Night Moves

Chapter 28

Tuesday, April 12th

London, England

Goswell glanced over the top of his Times at Sir Harold Bellworth, who sat brooding at his cigar, which had gone out from lack of attention. The old boy had called for Paddington to fetch him another match, and Goswell figured this was a good time to broach the subject he had in mind.

'I say, Harry?'

Bellworth looked up from his dead cigar. 'What? Eh?'

'You recall that business you had with that… Armenian fellow a few months ago?'

Bellworth snorted. 'I could hardly forget that! Blasted damned rogue, the man was, mucking about in my business!'

'I heard he met with an… unfortunate accident, the Armenian.'

'I should say he did. Fell off of a platform in the tube station and was squashed by a train. Served him right, and no loss to the world at all, damned foreigner!'

Goswell waited as Paddington returned. Paddington struck a match against the box, let it flare, then bent and held it so Bellworth could rekindle his Cuban torpedo. A cloud of fragrant smoke billowed as the old boy puffed the cigar back to life.

'Decent of you, Paddington,' Bellworth said.

Paddington moved the ash tray a hair closer — Bellworth was notorious for flicking the cigar residue onto the rug. 'Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?'

'No, no, this will do it.'

'Very good, sir.'

Paddington ghosted away.

Bellworth looked back to Goswell. 'Why on earth are you bringing up such a distasteful subject, Gossie?'

'Well, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I have a somewhat similar problem myself. I do believe I need someone… discreet to handle it for me.'

Bellworth took another puff, held the cigar away, peered at the lit end, and nodded through the gray cloud. 'You have your own people to attend to such things, surely?'

'I'm afraid one of my own people is the problem. Having one of his underlings take care of him wouldn't do at all, would it?'

'Heavens, no, bad for morale and all that, I understand completely. Well, then, shall I put in a call to my fellow, have him ring you up?'

'If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Harry.'

'Not at all, not at all, consider it done. Now, what do you make of Lord Cleese's proposal about bringing back the poorhouses? I thought it was rather a clever idea myself.'

Goswell smiled. Here was a subject on which they could certainly agree. Putting the poor to work instead of carrying them on the dole. Bloody Socialists would be the death of the country, if somebody didn't stop them, and such suggestions were, for Goswell's money, right on the mark. It would never happen, of course. The bloody Socialists would have bloody conniptions if anybody tried, but still and all, it would shake people if Parliament actually considered such a thing. Indeed it would.

It would seem he was going to have to take direct control of his own personal war on the world's foolishness, given as how his primary tools had somehow gotten bent. He sighed. One should expect such things in this day and age, but they still came as rather a surprise. You simply could not get dependable help these days, not of the caliber that once was. Such a pity.

Tuesday, April 12th

London, England

Toni didn't expect to see Alex waiting for her when she got through the throng at the Chunnel train station, but there he was. She was tired after the ride from Paris, and the air in the tiny tunnel under the English Channel had seemed particularly stuffy, though that was probably just psychological. All that unseen water weighed heavily upon you. Good thing she wasn't claustrophobic. She was beat, but her spirits lifted immediately when she saw him.

'Alex! What are you doing here?'

They hugged, he took her bag, and said, 'I missed you. Welcome back, sweetie. How'd it go?'

'Okay. They really are well-mannered, most of the French. It's only the few who give them such a bad reputation. Well, okay, more than a few, but it wasn't so bad. As long as you don't pretend to understand the language and try to speak it, even the waiters aren't too nasty.'

'You always liked anybody who liked Jerry Lewis,' he said.

'He was a comic genius. Good slapstick isn't easy, you know.'

He laughed. It was an old joke between them. But Jerry Lewis was funny; he had created that monkey character, built from it, and some of his later dramatic roles were as good as any actor working. He was underrated.

'Anything happening here?'

'No… not really. Well, except that I got a call from John Howard. He's landed at an Air Force base north of here.'

'The colonel? Why?'

'Plekhanov's hired gun, Ruzhyo. They traced him to England.'

'Great. One more brick on the load.'

He didn't say anything to that.

'You look tired,' she said.

'I didn't sleep well.'

'I bet I can help you fall asleep tonight.'

'I bet so.'

She squeezed his arm. He smiled at her. They'd been passing each other in the dark lately. It was time to get back on the same track. She said, 'You talked to Jay? He called me. He's doing better.'

'Yeah. I'm glad to hear that.'

'And he says he is making progress toward finding our hacker.'

'About time we had some good news on that front.'

He seemed a little bit stiff, but just look at him, he was obviously tired. A nice hot shower and crawling under the covers together would do wonders for both of them. She had missed lovemaking with him. And, truth be known, she was getting horny from all the working out with Carl. Best drain that tension and be done with it.

Tuesday, April 12th

Cambridge, England

Howard sat in the backseat of the Ford behind Julio and the driver loaned to them by the RAF. They were on the M11, heading south, toward London. He passed signs for Bishop's Stortford and Sawbridgeworth, and except for the colors and shapes of the signs, it could have been an American freeway in the countryside of New York or Northern California. The greenery was similar, the look of civilization not all that different.

Well, except for being on the wrong side of the road.

Julio sat where an American would be at the steering wheel back home, and he seemed a bit more relaxed on the motorway than he had been on the surface streets. Leaving the base, every time they'd rounded a corner and seen cars coming from the opposite direction, Howard had seen Julio tense, his foot going for an imaginary brake. He understood the feeling, since he had put his own braking foot against the back of the seat a few times.

Why on earth had the British chosen to drive on the wrong side of the road?

It was maybe a little easier because the driver's controls were on the right, but it would take some getting