Labyrinth (8 page)

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.

“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 …

“Take me to the Dorchester,” Locke instructed the cabbie.

“We just passed it, mate.”