Assignment- London

by Craig A. Hart

  He arrived at the address and made his way up the steps to a dingy landing. A door stood before him and, as Burke approached, he noticed it didn’t appear fully closed. He poked at the door with his index finger, and it swung open several inches, creaking as it moved on ancient hinges.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  No answer.

  After a few moments of waiting, Burke stepped inside the apartment—and stopped dead. Straight ahead and just feet away, lying across the threshold between the main room and the dining area, stretched the body of a man. Closer examination revealed he’d been shot in the mouth, the bullet exiting the back of his head and leaving a gaping hole in its wake. A knife lay on the floor nearby, the blade sporting a bloodstain, but there did not appear to be any knife wounds on the dead man.

  He got in a blow to his assailant, Burke decided. He considered taking the knife and sending it in to headquarters for blood analysis but decided against it. The solving of murders was well outside his purview as a SpyCo agent, at least in these circumstances. That was what the local authorities were for.

  He wondered what had occurred during the fight. From the condition of the body and blood coagulation, he guessed that the man had been killed the night before, although Burke was no crime scene specialist and was merely hazarding a guess. The apartment wasn’t torn to pieces, so if it had been robbery, the thieves had been unusually meticulous and careful not to disturb anything.

  Strange, he thought. Very, very strange. Not to mention unspeakably inconvenient. Couldn’t the man have had one more day before getting bumped off? Hell, he’d survived in a dangerous profession for years and yet, here he was, lying dead as a doornail on the very day Burke needed to speak with him. Most inconsiderate.

  Burke scowled at the corpse and made for the front door.

  From a third floor flat across the street, Lyndsey Archer watched through the lens of a camera fitted with a zoom. Her heart was in her throat, pounding so hard she thought it would push right through the skin and fall, broken in two, on the floor. The sight of Burke walking up to the apartment and now returning to the street some minutes later had been almost too much for her to bear. At one point, she had decided to rush down the flights of steps and throw herself into his arms. But then she remembered the words of SpyCo Chief J. Carlton Moore: “There are times when we must put ourselves aside for the good of all. This is one of those times.” She knew he was right, that her feelings for Burke were nothing in the grand scheme of humanity, but at this moment, they felt as if they were everything.

  It’s difficult to maintain perspective when one has a tortured soul, she thought.

  She watched as Burke paused at the bottom of the steps and looked both ways down the street. She zoomed in and pressed the shutter button on the camera, capturing his image for as long as she might need it.

  3

  Adabelle Fox set two cups of tea on the table and sat down in a chair directly across from the man who had quickly become the most important person in her life. She sipped her tea and gazed over the rim at him, the look in her warm brown eyes making it clear her mind was replaying their early morning bedroom romp.

  “You were good this morning,” she said. “Getting more comfortable?”

  Despite himself, Perry Hall felt his ears begin to burn. Unlike his best friend, James Burke, Perry had never been much of a playboy, although he had plenty of money to do so. He’d always favored married life—until the tragedy of his wife’s murder brought those happy times to an end and ushered in a period of alcohol and depressive behavior. Once Adabelle had entered his life, Perry’s gloom had lifted in exact proportion to the deepening of his love for her, and he now gave Adabelle credit for saving his life, both literally and figuratively.

  And she was, as Perry’s crimson ears could attest, correct about his behavior in the bedroom. The eternal monogamist, Perry had struggled to regain his sexual freedom with a partner that was not his deceased wife. While sex with Adabelle had always been good, there had been the unmistakable sense that Perry was holding back. But this morning, he let himself go, expressing his desires and moving to satisfy hers. They climaxed together, and when they rolled apart onto the sheets, breathing heavily, they began laughing together, the communal, carefree laugh of two people fully in love and completely devoted.

  “Maybe you just have a way of making me feel at ease,” Perry said.

  Adabelle laughed. “So I gathered from the way your ears appear on the verge of spontaneously combusting.” She tossed the covers aside, revealing her toned body with its alluring curves and flawless olive skin. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

  “I could make omelets.” Perry allowed his eyes to rove over her body.

  Adabelle picked up a pair of leggings off the floor and pulled them on. “For a globetrotting spy who has achieved almost legendary status among the SpyCo ranks, you really are a homebody.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m so ruthless on the job. I’m pissed that I had to leave the house. Besides, I warned you I was the domestic type.”

  “Yes, but I thought that meant you’d share in the household chores and enjoyed quiet evenings by the fire. I didn’t think you never wanted to leave the house.”

  “That’s your fault for making it so fun to stay at home.”

  Adabelle laughed and threw Perry’s clothes at him. “Enough. Now get out of bed and let’s go out. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and I’m starving.”

  Adabelle spoke the truth on all counts. The weather was marvelous and Adabelle did herself proud by consuming an impressive plate of traditional American fare at the Midnight Express Café.

  Once done, she sat back in her chair, sipping her coffee. “Care for a brisk walk in Central Park? It’s not far and this day is to die for.”

  Perry eyed her suspiciously. “Something’s up.”

  “Up? What do you mean?”

  “Ah-ha! I knew it!” Perry brought his palm down on the table top in triumph, resulting in a loud bang that caused several customers to start and cast frowns in his direction. Perry ignored the ire of his fellow diners and waggled a finger in Adabelle’s direction. “You may think it’s odd that a devoted domestic like myself is a well-traveled espionage agent, but I’m shocked that a horrible liar such as yourself is a spy at all.”

  Adabelle assumed the righteous indignation of the wrongfully accused. “What are you talking about? I’m an excellent liar.”

  “Then perhaps I know you too well. Whatever the case, you’re lying to me. You are definitely up to something. What is it?”

  “How do you know I’m lying?”

  “I just know. Besides, you’ve been in an absurdly good mood this morning.”

  “Maybe I like morning sex.”

  “Who doesn’t? But that’s not the reason.”

  “You’re selling yourself short, my love.”

  Perry felt himself becoming flustered. “Don’t try to confuse me with sexual flattery. You know I have a weakness for it.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Adabelle retorted. “Now let’s go for that walk.”

  Perry muttered something unprofessional and dropped some twenties on the table. As they moved toward the door, he waved his hand at the large and friendly-looking waitress.

  “The food was great today, Belle.”

  “Thanks, Bob! Have a great day with your lady friend.”

  After they exited the café, Adabelle permitted herself a chuckle. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing you called Bob. Besides, as much as you tip, I think your secret would be safe with Belle. She wouldn’t want to lose that cash flow.”

  “And I wouldn’t want to lose Belle. She gives me extra syrup for my pancakes; there’s no way I’m going to endanger her by giving my real name.”

  “Well, don’t forget one day and pay with a credit card.”

  “It’s okay. I have one with Bob’s name on it.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Perry stopped on the stree
t corner and shaded his eyes, looking down the block toward Central Park. “Are you sure you want to do this? By the time we get there, I’ll be too tired for the walk.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only a half-mile from here. Although that does bring up another question: how does someone with a horrible diet and no discernable exercise regimen stay in shape?”

  “Maybe it’s all the morning sex.”

  Adabelle smiled and began jogging in place. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to keep doing it.”

  “What a shame.” Perry watched Adabelle warm up, a mixture of appreciation and trepidation on his face. “Normally, I wouldn’t complain to have you jumping up and down, but I now suspect this ‘brisk walk’ you mentioned is actually going to be a run.”

  “You didn’t suspect when I wore these clothes?”

  “Leggings are in right now. I thought you were being fashionable. Oh, wait, and the fact that I specifically remember you saying ‘walk,’ not ‘run.’”

  “Don’t be so rigid.” Adabelle took off running at a moderate pace, calling behind her, “Try to keep up!”

  Perry watched her go and attempted to judge how angry his full stomach would be if he were to begin running this soon after eating. How Adabelle could do it without suffering ill consequences was beyond him. The woman was a freak of nature: beautiful, athletic, smart, kind, sexy—it was too good to be true and Perry spent far too much time wondering when the other shoe would drop. He was sure that one day she would come to her senses and realize she could do so much better.

  “But until then, old pal,” Perry said, taking a deep breath and beginning a slow run, “buckle up and enjoy the ride.”

  Just then, the cell in his pocket began to buzz with an incoming call. Perry fished out the phone and answered. “Hey, Burke.”

  “Hi, Perry.”

  Perry stopped walked and stood still on the sidewalk. “Since when do you greet me without insult? Are you dying?”

  “Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

  “I understand,” Perry said. “How are you holding up?”

  Adabelle had glanced back and seen Perry standing motionless and talking into his cell. Now she was jogging back toward him, a look of concern on her face.

  “He was dead, Perry.”

  “Who? Who was dead?”

  “The man who knew where Lyndsey is.”

  “Burke—”

  “Look, I know you think I’m crazy, but I know she’s alive, man. I just know it. And this guy—he knows everything about everyone in the London underworld—he could have helped me. Hell, he probably even knew where she is right now.” Burke’s voice had been steadily rising and becoming more frantic as he spoke.

  “Burke, listen. I feel you, bro, I really do. I’ve been there. You just…you gotta hold on to reality. I’m not trying to hurt you—shit, that’s the last thing I want to do. But you saw her fall.”

  There was a pause, and then Burke said, “But I never saw her land. And until I see her dead, broken body, I will never believe she’s gone. Never.”

  The line went dead, leaving Perry standing on a New York City sidewalk. Adabelle put a hand on his arm.

  “Burke?”

  Perry nodded.

  “How is he?”

  “He’s losing it, Adabelle. He won’t let himself believe she could be dead.”

  “And you believe that she is?”

  Perry looked at Adabelle, his eyes wide with surprise. “Don’t you?”

  Adabelle shrugged. “If anyone could survive that, it would be Lyndsey. That woman is a badass of the highest caliber, and she—” Adabelle broke off when she saw Perry’s face had clouded over. And then she realized what she’d said. “Perry, I’m sorry. I know you—” She reached out a hand, but Perry pulled away.

  “No—don’t. This is insanity. Burke is fighting for his life right now and the last thing he needs is for us to help feed his fantasy. He has to face reality if he has any chance of getting through this. I know what it’s like to lose a woman, Adabelle, someone you loved with every fiber of your being. And I hated it so much, I wanted to die. But I couldn’t do that, so I took it out on the bad guys. Yet, as much as I hated it, that didn’t change the fact that it happened. Bad shit happens, Adabelle, and pretending that it doesn’t won’t stop it from happening. I’ve seen guys end up in a mental ward because of less. I won’t let that happen to Burke. He’s too good an agent and too good a friend.” Perry stopped talking, his voice choked with emotion.

  “Okay, okay.” Adabelle’s voice was soft. “I hear you, Perry. Listen, I love you. And I care for Burke as well. We can help him get through this. Together. Okay?”

  Perry sniffed and dug at his eyes to rid them of tears, but Adabelle pulled his hands away and wiped away the tears with her own tender hands.

  “We can still get a flight,” she said.

  Perry broke into a relieved grin and pulled Adabelle into bear hug. “Oh my god, I love you,” he said. “How did you know that’s what I was thinking?”

  “Because I know you. And that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d do for a friend.”

  Perry, still grinning, hugged Adabelle again and then released her. “Well, shit—I guess we’d better get on a damn plane.”

  4

  SpyCo Founder and Chief of Operations J. Carlton Moore had also awakened to a bright and sunny morning. Sharing good weather with two of his top agents wasn’t particularly surprising, since he also shared a city, SpyCo being headquartered in New York City. What he did not share, however, was Adabelle Fox’s good humor. Moore was decidedly cross this a.m. and made it clear to his housekeeper, Mrs. Fischer, when she knocked on his bedroom door to inform him that coffee was brewing.

  “Stop that infernal knocking!” he barked.

  Mrs. Fischer was, as always, unfazed. “Wake up call, Mr. Moore. Coffee will be ready in exactly three and half minutes.”

  Moore growled and burrowed back into the covers for exactly three minutes, after which he slid from their cozy depths, shoved his feet into his slippers, and walked from his bedroom to face the day. He had not bothered to dress and made his appearance wearing only a pair of ill-fitting white briefs.

  Mrs. Fischer greeted him as always—by scarcely acknowledging his presence. Their professional relationship had degraded to the point where decorum no longer had any meaning as a practice. Over the years, Mrs. Fischer had become so adept at running Moore’s household that she no longer bothered to consult him about anything, unless it was directly SpyCo related. If it was domestic, it fell entirely within her authority.

  Moore padded across the kitchen floor. “Where’s my damn robe?”

  “I have no earthly idea where your damn robe is,” Mrs. Fischer replied curtly. “But your normal robe is hanging on the door to the laundry. I had it cleaned.”

  “Was it dirty?”

  “Let’s just say it was alive enough to resist when it found out it was headed to the cleaners.” Mrs. Fischer poured coffee into a mug and handed the same to her employer. “Here. Drink. Your bad mood is beginning sour mine.”

  “However could you tell?” Moore mumbled.

  Whether she didn’t hear the remark or rather chose to display an impressive level of magnanimity is unknown. Either way, Mrs. Fischer did not throw the entire pot of scalding coffee over Moore’s balding head, which she might have done, had she been feeling unusually temperamental. Instead, she poured herself a cup and then leaned against the granite countertop.

  Moore, having retrieved and donned his robe, reappeared in the kitchen and saw her there. Seeing Mrs. Fischer standing still was remarkable in itself. She was a whirling dervish of industry, believing wholeheartedly that idle hands were the devil’s playground. In addition to this curiosity, it seemed to Moore that a shadow of sadness had fallen across her face and the sight troubled him. Despite their often combative relationship, he was immensely fond of her and would be completely lost without her guiding presence.

  “Anythi
ng wrong?” he asked, setting his coffee on the table and taking a seat himself.

  “Nothing to bother yourself about.”

  Mrs. Fischer attempted to rally, but her resolve deserted her. As Moore watched, horrified, this strong-willed woman wilted before his eyes and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  “There, now,” he said, rising and moving to her side. He put one clumsy arm around her and patted her shoulder in a manner so self-conscious that it made the situation even more awkward.

  Mrs. Fischer wiped her eyes and sniffed. “I apologize, Mr. Moore. I wasn’t planning to be this way at work.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Moore said brusquely. “What seems to be the matter?”

  “It’s my son Alfred. You know Alfred.”

  “Know him? I’ve never met the man.”

  “But you’ve heard me speak of him.”

  Moore remained silent. He had no doubt that Mrs. Fischer had, indeed, spoken to him of her son, but Moore had long ago adopted the practice of tuning out everything she said to him that did not directly relate to himself.

  “You do remember, don’t you?”

  “Of course, of course,” Moore said. “Alfred, yes, wonderful fellow. I certainly hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in over two weeks.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “Very much so. We speak every Sunday morning. Have so for years without fail.”

  “And now he’s missed two in a row.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does he live, your Alfred?”

  “London. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Moore said. “My memory isn’t quite what it used to be. Perhaps your son is simply busy.”

  Mrs. Fischer shook her head emphatically. “No, something’s wrong. A mother can feel these things.”