Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  “Sarla!” Moore cried. The next shot from Harris grazed Suggs’s neck; he managed to fire back at the guard, who’d left himself exposed. Emma slammed her hand down on Suggs’s wrist before he could shoot again. The force of her blow knocked the gun into the corner of the room. He recovered, though, turning quickly to elude her and moving to retrieve his weapon. His hand clutched at the blood streaming from his neck.

  Nash simultaneously kicked high at Moore, hitting him in the chest and knocking him backward, his gun firing into the ceiling.

  Emma and Nash ran for the door, no time to grab a weapon themselves, escaping into the hallway. There they saw poor Harris, who’d died from a single bullet to his forehead. As much as Emma wanted to grieve his death, she had to reach down and snap up the guard’s handgun; it would contain four bullets, at most, for defending her and Nash.

  She pulled Nash toward the staircase that would take them to the roof of the Gloriette. She didn’t want to risk a gun battle on this floor, near the hospital’s patients, or on the next level, where the Baillie family was sleeping. Nash was moving slower than she’d hoped.

  “I reinjured my bad leg in there,” he said, hobbling. “Not as limber as I once was.”

  A shot fired from behind them, the bullet careening off one of the stone walls to their left, ricocheting down the corridor.

  They reached the staircase. Emma began to go up. He called her back.

  “We need to go down.”

  “There’s only a locked closet down there! Come up with me!”

  “Trust me, I can get us through that door. Come down!” he said. Emma hoped he was right—their lives depended on it.

  She followed him, skipping stairs. When she arrived at the bottom level, she found Nash spinning a combination lock attached to the thick wooden door that she’d been led to believe was a closet.

  She pointed her gun upward.

  At the top of the stairs, a hand reached around the corner, followed by Suggs’s profile. She fired, just missing his ear. He disappeared behind the wall.

  Nash had undone the lock. The door creaked open. She spun around and followed him through it. She could hear footsteps leaping down the stairs behind her as she entered a small room. The door slammed shut. Nash threw the deadbolt in place.

  “We have to keep going,” he urged. “They’ll be able to break through this.”

  “How did you know this was here?” she asked in disbelief as they ran into a larger room that looked like a sitting area, maybe even a place to sleep. At the end of the room was a steel door on one side and a poorly lit hallway on the other.

  “You see that steel door,” Nash said to Emma as he limped ahead of her. “I was going to tell you about it before we left for Germany.”

  “Why don’t I know about it already?” Emma looked around as she half jogged, struggling to keep up, even though she was supposedly the healthy one.

  “Have you ever heard sounds coming from underneath the Gloriette?” Nash asked breathlessly as they entered the long hallway.

  “Of course! The ghosts of the Gloriette, Nurse Fraser calls them. Loud bangs and lots of rattling.”

  “The ghosts are real.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lady Baillie helps the government in more ways than you know. Considering what goes on here, the sounds that escape are minimal. This is where British experts develop and test their newest weapons.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped. “Let me guess, on weekends?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which explains our strict no-visitors policy on weekends.”

  Nash had stopped and was undoing another door’s combination lock. “Their work here could be helpful to us. The silencer on the gun I used is the best I’ve come across. It was developed here.”

  Emma couldn’t believe this place existed right underneath where she worked without her knowing. Nor could she believe that she was running through it in her knickers and brassiere, behind a man wearing only plaid pajama bottoms.

  A loud splintering sound came from the place they’d first entered. They passed through the second door and, moments later, the hallway came to an abrupt end.

  “Where do these stairs go?” she asked.

  “Never been down them, but I’m told they lead to a passageway out.”

  “Out?” she said.

  “Under the moat. One of the queens installed it in case the need to escape ever arose. The team of three who work in the dungeon’s research lab use it to come and go unnoticed. Brilliant, isn’t it?”

  From the sounds behind them, they could tell that the first wooden door had been breached. Suggs and Moore had to be at most a minute away.

  Emma and Nash descended the steep stairway, arriving at yet another door. Nash undid the deadbolt and swung the door open. They raced through the entranceway. It was black ahead, so they left the door open, allowing a glimmer of light.

  Emma could smell earth and dampness all around her. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out stones the size of her fist, plastered together on the ceiling, floors, and walls, creating a secure tunnel that sloped downward at a steep angle.

  They edged forward in their bare feet, Emma swearing every few steps as she stubbed her toes on protruding stones or scraped the soles of her feet against sharp rocks. Touching the cobbled walls with their hands as a guide, they gradually picked up their pace.

  Eventually, the slope evened out. At one point, Nash slipped where water had meandered through the stone and plaster and she tumbled over him. A rat scampered between them, crossing over his arm. Nash yelped. She tried not to smile. They recovered, Emma’s knee badly cut, but she’d managed to hold tight to their only gun.

  Soon they could tell that they were starting to move upward and, before long, Nash’s outstretched hands hit a panel. He pushed it open. Still unable to see, they stepped forward and down, tumbling knee-deep into cold water. Neither of them could stop shivering.

  “I think we’re in a well,” he said. Moving in opposite directions, they tentatively felt their way around the circular wall.

  “I’ve found the way out!” Emma told Nash. Her hands could feel distinct vertical indents—footholds, she assumed, for climbing to the surface.

  “I’ll go first,” Nash said. About twenty notches up, his hand came into contact with a slate surface. “I’ve got something! But I can’t quite shift it.” He was tired, his arms shaking. He tried again. This time the thick stone gave way with a groan. Fresh air poured into the well, feeding their hungry lungs.

  Nash and Emma clambered out, breathing deeply. They had surfaced well beyond the moat, not far from the castle’s graveyard. Emma pushed the stone back in place. She rubbed her arms and legs to get them warm.

  “Pleasure to see you again,” a faltering voice from the darkness said, startling them.

  It was Moore. He’d made some wrong decisions in the maze during his previous visit, but this time he knew he’d guessed right. “Don’t move, either of you. Toss your gun toward me, Nurse Doyle. Now.” Emma threw her gun just a couple of yards in Moore’s direction, hoping to lure him toward her so that she could see him and better assess how weak he was from his wounds.

  “How did you know we’d be here?” Nash asked, vaguely impressed.

  “I have a passion for historical architecture. Thanks to the local records office, I found drawings of the castle’s layout dating back five hundred years. This passageway is in the older plans but managed to disappear from the newer ones. When you went down those stairs instead of up, I figured you knew it was here, too.”

  The stone covering shifted behind them. A shirtless Suggs began to emerge.

  Emma knew that if Suggs joined Moore, who remained almost invisible some thirty-five feet away, the odds against her and Nash would only worsen. She crouched low and ran at full speed, sl
amming her bare foot into Suggs’s face and propelling him backward. A loud splash followed.

  She and Nash dropped down at the same time. Moore fired as he moved closer, missing high. Rolling on the ground, Nash snatched back the gun Emma had just given up. Moore shot at Nash, who kept rolling and returned fire. The assassin keeled over, swearing. He’d been hit in the chest, his third wound in the past hour.

  Emma crawled toward the well. She could hear Suggs breathing heavily as he again attempted the ascent of the stone ladder. She stayed quiet, moving to the other side of the hole, knowing that it would be hard for him to see her there. Suggs waited cautiously, finally sticking his bald crown out to survey the silence. Emma brought the heavy slate cover down on his head. He grunted. She expected to feel his skull crushing against the rock. Instead, it was like rock on rock, but it was enough to send Suggs back into the water below.

  At a minimum, she thought, he’d be slowed down. Nash arrived at her side, grabbed her arm, and helped her up.

  “Well done,” he said. “Take your gun. I need you safe.” He handed her the revolver.

  “Where is Moore?” asked Emma.

  Nash pointed over his shoulder. “Lying over there. I hit him in the chest.”

  Emma looked where he was pointing. “Everett, he’s not there.”

  Nash spun around. “Damn!”

  A gun went off in the darkness, ten yards from where Moore had been lying. He’d propped himself up and shot at them from behind a tree. The bullet streaked between Emma and Nash. Emma fired back, just missing his head.

  “Emma, no more shooting. You might have one bullet left if you’re lucky,” Nash whispered loudly. He directed her to move in front of him, positioning himself between her and Moore as a precaution. They began to run toward the castle. Another shot rang out.

  “That was close!” Emma exclaimed. She’d actually heard the bullet in the air. She glanced back at Nash. He was staggering toward her. “Everett! Were you hit?”

  She looked at his face and body. He seemed fine, though he said nothing. He needed her support. She draped his arm around her shoulder and trudged forward. He grew heavier and stayed silent. Something was very wrong. She had to get him to the safety of the guardhouse. She could see activity there, far ahead, people racing back and forth, shouting, floodlights sweeping the grounds.

  Emma stayed focused, taking one step at a time in the direction of the castle’s entrance. Her head, legs, and arms ached, and without clothes she was so cold that it was hard to move. She kept urging Nash on. He remained barely responsive, his legs continuing to help him stand and walk, though slower and slower. She knew she couldn’t stop until she arrived at the guardhouse. When she was out of firing range, she yelled for assistance. Soon, amid the commotion, she was heard; one of the groundskeepers came rushing out, gun poised until he recognized her.

  “I need help! He’s been shot,” she said, trying to suppress the panic she felt.

  The old man ran to her and slung Nash’s other arm around his neck. Together they dragged him forward, faster now. As they drew into the light of the guardhouse, Emma could see the blood on her arms and body. She began to wonder if she’d been hit. Suddenly, Nash’s head fell forward. That’s when Emma saw it: there was a one-inch hole at the back of the negotiator’s skull.

  —

  “Suggs, thank God you made it out of that well!”

  “Where are you?” Suggs asked as he peered into the dark, blood still seeping from his neck, where he’d been shot earlier, his head aching from being clobbered not once but twice as he tried to surface from the well.

  “Over here,” Moore said.

  Suggs followed the voice. He felt exposed in just his underwear, but soon he saw that Moore was much worse off, completely naked and covered in blood. Both of his arms hung limply by his sides. He’d used his underwear to stem the flow from his chest. As Suggs stood over Moore, he could tell that his employer had been crying and vomiting.

  “Aren’t you a pretty mess,” Suggs commented, picking up the gun Moore had used.

  “Sarla is dead, Suggs. My boy has lost his mother.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” Suggs responded, trying to show the empathy that his mother had explained to him on hundreds of occasions.

  “I can’t stand on my own. I’ve been praying that you’d come out of that well and find me. God’s watching and his hand is guiding us.”

  “Sure, he is,” Suggs said. “But did his hand pull the trigger on Nash?”

  “I’m almost certain he took a bullet to the head. You know what that means: we’ve just bagged our money. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  Suggs looked back at the castle and could see lights everywhere. A siren had just been set off. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you might slow me down.”

  “What do you mean? We’re a team, Suggs! You need me, I need you. If I can lean on you, I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, I know you need me,” Suggs said. “But do I need you, Moore? You needn’t answer, by the way. I think that’s what you might call a rhetorical question.”

  Moore tried to hide his desperation. He’d lost too much blood to survive without immediate medical care. “Please help me up, Suggs. They’ll be here soon, and I’d rather not be seen this way,” he said, looking down at his bare, bloodied body. He turned away as his stomach started to churn again.

  Suggs didn’t react. “Did I mention I have a good mind for numbers?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? Now get me up! That’s an order!”

  “536-6678, that’s the first number I remember,” Suggs said, raising his gun. “Mr. Buckley, perhaps? The second number I remember is ten percent. That’s how much you pay me—bugger all—keeping ninety percent for yourself. I do the dirty work while you lounge about or run off and retch. I’ll claim your lot for this Nash gig, if that’s all right.”

  “You can have my lot! I don’t care. Just help me!” Moore pleaded. “Blimey, I have a son to look after.”

  “Oh, about that, Moore. I wouldn’t be so sure he’s yours. Sarla and I were getting along really well about nine months before little Bobby was born.”

  Moore stared up in horror. The bullet hit him in the teeth.

  Chapter 17

  Wednesday, September 27, 1944

  1:00 p.m.

  Emma sat tapping her feet, waiting for the doctor.

  Early that morning, Nash had apparently opened his eyes and begun to move for the first time. That alone would be a breakthrough. He’d been unconscious for a week.

  No matter how hard she tried to stop the movie reel in her head, her mind kept running through the shooting and its aftermath.

  Right after she and the groundskeeper had shepherded Nash into the castle’s gatehouse, he had become completely unresponsive. Emma and two nurses from the new castle had rushed him to the operating theater, where, to Emma’s dismay, they found Nurse Fraser and Dr. Lowe still bound and gagged.

  She’d apologized profusely, explaining as she released them that if she hadn’t insisted that they be immobilized the assassins would have executed them to keep them quiet. Fraser and Lowe didn’t seem convinced, but Nash’s precarious condition quickly became a priority.

  The three of them examined him as he lay on the operating table. Emma tried to stay objective as she stared into the hole at the back of his skull. She jerked her head away when she realized that there was brain matter protruding. She took a deep breath to recover, knowing that she had to be at her best for his sake—knowing, too, that if Nash hadn’t put himself between her and Moore, that brain matter would be hers.

  Moore’s bullet had penetrated the left side of the skull at ear level, then exited nearby, never crossing over into the right side of the brain, which was lucky, Lowe pointed out, or Nash would have no chance of recovery. He said that if Nash was t
o survive he would need to be flown immediately to Oxford University, where there was a unit that specialized in head injuries.

  After notifying the military hospital there, a small RAF plane was dispatched to collect Nash, Lowe, and Emma and fly them to Oxford. A medical team, including the neurology unit’s Australian-born leader, Dr. Hugh Cairns, awaited their arrival ninety minutes later. Nash was rushed into surgery.

  At the end of the eight-hour operation, Cairns came out to inform them that he’d removed part of Nash’s scalp to relieve pressure from the swelling caused by the injury. Fortunately, Cairns said, the hospital had recently made a deal with a local car plant to convert part of its metal-making capacity so that it could meet the neurological unit’s wartime needs. This had made it possible for him to perform one final yet critical step in the operation: installing a perfectly sized, firm yet flexible sterile metal plate over Nash’s brain to replace the portion of the skull that had been removed.

  “Now,” Cairns told them, “we wait.”

  —

  Emma hadn’t expected to wait a full week before Nash regained consciousness. Nor did she think she’d have to sit for five hours outside his room waiting for the latest update from Dr. Cairns; she’d arrived at 8:00 a.m. sharp that morning.

  It was now past 1:00 p.m., and she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Cairns, though she’d been told that he’d be out to speak with her any minute. She was usually allowed to sit by Nash’s side, but not today. With Nash awake for the first time, the medical team wanted to run him through cognitive tests before letting anyone else see him.

  When she wasn’t at the hospital, she’d been with Alina. Emma appreciated being able to camp out in Alina’s small flat, even though her sofa bed was far from snug. The night before, Emma had hardly slept, her mind in turmoil, knowing that today she and Nash had intended to leave for Germany to find her son and to begin an unknown mission.