Labyrinth (9 page)

Locke flipped him a five-pound note. “Go back.”

The man grabbed the bill. “Cheers, mate.”

Something about the cabbie's voice disturbed him, a distant ring of familiarity, but what?

Cheers, mate
.

The accent was not quite British, it was laced with something more like …

Locke went cold. The man's accent was Spanish!

Chris leaned forward and searched for a cabdriver identification form, found none. This wasn't New York or Washington, after all. He had no way of knowing if such cards were required in London, where even the damn steering wheel was on the wrong side. Maybe he was letting his imagination run wild. The shock had been too much for him. A Spanish-speaking man had tried to kill him and now he was hearing Spanish accents everywhere. He tried to settle back but couldn't.

The cabbie inched up the Hyde Park side of Park Lane away from the hotel. His eyes flirted with the rearview mirror. Locke sensed them watching him. He looked up and the eyes moved back to the road.

Stop it!
Locke commanded himself, but something just wasn't right. His defenses had snapped on. He felt for the .45 in his pocket.

The cab came to a halt at a red light. Locke glanced behind him and made out the Dorchester's sign clearly four blocks back. Jump out, that was it, jump out while the cab was still stopped.

Chris tried the door. It was locked!

He searched for the knob. It had been cut off. He was trapped!

Locke felt the engine idling. He looked up. The cabbie held the steering wheel with only his right hand, his left was by his side.

The light turned green. Locke saw the cabbie's shoulder shift suddenly and sensed what was happening. He threw himself forward over the seat, crashing his forearm into the back of the cabbie's head. The man's face snapped into the steering wheel. The car lurched crazily through the intersection and started to spin.

Locke saw the pistol in the cabbie's hand, struggled to reach his wrist. He felt a set of rigid fingers smash the bridge of his nose. Pain exploded through his head. His eyes watered and blurred. He lost sight of the gun, forgot his own, grasped desperately about.

The pistol was coming toward him. Locke projected his entire frame into the front seat, trying to pin down the gun-wielding hand.

“Killer!” the cabbie screamed.
“¡Carcinero! ¡Asesino!”

The same words Alvaradejo had used.

The car continued to spin, hopelessly out of control now. It slammed into a bus, bounced off, and crashed into a light pole. Locke was tossed forward into the windshield, his back striking first. The cabbie's head snapped hard against the dashboard, recoiled crushed and bloodied. The door had blasted open on impact. Locke pushed himself toward it. The horn was blaring. Chris rolled out of the car onto the sidewalk where people were starting to approach.

Then he was being helped to his feet, his legs unsteady, his knees wobbly. It seemed his feet weren't receiving signals from his brain. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his head and neck but, miraculously, no agonized sharpness indicating something had been broken or torn.

“There he is! There he is!”

The words were shouted in Spanish, and he could hear footsteps approaching from where he had just come. How many of them were there? First Alvaradejo, then the cabbie, now …

With a motion as desperate as it was sudden, Locke broke free of the men supporting him and rushed down the street. Behind him he heard orders being shouted in Spanish and men taking off after him. Pain racked his head and shoulders. His feet thumped against the sidewalk, sending jolts of agony through his entire spine. He was dizzy but knew he couldn't stop. He didn't dare look back, nor was there reason to, for he knew what would be there: men following, undoubtedly with guns. Alvaradejo had had a gun, the cabbie too. Chris could only hope the crowded street and abundance of witnesses would stop them from firing. He crashed through pedestrians, certain all eyes were upon him.

He sprinted down the sidewalk back toward the Dorchester. There would still be several streets to cross, and he would be an easy target all the way. He knew he had to keep moving in spite of the raging pain that made him want to give up. He thought of reaching for the pistol and making a stand here.

The .45 was gone! It must have fallen out during his struggle with the cabbie.

Locke heard more shouts in Spanish and swung back to see men—three, he thought—following in his path. He sped past the Dorchester, wind giving out and legs cramping.

Then he saw the red double-decker bus squealing to a halt at the corner of Park Lane and Curzon Street. He rushed toward it, nimbly dodging through fast-moving traffic. He prayed the small line of passengers would linger long enough for him to make it.

For an instant, it seemed they wouldn't. Then a woman dropped her handbag and bent to retrieve it as the driver waited to close the doors. Locke reached the bus just as the woman lifted her handbag from the steps. He leaped in, the doors hissed closed, and the driver pulled the double-decker away.

Locke rode the bus for almost an hour. The exact time eluded him because his watch had been broken when he smashed into the windshield. The time allowed him to calm down and collect himself, letting his muscles loosen and the pain subside. So far as he could tell, all his injuries were minor, limited to a few cuts and bruises, the worst of which lay over the bridge of his nose where the cabbie's fingers had landed.

Finally Chris saw a red call box up ahead and rose tentatively, reaching for the hand signal. His muscles responded sluggishly but without pain. He climbed out the middle set of doors and stumbled when his beaten legs reached cement. He staggered to the box and settled himself. Luckily he found the proper change in his pocket.

The number! What was the damn number?

Locke searched his scholar's mind and found it.

“What is your message?” The drab male voice was more welcome than any he'd ever heard.

“Charney,” Locke muttered. “I need to reach Brian Charney.”

“What is your name and number?”

“Christopher Locke.” He read the man the call box's number.

“Wait by the phone.”

The line clicked off. Chris replaced the receiver immediately.

It rang seconds later. Trembling, he jammed the plastic to his ear.

“Brian!”

“Chris, I've been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been and what's this about—”

Locke found his voice. “I killed Alvaradejo.”

“You
what
?”

“Brian, he tried to kill me! I let him set up the meeting just like you said and he tried to shoot me. If it wasn't for the gun you left for me, I'd—”

“Wait a minute, what gun?”

“A man from Customs issued me one at the airport. On your orders, he said.”

“I never sent you a gun.”

“Then how—”

“That was the gift you mentioned in your message,” Charney realized. “Oh, God, and you shot Alvaradejo with it… .”

“Because he tried to shoot me!”

“Take it easy, old buddy, I believe you. I'm just trying to put this thing together. Someone set you up.”

“I need help, Brian. You've gotta get me out of here. There was another man with a gun too, a cabdriver, and others chasing me, all screaming in Spanish.”

“Do you remember anything they said?”

“It was all pretty much the same. They kept repeating the words ‘butcher,' ‘killer,' and ‘animal'—singular
and
plural. And Alvaradejo said something like the souls of San Sebastian would be avenged.”

Silence filled the other end of the line.

“You there, Brian?”

“Yes, Chris. You're sure he said San Sebastian?”

“Of course I'm sure. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It might.”

Locke looked around, feeling uncomfortable at staying in one place for so long. His shoes kicked nervously against the sidewalk.

“What do we do from here, Brian? They'll still be looking for me. I might be able to make it back to the hotel if—”

“No!” Charney instructed. “It's the first place they'd expect you to go. They'll have a man waiting. Stay clear of it, do you hear me? I'll meet you someplace else.”

“Where? When?”

“It'll be a while. I've got to make some calls, sort things out. Say five
P.M.
”

“That's five hours from now!”

“Four and a half. Believe me, it's necessary. I've dealt with these situations before.” Charney paused. “Do you know St. James's Park?”

“I've been there.”

“The bridge that cuts across the Chinese-style lakes?”

“I know it.”

“Be in the center of it at five
P.M.
That'll give me the time I need.”

“To do what?”

“Call in the cavalry.”

The tall man saw his target swing away from the call box and stand there frozen against it, either relieved or exhausted. They had missed him in the park, missed him again in the streets. Those failures were about to be corrected.

The tall man quickened his pace. His hand felt for the butt of the revolver hidden under his jacket.

He had killed before, often and mostly well. This kill would be simple, and especially satisfying since others had failed.

The target moved from the call box.

The tall man started to pull the gun out. He would brush up against him, fire one neat shot that would be muffled against the target's body, then escape. As simple as that. The tall man drew closer.

A woman with long blond hair smacked into him from behind, spilling the contents of her shopping bag. Annoyed, the tall man had begun to shove her aside when he felt her fingers grasp his elbow, pinning his gun hand to his side.

Then he saw her knife. It whipped up and across so fast that the tall man thought, incredibly, she had missed. Until he felt the warm blood spilling from the tear in his throat where her knife had found its mark. He crumpled to the sidewalk, dead an instant after he struck it.

The woman with long blond hair left him there amid her spilled shopping and walked away.

Chapter 8

LOCKE HUNG UP
the phone still nervous, but not as frightened. Charney had gotten him into this mess and Charney would get him out. For now, though, he had time to kill.

He moved away from the call box and joined the sparse flow of pedestrian traffic, forcing himself to walk along. He was on Vauxhall Bridge near the Thames River. He wanted to get back to the commercial district where crowds abounded and he would stick out less. Walking was out of the question and he'd had his fill of taxis for the day. That left only one safe alternative by Locke's count. He saw an entrance to the London Underground up ahead and moved toward it, taking the steps slowly.

It took him awhile to figure out the way the lines ran, but he was in no rush and the crowds comforted him. He grabbed the northern line and climbed to street level at the Soho Square station. The mist had given way to a raw drizzle and Chris found himself shivering. Killing four hours in the outdoors was unthinkable. The minutes were already taking forever to pass.

He walked past the collection of shops and restaurants, finding himself on Oxford Street with his head pounding, and saw a large marquee not far away that provided his solution. Just before Oxford gave way to New Oxford Street, there was a row of cinemas. Locke knew at once how he would spend the next four hours before his meeting with Charney: two movies would do the job nicely. He purchased tickets to the movies in advance to avoid having to stand in line again. The titles of the films were meaningless; he wouldn't be paying much attention to them.

Sitting down in the darkened, nearly empty cinema, Chris felt his breathing return to normal. He stretched his legs and massaged them, then tried to do the same with his neck and shoulders. Finally he leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. Fatigue swept over him. He found himself dozing, snapping back awake occasionally with a jolt forward. Between shows he purchased a pair of Cokes for want of coffee, hoping the caffeine might recharge him. As he revived, he found himself ravenously hungry, so he left to buy three portions of prepackaged popcorn. A short time later, he checked the damage to his face in a men's room mirror, afraid his injuries might make him too recognizable. Fortunately the swelling was minor and a cup of ice obtained from the refreshment stand took much of it down.

By four thirty he felt reasonably alive again. It was time to head for his meeting with Charney. Soon all this would be over. Chris had known from the start there was some risk involved, but never did he imagine his life might actually be threatened, that he would have to become a killer to survive. The possibility, even probability, of that had been dealt with in the training. They tried to desensitize you. Guilt was the real enemy, they had said, not bullets. Guilt made you slow, hesitant. But Locke hadn't accepted the desensitizing process. In fact, it was around that time he had quit.

The memories were uncomfortable, so Locke turned his mind toward piecing together all that had happened. He found himself with only questions. If Alvaradejo had helped Lubeck, why had the Colombian tried to kill Locke when all he had done was raise his dead friend's name? It didn't make sense. And if Charney hadn't provided the gun, who had? More madness.

And what of San Sebastian? What in hell was it and where did it fit in? Most of all, who were the men that were trying to kill him?

Locke would leave the questions for Charney. He rode the underground to the St. James's Park station and arrived at four fifty, according to a clock in the terminal. He took his time departing from the station and found the bridge with little trouble. He strolled around briefly before moving to its center at precisely five o'clock.

Charney was nowhere in sight.