The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “What do you mean by kidnapped?”

  “Kidnapped as in kidnap, taken by force, well almost by force. I thought I was taken by force. I didn’t know if I was ever going to see you again.”

  “Who kidnapped you?”

  “I’m not sure.” As I spoke, a swarm of thoughts, ideas, and connections welled up in my mind. “But it had something to do with Uncle Raymond.”

  “Uncle Raymond? Do you realize that I had to entertain your uncle’s friends by myself? I had to—”

  “Can’t hear you very well,” I said, moving the phone to my arm’s length. “I’m losing you. The signal is bad.” I began to shout. “Tell Kyle to get to Holland’s place immediately. No, quicker than that.” Without waiting for a reply, I hung up.

  “Ooh, Morgana isn’t going to like that,” I said to myself, dreading our next conversation. “No, she is definitely not.”

  Yet, I couldn’t waste time on hurt feelings. Things had to be done. Questions had to be answered—and fast. And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew of only one person who could help me. I tore into my wallet for a half-forgotten phone number of a person whom I swore that I would never call—Serena ‘Bo’ Boswell.

  #

  CHAPTER 31

  Serena Boswell was an old flame of mine from my college days. Bo was rich, beautiful, sexy, and very smart, except for having me as a lover. At one time, I even contemplated asking her to marry me, but I didn’t. But I am confident that she would have said yes if I did. I cared for her very much, perhaps—even loved her at some level. But the relationship would have been doomed from the start. Serena proved to be too expensive in time, energy, and peace of mind. I couldn’t keep up with her, and as it turned out, I didn’t want to. She wasn’t a moonbeam in your hand, as an old song says. No, she was more like a white-hot cinder that was awesome to behold, too painful to grasp, and capable of leaving deep scars.

  Even after we broke up, trouble followed, and I got the worst of it. The last time I saw Serena, about two years ago or so, I was given a concussion, nearly drowned, and shot at, just to mention a few mishaps. It’s not that she did all these things to me, but her mere presence, I believe, causes bad things to happen.

  Bo’s work for some government intelligence agency probably had something to do with my last streak of bad luck. Which agency does she work for? I don’t care to know. In what capacity is she employed? Well, that could be anyone’s guess. And I got the impression if you guessed correctly, that guess would be the last guess you’d ever make.

  Anyway, with trepidations of all kinds, I made the call.

  “Hello Richard, Old Sport!” said the familiar alto voice on the other end of the phone. “Long time no see or hear. I was wondering when you would call me on my personal number. Perfect timing too, I am free at the moment. What is the occasion?”

  “Hi, Serena. Nice to hear your voice again.” I lied

  “It’s good to hear yours too. You sound, eh, . . . Can one describe a voice as delicious? You always had a voice that could turn a lady’s head to think of dessert.”

  Times hadn’t changed her; she always enjoyed making me squirm.

  “Are you okay, Old Sport?” Serena asked with a definite note of concern in it.

  At the time, her simple question wasn’t an easy one to answer. I wondered if I should mention that I was kidnapped, chased by thugs, and shot at just moments ago. But knowing my ex-girlfriend, it would probably be best to say as little as possible.

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “I’m fine too, thank you. I feel great. I can still turn men’s heads. In fact, when I was coming out of the shower this morning, I indulged myself and took a good review of my physical assists in the mirror. You remember them, don’t you, Old Sport? You once said that you were quite enthralled by them.”

  I remembered. I was in my twenties when I had my last full access to Serena’s assists. Since then, Morgana has been the source of my enthrallment. And I have had no hankering for the good old days on that score.

  “Anyway,” said Serena, breaking the awkward pause in the conversation, “I came to the conclusion that I am very well indeed. In fact, I would even say, to quote the Brits on this topic, that I am ‘quite fit.’”

  “Great,” I said sheepishly. “I am glad to hear it. Hey, Serena, I don’t want to be rude, but I am a little pressed for time, and I need your help. I have no one else to turn to.”

  “Desperate are you, Old Sport? Does Morgana want more than you can deliver in the boudoir, eh?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny. But Morgana and I are doing very well in that department,” I said as I recalled our failed attempt at romance earlier in the week. “But I’m serious, Serena. I need your help with something that requires someone with your intellectual and research abilities.”

  “You always knew the way to a woman’s heart. Go on.”

  “Kyle and I are working on a case. It’s very delicate with all sorts of international aspects to it. I can’t go into the details now, but our case may involve a military or an intelligence undertaking called, ‘Operation Hotspur.’”

  “Sounds interesting. What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, you have special ways of doing things—”

  “So you said when we were in Paris together—”

  “Bo, I really am serious. I need your help.”

  “Okay, fine. So what is it that you want from me?”

  “Can you get me any info about this ‘Operation Hotspur?’”

  “You do know, Old Sport, that you could file an FOIA request.”

  “True, but requesting something using the Freedom of Information Act is at best cumbersome and very time-consuming. And time is something I don’t have. Besides,” I swallowed hard, “doing it this way gives me a chance to talk to you.”

  “Old Sport,” she said between chuckles, “you never played this game very well.” She chuckled again, but a little harder. When she finished her laugh at my expense, she asked, “Are there any details on this Hotspur thing that you can share that will help?”

  “I figure that the time frame for this Operation Hotspur was between the late 1940s to the mid-1950s. It had something to do with Central Europe . . . Austria, Hungary, East Germany. That is about it.”

  “Not much to go on. And why, may I ask, do you want this information?”

  “I can’t say now,” I said. But not wanting to spoil my chances of Serena helping me, I quickly added, “because I wouldn’t want you to think me a fool—”

  “You still care about what I think.”

  “— If things didn’t work out, that is. But if things do work out, I will tell you everything.”

  “Really? Scout’s honor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Over dinner, just the two of us.”

  “Over dinner with the three of us.”

  “Who would be the third party? Let me guess, Morgana or Kyle?”

  “Guess.”

  “Hmmm, let me see. I always thought that Morgana was very—”

  “Bo, please help. We really do need the information.”

  After several seconds of silence came the response that I was hoping for. “I’ll see what I can do, Old Sport. I know that you would not have called if it weren’t important. I don’t promise anything. But I will try, for old times sake. Anything else?”

  “Well, I need some info on a Firmino Baldewin. He is somehow involved with Vatican security. And I could use some info on HIFT; it’s a large Hungarian company, I believe. And yeah, who in hell is Josef Luger? I know that he is some kind of Central European financial bigwig or something. Kyle and I need more on him . . . And that’s it. I can’t think of anything else.”

  There was a noticeable pause before Serena asked, “Why do you want info on Josef Luger?”

  “You know of him?” I quickly asked back.

  Silence.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course I do, Old Sport,” my ex-girlfriend coldly replied. />
  “Then you’ll have to trust me when I say I can’t tell you . . . yet.”

  There was another irritating moment of silence.

  “I see. How soon do you need this information?”

  “The day before yesterday. You can send the info to my brother. If an official address is needed, his email is—”

  “I know Kyle’s email, fax addresses, and phone numbers.”

  “You do?”

  “Why isn’t that the reason that you called me, Old Sport, because I have special abilities to know things?”

  “True.” A sudden shiver went up my spine. “Thanks for your help, Bo.”

  “Don’t mention it, Old Sport. Seriously, I mean, don’t mention it.”

  “Right. Understood.”

  “Oh, before we go—” Serena’s tone became warm again—“I want to say that I was very sad to hear about your Uncle’s passing.”

  “Thank you. Uncle Raymond was a special guy. I’ll miss him.” In the back of my mind, the fact that she knew of my Uncle’s death both comforted and disquieted me.

  “He certainly was special; he had you as a nephew.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Old Sport. Why do you have Jonas Tuthill’s cell phone?”

  “My cell ran out of power, so I borrowed . . . How did you know about Tuthill’s phone?”

  “No super-sleuthing about that, Old Sport. His name and number came up on my phone screen.”

  “Oh, right, of course.”

  “And, please tell Jonas Tuthill that his lost tax refund check has been located, reissued, and is on its way. Goodbye, Old Sport. You’ll hear from me soon.”

  Before I could question her about the lost tax refund, she hung up.

  #

  CHAPTER 32

  “Richard,” yelled Firmino from the hillcrest, “the car is freed. We can go.”

  “Right!” I said as I slipped the phone into my hip pocket.

  I didn’t let any grass grow under my feet. I ran down the woodsy hill as if my pants were on fire. At the bottom, I had found the entire regiment was standing in formation as Firmino painfully looked over his car splattered with mud from one end to the other. “I hope,” he said, shaking his head, “this dirt can come off before I return it to the rental company.”

  I hurriedly thanked Tuthill for his cooperation and for his men’s efforts. While I shook Tuthill’s hand in gratitude, I secretly slipped his cell phone into his side jacket pocket. Aware of possible prying eyes and ears, I declared, “Captain, I wish to inform you of something that concerns your current situation.”

  Tuthill initially eyed me with some confusion. “Oh?”

  “You will not be getting any telegraph messages from your HQ,” I said with a quick wink. “It appears that the wires have been cut. All telegraphic communications between you and the outside world have ceased.”

  As I discreetly tapped my jacket pocket while staring at his, Tuthill gave me a knowing nod and smiled. His men, in the spirit of their reenactment—not knowing about the contraband cell phone—grumbled words of condemnation about Rebel harassment.

  With several heartfelt huzzahs out the car window, I cheered the 20th Vermont Volunteers, Auxiliary, of the Catamount Civil War Re-enactors Brigade of Southern Vermont as Firmino and I drove away. In turn, Tuthill raised his arm to his brow in a smart salute, “Until the next time, God speed, MacKenzie.”

  As to the Captain’s tax return, I played it safe and said nothing to him about it. I was not prepared, nor had I the time, to answer any awkward questions about how I knew of his refund. I just left the matter to the powers that be. If Serena said the check was in the mail, then it was in the mail. Why complicate things.

  As we left our rescuers in blue in the distance, Firmino asked, “Where do we go now . . . to see your brother the Sheriff?”

  “We will go back to Chester Holland’s. Remember the way?”

  Firmino nodded.

  “We will meet Kyle there.”

  “Are you sure that you want to do that?”

  I took a breath and reluctantly replied, “Yes.”

  “Then it is back into the lion’s den, as you Americans say.”

  We were soon off the dirt path and back on the county road, heading for Chester’s house. I didn’t have any idea what we would find when we got there. Would Holland be okay? Was Chester in on whatever was happening? Would anyone even be at Chester’s? My mind raced through scenes of guns, helicopters, and exploding phones, among other disturbing things. The mention of the old chestnut about the lion’s den sent my memory back to when we were being chased across Pohl’s Table.

  “Firmino,” I asked, “Do you know what pooh-mah means?”

  “What is that you said?”

  “Pooh-mah. I heard one of our gun-toting friends say pooh-man back on the hill.” It sounded like the English word—puma. A mountain lion, cougar, a very large wild cat.”

  “Si. Puma. Same in Italian and in German and in French. Many languages have the word puma.”

  “Really . . . So, what do you think, ‘Is edgy puma,’ means? I heard Nagy saying something like that as we were being chased.”

  “Are you trying to say, ‘Ez egy puma?’ I heard him say that too. It’s Hungarian.”

  “Hungarian? You know Hungarian?”

  “A little,” Firmino replied with a grin.

  That was an interesting piece of information. There was a lot more to this Vatican agent that met the eye.

  “Well, what does it mean?”

  “It means, ‘Is that a puma?’ as you would say.”

  “Or maybe a catamount?” I muttered to myself. The word puma had set me wondering if there were really more things in these Vermont woods than what was commonly believed.

  “When we meet your brother,” asked Firmino, stopping my mental bird walk, “at this Mr. Holland’s, what is your plan?”

  “My plan?”

  “Yes, your plan.”

  “The truth of the matter is . . . I really don’t have one.”

  “No? No plan!”

  “Not just yet. But I’ll take any suggestions.”

  “This is a suggestion. We turn around, and I drive you back to your wife.”

  “That was something I had considered, but I have decided against it for several reasons. One, I think Chester may be in trouble. Two, those guys who tried to kill us might get away. Three, Morgana is not in the best of moods right now.”

  “And who put your wife into a bad mood, huh?” asked Firmino, giving me a brief angry glance. “You abandoned her at your Uncle’s funeral. If you did that to me, I would be in a very, very bad mood.”

  Guilt must have been plastered all over my face as I thought about Morgana hosting the post-funeral luncheon. “It wasn’t my fault. I thought I was being kidnaped. Why even you thought I was being kidnapped.”

  “That is true. But your wife she a beautiful, voluptuous woman,” continued Firmino, “and she loves you. You shouldn’t take her for granted.”

  “I know, and I shouldn’t cause her grief, but stuff happens. I didn’t plan for any of this. Who wakes up in the morning thinking he might be kidnapped? But since we are being honest, tell me something. What is the real reason you are here?”

  “As I said, I saw you getting into the car at the cemetery—”

  “Yeah, that was an odd thing . . . you being at the cemetery and all, but I am not talking about that. Why are you in Vermont, specifically in Shafton-Glen.”

  “I was asked to watch over the Padré by my superiors.”

  “You and I know that there is more to it than that.”

  Firmino tightened his lips and stared intensely at the road ahead.

  “For God’s sake, we were both almost killed by your exploding cell phone. And I recall you saying that you have met Nagy, Fordor, and that creep Luger before. What is this all about? Why are you here?”

  Firmino let go a long, deep groan. His shoulders dropped. He gave
me a quick glance with the pain of regret in his eyes. “I am working on a special, eh, investigation for The Prefecture for the Economic Affairs of the Holy See.”

  My knowledge of Vatican bureaucracy was sparse at best, so I asked further. “Can you explain what that is?”

  In resignation, Firmino grumbled, “In a very, very, very simple explanation, the Vatican is both a spiritual center and a city-state with internal and international responsibilities and obligations, yes. The Prefecture for the Economic Affairs of the Holy See is involved with the city state’s finances and for the administration those finances of the greater church—”

  Silence came over us as our car crossed the bridge where the cell phone explosion occurred. The uncomfortable quiet continued when we reached the other side.

  “Well,” I said, snapping us out of the lull in our conversation, “go on. What is your connection with Nagy, Fordor, and Luger?”

  “There are some things that I can’t tell you, other than my superiors believe that they are somehow connected to some very substantial and questionable funds that were deposited in the Vatican bank.”

  Then a frightening idea came to me. “And is Joe involved in this?”

  Silence again.

  “Firmino, what does Joe have to do with all this?”

  “That, my friend, you must ask him.”

  Firmino’s response was cold, blunt, and sent a shiver up my spine. How could my old college chum be connected to . . . what? Bad banking practices or financial fraud involving the Vatican? . . . Uncle Raymond’s death? The very idea was absolutely unthinkable.

  “You really don’t think that Joe is mixed up in anything illegal, do you?”

  Silence again.

  “Will you stop that!” I growled.

  “Stop what?”

  “When I ask a question, give me an answer. Don’t pretend that you didn’t hear the question. It’s like arguing with my wife.”

  “I don’t want to lie to you, so I say nothing.”

  “Well, that is very considerate of you, but it’s not very helpful.”

  As Chester’s house appeared down the road, Firmino tried to placate my concerns. “Talk to Padré Joe. The more he tells you, the more I can tell you.”