It was two A.M. when the taxi rumbled up the pebble drive of a stately, ancient manor known as Bruggar House. Locke could hear the hard sea breaking on the rocks below and could smell the thick, salt air as he climbed out of the cab and paid his fare. The man drove away and a chorus of barks started up immediately inside the house.
Locke headed toward the front door, feeling as if he were stepping back in time. Bruggar House had been erected several centuries before. It was a massive, granite-stone structure rising majestically over the cliffs with a single center tower poking up at the night sky.
Locke could only hope that the worst part of his journey was not yet to come. What if Burgess, a perfect stranger, turned him away? Worse, what if Burgess wasn’t at home?
Locke reached the front door. He rapped three times with the heavy brass knocker. Angry snarls and barks followed, then the sound of the dogs rushing at the door. He had lifted the knocker to rap it again when he heard the latch being undone inside. The door creaked open.
“Yes?” came a crusty, tired voice. Locke could see a hulking body just beyond the crack.
As it had turned out, the rest had been easy. All Chris had to do was mention Brian Charney’s name and the door was opened wide. Flanked by growling dogs at every angle, he started his story still standing in the foyer. He didn’t say much but it was enough to convince Burgess of his desperation brought on by the brutal murder of their mutual friend. The burly Englishman refused to hear more until morning. Locke was exhausted to the point of being incoherent. A good night’s sleep was in order. In the morning, things would seem more clear.
Locke fell asleep as soon as his head struck the pillow, a deep rest that ended with the barking of Burgess’s dogs as the mail arrived late the next morning. Chris rose, climbed back into his only clothes, and descended the staircase. The massive house was filled with the smell of strong coffee.
“I thought I heard you milling about,” Burgess greeted. “Trust you slept well.”
“Incredibly, yes.”
“Not so incredible, lad. The body knows best what it needs. Take it from an old soldier.”
“I owe you a great debt.”
The Englishman’s face grew bitter. “And I owed Brian Charney an even greater one.”
Locke figured Burgess to be in his mid sixties. He had a thick crop of white hair and a face creased by experience as well as time. There were several scars too, the most prominent of which ran down his forehead through his left eyebrow. His fingers stroked it constantly. They were huge fingers, coated with a crust of farm dirt, yet they possessed a gentleness Locke could feel in Burgess’s ice-blue eyes as well. They were the eyes of a man who had lost his youth but none of its ideals. His frame had sagged, though only slightly. He must have once been a mountain of a man, Locke reckoned; was still a mountain, but one that had weathered many storms. His great bulk covered the chair he sat in. He rose slightly to pour the American a steaming cup of coffee, then settled back down. His eyes were hard yet sad as well.
“Whoever got Brian will hear from me, laddy. I can promise you that much.”
“He was my friend too.”
“Then we’ll hunt the bastards down together, we will!”
“Right now all I want to do is get home.”
“You mentioned Liechtenstein last night.”
Locke sipped his coffee. It was astonishingly refreshing.
“Liechtenstein is where I’m headed first,” he said. “Brian thought you could help me get there.”
“If the country’s still on the map, lad, I’ll get you in. Bring you right to the damn border and kill anyone who gets in our way, I will. But I’d like to know what you’re on to, the thing that Brian died for.”
“I wish I could tell you. I’m just not sure.”
“You know more than you think, lad. It’s just a matter of putting things together in the proper order. Let’s talk things out, shall we? Tell me what got you into this.”
Locke told him everything: from accepting Charney’s offer, to the encounter with the bogus Customs agent, to his meeting with Alvaradejo, which had ended in death and its equally bloody aftermath in the streets; from his desperate rendezvous in the park with Charney, to his friend’s murder and as many of his final words as Locke could recall.
“Does it make sense?” Chris wondered at the end, confused and frustrated once again.
“Enough, lad, and the sense it makes is not pleasant at all.”
Locke hesitated, feeling the need to purge himself further. “He would have sacrificed me. That was his plan from the beginning.”
“It wasn’t his plan, just a risk he undertook. He had faith in you, laddy. You went through the training.”
“Twenty years ago and I never finished.”
“But what you knew came back to you yesterday, didn’t it? Pros like Bri and myself, laddy, pride ourselves on being able to size up a man’s capabilities. The fact that you made it here shows Brian was a pretty good judge of yours. He was just doing his job, lad, and it doesn’t make him any less of a friend. I worked with Bri all through the seventies. Never met a man who loved his country more.” Burgess swabbed at his watery eyes with a shirt sleeve. He cleared his throat. “Now let’s try to put together the events of yesterday from the beginning. The man from Customs issued you a gun, you say.”
“On orders from Brian, he claimed. Except Brian knew nothing about it.”
“And this Colombian was your first contact and your friend Lubeck’s first contact.”
Locke nodded. “Alvaradejo was the first step of the trail.”
“And Lubeck died in Colombia.”
Another nod. “A town called San Sebastian.” The souls of San Sebastian will be avenged…. “Lube witnessed the massacre.”
Burgess shook his head, squeezing his lips together. “We are dealing with true animals here, lad, men who have nothing to lose and obviously much to gain.”
Locke flinched. How often had he heard the word “animal” shouted at him yesterday?
“The people of San Sebastian were witnesses to something,” Burgess went on, “and had to die to keep it secret. Lubeck was killed almost surely for the same reason.” His eyes flashed. “Did the diplomat initiate contact with Lubeck?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let’s assume he did then, lad. Obviously he knew something, had heard something, and alerted Lubeck to whatever it was that took him to Liechtenstein. The animals knew he had followed a trail to San Sebastian but they didn’t know what it was. Then you ventured into the scene, lad, assigned to pick up that very trail.”
“Wait a minute,” Locke interrupted. “How could they have known about me? My assignment was deep cover.”
“Such assignments must go through channels, lad, and all channels have leaks. These animals seem capable of anything.” Burgess leaned forward, resting his huge forearms on the table. “You venture in and the animals see a marvelous opportunity to fill in the trail Lubeck uncovered by using you as the shovel. Somehow they leak word to the Colombian that the men who butchered this town and killed Lubeck are on to him and are sending a killer.”
Locke nodded. “Me.”
“Then these animals of ours arranged for you to be given a gun, knowing you would be forced to use it in self-defense.”
“And Alvaradejo obviously thought I was part of something bigger because he addressed me in the plural. But what if I had failed?”