Too Secret Service: Part Two Page 2

  Wayne blinked, as surprised at her speed as she was at his. “You’re fast,” he admitted.

  “You’re not bad either,” she told him, not taking her arm away.

  Wayne studied her for the first time. She was a brunette with what he could’ve considered to be an extremely light tan. She had wonderful cheekbones, and slightly almond-shaped eyes. They both locked eyes for a moment, neither one moving.

  “Has anyone told you you’re quite stunning?” Wayne softly asked, slowly lowering his arm.

  “They usually don’t get that far, honestly,” she answered, doing the same. “The last one who did never came out of that coma.”

  Wayne nodded. “He must have been a lucky man if his last sight was of you.”

  “Actually, his last sight was of the bathroom fixtures.”

  Wayne nodded again. What the heck was the matter with him? He picked up his white bulletproof vest and slipped it around his chest, once again trying to process the mysterious information left behind by the enemy courier. He tightened the Velcro straps. Catherine tossed him his shirt. He snatched it out of the air without looking at it. He strung his arms through the sleeves, straightening the shirt as he walked back toward the table. He looked down at the fifteen pictures. Nothing in the pictures could tell him where they’d been taken.

  Williams shifted his glance toward the picture Catherine had picked up. The white backside of the picture stood out against the dark wood oak of the table, and against the white… against the white! Wayne turned over the other cards. Nothing else, only that one piece….

  “We’re going to London,” he said.

  “What makes you say that?” Catherine asked, strolling over to him.

  He handed her the photo, backside forward. “The brackets in pink on the back. The numbers inside are the area code for a section of London.”

  She looked at the numbers. “How could you know?”

  “Because,” he answered, tucking his shirt into his pants, “it’s my father’s area code.” He looked about the room as he whipped his tie around his neck. “When you decided to steal this room, did you see for how long he rented it?”

  “Indeterminate amount of time,” she answered.

  He tossed one end of his tie over the other. “That means he wasn’t sure when he’d get the package. Good. We’ll run up DeValera’s credit card bill and make it to London, take one of the shuttles, I guess. You have DeValera’s credit card?”

  “I took his wallet.”

  “In that case, I’ll practice signing his name and pray that European cashiers take as close a look at signatures as Americans do. What did you do with his body?”

  “I dumped it off the bridge. God only knows when they’ll find it or what it will look like when they do.”

  Williams snapped the knot tight. “Probably won’t even matter. I don’t intend to use it for too long. Our stay in London will take a day, maybe two, then we’ll be off to Rome.”

  “Why do you think we’ll be that quick?”

  “Because my father knows everyone in that crummy, fog-ridden city. All I need is to stop in at a bookstore—they’re everywhere in this town—so I can pick up a new novel for the shuttle.”

  “Take mine,” Catherine told him, walking toward the closet where she’d hung her clothes from the night before. She’d spent most of yesterday afternoon and early evening replacing all of the clothes blown up by Michael DeValera. “I finished it yesterday morning waiting to be given a new, non-aerated room.” She slipped out of the robe.

  “You had your room changed?” Wayne called over his shoulder, slipping his shoes on. “I remember you mentioned changing floors, but you never mentioned why.”

  “My room had been naturally aerated by having the entire wall removed. It was taken out by DeValera’s bomb.”

  “Why the heck did he blow up his own room?” Wayne buttoned his shirtsleeves.

  “He wanted to wipe out all evidence his deceased partner might have left behind.”

  He laughed. “You mean the information that led you straight to the Guard Post?”

  “Exactly.” Catherine laughed, slipping her bra on. “I found it in the border of a phone book.”

  “All that effort for nothing.” He shook his head. “Che peccato.” What a shame.

  “Yeah, sure. A real shame.”

  Wayne glanced over his shoulder. She had on a bra and a set of blue jeans. He turned to face her, now far more comfortable. “When did you pick up Italian?”

  “I was nine.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I guess I wasn’t any better. The year I turned nine, I learned Arabic…. At least, I think I learned Arabic that year.”

  Catherine pulled a dark blue sweatshirt over her head. It read: “NEW YORK” in dark green letters and: “BEEN THERE, DONE THAT” in small print beneath it.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “Do you want to look like a tourist?” he asked.

  She glanced at him and smiled. “Of course,” she said in an English accent. “I want to be a prissy English lady who has just returned from a simply stunning trip to the colony of New York.”

  “In which case, do you want to be seen wearing that when you get off the shuttle from Dublin?”

  “Why not? It was cheaper to fly Aer Lingus, than using the shuttle from Dublin, after all,” she said, staying in character. “Besides,” Catherine continued normally, “I find that, to be properly snobbish, you have to have the accent.”

  “I can agree with that. My father hates those guys.”

  “Then why is he in London?”

  “He’s been stationed there four months, maybe five.” Wayne grabbed the blazer by its collar and laughed.

  Catherine smiled, leaning against the archway. “What’s so funny?”

  “My father,” Williams told her, slipping the jacket over his arms. “I got a post card in the mail last week, inviting me to come stay over if I ever I got out of the backwoods of Mississippi.” He straightened his jacket. “Now, I guess I’ll be able to.”

  “Where does he live? Last time I was in London, I killed someone in Parliament.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last year.” She pushed off the wall and walked into the bathroom. “He’d been dealing with some very unsavory men in Iran who wanted to take out Israel,” she called out. “The bastard didn’t like the fact that the Israelis had the bomb, and were willing to use it should they be in serious danger of being wiped out.”

  “You could have taken out half of Parliament, by that criteria,” he said, walking to the bathroom door, stopping short of the doorway. “By the way, have you noticed that almost everyone being targeted is nuclear?”

  “It’s safe. I’m just changing my face,” she said. “And, yes, I have noticed,” she mentioned as she brushed on a light coating of makeup, turning her skin a darker shade of tan. “Almost everyone is nuclear, except for… what? Two or three cities? Not Vatican City, certainly.”

  Wayne rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, I don’t understand the Vatican.”

  “Unless it was a country who joined in the hostile takeover a few years back,” she suggested.

  Wayne nodded soberly, even though she couldn’t see it. “If you look at everyone else, some part of the world is going to blow up as retribution for one of these backpacks.”

  “Think about what’s left if World War III does break out over this,” she suggested, dabbing certain places just a touch heavier. “What won’t there be anything left of?”

  “The US, Russia, most of Southeast Asia, China, Ulster, the Balkans in general, the Middle East in general…. a good chunk of real estate. Are you sure you want to do anything else with that disguise? I can give you my professional opinion that it looks fine the way it is.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, reaching for her box of contacts. “At the moment, you’re the only man who could tell what I really look like outside of my dad… I mean, my guardian. Frankly, I’d like to keep it that way…” She put the f
irst contact in. Brown. “So why blow up Vatican City? What can you tell me about the Pope?” She blinked: making sure the second contact lens was secure. “You’re Catholic, do you read those newspapers they hand out?”

  “The diocesan newspaper? From time to time… As for the Pope, I know he’s likable. The Church might actually have gained members since he’s been in office. Frankly, every major player who wanted to kill him have already taken their shot.”

  Catherine frowned. “Could it be someone is targeting ‘the Pope,’ and not Pius XIII?”

  “You mean the position, not the man?” He considered it while she made sure the contact stayed put. “It’s possible, but you need a reason to kill the one in the position. I don’t even think the Baptists proclaimed every Pope to be the Antichrist… I think. It makes as much sense as blowing up Moscow.”

  “Point taken.” She stopped and stared in the mirror for a moment. “What if there aren’t ten bombs?” STRONGBOW turned her now-brown eyes on him. “What if there’s only something like five?”

  “It would be a great way to drive advance teams nuts,” Williams noted. “They think they’re looking for a bomb that doesn’t exist, and by the time they’re sure there isn’t a bomb, they’d have wasted weeks. Whereas, if they find a bomb, they’d be off to find the next one. It’s an idea, but one step at a time. Let’s presume for the moment the email is true until we have evidence to the contrary. At the moment, the only evidence we have is in the back of a rental car, which I suspect could set off a Geiger counter by the time we get rid of it.”

  The assassin settled the auburn wig over her scalp. “It’s already been taken care of. The bomb’s on its way back as we speak. Let’s just say for now that it’s been handled.”

  “All right… Could you please try another hair color?”

  “Why? Don’t like it?”

  “I like it well enough, but it’s my mother’s. She sees you with that on, she’ll start going on about how some people can’t tell the difference between auburn and red.”

  “That reminds me, we’d gotten off on a tangent. Where do your parents live?”

  “Around the corner from Downing Street. Not far from the Prime Minister.”

  “What!”

  Wayne turned and walked back into the room. “Yeah. They usually make friends with whomever they’re near… And don’t ask me how they got a home there,” he called over his shoulder. “Some days I don’t want to know,” he muttered.

  Williams scanned the room. Where was his bag?

  How about the closet? he asked himself.

  He closed his eyes and muttered “Moron,” under his breath. Feeling like an idiot, he turned and walked back into the hall. PHOENIX slid the closet door aside. He reached for his case, then stopped, noticing the luggage. What did Michael DeValera have with him?

  “Is your father on close terms with the Prime Minister?”

  “I can’t be sure,” Wayne answered. He crouched down, examining the luggage. “Did you go over this place once yet?”

  “Not yet,” Catherine replied, taking one last look in the mirror. “I was going turn the place right side out after my Tai Chi exercises.”

  “How many bags do you have?”

  “Two pieces of luggage, and two smaller bags.”

  “Two carry bags?”

  She turned. “No. One canvas and one hard shell.”

  Williams focused on the one he didn’t recognize. It was a brown leather bag with a shoulder strap. There was an extra zipper on the side that told him it was a collapsible bag, capable of being folded to less than a quarter of the size. He reached for the bag cautiously, looking for any wires that might have connected it to a booby trap. That done, he scooped the bag off the floor and walked into the main room. Wayne pulled the sheets aside and spilled the contents onto the bed.

  Catherine followed him, stopping at his side. With a curious frown, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for something that’ll make our search easier,” Wayne explained, tossing the bag aside.

  Catherine caught it with her left hand as it passed by her, using just her peripheral vision. “If DeValera was half as professional as he thought he was, he should have left nothing in his belongings.”

  “Always bet on stupidity.” He reached inside the pocket of a polo shirt, feeling the texture of a business card. He pulled it out and read it. He held the card in front of him with two fingers. “Did our Mister DeValera strike you as a particularly religious person?”

  She smiled. “If he was, he forgot ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

  “Actually, it’s ‘Thou shalt not murder, and those that do shall be put to death,’” he absentmindedly corrected her. He handed her the card, not turning his attention away from the pile on the bed.

  She considered the card briefly. It was for the gift shop at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland. “Somehow I doubt he could step onto the same block without being hit by lightning. Any idea as to what he’s been up to?”

  “No clue…” His head jerked up. “What page of the phone book did you find the phone number and the initials for the guard post?”

  She shrugged. “It was a page of architects. I couldn’t give you the page number. I think it was near the start of the section.”

  Wayne turned and bent down to open the cabinet of the nightstand. He picked out the phone book and flipped it open. He laid the book out on the bed, next to the pile of DeValera’s strewn belongings. “Now, what exactly did the page look like? Somehow, I seriously doubt the phone book you glanced at just happened to open to that one. Was there something stuck between the pages?”

  Catherine started flipping through the book. “No. But if it was something like a pin, I might not have noticed it.” After three pages, the assassin stopped and turned the book to Williams, laying a finger on an etching of a dragon that must have come out of The Lord of the Rings trilogy or artwork based on The Hobbit. “This was it. I remember the ad.”

  So would I, he thought. He scanned through the page and smiled. “Someone’s been preparing for their trip to Rome.” He turned the book back to her and pressed his finger into the reference section read: “Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  “You want to bet they have blueprints for other church structures, like the Vatican?” she replied.

  “Bingo!”

  Catherine nodded and processed the information, forming her next plan of attack. Wayne studied her face; it was almost as though he could watch her think. Without warning, she snapped around and marched back to the bathroom. He followed her, curiously peering around the doorframe. The assassin pulled hersweat shirt over her head. He held his hand out. She glanced at it, and Wayne held his hand out a bit more, toward the sweater. A small smile strained at her lips. She gave him her sweater, then applied makeup remover.

  Wayne folded the sweater over his arm. “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m savin’ the retornin’ British tourist when we get ta London,” Catherine replied in a flawless brogue. “Now,” she said normally, “I’m a local.”

  Chapter 22

  Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland, was built of solid stone walls, soaring stained glass, and polished wood. Pews lined every hall of the cross-shaped building. Colored light flooding down through its high windows made the inside almost overwhelming to newcomers. Some of whom stayed rooted to the side/main entrance, entranced by the vision until others came to nudge them on.

  Luckily—to the mind of the church accountants—there was a small gift shop tucked in the corner by the back door. It was no more than 8x8 feet, but it generated enough profits to supplement the lack of donations. It sold postcards of the Boyle Family Shrine in the back of the church—coincidentally five yards away from the gift shop. The shrine was a wooden construct about thirty feet tall, laden with statues of saints, each higher level smaller than the last, like a Catholic pyramid.

  Catherine took it all in, surprised at the quiet, especially with
a tour group full of little old ladies who had nothing better to do with their children’s inheritance than spend it. She glanced at the stained glass windows in the front of the church, many of them in groups of three, resembling a firm line of colorful glass spears with graceful curves and deadly points at the top. Wayne stood behind her, talking up a storm with the shop owner, who seemed more than willing to talk with anyone about…well, just about anything.

  STRONGBOW sighed and pulled the card out of the back pocket of her blue jeans and studied it. There wasn’t anything notable about it. There were no markings on the front, and the back only had a smudged circle—probably made with a #05 pencil; she thought they were excellent for easy-to-wipe-away messages and codes; in this case, however, it looked more like a mindless doodle. Where had DeValera gotten it? What did he need it for? Certainly not another weapon.

  While Wayne continued to gab, she glanced around the Cathedral from left to right. There were plenty of things to see, but…?

  There! Catherine thought, her eyes locking on the memorial to Jonathan Swift. It was a marble bust of the author, inside a carved out, circular portion of the wall. She looked over both shoulders: no security. She walked up to the bust and scanned the immediate vicinity. To her upper right, there was a motion sensor angled down from the supporting hallway arch, waiting for any stupid enough to touch the priceless work of art. She slowly stepped past the arch, and looked at the back of the sensor.

  The sensor had been sabotaged.

  STRONGBOW looked back at the card, staring harder at the design. Maybe it wasn’t so accidental a doodle after all. There was always the possibility that DeValera had it on him to find the bust…. There! At the lower right hand side of the circle. She angled her head to see behind the corresponding side of the statue.