“Juan Alvaradejo, please.”
“Whom should I say is calling?”
“Christopher Locke. He won’t know me but I have important business with him.” Locke hesitated. “A friend said I should call.”
“One moment.”
A pause.
“This is Juan Alvaradejo speaking” came the diplomat’s voice. “What can I do for you, Mr., er—”
“Locke.” Chris recalled Charney’s instructions. Get right to the point. “I need to see you, Mr. Alvaradejo. It concerns your meeting with Alvin Lubeck.”
Silence filled the other end of the line, broken only by sporadic breathing — nervous breathing, Locke thought.
“Mr. Alvaradejo? Are you there?”
“Yes, señor. You wish to see me.”
“As soon as possible. I’ve traveled a long way.”
“And you were an associate of Lubeck?”
“A friend.”
“Where are you staying, señor?”
“The Dorchester.”
Another pause. “Are you familiar with London?”
“Somewhat.”
“Meet me by Achilles Statue in Hyde Park in one hour.”
“How will I know you?”
“Just stand by the statue, señor. I will know you.”
“One hour,” Locke repeated. “Thank you. I’ll be—”
But Alvaradejo had already hung up.
The Dorchester overlooked Hyde Park, the sprawling grounds that had once been used by Henry VIII for hunting boar. It was a short walk to the statue, fifteen minutes at most. That gave him forty-five minutes to kill, so he ordered a light breakfast from room service. It arrived just as he had finished dressing in fresh clothes. He gobbled up the croissants quickly and waited until the last possible minute to try the contact number again.
“Your message?” the same male voice droned.
“I’m calling Brian Charney.”
“Your name and number?”
Locke gave them.
“Mr. Charney is still unavailable.”
“When he comes in, tell him the meeting is set and I’ll report on it soon. Oh, and thank him for the … gift.”
“Acknowledged.”
The phone rang off.
Chapter 7
It was cold enough outside to warrant an overcoat, which made Locke’s .45 totally inconspicuous. In his mind, though, every person he passed knew he had the gun and he found himself glancing down regularly at his left hip to make sure the bulge wasn’t showing.
Of course it wouldn’t be. They had taught him how to tuck a pistol into his belt so it wouldn’t be seen even if he had only a sweater to cover it.
My God, how did I remember that?
Locke stood for a few seconds outside the Dorchester before inspecting the bleakness of the morning. Whatever hope there had been of the sun appearing was gone. A mist had risen, and Chris turned up his collar as he started across Park Lane for Hyde Park. Park Lane was actually composed of two different streets, running one way in opposite directions. Locke made it to the median strip separating them and had to wait for upward of a minute before a traffic light permitted him to dash across onto one of the many paths that crisscross Hyde Park.
He followed the path to Serpentine Road, the largest of all routes in the park, and swung left toward the Achilles Statue by the famed Carriage Road. Locke leaned against the base of the statue and checked his watch. He was right on time but there was no one else in sight. He rubbed his hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves, then stuck them in his pockets. The air was raw. The minutes passed.
Still no sign of Juan Alvaradejo.
Locke felt his nerve strings tugging at him. His life in academia revolved around order, precise and unvarying. Everything was scheduled. He had grown accustomed to minutes passing just as they should. Alvaradejo had chosen the time and the place, so where was he? Locke’s uneasiness grew.
“I knew you’d come, señor.” Alvaradejo’s voice came from the right side of the statue, the Carriage Road side. “I knew they’d send someone.”
Locke turned with a start, the sudden appearance surprising him. “Mr. Alvaradejo, I’d like to—” Locke stopped when he saw the pistol in the Colombian’s hand.
“¡Carniceros!”he screamed. “Butchers! Animals! You will pay! You will all pay! The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged!”
Alvaradejo started to raise the pistol.
In that drawn-out instant, a thousand thoughts ran through Locke’s mind but none pushed forward. Instinct born of long-ago training took over. Drills, incessant and repetitive, came back to him.
Move and keep moving! An elusive target creates a panicked shooter….
The Colombian’s pistol spit once, twice, bullets splintering cement where Locke’s head had been only an instant before. He hit the ground hard and rolled twice, trying to use the statue’s base for cover.
More cement showered over him.
“Bastards!” Alvaradejo ranted. “Killers! ¡Asesinos!”
Locke ripped the .45 free of his belt. At that moment, survival was all that mattered. There was no time to consider what he was doing.
He rolled away from another blast onto the grass. Alvaradejo charged at him, still bellowing.
“¡Ases—”
Locke pulled the trigger. The gun went off with surprising ease, the kickback easily controlled. He fired three shots in rapid succession, the motions of his finger automatic. The first bullet pounded into the Colombian’s stomach, the second blew his chest apart, and the third missed him altogether as he was hurled backward.
Locke struggled back to his feet, every inch of his flesh trembling. He moved as in a dream to the Colombian whose feet and hands were twitching in death throes. The whole scene seemed unreal to Locke, impossible in its implications.
A man had tried to kill him and he had killed the man….
Impossible!
Locke tried to shake himself awake.
Alvaradejo stayed dead, the ragged chasm in his chest pouring scarlet, mouth open wide and spilling blood.
Locke looked up suddenly, senses alive again. Footsteps pounded the pavement toward him. Alvaradejo had tried to kill him. What if he hadn’t come alone?
Reflexively, Locke jammed the .45 into his overcoat pocket and started running away from the footsteps toward the Carriage Road. He crossed it quickly, glancing back only once, heart lurching in his chest. He cut a diagonal path toward the traffic sounds of Park Lane. There was safety in numbers, camouflage anyway. Another lesson.
An unoccupied taxi stood at a stand.
Locke glanced back again. If there were others, he couldn’t see them. He had to get back to the Dorchester fast, had to get out of view, had to call Charney.
He sprinted for the taxi, lunged into the backseat out of breath.
“You all right, mate?” the cabbie asked him.
“Just drive.”
The cabbie started the meter. “Where to?”
“Just drive!”
The cabbie did just that.
Locke tried to control his thoughts in order to steady his panic. His breath still eluded him. He was hyperventilating. It had all been too much and now the reality was beginning to hit him, the cloak of shock starting to dissipate.
The gun was still in his pocket, still hot. He had killed a man! No training could have prevented the sick feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach. But the Colombian had tried to kill him; he had to remember that. His own life had been at stake.
Madness!
Charney would get him out of this. Thank God his friend had sent him the gun. Otherwise …