The Reluctant Assassin

  I have this guy pinned down. Backup can be here in two minutes.

  “It’s okay,” she told Riley. “We’ve got him now. He’s going nowhere. There’s a phone in my waistband—pass it to me.”

  Garrick also had an idea. The magician suddenly withdrew from the foot of the stairs and hurried along the subterranean corridor to the computer banks.

  That’s okay. That’s fine. All he can do with the computers is slap the keyboards. No password, no access, Chevie thought. Then: Really? The holding-cell door didn’t slow him down much, remember?

  “Phone, Riley. Get my phone.”

  “Unless it’s a weapon, Agent, forget your bloomin’ phone. Aim your gun and fire off another shot.”

  “No, don’t worry. He’s contained down there.”

  Riley understood that Miss Savano believed she had gained the upper hand, and his eyes watered with frustration.

  “You don’t understand, miss. Garrick is a devil. He ain’t no bludger nor simple broadsman. Didn’t you see him delivered from the pit with your own two gawpers?”

  Chevie had seen it, but she refused to relinquish the rules of her world entirely. “Maybe, if he could get into the weapons locker, he could do something, but that’s protected by a code.”

  From below came a double bleep and ka-chaak, which Chevie recognized as the weapons locker keypad turning off its alarm and swinging open.

  Riley knew without being told what the noises were. “That was your locker, wasn’t it, miss? That was Garrick outfoxing your code?”

  Again, thought Chevie.

  “That was our cue to go,” she admitted, hitching herself over the top step and into the hallway. “What you said about leaving? You were right.”

  “Praise the Lord for good sense,” said Riley, and he ducked under Chevie’s arm so he could drag her more efficiently.

  Garrick appeared, cradling an AK-47 assault rifle, which had probably been new when Chevie was in grade school.

  The gun’s age won’t slow down the bullets, thought Chevie, forcing Garrick to duck as she sent three more rounds humming down the stairwell. That should buy us five seconds at least.

  Five seconds was about three seconds more than she got. Before the echo of her final shot had faded, Garrick’s head appeared once more around the corner of the first flight of stairs. This time he had the AK’s stock expertly wedged between cheek and shoulder.

  Riley knew then that Garrick had come out of the metal transporting machine with knowledge and abilities he had not previously possessed. He was somehow improved.

  “Now, little girlie,” Garrick called, “let us see if what I dreamed about this contraption is true.”

  Garrick pulled the trigger, sending a stream of bullets into the ceiling over Chevie’s head. The kickback got away from him for a second, but he soon recovered. The noise was deafening in the confined space, like overlapping thunderclaps. Riley and Chevie hunkered on the floorboards, unable to tell if they had been shot or if they were screaming.

  Riley had no combat experience like Chevie’s, but his entire life had been one long trauma, so he was accustomed to getting on with living even when death was close at hand. He grabbed Agent Savano by the collar and dragged her backward like a sack of coal.

  “Come on,” he cried. “We must get to the streets.”

  They stumbled along together, with the threat of Garrick like a wind at their backs; and in a ragged moment they were at the front door, which was secured by three bolts set into a steel frame.

  Swipe the security card and we’re out, thought Chevie.

  Chevie felt for the tiny reel clipped to a pant loop where her card normally hung.

  No card. Must have lost it in the explosion. Unless . . .

  Chevie glared at Riley. “Give me my card, thief.”

  Riley already had it out. “You leaned a fraction close doing the manacles. And I opened them with a pick from me sock that came out of the machine with me. Sorry, Agent. Life or death.”

  They could talk about this later. Chevie swiped the card as bullets bounced around the hallway, shattering glass and blasting a crystal chandelier. It crashed to the ground, showering Riley with glass shards and blocking the stairwell.

  “Riley!” called Garrick. “Kill her, boy. I know it’s in you. I will wipe the slate, my word on it.” All this while climbing the stairs and changing magazines.

  The door popped open a slice, and Chevie put her final bullet into the control pad.

  A red light flashed on the alarm pad and a peeved voice said: “control pad tampered with. lockdown in five seconds. lockdown in four seconds.”

  Garrick hopped nimbly over the twisted remains of the chandelier, raising his knees unfeasibly high to the level of his ears, carrying the automatic weapon overhead.

  “Strike, Riley.”

  In case Riley chose not to strike as ordered, Garrick fired another burst at Agent Savano, but he was too late. The door had closed behind his quarry, all three bolts engaging automatically. Simultaneously the rear entrance locked itself, and bars dropped over every window in the house. The security system was the best federal dollars could buy, and in under three seconds the house on Bedford Street was locked down tighter than the average Swiss bank.

  Chevie rested with her back against the door, feeling her pulse drumming inside her swollen eyelid.

  “Okay, we have a breather now. That monster may have beaten the weapons code out of Smart, but he’s not getting out of that house without FBI clearance.”

  Riley tugged Chevie away from the door.

  “We must keep moving, miss. No building can hold Albert Garrick for long,” he said.

  Chevie allowed herself to be tugged through the cordon of emergency tape tied across the railing. She was starting to believe that maybe this Garrick character was just as dangerous as Riley claimed him to be.

  A Visit to the Outhouse

  BEDFORD SQUARE. BLOOMSBURY. LONDON. NOW

  Riley and Chevie stumbled into the orange glow of evening streetlamps, on to the square lined with Georgian four-story houses bordering a small park like something from Peter Pan.

  “This at least is familiar,” panted Riley, gazing at the square, purposefully ignoring the sounds and sights beyond. “I was terribly afraid that modern wonders would be too much for my poor nut.”

  Wait until you see Piccadilly Circus , thought Chevie. Riley drew in a huge shuddering breath. “Garrick is always telling me to breathe. It calms a body, if a body needs calming.” Riley stopped talking as his nose took stock of the air that had just gone into it.

  “How curious,” he said, then threw up all over the pavement.

  “That’s great,” said Chevie. “We’ll never get a black cab to pick us up now.”

  But she did manage to flag down a cab outside a boutique hotel on Bayley Street, and soon they were lost in traffic, heading toward Leicester Square.

  Riley kept his head between his knees, drawing sticky breaths until he could make himself stop shaking. “The smell, miss. It’s like the inside of an apothecary’s pocket. I can’t smell the city.”

  Chevie patted him on the back. “I guess it’s a bit cleaner these days. No one empties chamber pots out the window anymore.”

  “I can’t smell the people. Are there less people now?”

  Chevie looked out at the teeming metropolis rolling past the window. “Not really.”

  Riley clasped his knees tightly and raised his eyes.

  “I don’t smell any horses,” he croaked.

  “Nope, no horses. Except outside Buckingham Palace on occasion.”

  Riley straightened and pressed his face to the window. “Generally, we have horses. But I’ve seen automobiles, so this ain’t so terrifying.” Then a double-decker bus loomed alongside.

  Riley flinched. Perhaps he could handle a carriage-sized automobile, but this craft was bigger than a cargo barge.

  His eyes took in one modern wonder after another. Neon signs. Computer shops. Skys
crapers. Eventually he saw something familiar.

  “There’s an honest-to-god Blighty pub,” Riley gasped. “Can we go in, Agent? A quick dram of brandy for my nerves?”

  Chevie snorted. “You are not drinking, Riley.”

  “Why not? Is it outlawed entirely?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Totally illegal. You touch one dram and I’ll have to shoot you.”

  Riley sighed a spot of condensation on the window, then lifted his gaze skyward, and his breath came in sudden shallow bursts, clouding the glass.

  “A-a-agent Savano?”

  Chevie was halfway through dialing a number. “In a second, kid.”

  Riley touched her arm with one finger, and Chevie could feel it tap-tapping with fear.

  “It ain’t the Martians, miss, is it? Like in Mr. Wells’s new story, War of the Worlds?”

  Chevie followed the boy’s troubled gaze and saw the silhouette of a passenger plane overhead.

  “Don’t worry, kid. It’s just Ryanair, not aliens, though it’s a reasonable assumption. I think I’d better get you off the street before your head explodes.”

  “Oh my God. A person’s head is likely to explode these days? Is it heat rays? I need a brandy, miss, upon my life.”

  Chevie punched the last three numbers into her keypad. “You don’t need a brandy, Riley, you need an outhouse.”

  “You are not in the wrong there,” agreed the boy. “It seems like a hundred years since I last went.”

  Chevie held the phone to her ear. “Not that kind of outhouse.”

  The FBI had several safe houses, apartments, and hotel rooms spread across London in case one of their agents got into hot water during an operation and needed a place to lie low and wait for the cavalry to gallop across from the U.S. embassy.

  These safe houses were officially known as secure facilities, but the agents had referred to them as outhouses (out as in Officer Under Threat) since the term was popularized by a seventies spy series Double Trouble, starring the English actor Sir Olivier Gamgud and his faithful Yorkshire terrier.

  The closest outhouse to Chevie’s location was a suite in the Garden Hotel, an understated boutique hotel on Monmouth Street where movie stars and models could be found enjoying the famous breakfast on any given morning. Bureau rumor had it that the section chief chose the Garden because of its proximity to the Monmouth Coffee Company café, which served arguably the best espresso outside São Paulo.

  Chevie called the desk and asked for Waldo.

  “Hello, this is Waldo,” said a deep voice. “How can I help you?”

  Chevie spoke slowly, sticking to the code. Waldo was a notorious stickler for protocol and would hang up if she strayed from the correct wording.

  “I would like to speak with my Uncle Sam, Waldo,” she said. “He’s in room one-seven-seven-six.”

  Waldo was silent for so long that Chevie thought he might have disconnected.

  “I’m sorry. What room did you say your Uncle Sam was in?”

  Chevie fumed, and silently vowed to kick Waldo really hard somewhere soft at a later date. “I’m sorry, Waldo. My Uncle Sam is in room seventeen seventy-six.”

  Another pause, but this time Chevie could hear a keyboard being tapped. “And what did you say your name was, miss?”

  “My name is Chevron, but Uncle Sam has always called me . . .” Chevie crossed two fingers, hoping she had the right code name for today. “Spiderwick.”

  “Spiderwick. Yes, I do have you on the visitors list.”

  “Good. Great.”

  “Your Uncle Sam is not in residence at the moment. Perhaps you would like to wait for him in the suite?”

  “I would like to wait. We both would.”

  More tapping. “Ah . . . both. The hotel has excellent facilities; would you care to make use of them while you are waiting?”

  Chevie looked at Riley. “I think a wardrobe and some first aid are definitely needed.”

  “Very good, Spiderwick. How soon can we expect you?”

  Chevie checked the street. “ETA two minutes, Waldo.”

  Waldo hung up without another word. He only had two minutes; there was no time for chitchat.

  • • •

  The cab pulled up outside the Garden Hotel slightly more than three minutes later and disgorged a very unlikely couple onto Monmouth Street.

  One seventeen-year-old FBI agent in Lycra, and an assassin’s apprentice from the nineteenth century, thought Chevie. We must be quite a sight. At least both of my eyes are open now.

  Monmouth Street itself was quiet, in spite of its proximity to Covent Garden, with only a few tourists cutting through to Seven Dials or Leicester Square and the faint echo of carnival music. Most of the street was fenced off for street repairs, and the taxi driver was forced to reverse and go out the same way he had come in.

  The Garden Hotel was one of those establishments that prided itself on the discretion it guaranteed its very select clientele. There was no sign, no doorman in a top hat, and only a tasteful awning to show taxi drivers where to stop. Chevie had stayed here once before, when Orange had commandeered her apartment during a routine pod service, and she had treated herself to a massage that had worked out muscle pains she’d suffered from overstrenuous workouts.

  Chevie tucked her holstered Glock under her arm and hustled Riley into the lobby before he had time to throw up again. Special Agent Waldo Gunn was waiting for them by the reception desk.

  “Two minutes?” he said testily. “That was closer to four.” Waldo was not anybody’s idea of an FBI operative, which was probably why he had survived so long in his semi-undercover capacity as liaison at the Garden. Waldo stood five feet four in Cuban heels and had a bushy gray beard that made him seem about a thousand years old, a look that had earned him the nickname Gimli in the Bureau. If Waldo was aware of this nickname, he was not sufficiently bothered by it to invest in a razor.

  “Hey, Waldo,” said Chevie. “What’s up?” Waldo scowled. “What’s up, Agent Savano? What’s up is that you should have requested an escort through the service entrance. We try to maintain a low profile here in order to avoid raising suspicion, and yet here you stand in tattered training gear with a chimney-cleaning midget in tow. Hardly low profile. That is what is up, Agent.”

  At least he called me Agent, thought Chevie.

  Waldo turned on his heel and strode through the small lobby furnished in late Victorian style, which was a huge relief to Riley, whose head was bursting with revelations.

  “Should we follow the elf?” he asked Chevie.

  Chevie smiled. “We should, or he gets really annoyed.”

  Waldo translated his irritation into a quickstep, so Chevie and Riley had to hustle to keep on his tail. He led them around the front desk and into a small steel elevator, which he summoned with a remote control fob on his waistcoat.

  Riley tried to appear blasé. “It’s an ascending room, no great shakes. I saw ’em at the Savoy years ago when Garrick sent me to suss out some swell’s gaff.”

  Waldo raised an eyebrow at Chevie, who knew exactly what the unasked question was. “Yes, he talks like that all the time. It’s all Strike me blind or Cor, luv a duck with this little gent.”

  Waldo took a smartphone from his pocket and typed a note. Chevie would be willing to bet that the word delusional was in the note somewhere.

  They took the elevator to the fourth floor, with Riley holding grimly onto the rail.

  “You can’t be overcautious,” he told Chevie. “I heard about one of these things snapping its cable in New York City. It dropped quicker than a shirkster at closing time. Made jam of the passengers.”

  “I’m getting a headache listening to this cockney speak,” said Waldo. “Please God there won’t be any rhyming slang.”

  Riley literally jumped from the elevator when the door opened, then they pushed through a fire door and climbed some back stairs up two more flights.

  “Here we are,” said Waldo, indicating a nondescrip
t gray door with the sweep of his arm, as though it was the gateway to a palace of wonder. “Room seventeen seventy-six.”

  He pressed another button on his remote and the door swung smoothly open.

  “In you go, Agent. You can hole up here until a field team arrives. It shouldn’t be too long, though head office tells me that our team has already been deployed to deal with a suspected terrorist hive, in Devon, of all places. False alarm, as it turned out. So I’m guessing it’ll take an hour for them to make it back here. Plenty of time for you to get some clothes on, and for the Artful Dodger to take a bath.”

  “Cheers, guv’nor, you is a proper swell,” said Riley innocently, and Chevie guessed that he knew exactly who the Artful Dodger was.

  Waldo frowned suspiciously but continued his briefing. “We have a range of clothes in the closet, so you should find something to fit. And there is a fridge with cold food. Don’t open the door to anyone but me, and if someone comes through that door who is not me, then feel free to shoot them. While we are not in the embassy and so technically not on American soil, this suite is attached to the embassy, and so a strong case can be made. In any event, jurisdiction over these rooms is a gray area, which should be enough to get you back Stateside if anything goes wrong.” Waldo opened a drawer in a writing desk. “In the event you are out of ammunition, we have a selection here, behind the stationery.”

  “Ooh,” said Chevie. “Stationery. Cool.”

  Waldo bristled. “I would have thought, Agent Savano, that after the Los Angeles foul-up, you would take this job a little more seriously.”

  “I am being serious,” said Chevie. “One of my foster moms collects stationery.”

  “I shall be writing a full report,” continued Waldo, “and your attitude will be both underlined and in italics.”

  Chevie selected a clip for her Glock. “Sorry, Waldo. I get a little giddy under pressure. There’s someone after us. Someone a little out of the ordinary.”

  Waldo was not impressed. “Well, your someone won’t be coming in here without an assault team behind him. And even then he’d need the door remote, which is paired to my biometric readings.”