Assignment- London

by Craig A. Hart

  “Well, don’t worry, Mrs. Fischer. Would it make you feel any better if I assigned an agent to check on him?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that. Missing persons isn’t exactly—”

  “Nonsense, it’s no trouble at all. I happen to have one in London at the moment. I’m sure he’d be delighted to do it.”

  “I was surprised to hear from you,” Mr. Burke said. “I figured it would be another ten years or so.”

  James Burke scowled. “Call me paranoid, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed—or had killed—that man just so I would call you again.”

  “If I had, wouldn’t that show how much I cared?”

  “It would certainly be in keeping with your selfish modus operandi,” Burke said.

  “Well, it wasn’t me. I care, James, but not enough to kill that guy. It would be like turning off the criminal version of the internet.”

  “Now you wax redundant. But enough of this clever banter. If you didn’t kill him, then who did? And why? And where else can I go to get the information about Lyndsey?”

  There. He’d spoken her name aloud, and to his father no less. Half of Burke wanted to call back the name and half was glad to have it out there. It wasn’t as if his father didn’t know what had happened; everyone remotely connected to the espionage world had heard of it. Some mourned and others celebrated, but few were untouched by the selfless act, the story of how Lyndsey had let herself fall from the Cliffs of Moher in an effort to safe Burke’s life. It had taken physical force to remove Burke from western Ireland, and so far, no one had been able to get him any farther than London.

  “Let’s have some ale,” Mr. Burke said.

  Burke sighed. “Only one. And then we get to business. Is that understood?”

  “Completely.” His father smiled broadly and waved his hand for service. “An ale for my son and another for me.”

  One ale turned into several and Burke found himself relaxing in spite of himself. It was as if speaking Lyndsey’s name had released something inside. What’s more, his father had always been pleasant company, which had made a young Burke miss him even more, and tonight, he was in fine form. He was a born storyteller and soon the other patrons were edging closer to hear them. And as the audience grew, Burke saw his father slip into the role of entertainer, assuming the playboy persona that had kept him from home and broken the hearts of wife and family too many times to count.

  “I was on a tramp steamer out of Australia at the time,” the senior Burke said, waving his most recent glass of ale in the air. “Well, you know what kind of reputation sailors have, and God help me if it isn’t true. And we were headed for a long trip. So this one crewman, Bill Fetch was his name, creates this makeshift blowup doll out of old life jackets. He just did it for a gag, of course, but I swear to all that’s holy that it turned out to be in high demand. He even started charging guys to spend a few minutes with Mae West—that’s what they named her, because of the life jackets—and claimed the money went to cover the cost of maintenance. Anyway, one day about a day out of Seoul, we—”

  The pub door opened, and Burke saw his father pause in the narrative as he saw the newcomer, a middle-aged man with a full head of hair that greyed at the temples. The man wore a thin moustache and his long camelhair coat was immaculate and set off by a black silk scarf around the neck.

  Burke’s father stood up, a pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic. He pushed Burke to one side, out of the line of fire, and then pointed the gun at the newcomer.

  “Don’t take another step,” Mr. Burke said. His voice, a moment earlier light and hearty, was now steady and cold as stone. As an aside to Burke, he said, “I thought you were good at your job.”

  “I wasn’t followed. I’d swear to it.”

  The newcomer smiled, not seeming at all concerned to have a deadly weapon pointed directly at his heart. “Don’t blame your friend, Mr. Burke. I’m sure he’s very good at his job. He wasn’t the one who betrayed your location.”

  “Who, then?”

  “No one. It’s only that you’re not as clever as you think you are. I’ve known your location for months and you made the mistake of staying in one place too long. But I understand that, as we age, we tire more easily and yearn for someplace to call our own. Still, it was careless.”

  “Careless? You’re the one with a gun pointed in your direction.”

  The man laughed. “Ah, yes. That would seem to be the case. In fact, it is the case.”

  “And yet you don’t seem concerned.”

  “I don’t fear your weapon, Mr. Burke. In fact, I believe I’ll come over there and take it from you.”

  “One step and I’ll drop you.”

  “No doubt you’ll try.”

  “I won’t miss from this range.”

  The man stepped forward and Burke saw his father’s finger on the trigger. The man took another step. Then another.

  “I’m warning you,” Mr. Burke said. “Stay where you are.”

  The man took one more step and Mr. Burke pulled the trigger.

  A woman screamed, but it was merely anticipatory. There was no gunshot, no flying bullet, no slumping body. There was only a metallic click, followed by a period of deafening silence. Mr. Burke looked at the gun in consternation. He pulled the trigger again, but once again, there was nothing more than the sickening click.

  The man smiled coolly. “As I said, I’ve known your location for months. And not only have I known where you live, I’ve been there. A cozy place, full of memorabilia from your travels and escapades. Oh, I had a marvelous time looking through your scrapbooks. But don’t worry; I put them back exactly where I’d found them. In fact, the only thing I changed were the bullets in your gun.”

  “The bullets—”

  “Exchanged the live rounds for dummies. Very dangerous to run around with a loaded weapon, you know. Even the police here don’t generally carry them.”

  “How thoughtful of you to look out for my welfare,” Mr. Burke said. He looked at the gun again, conceded it was useless, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “What do you want?”

  The man gestured toward the door. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we, and let these poor people drink their ale in peace.” He nodded solicitously at the other patrons and then turned to leave. Burke and his father both rose to follow.

  Once outside on the dark street and having put some distance between themselves and the scene of the dramatics, Mr. Burke stopped suddenly and turned to the mysterious stranger.

  “So what happens now?” he asked “Do we even get to know your name?”

  “My name? Absolutely. You may call me the Velvet Glove.”

  “Swanky.”

  The suave exterior presented by the Velvet Glove seemed to be matched every bit by his persona.

  “It is a rather posh moniker, if I do say so myself. It is far more descriptive than any given name generally manages to be. I feel everyone’s name should be a firm indication of precisely what they are. For example, your companion should probably be called… hmm. What?” He touched his thumb and forefinger to his chin as if deep in thought. Then he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it: The Sad Hotshot Corporate Lawyer.”

  “And me?”

  “Oh, your name is easy. The Blowhard Self-made Playboy.”

  Burke saw his father stiffen at the less-than-complimentary characterization, and he surprised himself by reaching to put a hand on his arm to restrain him.

  “Do you see? The young man displays the common sense and reserve of a smart company man. Pity that sorrow in his eyes, though, hmm?”

  Mr. Burke relaxed slightly, but he was still growing impatient with this enigmatic and self-absorbed man with the cultured British accent.

  “Alright,” he said. “I get it. You’re the smartest son of a bitch in the room. If I had a dime for every time I’ve encountered your ilk—”

  “It would mean that you would possess one very thin dime. And, knowing you as intimately
as I have come to, I would posit that it would increase your personal wealth to approximately… ten cents, hmm?”

  “Enough. What the fuck do you want?”

  The Velvet Glove held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Relax, please. My wish was only to introduce myself, which I have done.”

  “And, Mr. Glove—”

  “That’s Mr. Velvet Glove. Yanks know so little of proper social intercourse.”

  “I’m thinking of another form of intercourse right now, involving my foot and your asshole.”

  “Tsk, tsk.”

  “Why should I give a flying fuck who you are, aside from the fact that you’ve taken a very unhealthy interest in me.”

  The man repeated his thinking gesture and once more concluded with a snap of his fingers. “I recall now! You should care very much about me because I intend to kill you!”

  Burke stiffened and turned slightly to prepare himself for a quick defense, but the Velvet Glove’s hands rose in a gesture of calming.

  “Please, Sad Hotshot Corporate Lawyer. Relax. I didn’t mean to indicate that would be happening now. Interesting, however, that you are so ready to defend him. It suggests that there is a connection I haven’t yet determined. Enough of one that he’d risk his life for you. But no matter. When I come calling for the purpose of killing, I always do so within the confines of a private meeting. But don’t worry, Mr. Blowhard Self-made Playboy, I shan’t make you wait long for our private session.”

  And with that, the Velvet Glove turned and walked away into the gathering mist, his camel hair coat flapping about his legs as he walked.

  Burke turned to face his father. “What the hell was that about?”

  Mr. Burke shrugged his shoulders.

  “You have no idea?”

  “None.”

  “You certainly seemed to tag him as a threat when he walked into the pub.”

  “You know better than I do that you get a sense of that sort of thing after a while. It was obvious he was looking for trouble.”

  “Seems like a lot of drama if all he wanted was to deliver a threat.”

  “Something tells me this Velvet Glove character thrives on drama.”

  “Still, though, you pulled a gun on him. Is that how you act any time someone who looks out of place walks into a bar?”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “How about the fact that he has touched every single item in your place, yet had to rely on family resemblance to guess we were related?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying there’s obviously no evidence that you have a son in the place that you live!”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  Burke looked down at his father, trying to decide whether to throw up his arms and walk away, or punch him in the mouth. At that moment, his phone vibrated in his suit coat pocket. The screen showed the name “Moore.”

  “Burke,” he said. “Uh huh. Uh huh. You want me to do what?” Burke gripped his phone so tightly he was in danger of bending it in two. “I’m not a babysitter, Moore.”

  “It’s a favor to my housekeeper.”

  “Send some low-level minion. I’m above these menial tasks.”

  “Don’t be so elitist.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “You’ll do it or I’ll suspend you from active duty.”

  Moore’s threat came through loud and clear, stopping Burke in his proverbial tracks. He loved his work, true, but there was another reason he dreaded having nothing to occupy his time and mind.

  “Sorry,” Moore said. “I didn’t want to do that. Look, what the hell else do you have to do there? You’re lucky I’m not sending an agent to take you out for failure to report to New York. Finish up in London, check on Mrs. Fischer’s son—I’ve uploaded the address she gave me into your Agent Portal—and then come home. I have more cases with your name on them, and one might even get you killed. At the very least, it’ll keep your mind occupied.”

  The line went dead, and Burke knew the matter was closed. He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “My boss can be a real ass at times.” The call from Moore had momentarily caused Burke to forget he was in the middle of the quintessential absentee dad/abandoned son power struggle.

  Burke’s father raised an eyebrow. “Anything the matter?”

  “He wants me to check on his housekeeper’s son to make sure he’s okay. Apparently, the naughty boy has missed two consecutive check-ins with dear old Mom.”

  Mr. Burke laughed. “Your mother would have dropped dead of shock if you checked in once a year.”

  “I suppose I was a bit lax in that department,” Burke admitted.

  The memory of his mother was, of course, bittersweet, although it had been long enough now that most of the memories brought a smile to his lips and the stab of loss—while still present—had dulled. Now, however, the thought of his mother’s passing brought to mind another death, one much too recent to have lessened its sting.

  5

  James Burke sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, his body slumped forward, his head precariously cradled in his hands. He was crying.

  It had become something of a common occurrence, although he only allowed himself to indulge when he was alone and wasn’t expecting to see anyone for a while, because he did not want it known that he broke down on a daily basis. Often multiple times on a daily basis. He made sure his itinerary was clear because he was, in the parlance of 21st Century colloquialism, an ugly crier. Even after the tears themselves stopped, he still looked like utter shit until he was able to drag himself into the bathroom and wash his face, run a comb through his brown hair, and force himself to take several deep breaths. It was a routine that required uninterrupted time.

  And even after all that repair work was completed, there was still the sorrow that never left his eyes. It was a sorrow so obvious that this Velvet Glove character had called him “Sad Hot-shot Corporate Lawyer” when giving him a descriptive name. Burke reasoned that the part on which he’d missed the mark was explainable by the fact that he generally dressed in well-tailored suits and would fit well, visually at least, into any legal firm.

  But with regard to the sadness, he’d nailed the bull’s-eye with all three darts.

  Fuck him, Burke thought. Fuck them all. He was referring to everyone he knew, basically, who condescendingly gave him a pat on the back and told him to hang tough. He especially hated the ones who told him they knew how he felt, because maybe their grandma had died last year or they had to have their goldfish put down. As far was Burke was concerned, he knew one person on the planet with the right to make that statement. That was Perry Hall. And Perry was the one person he knew who had never spoken those words.

  All Perry ever said, and he had said it as often as he felt Burke needed to hear it, was “We’ll get you through this.”

  Honestly, Burke didn’t really know if there was anything Perry could do to help. It was true that he did know how Burke felt. His wife Trina had been murdered in their own home by a diabolical assassin known for many years only by a name assigned to him by the people who hunted him: Flick. He was called that because, with very few exceptions, he killed with a simple flick of his hyper-sharpened knife. A quick slit across the jugular, or if he felt like mixing things up, a penetrative thrust just deep enough to sever the artery and ensure death by exsanguination would occur. So, yes, Perry knew.

  But there were differences.

  Perry had been away from New York on assignment when Flick had visited the penthouse. He hadn’t heard, as Burke had, his beloved’s brave last words, or her long awaited confession that she loved him. He hadn’t felt Trina release her grip on his ankle after counting to two, as Burke had felt Lyndsey let go. They had agreed they would both fall together from the cliff on the count of three, hoping for a miracle at best, or an exit from this world together in the worst case. Per
ry hadn’t been saved at that moment, a moment he wanted nothing more but to be allowed to plunge after her.

  So, yes, Perry knew. But he didn’t.

  The more he thought about it, the more he vividly recalled the release of pressure around his ankle, and the absolute silence with which Lyndsey Archer met her end, the harder his body convulsed with sobbing.

  Burke had no idea how Perry had dealt with this horror for three years before meeting Adabelle and turning his life, if not completely around, at least with a course correction in the right direction. Actually, he did know. Perry had relied on a combination of Dionysian amounts of alcohol and a steady stream of suicide missions from Moore. He’d often, during those three years, silently cursed Moore for using Perry in that manner, for assigning him cases for which the chance of survival was rarely better than 50-50, and often much worse.

  But now with the wisdom of time, and the yearning of his own broken soul, he understood. Moore was only giving Perry what he needed, a purpose on which to focus, if only temporarily, disguised as what he wanted, which was to get himself killed. Moore knew that Perry’s instincts, dulled as they were by grief and vodka, would more than likely not allow him to succumb to his death wish.

  He wondered how insulted he should be that, in his case, Moore was sending him to rendezvous with his own father and tackle babysitting runs for his goddamn housekeeper. He’d promised Burke some danger when he returned to the States, but based on his observations, he believed it to be an empty promise. A stroke job to make him feel better.

  But there would be no feeling better. Not in the foreseeable future. Probably never.

  Burke’s phone, lying screen down on the bed next to him, vibrated. At first, he ignored it, figuring it was probably his father looking to set up another meeting during which he’d doubtless fail to produce the flash drive yet again. He doubted his father even had the device. But immediately after it stopped ringing, it began again. By the third instance, the humming sounded like a drone buzzing inside his head and he angrily grabbed it. Looking at the screen, he saw the single word “Eagle.” It was Perry.