by Orca Various
“This is considered the most beautiful car ever designed. One was purchased by the New York Museum of Modern Art, so it is the only car ever formally called a work of art by an institution.” She turned to me, and I looked up from the car. Thank goodness she hadn’t caught me staring at her again.
“How much is this thing worth?” I asked.
“It’s hard to put a price on something this exquisite and unique, but you couldn’t replace it for under seventy thousand pounds.”
I did a rough conversion in my head. That was about $130,000.
“I’ve never even sat in anything worth that much,” I said.
“And now you have the keys to it in your hand, so I think it’s fair to assume that Nana trusts you very, very much. Get in.”
I walked down the side of the car and pulled open the door.
“You realize that the wheel is on the other side,” she said.
I’d forgotten. Again. I looked like an idiot in front of her. A great start needed a better recovery. “And you realize that a gentleman should always hold the door open for a lady,” I said.
She smiled—a beautiful, knee-melting smile—but had she bought it?
She slipped into the seat and I gently closed the door behind her. I circled around—it was a long, long way around that hood and those cylinders—and climbed in, and down, beside her. The car was very low, and from the driver’s seat, the hood seemed even longer. I inserted the key, and the engine started with a low, powerful rumble, refinement disguising the power I knew was there.
“I assume you’ve never driven a Jag before, correct?” Charlie asked.
“I’ve never even been in one before.”
“Have you ever driven on our side of the road?”
I shook my head.
“This could be interesting. Most people have trouble with the right-hand turn—they turn into oncoming traffic. Just remember that the driver is always in the center of the road and you’ll be fine.”
I put the car into gear, grateful it was an automatic. Working a stick with my left hand would have been an even bigger complication. Slowly I eased out of the garage, making sure that it was clear on both sides. I turned to the right, going wide so that I was in the center and the car was on the “wrong” side of the road.
“Do you know how to get to Cambridge?” I asked.
“I can navigate as long as you can drive. Let’s head for the motorway.”
“But Doris suggested the back roads.”
She shook her head. “Aren’t you curious to see how fast this car can go?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“Well, we can’t really find out how fast this thing can move along any country roads. Onward to the highway!”
I turned onto the ramp and started along the motorway. The car responded instantly to the touch of my foot, and we gathered speed. The lane ahead was clear, and I used the side mirror to ease into traffic, settling in behind a truck. The engine purred, and the ride was soft and smooth. I was enjoying this.
“You know, just because this is my grandmother’s car, you don’t have to drive it like you’re my grandmother,” Charlie said.
Carefully looking in my side and rearview mirrors, I put on my turn signal and changed lanes.
“I can see why she trusts you. You do drive like her. It seems a shame to waste such a fine piece of—”
I put my foot down, the engine raced, and we jumped forward like the car had been stung by a bee, snapping Charlie’s head back against the headrest.
“Is that a little better?” I asked.
We raced past a truck like it had suddenly been thrown into reverse and came up quickly on the cars in the lane ahead. I switched lanes again, still carefully but not as obviously so, and moved into the passing lane.
“What’s the speed limit on this highway?” I asked.
“There didn’t even used to be speed limits on the motorways, but now it’s seventy miles an hour.”
I looked down at the speedometer. I was doing almost ninety-five! I hit the brakes—hard—and we slowed down dramatically and moved back into the middle lane and then the driving lane at the far left.
“So are you disappointed you have to spend this time with me instead of my cousin Charles?”
“It’s pretty much a toss-up. I can hardly tell one of you from the other,” I said.
She laughed. “So do you think I’m a git too?” she demanded.
“I don’t even know what a git is.”
“If you’ve spent time with Charles, you know exactly what a git is! It means annoying, stupid, incompetent, childish. The sort of person you want to throttle.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of popping him.”
She looked confused. “You wanted to give him a soda?”
“It means punching him. I wanted to punch him,” I explained.
“If you ever do that, please let me know. I think I could sell tickets for that. That boy is all mouth and no trousers.”
“Okay, now you’re confusing me again,” I said.
“That means all talk and no action. He’s nothing but a blowhard.”
“I guess we don’t always use the same words to mean the same thing,” I said.
“George Bernard Shaw said that England and America are two countries divided by a common language.”
“I’m not American.”
“American, Canadian…it’s all the same to us,” she said.
“I understand why you Irish would think that.”
“I’m not Irish, I’m…okay, point taken, Mr. Canada.”
As we talked, I carefully changed lanes and maneuvered around slower vehicles. I didn’t want to be accused of being a grandmother again, although I was going to do it without reaching warp speed. It would have been something to drive this car where there weren’t any speed limits.
“So tell me a little bit about this mission you’re on,” Charlie said.
“It’s a little hard to explain, but I can show you when we stop. I have some notebook pages in my jacket pocket.” I wanted both hands firmly on the wheel.
“No need to stop.” She reached over and started digging in my jacket pockets.
“I’m really ticklish!” I exclaimed as I squirmed in my seat.
“That’s something for me to file away, perhaps for a later time.”
It felt like my whole body flushed. She pulled out the pages and unfolded them. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she read them.
Finally she spoke. “This is what brought you across the pond?” she asked.
“That and the other things we found. Some passports, money, an escape kit and a gun.”
“You didn’t bring the gun with you, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. We’re pretty strict about weapons in this country. So what are you hoping to find?” she asked.
“I guess who or what my grandfather really was. It’s not just me. My cousins are investigating other notebook entries, trying to find out answers too.”
“And talking to this man in Cambridge will give you the answer?” Charlie asked.
“It’s all I’ve got to go on so—”
Her phone began to ring. “Excuse me,” she said. “Hello…oh, hi!”
She turned slightly away.
“I’m on my way up to Cambridge…yes…with nobody.”
Nobody? I was a nobody?
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it too. It should be a wonderful way to bring in the New Year together.”
Was she talking to a girlfriend? No, the tone of voice left little doubt: she was talking to a guy she liked.
I pulled out to pass another truck, and the car behind me pulled out as well. That was the fourth time it had followed me when I passed another car; each time, it settled back in not directly behind me, but a car or even two cars back.
I accelerated, going faster than the limit, and passed a second and then a third truck. The car—it looked like a BM
W—kept pace with me. There was another truck I could pass, but I decided not to. I went in behind it, expecting the BMW to pass us both. Instead, it decelerated and ducked behind a different truck, disappearing from my view. That was strange. Stranger still was that I was watching cars in my rearview mirror and feeling paranoid. All this spy stuff was starting to get to me.
“Ta-ta,” Charlie said into her phone. “Yes, me too.”
She hung up and we drove in silence for a while.
“A friend of yours?” I asked.
“I’m not usually called by enemies.”
“Boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “I don’t date boys.”
“You date girls?” I joked. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“He is a male friend. He’s just not a boy.”
“He must be special if you’re going to bring in the New Year with him.”
“He is special. We’re going to be in Trafalgar Square, in the heart of London, with music and crowds and fireworks.”
“That’s not nearly as exciting as my plans.”
She gave me a questioning look.
“I will be in a very exclusive location in downtown London in the company of a rather special lady.”
“Is she an older woman?” Charlie asked.
“I’m too much of a gentleman to ever ask a lady her age, but I suspect she is a bit more sophisticated than I—a woman of the world.”
Charlie reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “There are far worse ways to spend the New Year than with my nana.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“I really appreciate your being there with her. She’s been so lonely since my grandfather passed on. They really were life partners. They set a very high bar. They had what I’ve always hoped I’ll have one day.”
I liked to think that if my father hadn’t died, my parents would have had that sort of relationship too.
“She told me a lot about her husband, up there on the mountain. We joked about your grandfather and my grandpa being up in heaven together, looking down on us.”
“That’s sweet.”
“So what does your grandmother think of your special man friend?” I asked.
“She doesn’t really know him, although she definitely knows of him, if you know what I mean.”
“You lost me at the second know.”
“I hope that’s the only thing that gets lost. There’s our exit up ahead.”
I took the exit. The BMW was right behind me.
EIGHT
I drove slowly through the campus, looking for the right building. It looked like a movie set—old ivy-covered brick and stone buildings, with long walkways cutting across manicured grounds. I was slightly distracted, though, and kept glancing in the rearview mirror, looking for the car that had followed me off the motorway. I’d pulled over and it had passed—glass tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside—and then it was gone. I hadn’t seen it since, but that hadn’t stopped me from checking. Charlie had asked why I pulled over, and I’d said I wasn’t sure about directions. No sense in sharing my paranoia.
I noticed we were getting more than our share of looks from the few students walking the campus. It was a pretty amazing car, and Charlie looked like the sort of person who belonged in a car like this. I felt like an imposter. I drank in the attention, pretending they both belonged to me. Not that a woman belonged to anybody—that was so wrong and sexist. I just mean I pretended I was her boyfriend…not that she dated boys. Whatever that meant.
“There’s the building,” she said.
There were open parking spots in front, so I pulled straight in, saved from having to try to parallel park from the wrong side of the car and road. Charlie was fiddling with her phone, texting. Probably to her friend.
“Are you coming or do you want to stay here?” I asked.
“Coming along.”
We climbed out, and between the car and the girl, I felt a little bit like James Bond—or, at least, an actor playing James Bond. I sort of wished there were more people around to take it all in. If I was going to be in a movie, it should at least have a full house at the screening. I was sure that if Spencer were here, he would be telling me how the scene should be shot—maybe from above, from a helicopter.
It had been misting on the drive up and now it was starting to rain. I pulled my beret out of my pocket and slipped it on.
“A beret?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, a beret. Do you want to give me a hard time about it too?”
“‘Too’? Let me guess. Charles made some snotty comment.”
“Bingo.”
“I told you, he’s a git. Don’t listen to anything he has to say.” She walked over until she was standing only inches from me. She was much smaller than me, and she got on her tippy-toes, reached up and started to rearrange my beret. I felt a rush of heat, almost a flop sweat. This was stupid. I hardly even knew her, she had a man friend, we lived thousands of kilometers apart, we’d just met, and frankly, to be honest, she was way out of my league.
“Not many people can wear a beret,” she said. She took a step back and studied me. I hoped I wasn’t blushing too noticeably.
“Fortunately, you are one of those people. You definitely pull it off…nice look.”
“It was my grandfather’s…before he died.”
“In that case, it is not only fashionable but wonderful, and you are sweet to honor his memory.”
I couldn’t hold her gaze any longer and looked down, now positive I was blushing. This was the second time she’d called me sweet. I wondered how her man friend would feel about her calling me that…although I knew it meant nothing. It was more like something you’d call a cute dog or an adorable toddler.
We started up the steps and tried to enter the building. The big door was locked. I tried a second door, with the same result, but a third opened. We stepped into a dark, empty corridor.
“It’s a bit deserted with the Christmas break and all,” Charlie said. “I’m surprised the professor is even on campus.”
“He agreed to meet us here so we could see the diary. It’s a book the Apostles keep that I need to look at.” I pulled out a piece of paper. “His name is Dr. Moreau, and his office is room two thirty-four. The stairs are over here.”
We started up. The stairwell was as dimly lit as the halls. I went to exit at the second floor and Charlie stopped me. “If it’s two thirty-four, it’s one floor higher, the second floor.”
“But this is the second floor.”
“We count them differently here. Two means two above the ground floor,” she explained.
I couldn’t even get climbing stairs right. We continued up to the next level and exited into the hallway. I started looking at the sequence of the rooms. At least I could still count. Up ahead, light was coming out of a slightly open door. It was room 234. I knocked and stuck my head in.
“Dr. Moreau?”
“Yes. You must be DJ.”
“Yes, sir.” We shook hands.
“And who is this?” he asked as Charlie entered the room.
“This is Charlie—Charlotte.”
He took her hand and shook it, but this time he continued to hold on to her hand. He was staring at her in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I wondered if Charlie had noticed as well.
“Yes, I’m Charlotte, and DJ is my boyfriend.”
I startled. She pulled her hand away from him and took mine, which shocked me even more.
“Please, sit,” Dr. Moreau said.
We settled into two seats across from him.
“Thank you so much for seeing us,” I said, “especially on such short notice and during the holidays.”
“I don’t reside far from here. Besides, it was a special request from my dear friend Professor Higgins. How is Henry doing?”
“Very well,” I said. What else could I say?
“He’s a bit of an odd duck, but most geniuses tend to be that way,” Dr.
Moreau said. “I must admit that we don’t get many requests concerning the Apostles.” He paused. “And even if we did, we would never give out any information.”
My heart dropped. Did this mean we’d come all this way for nothing?
“But as a favor, I will give you some relevant information. I was forwarded the names you were inquiring about, and I have some good news.”
Which, of course, meant there was some bad news too. I was having a little trouble focusing on what he was saying with Charlie holding my hand. Gently, I removed it. It was all sweaty, and I wiped it on my pants. She looked at me almost apologetically.
“We do, in fact, have two members with the name Johnson, one Hicks, and while we have no member with the last name Stanley, we did have a previous member who had the first name Stanley.”
“And were either of the Johnsons members of the Apostles when Hicks or Stanley was there?” I asked.
“Sorry, but there was no overlap, and no Homer—either first or last name—and no Liszt.”
“And I wouldn’t imagine there would be a Birdie,” I said.
“No Birdie, although there are a number of birdlike last names, including Peacock, Sparrow, Hawke and Finch. I actually knew Peacock…nice man, but rather long-winded sometimes and—”
“Finch?” I said, cutting him off. I thought of the name on the passport—Nigel Finch. “What if these names I gave you aren’t surnames or even first names, but nicknames?”
“Birdie would certainly be an appropriate nickname for somebody named Finch or Hawke, I would imagine.”
“What if they were all nicknames?” I asked.
“If they were, I’d have no way of knowing,” Dr. Moreau said. “The book only lists the real names. I think you might have run into a blank wall.”
“They’re not nicknames,” Charlie said. “They’re cryptonyms.”
“What?”
“Cryptonyms are code names given to spies, agents or operatives. The names you mentioned—Stanley, Homer, Hicks, Johnson and Liszt—are cryptonyms for five enemy agents.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I just googled the names.” She held up her phone. “Their real names are Kim Philby, Donald Maclean, Guy Burgess, Anthony Blunt, and John Cairncross. They are collectively known as the Cambridge Five.”