Sleeper: The Seven Sequels

by Eric Walters

  “Stop right there!” he yelled as he ran toward us. He looked angry.

  “Go!” Mr. March yelled. “Get away, and I’ll hold him off!” He tossed the keys to me and I caught them. He slammed the gate shut with a loud thud.

  “But, but—”

  “Come on!” Charlie yelled. She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me away, and then we both started to run.

  “We have to get away,” she yelled.

  We raced down the alley and made the turn. Thank goodness the cab was still waiting. We jumped in, and Charlie yelled at the driver to take off. He squealed away before I’d even settled in, and I was practically flung on top of Charlie. I struggled to disentangle myself without putting my hands anywhere I shouldn’t, then looked out the back window at the receding view of the wall and the house. We’d gotten away; we were safe. And then a big white car—a Mercedes—turned onto the street behind us.

  TWELVE

  Charlie turned around so she could see the vehicle too. It was following at a discreet distance, not gaining but staying with us.

  “Could be coincidence,” I said.

  “Driver, could you please make a series of random turns?” Charlie said.

  “You want me to lose him instead?” he asked. “I noticed car as well. Do you think the two cars are working together?”

  “Two cars?” I repeated.

  “White Mercedes was on our tail on drive out and waited down the street, and then black BMW started in.”

  I looked back, beyond the Mercedes, and there was a BMW.

  “If we had an elephant or two, we’d have ourselves a parade, we would,” the driver said.

  He made a quick turn, and I was flung from one side of the cab to the other, hitting against the door.

  “You should have seat belt,” he said.

  I fumbled around, but no luck. “I can’t find the seat belt!”

  “There is no seat belt.”

  “But you told me I should have a seat belt!” I protested.

  “You should, but I no have. Most unfortunate.”

  Charlie was still peering out the back window. “You need to lose them.”

  “They are BMW and Mercedes. I am bucket of bolts without even seat belts, but I will try.”

  He made another quick left turn, but this time I was ready.

  “Who are these people in car?” he asked. “Are they police?”

  “Not police, but we’re not sure who they are. We want to lose them,” I explained.

  “How bad you want to lose them?” the driver asked.

  “Really bad.”

  “I can do, but it will cost…oh…maybe fifty pounds,” he said.

  “How will money make this car go faster?” I demanded.

  “Not faster, but will have help. Is it worth?” he asked.

  “Yeah, do it.”

  “First money,” he said. “Let me see money.”

  I pulled out my wallet. I had over a thousand pounds in there and quickly pulled out the cash he wanted. I went to hand it to him, but Charlie stopped me.

  “You can see the money,” she said to the driver. “We need to see the results before you get it.”

  He grabbed the radio and started talking. I didn’t know the language, yet it sounded familiar. Was it Polish or Russian? Definitely it was something Eastern European. He barked out words, and replies came back over the radio from at least three different voices, all speaking the same language.

  “We cannot outrun but we can hide. I have arranged. Now tell me why these people follow but not wish to catch.”

  “How do you know they don’t want to catch us?” I asked.

  “They are in Mercedes and BMW and we are in bucket of bolts. If they wish to catch, they would have caught.”

  That made perfect sense. What was the point in following us if they weren’t going to overtake us? Were they back there waiting to take a picture? Was that what it was?

  He turned onto a broad, busy street with every lane full. It seemed like every second vehicle on the road was a cab, and a lot of them looked identical to ours. Our driver continued to yell things into the microphone, and equally excited responses came back.

  “Here is help,” our driver said.

  I looked through the windshield. All I saw was a bunch of cabs. Wait, was that what we were doing, hiding in plain sight? We passed between two cabs, and the drivers waved. Then another cab came into the gap behind us. I turned and looked through the back window. The three cabs were now side by side, and we quickly left them behind as we sped up and they slowed down. Then all three of them suddenly came to a stop. They were forming a roadblock, filling all the lanes! I could hear car horns sounding as we took off.

  “That was brilliant!” Charlie exclaimed.

  “Not brilliant. Just teamwork. I split the money with my friends in other cabs.” He reached a hand over the back of the seat and rubbed his thumb against his fingers. I handed him the fifty pounds. “So where I drive now?”

  “I guess we should head back to your grandmother’s,” I said.

  “No, I think that’s the last place we should go. That has to be where they’ll head to try to locate us again.” She leaned over the seat. “I need an Internet café, someplace crowded where we can disappear.”

  “I know such a place,” the driver said.

  “Aren’t you afraid of having your picture taken with me in public?” I asked.

  “In public isn’t so much a problem. There needs to be a crowd.”

  “This place is so crowded it is like clown car in Moscow Circus,” the driver said.

  “Here is place,” the driver said.

  I pulled out my wallet and gave him the amount of money on the meter plus a tip. It was easy to be generous when I had this much money.

  “Thanks for getting us away,” Charlie said.

  “Thank you for money.”

  We went to get out, and he stopped us. “Wait, wait, you will need cab again. You should call me and I will come.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but we don’t want to put you to any bother,” Charlie said.

  “No bother. You pay me money. You may need driver who can get you out of problems again, and for me, that was most fun time. Here, take my number. This way you no need to stand around where you can be seen on road.” He handed Charlie a business card.

  She looked at it. “Thank you, Jack.”

  “Not real name, but what I get called now. I am in England, need to have name like English. When I am in London, I am Jack.”

  “We’ll call in an hour or so,” Charlie said. “If you’re around, that would be wonderful.”

  “I will be around.”

  We climbed out onto the crowded sidewalk, and he drove away. It was reassuring to know he was only a call away. With everything going on, it felt good to have somebody else—and his friends—on our side.

  I followed Charlie into a crowded building. The sign indicated it was a combination cafeteria, laundromat and Internet café. I didn’t need anything washed, but I certainly was hungry—and curious. I hoped I’d have those two desires satisfied. We moved through the crowded main floor, where not a table, washing machine or computer seemed to be available, and up the stairs to the next level. There we found a table, and while Charlie ordered for us, I logged into the computer.

  “Well?” she asked.

  I finished typing Bernard March into Google and hit Enter. “Just loading now…wow…look at all the entries.”

  “Sir Bernard March,” Charlie said. “If that’s the same person, he must have done something pretty important to be knighted by the Queen.”

  I looked at the pictures. They were all of a much younger man, although he certainly bore a resemblance to the person we’d met. I scanned down, looking for a birthday to confirm that this was the right Bernard before I wasted any more time on his profile. There it was. He was born seven years after my grandfather. That would make him about the age of the person we had just met. I went back up to t
he top of the page.

  I started to read out loud. “Sir Bernard March led a distinguished life in service to the British government during both World War Two and the Cold War. He worked first as a cryptographer, then in intelligence analysis, ultimately rising within first MI5 and subsequently MI6. What’s MI6?” I asked.

  “It’s the British equivalent of the American CIA. We call it the SIS—Secret Intelligence Service.”

  “Okay. In Canada, it’s CSIS—Canadian Security Intelligence Service.”

  “I thought you only had hockey players and lumberjacks in Canada,” Charlie said.

  “And I thought you only had crumpet eaters and members of the royal family here in England. Would you like me to go on with this?”

  “Probably best that we continue. My apologies… I didn’t know you Canadians were so sensitive.”

  I ignored her. “Due to the secretive nature of the organization, and for reasons of national security, there are significant gaps in our information concerning both the outside life of Sir March and his specific assignments within that organization. However, it is widely believed that Sir March was the director or assistant director of MI6 for a period of no less than twenty-five years. As is customary with former directors, his whereabouts are currently unknown, but he is presumed to be alive and living in retreat somewhere in the United Kingdom.”

  “Alive and living at 4030 Coventry Lane in London,” Charlie said.

  I continued to read. “Ian Fleming, the creator of fiction’s most famous spy, James Bond, and a former member of the intelligence community, once noted that nobody in this country knows more about where the skeletons are buried than our own Sir Bernard ‘Bunny’ March—”

  I stopped and looked up at Charlie. “Bunny March…Haigha…the March Hare…he’s the one in the notebook entry. Haigha knows. He’s the one that knows the truth!”

  “Maybe it’s just a bizarre coincidence,” she said.

  “A coincidence that his phone number is on the list, that he knows my grandfather’s name, that he’s the one who knows where all the skeletons are buried?”

  Charlie put one hand on my arm and made a calming gesture with the other. “You’re attracting a little bit of attention…a little quieter, please…especially when you’re talking about buried skeletons.”

  I looked around. There were a lot of people staring at us with questioning expressions. “Sorry, but it has to be him.” Then I realized what that meant. “And that brings us to a dead end. He can’t help me at all. Maybe he once knew a lot, but now he doesn’t even know what year it is.”

  “Maybe he can still help,” Charlie said.

  “Help with what? He thinks it’s spring and World War Two is still happening, that he was shaken out of bed last night by the Blitz.”

  “Again, a little more quietly, please,” Charlie said. “My grandmother on my father’s side suffered from Alzheimer’s. It started slowly and she declined to the point where she hardly recognized my father at the end. But even then, she could still tell us vivid details about her childhood, about the war—things we knew were true.”

  “So you think that even if he doesn’t know what season or year it is, he might know about my grandfather and his history?”

  “He did remember the name. He did look at you and think you were your grandfather, so why not?” she asked. “Besides, what else have you got? Let me write down some of this information.” She pulled a paper napkin out of the holder. “Do you have a pen?”

  “I don’t think so.” I tapped my jacket pocket and felt something. I pulled out a pen—where did that come from?—and handed it to her.

  “This is a very expensive pen,” she said, holding it up. “Where did you get this?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea, but I think these are probably more important.” I fished out the keys Sir Bunny had thrown to me.

  “My goodness, you have the keys to the home of the former head of MI6!”

  “Could you keep your voice down now?” I hissed. “I may only have the keys to the back gate.”

  “Well, that’s at least a start when we go back to talk to him.”

  “I don’t think that angry man who chased us away is going to invite us in to continue the conversation,” I noted.

  “He’s probably an agent assigned to protect Sir March and make sure that he doesn’t inadvertently give out information. What’s in his head would be pretty valuable to the right people.”

  “So he’s not going to let us ask him questions,” I said.

  “Leave him to me. Let’s finish our meal and give Jack a call.”

  “Excuse me,” a girl at the next table said. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but do you think I could have your autograph?” She had a magazine in her hands.

  “Certainly,” Charlie said.

  As she took it, I looked at the cover. There was Charlie—an all-made-up, deluxe version of her—on the cover of British teen Vogue magazine. She used my pen to sign her name in a flurry and handed the girl back the magazine.

  “And can I have a photo?” the girl asked.

  “Of course.”

  The girl thrust her phone at me and then squatted beside Charlie. I snapped a picture and handed the phone back to the girl. She thanked Charlie profusely and practically danced away.

  “You really are a celebrity,” I said.

  “Not what I’d like, but it’ll pay my tuition. I guess we do what we have to do sometimes. Which means going back to talk to Sir Bunny.”

  Jack pulled the car into the lane down from Mr. March’s house. It felt good to have a getaway car. We’d agreed that while Jack waited here, I would go to the back of the property and wait. Charlie was going to go to the front gate, ring and try to occupy the attendant—the agent. He probably had a gun; did he have a license to kill, like James Bond? We figured he was probably some low-level MI6 operative assigned to keep tabs on Mr. March, but he would still be carrying a weapon. If we had figured out that Mr. March had lots of information to give away, then we probably weren’t alone in that thought.

  I peeked through the gate and was surprised to see Mr. March—Sir March—still out puttering in the yard. It had been hours since we’d left, and he was still digging in what I thought was the same flower bed as when we’d first seen him.

  My phone buzzed, and I looked at the message. It was from Charlie. It was one word—Now.

  I called out. “Mr. March, sir.”

  He looked up at me, smiled and waved. He pushed the shovel into the ground and came over, moving very quickly.

  “We haven’t got much time,” he said. He looked over his shoulder anxiously.

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Do you still have the keys?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.” I was surprised he’d remembered. I pulled them out of my pocket, and he reached out and snatched them from my hands. He looked through the keys, found one and inserted it in the lock; it clicked, and the gate opened. He stepped out into the alley.

  “I knew you’d come back and get me, David,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me a prisoner.”

  “Hey, come back!”

  I looked past him. Two men were running out of the house! Sir March slammed the gate shut with a thud. “Let’s get going!”

  “But, but…”

  “Where is your car?” he demanded.

  “It’s this way, but—”

  “No time for arguing. Let’s go!”

  He started off, and I was unfrozen by the sound of the men practically slamming into the gate, screaming and straining to get it open. I started running, surprised at how far the old guy had gone. He was really moving! I grabbed his hand and steered him around the corner. Charlie was already standing there with the door open. Before I could say a word, Sir March climbed into the cab.

  “Get in!” I screamed. Charlie jumped into the car, and I practically hurled myself in after her, landing in a heap. Jack threw the car into reverse, skidded out onto the str
eet and then squealed away. I pulled myself upright and peered out the back window. Nothing came into view, and then Jack hit the next intersection, leaving everything behind.

  “What did you do?” Charlie demanded.

  “I was just trying to talk to him.”

  “Talk? You’ve kidnapped him!”

  “Hardly,” Sir March yelled. “You’re a hero, David. I must get to the prime minister’s home immediately! I have vital information that Winston must get!”

  “Do you realize what we’ve done?” Charlie said. “You’re going to have the police and half of British Security looking for us!”

  Jack looked over his shoulder. “I have place where we can go and you can talk, where nobody will be looking for nobody.”

  “Get us there,” Charlie ordered. “And quickly!”

  Jack pulled the cab into an alley between two deserted buildings. He wasn’t kidding: nobody was going to be looking for us here. I’d been watching out the rearview the whole way, and I was positive nobody had followed us.

  “This is perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You need to get out of cab now,” Jack said.

  “We could just talk right here,” Charlie said.

  “No, you do not understand.” Jack raised a gun above the seat. “You will get out right here.”

  THIRTEEN

  “What are you doing?” I gasped.

  “People with guns ask questions. People without guns do as they are told.” He raised the gun and aimed it right at me. “Now!”

  I suddenly realized we weren’t alone. Another man, wearing a dark suit and darker sunglasses, was at the car door beside me. He was holding a pistol, and he looked vaguely familiar. He opened the door and motioned with the pistol for me to come. Slowly, with hands raised, I shuffled across the seat and out of the car, followed by Sir March and then Charlie.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I stammered. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s obvious, David. We’ve stumbled into a trap,” Sir March said. “Our driver obviously is a double agent.”

  I looked at Jack.

  “Not double agent, just agent,” he said.