Through no fault of his own, Charles lost the trust and confidence of his peers and compatriots. Eventually higher powers arranged for new identities for him and his son and shipped them to America, where they might start afresh. But Charles had left too much behind. He was never able to adapt to his new life, nor did he seem inclined to. He withdrew inside himself, leaving his son to grow up without affection or security, apart from financial. He started swallowing Scotch and ultimately it swallowed him, stealing his liver and kidneys long before his heart failed. Charles Locke lived in pain the last ten years of his life but he seemed to prefer it. And only in those last days in the hospital did Chris feel anything but bitterness and alienation toward his father.
He had long before resolved to be a different kind of father to his children. He wanted them to trust him as he had never trusted his father. He wanted to be everything to his family that Charles Locke had never been to him, and in the process tried too hard and seemed to screw everything up. You don‘t get second chances had been a lesson from the Academy, and he had done a nice job of botching up the only chance he would get.
Chris felt himself thrown forward as the 747’s tires grazed the runway, bounced, then settled finally as the pilot applied the brakes. One last opportunity to grasp an impossible second chance — that’s what had made him accept Charney’s offer. The money was nice too but it wasn’t the major thing.
Locke started coming out of his daze as the stewardess went through yet another series of perfunctory instructions. It was early morning in London, near seven-thirty A.M. and Locke was bone tired. Still, there was Customs to negotiate and luggage to retrieve. The details seemed endless, as did the line at the British Customs station. Grimly he took his place in line.
“Mr. Locke?”
The sound of his own name shocked him and he swung to his right, to find himself facing a man in a perfectly tailored blue Customs uniform.
“Mr. Locke?” the man repeated.
Locke shook himself from his daze. “Yes?”
“The name’s Robert Trevor, sir,” the man said in a British accent, extending his hand. Then, lower. “I’ve been sent to expedite matters a bit.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Charney thought you’d appreciate the courtesy.”
“Of course,” Locke said, and allowed Trevor to lead him to the right, bypassing the long Customs entry procedure for a single, isolated room. The Englishman closed the door behind them.
“If you’d be good enough to show me your passport,” Trevor requested. Locke obliged. The Customs official stamped it twice. “I’m having your luggage brought in first and set aside. I’ve also hired a car to take you to the Dorchester.”
“How thoughtful …”
“You have Mr. Charney to thank again. He’s very thorough. The Dorchester has your suite all prepared.”
“Suite?”
Trevor nodded. “And there’s one last thing Mr. Charney asked me to provide you with. Quite irregular but understandable.” The man from Customs unlocked a drawer in the windowless office and slid it open. “I believe you are qualified with this,” he said, extracting a .45-caliber pistol, standard army issue.
“It’s been years,” Locke said, not reaching for it.
“But you’re qualified,” Trevor repeated.
“Yes,” he admitted, and reluctantly accepted the pistol. Charney had mentioned nothing about guns. What had changed?
“Simple precautions,” Trevor explained, seeming to read his mind. “Mr. Charney didn’t want to unjustly alarm you before. He wants you carrying a bit of protection until he arrives.”
“But carrying guns is illegal over here.”
“Officially, yes. But exceptions are made for men with legitimate needs. We have worked with Mr. Charney often in the past. His requests are always well founded and never refused. Please carry it until he advises otherwise.”
Locke stuck the .45 in his belt, made sure his jacket covered it. “Fits rather well,” he said, not quite comfortable with all this. Brian would not have issued him a gun unless a chance existed that he might have to use it. Something was wrong here; new factors were being tossed into the game. It was too late to turn back so Locke had to play along. Still, delivering a gun under these circumstances through a subordinate didn’t seem like Charney’s style. Then again, he was full of surprises, and Locke knew that if guns had been mentioned in the States, this mission would have ended before it began.
“Let’s collect your luggage and get you on your way,” Trevor said, handing him back his passport and ushering him toward the door.
They reached the claim area, and sure enough, a porter had already loaded his luggage on a pushcart. Trevor tipped him, then pointed Locke toward a waiting cab.
“I’ll be moving on now,” he said, grabbing Locke’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Thanks for everything.”
Trevor smiled, tipped his cap. “Enjoy your stay in London, sir.”
Locke started for the taxi.
The ride to the Dorchester from Heathrow took longer than he expected, and Locke passed it off to impatience and anxiety. He wanted to get to his room, get settled and refreshed, perhaps grab a short nap before contacting Alvaradejo at the Colombian Embassy.
At quarter-past eight he was ushered into a newly redecorated suite, the rooms lushly done in browns and apricots. There was a fully stocked dry bar in the living room’s far corner and beneath it a refrigerator packed with mixers. Locke pulled the blinds open to let in what little sun the morning had to offer. It was a dreary day, the temperature not yet fifty and promising to go little higher. The weather was typical for London in the springtime. All sun was a bonus.
Locke plopped down in a plush chair, feeling like a boy with a new toy. It was all very exciting to him, being treated like royalty in one of London’s finest hotels. He was too charged up to sleep and chose a shower instead, hoping that by the time he had redressed in a new suit of clothes, Charney would have arrived at the contact number.
He turned on the water as hot as he could take it and waited until the bathroom was filled with steam before stepping under the jets. He soaped up quickly and then stood with eyes closed under the warm stream, washing all the travel fatigue from his weary muscles, feeling himself come alive again. He switched off the water after twenty minutes, totally refreshed. He toweled himself dry and inspected his face to see if a shave was in order, found it was, and pulled his travel razor from the bottom of his suitcase.
The task of unpacking seemed monumental, and Locke had barely half finished when he grew bored and decided to put the rest off until later. He pulled Charney’s contact number from his memory and punched it out on the phone in the bedroom.
“Your message?” a male voice asked simply.
“I, er, Brian Charney please,” Locke stammered.
“Your name and number.” Stated flatly, mechanically.
“Christopher Locke.” And he proceeded to read off the Dorchester’s number along with that of his room.
“Mr. Charney is unavailable.”
“I’ll call back soon.”
Locke hung up the phone. Even though Charney hadn’t yet arrived in London, he felt more secure. The shadowy phone number made him feel less alone, as if he was part of something greater. Reassured that larger forces were backing him, he felt ready for his next move. Charney had been specific about not waiting for his arrival before calling Alvaradejo. It was almost nine o’clock now; the embassy would surely be open. The hotel operator put the call through for him.
“Colombian Embassy,” a receptionist answered in Spanish-laced English.