“Take me to the Dorchester,” Locke instructed the cabbie.
“We just passed it, mate.”
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.”