Edge of Tomorrow (20 page)

“Thanks, Mrs. C. I’ll try and relax, but it
won’t be easy,” answered Syd, weakly.

“Sit up straight and throw out your chest!
You are slumping. Not very ladylike,” chided Mrs. Chamberlain, like
a child’s governess.

“This is the first chance I’ve had to offer
my condolences. I’m sorry about the death of your husband. Sara
told me you are widowed.”

“Thank you, my dear. That was over three
years ago, but I still miss him. He took one ride too many on the
Orient Express,” Mrs. Chamberlain sighed.

“He was killed on the Orient Express?” asked
Syd.

“Not literally, dear. ‘Orient Express’ is a
term people like my husband, who was with British Intelligence—and
Hatch—used to describe undercover work amidst the enemy. Danger,
intrigue, murder, spies, double-crosses. I suppose it derived from
Agatha Christie’s book in the late thirties. My husband was in a
comfy desk job in London in 1997, but for some reason—he never
confided it to me—he took a mission in Europe. As I said, one last
ride on the Orient Express. He was killed in Budapest. Hatch was
‘on the train’ with Geoffrey—my husband—in the early eighties, so
when he heard about what happened, he came and gathered me up and
brought me here, and shared my grief with me. I’ll be forever
grateful. I do not think I could have survived on my own. No one
should face things alone, Sydney,” said Mrs. Chamberlain.

Now Syd patted
her
hand. Mrs. Chamberlain had rebuilt her life
after experiencing tragedy, with the help of Hatch and his
friends.

Perhaps I can do the same. She really is not
Mrs. Gestapo at all. I’m beginning to like her, too. All of them
are getting to me. So what’s wrong with that? Maybe having some
friends won’t be half bad. The only family I have left is Karen and
my aunt, and how do I ever tell Karen who I really am?

Syd asked, “You said Hatch was ‘on the train’
with your husband. What do you mean by that?”

“It’s no secret that Hatch was in the CIA
during the first half of the eighties. It is a secret, however,
what he did for them. What I am going to tell you is known to very
few people, here or elsewhere. He and Geoffrey teamed on some
missions in Germany and Russia in those years—the cold war years.
They were both young and gung-ho in those days—I was in my
mid-twenties myself. So, they road the ‘Orient Express’ together
now and then, so to speak. I met Hatch—his name was not Van Lincoln
when I met him—a few times at our flat in London, when he would
stop by for an overnight. Then, in 1985, when the Stasi killed
Katerina, he got off the train,” responded Mrs. Chamberlain in a
low voice.

“So Hatch was a real spy, not just a desk
analyst?” queried Syd.

“Of course. The very best, Geoffrey told me.
He said he would rather have Hatch watching his back than anyone he
knew. Too bad Hatch was not with him on that last train ride,”
sighed Mrs. Chamberlain.

So Hatch was a spy just like I was! I felt
it! He wasn’t the least bit shocked when I told them my story. And
he killed that guy today as if it were an everyday thing! He can
relate to how I think, how I feel. It would take the instincts of a
veteran spy to build an organization like Lincoln’s Liberators.

“I know it sounds like prying, but that is
the second time I have heard the name ‘Katerina.’ Can you tell me
who she was? Sara said that she was his first true love,” asked
Syd, knowing she was probably out of line.

“Hatch said you were cleared for open
discussion, but the circumstances surrounding Kat and her death are
a very closely held subject, as I mentioned earlier. I will tell
you a little bit of it, however. Katerina Klaus was an East German
agent who was defecting to the West, at Hatch’s insistence.”

“This place has a sign saying ‘Klaus Haus.’
Now I understand why,” interjected Syd.

“Yes, she and Hatch were deeply in love—and
she was carrying his child. Hatch went to fetch her out of East
Berlin, and they were betrayed. The Stasi ambushed them and killed
them both,” said Mrs. Chamberlain, watching Syd’s reaction to her
statement.

“Both!?” gasped Syd.

“That was the story then. Geoff and I were
crushed. I did not know that he survived that ambush until years
later when he came and brought me here. He intended it that way. He
never told me how that was accomplished, and I suppose no one does.
Right after that incident, Van Lincoln started Triple Eye. Also,
Geoff told me, the week after the incident was quite hectic in
Germany. Several Stasi agents and a KGB Colonel were executed by a
person or persons unknown. I now suspect that it was Hatch
extracting punishment for Kat’s death. Hatch has not had a close
relationship like he had with Kat since. It has been sixteen years.
He should fall in love again. It is way past time.”

He has killed for revenge, just as I have!
We’re cut from the same damned piece of cloth! Is fate at work
here? No relationship since Kat? Maybe he is ready for one now. But
am I? Stop dreaming, Steppe! You only met him this morning—drenched
in blood. Now, there’s a good first impression!

“It’s been a long, trying day, so I think I
will retire to the lovely suite you provided me, Mrs. C. Thank you
so much for chatting with me. I am really less tense now. I’ll say
my goodnights to the others,” said Syd, standing up.

“Goodnight, Sydney. We’re not a hotel with
room service, but the kitchen is well stocked if you feel the yen
for a midnight snack. Philippe starts serving breakfast at 7:00
A.M., but attendance is not mandatory, of course. You can always
whip up anything you desire in the kitchen at any hour. Just make
yourself comfortable, and feel at home,” Mrs. Chamberlain said,
rising and patting Syd’s shoulder.

Syd said goodnight to the others and promised
to meet Sara in the kitchen for a late breakfast at 9:00 A.M. Syd
went to her suite, kicked off her shoes, and took her dress off and
hung it in the closet. She peeled off her pantyhose and unhooked
her bra before walking barefooted into the bathroom to brush her
teeth. She was exhausted and all of her systems were shutting down.
She pulled back the covers on the bed and fell into it naked. She
fell asleep at once and slept like a baby, as if she were in her
own bed.

Klaus Haus, Florida

Thursday, August 2, 2001

2:30 A.M.

The phone on Hatch’s night stand rang. He was
awake immediately and answered it on the second ring.

“Lincoln,” he said into the phone.

“Bruno here, Hatch. The two targets just left
Miami Airport in a rented black Taurus. Packy is following with
three vehicles switching off, so they shouldn’t be made. They
should be at Syd’s in between two and a half and three and a half
hours, depending on the route they take and the speed they drive.
I’m going to join my team over at Syd’s place.”

“Good. Sara and I will be there in an hour.
Set things up for Plan A. I’ll reassess things after I get there
and get a status report from Packy,” answered Hatch.

Hatch hung up and stretched. He had not had
much sleep, but he seldom needed more than two or three hours to
keep him going. He picked up the phone again and dialed Sara’s
suite. She picked up on the second ring.

“This is Sara. Is that you, Hatch?” she
asked, already alert.

“It’s me, Sara. Time to saddle up. You don’t
have to do this, you know. We can do it some other way,” he said
solemnly.

“No, I want to try this. We’ve rehearsed and
practiced this enough. Let’s try it for real,” she answered. “Let
me get into costume and I’ll meet you in the kitchen for some
coffee.”

• • •

Hatch arrived at the kitchen before Sara and
started the coffee machine. He was dressed in jeans and a blue tee
shirt. Sara arrived just as the coffee was ready. She had on a
tight, low-cut blouse which showed a lot of her breasts, a black
leather mini-skirt, black mesh stockings, and two and a half inch
black heels. Her face was made up with too much rouge and mascara,
and bright red lipstick. She swished her hips as she entered the
kitchen.

“God, Sara! You look like a friggin’ whore,”
laughed Hatch as he poured her a mug of coffee.

“That’s the idea, dearie. Those Arabs should
skid to a stop when they see this piece of ass alone on the road at
night,” Sara replied with a giggle.

There was a silver chain hanging around
Sara’s neck; it disappeared into her cleavage. At the end of the
chain, not visible because of its location, was a small canister of
a very special gas — called CX3—which had been developed in the Toy
Master’s chemical laboratory. It was a genetically altered version
of an anesthetic which would render a person unconscious in a
second or two. The strength loaded in Sara’s canister—similar to a
pepper spray container that some women carried in their
purse—should keep a person unconscious for 15 to 30 minutes,
depending on their size and how much of the gas they breathed.
There were no known side effects, not even a headache. The silver
chain had two links made of soft aluminum so a quick jerk would
break the chain easily.

Plan A called for Sara to be standing next to
a jacked-up car about a block from Syd’s condo. She would have a
small receiver in her ear, the size of a high-tech hearing aid. Her
left dangling earring was a transceiver. This would keep her in
touch with the rest of the team. She would be notified when the
prey’s car was approaching, and then step out in front of it and
flag it down. If they didn’t stop, Plan B would go into effect. If
they did stop, which was highly probable, Sara would try and gas
them. There was some danger involved, but three snipers with
silenced rifles and night scopes would be ready to protect her.
They had practiced this procedure several times, and it had always
gone smoothly—of course.

• • •

Hatch and Sara arrived at Bruno’s
surveillance van at 3:15 A.M. Hatch parked behind it. They entered
the van and shook hands with Bruno and three men dressed in
camouflaged jump suits. They all ogled Sara in her skimpy
clothes.

“All right, cage those eyeballs!” said Sara.
“This is my uniform for this gig. If it works as planned, you won’t
have to do anything.”

“We do have to keep an
eye
on you, Sara,” laughed one of
the snipers.

“Put a fucking lid on it, Tilden,” joked
Sara, knowing these men would not let anything happen to
her—ever.

“Let’s do a comm check,” interjected
Hatch.

The five men put on headsets with
voice-activated boom mikes. They made sure that they could
communicate with each other and Sara. Then Hatch checked in with
Packy and got an update. Their quarry was heading straight here and
were about an hour and a half away. They walked down to where the
jacked-up car was, and Hatch went over the positioning of the
snipers. He discussed Sara’s role with her. He said he would be in
his car down the block, and was just a few seconds away. If the
Iranians did not stop for her, he would ram them with his car to
stop them. It would be riskier, but they would still capture them.
As a last resort, the snipers would be ready to do their thing, and
there would be two fewer terrorists in the world.

After all details had been covered several
times, they walked back to the surveillance van, climbed in and
began their wait, staying in close contact with Packy and his
caravan. They drank hot coffee from a large thermos jug and made
small talk.

• • •

When their quarry was twenty minutes away,
the snipers disappeared into the night with their weapons. Hatch
escorted Sara to her post.

“OK, Sara. I’m going to my car now. We’ll
keep you safe, so just give them a good look at those legs and
boobs and you’ll be like a stop sign. Good luck!” Hatch said as he
slapped her bottom affectionately and trotted off to his car.

Sara fingered the silver chain that held her
only weapon. She was used to being better armed than this, but
there was absolutely no room for a weapon in the tight clothes she
was wearing.

This will work! I know it
will!
Sara said to herself.

She could hear chatter between Packy and
Bruno as time got shorter. Then she heard, “OK, Sara. They’re three
minutes out doing about fifteen miles per hour, like they are
looking at house numbers. It should be a piece of cake.”

“Roger that,” answered Sara. “Piece of
cake.”

“No problem, Sara. I’ve got my eye on you,”
said Tilden the sniper.

Sara smoothed her clothes, and adjusted her
cleavage. She paced back and forth to keep from tensing up. Then
she saw the headlights coming toward her. She stepped out into the
street and began waving her arms. The car kept coming.

Shit! Stop, you son-of-a-bitch!

Just as she was going to jump out of the way,
the car came to a sudden halt. She went around to the driver’s door
and banged on the window.

“Hey, thanks for stopping to help a girl.
Hey, roll down the window,” she yelled, leaning down to give the
driver a good look down her blouse.

The window whirred down and Sara could see
the driver’s dimly lit, leering face.

Look while you can, asshole. You won’t be
able to in a second!

“Thanks for stopping. I have a flat tire. Do
you think you can help me? Or call Triple A for me?” she babbled as
she put her right hand on the chain around her neck. The driver
said something to his passenger in a language that was not English.
She pulled the canister from between her breasts and palmed it,
rotating it into spraying position. Then she took a deep breath,
holding it as she jerked the chain, breaking it. The driver seemed
to sense something was wrong and started to reach for the switch
which would roll the window back up. Sara stuck her arm in the
window and sprayed them both in the face. The window stopped going
up. She pulled her arm out and jumped back and took several steps
away from the car before taking a breath.