Borstead hovered in the doorway. The man wore pleated pants and insisted on loafers with tassels on them in varying shades of black. Today a blue blazer complemented the ensemble, if one could call it that. He shoved his glasses up on to the top of his head and stepped inside Ben’s office, closing the door behind him.
“Everything okay?” Ben said.
“I am fine,” said Hank. “I was wondering about you.”
He shrugged. “Never better.”
Hank parked himself on Ben’s couch. “Never better or never better?”
Ben studied the man. “Did I miss something here?”
“Trying to ascertain how never better you actually are. As in, have you been in successful pursuit of some horizontal refreshment?”
Laughing, Ben said, “If I was, I’d say you’d have to mind your—” Then he stopped. “All right, what’s this all about?”
Hank slid his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose. “Rumor mill around here says you were recently seen in the company of a red-headed bombshell.”
Now Ben was baffled, wondering who might have been at the Saudi Embassy who was part of the rumor mill here.
“Was this a first date?” Hank asked.
“I’m not sure if it was even that,” Ben said. “I met her at a party a couple of weeks ago, and she asked me to accompany her to a social function. Who wants to know?”
Hank said nothing, but a smile grew on his lips, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.
“What the hell,” Ben said. “You guys have a bang pool on me or something? How many dates it’s going to take me to score?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re a bunch of incorrigible bastards,” Ben said, laughing. “I don’t even know where I stand with this woman. She puts me back in high school where I was even more awkward with women. So what do I do? Ask a friend to ask her if she likes me? Send her a note, ‘Check one, yes or no.’ ”
“I never had that problem,” Hank said. “I played varsity basketball. Just wanted to check in on you. Rumor mill says she’s a real looker.”
“She’s a wedding planner,” Ben said.
“Then you really are screwed.” Hank rose from the couch and opened the door. “Well, I’ve been out of The Company for too long. My interrogation skills have failed me. Check you later.”
“Who sent you?” Ben gave him a mocking look.
“I still have my cyanide tooth. You ask me again, I’ll have to bite down on it.” He stepped outside the door, and then popped his head back in. “I’ve got fifty pounds on third date. Don’t let me down, buddy.”
Ben grabbed a pencil from his desk, throwing it at him as he ducked down the hall.
That’s the thing with academia, no matter where you are, he thought. It’s such a damn small town.
* * *
After finishing up classes and his office hours, Ben decided to walk to his apartment, the closing of the day being suitably cool and breezy for a brisk walk. His mind raced with thoughts about Bernadette’s words. Your choice. He wanted that to entail something he thought she might enjoy, yet he thought it appropriate to offer up something that told her something about himself.
He bounced several ideas around in his head as he walked, and when he passed a kiosk selling tickets to West End theater productions, a playbill for one leapt out at him. He considered it as he walked and realized that it was perfect.
He turned to go back to the kiosk and ran into a man his height who was close behind him.
“Excuse me,” Ben said, trying to step around him.
The man replied with a strong hand on his shoulder. “No, excuse me.” The hand turned Ben away from the kiosk, back the way he had been going.
On impulse, Ben caught the man by the upper arm. Beneath the man’s coat, his arm felt like it was made of steel cords.
“Listen—”
“No. You listen.” The man’s grip tightened. “Keep going.”
Ben would marvel later how these threats sounded so polite with a British accent. But in the moment, it seemed so absurd. Walking down a London street, surrounded by passersby, being roughed up by a well-dressed larrikin.
He dropped his hand down, elbow into the crook of the man’s arm to try and break his grip, but the man shouldered him and pushed with his free hand. Ben couldn’t help but turn and take a stumbling step away from the kiosk. He drew a breath, thinking a shout for help was in order, but the man pressed up against his back and something hard pushed into his side. Ben didn’t have to look to know what it was.
“You got balls,” Ben said. “My wallet’s in the upper left pocket of my coat.”
“We’ll have a look in a bit,” the man said. “Keep walking, Mr. Coleman.”
Now Ben felt his own balls tighten. This guy knew his name and that changed the relationship completely. “Look,” he said, “you want my wallet, I’ll give it to you. Can’t say it’s worth your while, but—”
“Quiet.”
Ben complied and they walked, a block, then another half of a block, where the man pushed his shoulder with his free hand and steered him into a gyro shop. The place was small and untidy and smelled heavily of grease and Tabasco sauce. Two small tables with matching wire chairs sat empty while a sallow-looking man behind the counter looked up from his copy of News of the World.
Ben’s escort said, “Evening. Are you still out of your famous almond baklava?”
“Sorry. Won’t have it until Thursday.”
“We’ll wait. Table for two, then?”
The counterman reached down and tossed a can of Coca-Cola to the escort, and he caught it quick as lightning with his free hand. Then the counterman opened the door and the escort encouraged Ben to start walking again, through a disheveled kitchen and around the corner to a set of stairs that led down, illuminated by a naked incandescent bulb.
“After you,” said the escort.
Ben fought back his panic and descended, the escort taking him past boxes of restaurant supplies that looked like they’d never been opened, then a cramped looking restroom, and into a short hall. The escort stopped at the first door on the right, opened it, and gave Ben a gentle nudge.
He was surprised to see the room outfitted with a concrete floor, a metal table, and three metal chairs, two on one side, one on the other. The escort motioned to the lone chair and Ben sat, seeing a mirror that took up a good chunk of the wall he was facing. His stomach rolled. He didn’t have to do any hard thinking to realize where he was.
The escort placed the can of Coke down in front of Ben, then slipped the small pistol into a shoulder holster. “Back in a flash,” he said, and stepped out. There was a metallic click from the door after it closed.
Ben stared at the can of soda as it sweated. The room smelled musty and was lit by a fluorescent panel in the ceiling. The walls were concrete, the door was metal. He put his hands between his legs and clasped them to keep them from shaking. He kept staring at the Coke can, thinking how much comfort it would bring him, but having seen plenty of television police procedurals, he refused to touch it.
The door clicked again and a half-second later the escort returned in the company of a shorter, jowly man who carried a sheaf of file folders under his arm.
“How are we doing this evening?” The jowly man sounded cheerful, like he was about to take his dinner order.
“We’re wondering what in the hell we are doing here,” Ben said.
The jowly man took a chair opposite Ben and plunked the folders down between them. The escort continued to stand.
“My name is Spivey.” The jowly man offered his hand. Ben just stared back. “And you’ve met my associate, Kellen.” He motioned at the can. “Please, have a drink. It’s meager, but we are trying to be hospitable.”
“I’ll keep my fingerprints and DNA to myself, thank you,” Ben said.
Kellen didn’t say anything, but crossed his arms, keeping his eye on Ben.
“We have them alr
eady,” Spivey said, “but no matter.” He opened the top folder. “Benjamin Augustus Coleman. Forty-seven years of age, currently an instructor at the London School of Economics.”
“Is that really my middle name?” said Ben. Deep in his heart he knew he shouldn’t be so sarcastic, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Simply trying to get a feel for your situation,” Spivey said.
“Well from my point of view, it sucks,” Ben said. “Look, this isn’t a robbery. It’s obviously not a kidnapping. Why don’t you ask what you need with the third most boring person in the world so I can get back to the ticket kiosk?”
Spivey exchanged a look with Kellen. “Red Ninja?”
“No,” said Ben. “The revival of The Music Man.”
“I’m not talking about a West End musical,” said Spivey. “I’m asking what it means to you.”
“Red Ninja?” Ben said. “Isn’t that a Schwarzenegger movie? Jackie Chan, maybe?”
“This use of humor is going to make your evening very long if you persist.”
“Fine,” Ben said. “My apologies. But could you tell me what this is all about? If I could get a little context here….”
Spivey drummed his fingers on the tabletop, then reached over and closed the folder, sliding it to his left. “Let’s say it was a matter of our national security and leave it at that. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m free to go, then?”
“Not quite.” Opening another folder now. “While we have you here, I need to ask you if you know this woman.” He slapped an eight by ten glossy on the desk and turned it toward Ben.
It was a picture of Bernadette. Not a good one either. The colors were murky, and the image was hazy, like it had come off a driver’s license.
Ben’s stomach lurched.
“Before you say anything else….” Spivey laid down another photograph. Ben holding the taxi door open for Bernadette, the night of the embassy reception. Ben getting into the taxi with her. And then another, the taxi at the Saudi Embassy, him climbing out, holding the door for her, walking to the doors, his hand on the small of her back.
“What the hell?”
“Care to comment, Mr. Coleman?”
“She’s just a woman I met at a party some friends of mine were hosting.”
“Graham and Edith Spensley, yes,” said Spivey.
“Am I in trouble because she’s in trouble? I had no idea. Like I said, she’s—”
“Just a woman?” Spivey slapped down another photo, this one of Bernadette kissing him as she got out of the cab.
“Okay, look.” Staring at the picture. “We just met. Look in your file, I’m a widower, I assumed she was single.” He looked at them. “Wait a minute. Is this a shakedown? If it is, you should know a couple of things. We haven’t done anything yet, and if we had, we’re consenting adults. And I don’t do blackmail. So as far as I’m concerned, you can take your two-way mirror and the rest of this James Bond shit of yours and—”
Ben dropped his eyes to the picture again. A little on the grainy side, obviously taken with a telephoto lens, but still detailed. The wind had caught Bernadette’s hair as she kissed him and made it look like—
For a moment, all he could see was her hair, tossed in the wind, the lovely red hair.
“This isn’t unrelated,” Ben said, “is it? Red Ninja. That’s Bernadette. Or something she’s tied up with.”
Spivey and Kellen both stared blankly back at him.
Now the room started to swim around Ben. There was fear and anger and adrenaline and the overwhelming need to know what was going on.
Ben stood. Kellen took a step toward the table, stopping next to Spivey.
“All right, gentlemen, you’re going to tell me what the hell this is all about, and you’re going to do it right now. You might be pussyfooting around because of British national security, but my personal security is at stake, and I want to know what kind of danger I’ve put myself in by letting this woman kiss me on the cheek.”
Spivey and Kellen exchanged another of their enigmatic looks. Then Spivey gathered up the photos, put them back in their folder, and stacked all the folders together, bumping them on the tabletop to square them.
“Well,” Ben said.
“If you will give us a moment,” Spivey said, standing, “we will see if we can accommodate you.” Kellen opened the door and the two of them walked out.
It seemed like he was in the room forever. He paced and walked over to the mirror and cupped his hands around it, trying to peer through to the other side. When he turned back, that damn Coke was still sitting there on the table in a puddle of its own perspiration. He wondered if it had been doctored with something, or if it really was their meager attempt at hospitality.
After an eternity the door clicked. Ben balled his hands into fists, wanting to build his outrage back. The door opened a bit, and he could see Spivey in front and Kellen in back, talking to someone.
A familiar voice with an American accent said, “There’s no danger, I swear. I’ll handle it. Wait outside the door if you’re worried.”
Ben steeled himself, ready for anything. But he wasn’t ready to see Hank Borstead walk in the door.
“Hi, Ben,” he said in his affable manner.
“Hank? Is this some kind of joke?” He pointed at the mirror. “You got the rest of the faculty watching through the mirror?”
“It’s no joke,” Hank said. “Sit?”
“I’ll stand.”
“Fair enough. So will I. You no doubt have a lot of questions.”
“Yes,” Ben said. “Let’s start with why you’re the one who’s going to solve my problems.”
“You don’t have any problems. Well, maybe one. But it’s minor. As to what I’m doing here, I’m going to solve that problem for you.”
“You? How?”
“Ben, there’s a special relationship that exists between Great Britain and the United States, and that often extends to intelligence. Let’s say that I’m here to help as a spook.”
“You’re retired.”
“You never entirely retire from the CIA,” Hank said. “Now if you’ll allow me.” He sat, gestured at the can on the table. “You going to drink that?” When Ben shook his head, he picked it up, cracked it open, and took a long sip. “That’s better. Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”
“I’m good.”
Hank nodded. “Ben, the gentleman who escorted you here and his colleague are both MI6. You’d best forget you met them. The reason you were invited here—”
“Invited?” Ben said, cutting him off. “Dragged off the street like a criminal. Why didn’t they ask me in?”
“In our business, inviting people to come in usually means they’ll take a runner before accepting the invitation. It might not seem like it, but this was for the best.
“As for the reason you are here, it is because you were seen at the Saudi Embassy with someone we call the Red Ninja.”
“So we’re back to that now. Guilt by association? Tell me, which of the many guests there was your Red Ninja? Did I make the mistake of talking to him?”
Hank studied Ben. “They told me you caught on. You honestly don’t know?”
“Know what? Are we talking about the same Saudi Embassy? I was there, but with Bernadette. You know, the wedding planner. She went to try and land a contract for the upcoming nuptials of the ambassador’s niece.”
“A wedding planner. Clever.” Hank took another drink. “Your date, or whatever you call her, is one of the top analysts at MI6. She is called Red Ninja because of her ability to sneak into the collective mindset of any organization, break it down, figure out how to infiltrate it with misinformation and/or human moles, and get out without ever being detected. That’s the ninja part. The red is obvious.”
Ben sat in shock, lost for words. A sense of anger washed over him. He had been duped and felt like a complete fool. That was when Bernadette’s two disappearances came into focus. She was gett
ing her job done there all right. Ben sat down. “Hank, we first met at Graham and Edith Spensley’s place for cocktails. Do they know?”
“Graham may not, but Edith almost certainly does. Edith’s father, Lord Covington, was head of MI6 in the seventies and hired Bernadette right out of school. Edith might have put her on her father’s radar, but Bernadette’s father was the chief of wet operations both in Hong Kong in the late 1960s and early 1970s and in Riyadh right after the Iranian revolution. He then got posted to Paris. Young Bernadette went to boarding school back here in England when things got a bit too hot in Hong Kong. Remember, it was the time of the cultural revolution in China. Red Guards and others were infiltrating Hong Kong and Whitehall was quite worried about losing the place. Viper was sent there—”
“Viper?” Ben asked
“Sorry. Viper was the code name for Bernadette’s father, may he rest in peace. He must have, shall we say, neutralized scores of threats to Great Britain over the course of his life.
“Of course, when Bernadette visited dad, she picked up Mandarin and Cantonese. She has a passable command of Arabic, and of course, French. Degrees from Oxford both in psychology and organizational behavior. Perfect for the job, don’t you think?”
Ben put his hand to his forehead. “How… perfect?”
“Dad kept her out of wet work, if that’s what you mean. She was his precious little angel. But not outside the business. He was the kind of agent who quickly read the enemy’s mind. Had to if you’re going to kill them, I guess. He understood Bernadette’s talents from an early age. Doubtless in her genes. He specialized in individuals. She applied the same skill set and insights to organizations. Absolutely brilliant.”
Ben’s mind was spinning. He really didn’t know what to say and blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “Any men in her life?”
“A legitimate question. Not currently. And not for a long while. She had an in-house romance about twenty years ago. Wrong end of the shop though. He was one of her father’s favorites, but he cautioned her not to get serious. So did her mom. They were inseparable for over three years, planned on tying the knot. Then the hunter became the victim. He probably had twenty kills to his name by that point but lost the one that mattered most. All it takes is one.
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