but the Blitz targets civilians. Terrible.”

  “But the Blitz—” I began.

  “Is a terrible thing, a tragedy,” Charlie said. “But there were only a few bombers last night, and they dropped their bombs wide of any target. There’s not much to see.”

  “There’s not anything to see,” I said to her.

  “Well, there might be something to hear,” Charlie said as an aside. “I bet Mr. March has many stories he could tell us. Right, sir?”

  “Oh, so many stories to tell and…” There was a click, and the gate opened slightly.

  I moved in close to Charlie so I could speak quietly to her. “Look, there really isn’t a point in doing this…he’s obviously senile…what is he really going to be able to tell us?”

  “You’ll never know until you find out.”

  There was no way to argue that logic. I pulled my beret out and put it on my head.

  “David?” Mr. March said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  His eyes were wide open. And then I remembered that Charlie had introduced me as DJ. He was looking at me but seeing my grandpa.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “What if somebody is watching? This could destroy years of effort, blow your cover and—”

  “Hey, what are you doing?” a voice yelled.

  I looked past Mr. March. Coming out of the house was a large man in a suit and tie.