Night Moves

A warning flash strobed his brain: Danger! Bad idea!

Then he thought about Toni and her silat workout. Stewart had put his hands all over Toni, hadn't he? What was the difference? It wasn't sex, it was harmless. It was… therapeutic.

'Yeah, maybe we could do that,' he heard himself say.

She smiled at him and he smiled back.

'I must look awful, like an old sweaty cow,' she said. 'I must go and repair myself. See you later.'

After she had gone, he found that a small bit of tension quickly returned, despite the skilled rubdown he had just gotten. It had nothing to do with work.

What, he wondered, are you getting yourself into here, Alex?

Chapter 25

Sunday, April 10th

The Yews, Sussex, England

Goswell sat in his study, in the good leather chair, and sipped at his iced gin. He sighed, and looked at the photographs for perhaps the tenth time. In this age of computer miracles, it was certainly possible to fake such things, he knew. An expert could easily put one man's face on another's body, could erase or add elements that never existed. He recalled seeing a movie once of Sir Winston Churchill — a damned fine PM, according to his father — seated next to the American President Abraham Lincoln, chatting away, when, in truth, the latter had been assassinated eight or ten years before Churchill had been born.

He shuffled the pictures. Yes, certainly it could be done, but in this case, he was just as certain that it had not been done. These were genuine enough, for the man who had taken them had not had a reason to fake them. There sat Peel, talking to Bascomb-Coombs, right there in a public eatery. Of course, Goswell thought, Peel was his security chief and Bascomb-Coombs one of his employees, and a valuable one, as well, so one could easily argue that such a meeting was well within the normal scope of Peel's duties. It was his job, after all, to keep tabs on such people, and talking to them directly was not out of the question.

Goswell took another swallow of his drink and looked at the grandfather clock. Nearly seven; supper would be ready soon.

No, Peel could certainly justify speaking with Bascomb-Coombs easily enough. The damning thing was, he had not done so. Nowhere in his reports was there any mention of such a meeting. Nor of the subsequent meetings. While not all such instances had been edited from the tally of his observations and actions, some of them certainly had been. There were other photographs.

Goswell shook his head. Damned bad show, this. Was he to believe that Peel's formerly faultless memory had begun to malfunction? And only in instances concerning Bascomb-Coombs? What a terrible world it had become when one had to have a trusted watcher himself being watched.

The question was, of course, what were these two about? That they were in league together certainly meant something.

Well. He had not gotten to be a general of industry without learning how to figure such things out.

He rattled the cubes in his nearly empty glass rather loudly.

'Milord? Another drink?'

'Yes, please. Oh, and Applewhite? See if you can find Major Peel, would you, and have him drop round after dinner?'

'Certainly, milord.'

Goswell stared into the depths of the melting ice in his glass as Applewhite went to fetch more gin. He would take the quisling Peel's measure, one way or another. A damned shame, really. Good thing the boy's father was gone. It would break his heart to know his son had betrayed a trust.

Sunday, April 10th

London, England

A light rain had begun falling, and Ruzhyo figured this would be a perfect excuse.

It was Sunday, and in some cities that meant much of the commerce would be shut down, but not here in London. He caught a cab near the British Museum and gave the driver the address he wanted. It was not far from a shop on a side street near Regent's Park, a tiny slot of a storefront, long and narrow, that specialized in handcrafted umbrellas and canes. You could easily drop a couple of hundred in such a place on a handmade walking stick or bumbershoot, considerably more if you so wished. They were big on such things here, the accoutrements of a gentleman, and likely the shop could make ends meet just with such sales alone; however, there were other items to be had by a knowledgeable buyer.

The cab arrived a block from the destination. Ruzhyo paid the fare, reflexively gave enough of a tip so the hack wouldn't remember him as being either cheap or extravagant, and alighted from the taxi. The rain was coming down a little harder, and Ruzhyo made certain he didn't appear to notice the man following him as he walked. Not that his shadow was totally inept, but it would take somebody far better to tail him unnoticed once he was looking for such a thing.

When he arrived at the shop he wanted, he made a show of looking irritated at the weather, shook the water from his windbreaker, and offered what he hoped would seem a spur-of-the-moment decision to duck into the place.

It would all be for nothing if Peel knew what the shop's merchandise included, but unless things had changed recently, the Brits did not have a clue about the umbrella store.

The meeting with Peel had been interesting. His claim that he had spotted Ruzhyo by having every passport picture of every foreigner entering the country compared to a list of known agents seemed far-fetched, but Peel had managed to spot him somehow. And he had managed to put a watcher on him. Perhaps it was just luck. Or perhaps Peel's claim was true. Either way, the offer of employment had been forthcoming. Ruzhyo hadn't been all that interested in work, but then again, it wasn't as if he was in a hurry, and Peel could make it easier for him to travel, especially given all the computer problems of late. A short stopover might be to his benefit. The assignment, to stand by for a possible elimination of an English lord who just happened to be Peel's employer was intriguing, although Ruzhyo doubted he would actually attempt the deletion.

Peel's flimsy explanation as to why he couldn't do the job himself or have one of his men do it wasn't fooling anybody. It was obvious that he needed a scapegoat, a foreign agent who could be blamed for the assassination, and who better than a sneaky CIS former Spezsnaz killer? One who might well be shot full of holes himself in the aftermath of the killing while trying to escape, thus tying up all loose ends?

Ruzhyo allowed himself a small smile as the umbrella shop clerk took notice of him and nodded. Were he Peel, that's how he might set it up. Hire an expendable shooter, then delete him once the job was done; all very neat, if not terribly smart. Sooner or later, somebody would get around to asking why a man on the run from U.S. authorities would bother to stop off for a bit of murder in the U.K., motive being a necessary part of such a thing. And even the plodding British authorities would turn over every rock in sight investigating the murder of such a highly regarded man. They were still very class-conscious here. But the Brits were short-sighted about some things, always had been. Had they been paying attention, they'd probably still rule most of the world. Hubris did awful things to an empire. Likely it was that Peel had a touch of that himself.

'May I help you, sir?'

'I need a special umbrella. One with more… heft than the ordinary.'

The clerk's smile never wavered. 'Ah, yes. I'll have the manager, Mr. O'Donnell, right out.'

The clerk disappeared into a door behind the counter. Ruzhyo pretended to browse. There were fantastic handles on some of the canes and umbrellas, made of ivory or exotic woods, carved in fanciful shapes. Here was a tiger, there a snake, over here, a nude woman arched backward in a graceful half circle.

'Good afternoon, sir. I'm Mr. O'Donnell. I understand you need a special umbrella?'

Ruzhyo nodded at the tall, sandy-haired man in the dark suit. 'Yes.'

'Might I ask who recommended our shop to you?'

'That would be Colonel Webley-Scott.'