The sight that greeted Michael and Erika when they entered his mews flat, stopped them cold. Everything that could be moved had been turned upside-down and scattered to the four winds. All his books had been ripped to pieces, his records pulled from their sleeves and cast about, one so hard it stuck partway into the wallboard. Furniture had been reduced to kindling and the leather sofa he’d owned and loved since his university days had been slashed, the horsehair stuffing yanked out in ragged tufts that spilled onto the floor.
The kitchen had not been spared either. Mason jars full of sugar and flour had been dumped out on the linoleum, the jars then smashed to slivers. Even the stove and refrigerator had been wrested out of place and now sat in the middle of the tiny space. It was all too much.
“Bloody fucking hell!” Michael said.
Erika remained silent while she moved about the room, her eyes scanning everything. She picked up an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer record that had been broken in half, then let the pieces fall back to the floor.
“This is all my fault,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”
He shot her an angry glance when he caught sight of his university diploma ripped into five ragged pieces. He sighed, shaking his head wearily. “Sorry, doesn’t cut it, love, but it’s okay.”
She nodded, her lips trembling. The phone rang then, and it took a moment for Michael to locate it under an overturned bookcase. Throwing it aside, he snatched up the receiver and brought it to his ear.
“Hello?” His voice was harsh, unapologetic.
“Michael? My God, are you all right?”
Lillian sounded frantic, and Michael frowned, puzzled.
“Why wouldn’t I be, mother?”
“Turn on the telly. Now!”
Michael nodded to Erika. “The telly, turn it on.”
“What?”
“The television. Turn it on.”
Ironically, the television was one of the few items that appeared no worse for wear. Erika moved over to it and snapped on the power switch. In a moment, the staid image of Gordon Honeycombe filled the screen.
“...Once again, police are searching for anyone with information on the murder of John Ferguson—late of the War Graves Commission—who was found shot late last night in his home in Streatham. The Police refuse to comment on the motive, saying only that robbery is not indicated.”
“Oh, God,” Michael said.
He couldn’t believe his ears. Ferguson murdered? It was insane—incomprehensible. But then again, the last two days had been exactly that.
His mother shouted through the earpiece. “Michael? What’s happened, what’s going on?”
He put the phone to his ear. “I’ll call you back, mother,” he replied.
Michael hung up the phone over Lillian’s filtered protests and it began to ring almost immediately. Ignoring it, he headed for the bedroom.
The condition of the bedroom was no better than the sitting room had been. His bed had been tossed, and his dresser drawers pulled out and overturned. Clothes and other personal items lay scattered all over the floor.
Cursing silently, he moved to the nightstand. The drawer hung halfway out, the contents a jumble of nose sprays, tissues, and old manicure sets. He pawed through the mess; his mouth set in grim determination. He smiled when his hands closed around a familiar shape. He pulled it out and glanced briefly at the British coat of arms embossed on the leather passport case. And then he frowned. Something wasn’t right. It was too light.
He tore it open and snarled, tossing it aside. “Blast!” he said, standing up and kicking his overturned mattress. “Fucking bastards!”
“What’s wrong?” Erika called out.
He stalked back into the other room and headed for the bar. “They stole my bloody passport.”
Throwing open one of the cabinets, he grabbed the Courvoisier, twisted off the cap and drank right from the bottle. Erika joined him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s bad enough that I’m having my life turned upside-down. But what really gets me is the feeling that I’m being manipulated like some bloody puppet.”
He took another slug of brandy and began coughing.
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Please, stop saying that,” Michael said, annoyed. “It’s no more your fault than mine. And if I had it to do all over again, I’d do the same damn thing. The one good thing about this whole mess is you.”
Erika smiled, her eyes tinged with a curious sadness.
“What about your passport?” she asked.
Michael scowled. “Take it from a bureaucrat who knows. It’ll take weeks to get a new one. We haven’t anywhere near that long. We’re finished.”
He took another drink, recapped the bottle and replaced it in the cabinet, slamming the door.
Erika squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with purpose. “Maybe we’re not,” she said. “I know some people who can help.”
“Who?”
She shook her head and kissed him on the mouth. “Do you trust me?”
Michael nodded, a puzzled look on his face.
“Good. Then don’t ask,” she said, moving toward the phone.
An hour later, Erika nosed the Toyota to the curb in front of a crumbling terraced house in Whitechapel. When they climbed out, Michael scanned the area, his eyes darting to the alleys, as if he half-expected an army of muggers to descend on them. It was silly, he knew, but a lifetime of hearing about the horrors of Whitechapel could not be overcome by mere logic.
Situated near the docks in East London, Whitechapel was still the home of the poorer classes, as it had been for two hundred years. And even though Jack the Ripper was almost a hundred years in his grave, his specter still haunted this borough of winding streets and decaying, tightly packed edifices. Street lighting was poor, and shadows dominated. As for the immediate neighborhood where Michael and Erika stood, it was populated primarily by Indians and Pakistanis, as evidenced by the plethora of Hindi signage and the smell of curry in the air.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” he said, locking the passenger door. “And just how does the spoiled rich daughter of a German industrialist know where to find a passport forger in Whitechapel?”
Erika came around the car and joined him, slipping her arm through his. “We spoiled rich girls have to be resourceful at times, especially in fending off the fortune hunters and gigolos.” She grinned at her little joke. “Besides, Jalil is an old art school chum who fell on hard times. He was a mediocre painter but turned out to be a master forger. Now, come on, we don’t want to be late.”
Shaking his head in both admiration and exasperation, he let Erika lead him into the building, neither of them aware of the silver-gray Jaguar that had parked across the street.
Inside the hallway of the terraced house, the smell of curry and dried urine increased to nauseating proportions. Michael wrinkled his nose when he stepped over a battered plastic tricycle that had one of its wheels missing, marveling that people could stand to live this way. Erika led the way up the stairs and Michael heard a cacophony of sounds when they passed each door: loud Indian music, a couple arguing, a baby squalling, a television tuned to a war movie.
Erika stopped at a door at the end of the hall. A small sticker was adjacent to the knocker: Artists do it with style! it said in bright splashy colors.
“Typical Jalil,” she laughed.
Erika extended her arm and rapped sharply on the door. Somewhere inside the apartment, they heard footsteps pounding down a hallway, and then a high-pitched voice. “Who is it?”
“Your favorite Kraut.”
A second later the door flew open and there stood a gnomish man with dark chocolate skin and pop-eyes wearing a white turban, a tie-dyed t-shirt featuring a picture of Jimi Hendrix burning his guitar, and a pair of stonewashed jeans covered with brightly colored patches. When he caught sight of Erika, he cracked a smile that split his face from ear to ear.
“Rika! My goodness gracious! You are too good looking for humble words!”
Erika giggled, then remembered why they came. “I need a favor, Jalil,” she said, turning serious. “My friend has lost his passport. We need a replacement—fast.”
Jalil became all business, turning his sober black-eyed gaze on Michael, appraising him at once. He turned back to Erika and nodded. “To you, I owe everything. Come, come,” he said, waving them inside.”
Jalil’s flat was best described as student eclectic. There were the obligatory gallery posters on the walls advertising art shows from ten years in the past, some of Jalil’s art—a pastiche of early Andy Warhol—sat on an easel near the large bay window that dominated the room. As for furniture, the room was alive with pillows of every description, some as big as sofas. But nothing resembling conventional tables and chairs could be found. The only concession to modern living was an obscenely expensive stereo powered by valves and a door leading to a darkroom that held the best and most expensive equipment for the manipulation of photographic images.
The next few hours went by in a whirlwind of motion. Minutes after they’d arrived, Jalil had Michael filling out a forged passport application, which included a space for a signature. He told Michael to leave everything but the signature space blank.
Unlike passports from other countries, where the bearer signed his passport after receiving it, British passports had the signature re-photographed and made a part of the photo, presumably as means of preventing forgery. It was then pasted into the passport in the proper place, and laminated.
As Michael handed the form to Erika, Jalil brought out his photographic gear and set it up facing a light blue backdrop. Michael vaguely remembered when he had his original picture taken that it was the same robin’s egg color. Jalil, looked up from the viewfinder of his Hasselblad camera with a critical gaze. “Oh, my, this will never do,” he said, clucking like a mother hen.
Michael frowned and turned to Erika, who seemed to be staring at him with the same appraising eye. “He thinks you look too good.”
“What?”
“Please not to be misunderstanding. You must remember when you have a picture taken for a passport you are never at your best. Please do not smile and do look as if you have been standing in line for three hours.”
These people are bloody crazy, Michael thought, but he stared back at the camera with what he hoped was an expression of mild hostility.
“Perfect!” Jalil shouted and snapped the picture.
Blinking from the spots before his eyes, Michael watched while Jalil stepped into his darkroom and closed the door. A second later the red light over the door popped on, signaling to those outside that it was unsafe to enter. Half an hour later, Jalil emerged with a print about the size of a wallet photo. He was smiling broadly.
“The Passport office has a special prismatic camera that will photograph both the subject and his signature simultaneously,” he said. “Of course, I cannot get one of these marvels and must be content with my humble equipment. They forget the art of collage. I must be telling you that the gods have smiled on their humble servant this day.”
He proffered the photo to Erika, who nodded approvingly, and then passed it to Michael. The signature was seamlessly married with his photograph, laminated, then cleverly embossed with a forgery of the official Passport office embossing stamp. It would no doubt stand up to even microscopic examination. As for his image, he cringed when he saw his wide-eyed grimace. He looked like a bloody criminal. “Maybe we should do it again,” he said.
A look of annoyance flashed across the Pakistani’s face “No, no,” he said. “It is exactly perfect, my friend, exactly perfect.”
Next came the blank passport form that Jalil withdrew from a strong box he kept in a hidden compartment in the back of one of his closets. It was one of the old blue ones, with the gold coat of arms, before the changeover to the brown Common Market type.
“I have a friend at the firm who printed these magnificent items. He slipped me several after every run.” Jalil said, smiling proudly. “This one is among the last.”
“What about other countries? Does your friend have those, as well?” Michael asked.
Jalil wagged his fingers. “That, my inquisitive friend, is better left unsaid. Now, where would you like to have been?”
“Excuse me?”
“We must have a travel history, unless, of course, you want a new passport, in which case we will have to start over.”
“Oh, now I understand. I don’t care.”
“Have it show trips to the United States and the Orient,” Erika said.
Jalil nodded. “Very good.”
“What about East Germany,” Michael asked. “What if we need to go there?”
“That is quite the impossible, my adventurous friend. The DDR changes its stamps every month. It is too hard to keep up with. I would need the right stamp for the right month that you supposedly traveled. If it were wrong....”
The implication hung in the air and Michael shook his head. “Fine, we’ll deal with that if and when we need to. Carry on.”
Jalil then set about putting in the requisite stamps.
“What time of year do you take your vacation?” he asked, about to apply the first one.
Michael thought a moment. “Usually in early June.”
Jalil put down the stamp he was holding and picked up another. He pressed it onto a red ink pad and then into the passport. For some reason this made Michael nervous, as if he were taking some irrevocable step into uncharted realms. It was another silly feeling, but it persisted. He moved over to the window and looked out onto a tiny courtyard and the back of the building on the next street.
“You have any way of looking out onto the street in front?” Michael asked.
Jalil paused in his stamping, his expression grave. “Have you been followed here?”
“Not that we know of.”
“Then not to worry. We will be done here very soon.” He then picked up another stamp and pressed it onto a black ink pad.
After another twenty minutes, Jalil closed up his ink pads and put away the stamps, then drew out what looked like a fountain pen and used it to sign the name of some obscure Foreign Office functionary. He blew on the ink and then handed it over to Michael. He whistled. It was a bloody work of art. Erika had been right; her friend had produced a flawless document that would pass muster anywhere.
“There is only one problem, my friend,” he said tapping the passport with a long-fingered hand. “If they are checking numbers, you will be caught. That is the one part I cannot forge perfectly, for it would mean having access to their computers. I am sorry.”
Erika took Jalil in her arms and hugged him. “Thank you so much, old friend. You may have saved our lives.”
Jalil’s eyebrows arched. “Where are you going?”
“It is best you do not know,” she replied, shaking her head.
The little Pakistani shrugged and smiled, taking her hands in his own. “Take care, my child. The gods smile on you.”
Erika kissed him on the cheek, eliciting a deep blush. He then turned and fixed Michael with a level stare. “You would be wise to treat her well.”
“I intend to,” Michael said, extending his hand. “Thank you for all your help.”
When Jalil reached to grasp his hand, the front door exploded inward, knocked off its hinges by four black-clad men holding a battering ram. More figures dressed in black ran in around them brandishing Enfield automatic rifles. Michael instinctively grabbed for Erika and moved away from the door as the men barreled into the room screaming.
“ON THE FUCKING FLOOR, NOW!” they shouted. “HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEADS!”
Michael, Erika, and Jalil hit the floor simultaneously, their hearts racing, while the black-clad men encircled them, weapons aimed for their heads. It was obvious these men were Special Air Service. Their timing and efficiency spoke of military training, where split-second decisions were the rule rather than the exception. Special Branch would have knocked first. The question that remained was why the SAS were operating in a civilian environment? All this went through the back of Michael’s mind, though he barely had time to think before those questions were answered.
Directly on the heels of the SAS came a tall blond-haired man, who strode into the room with a pleasant smile and a confident air. He stopped and stared down at the three people on the floor and his smile widened. “Mr. Thorley, I’m Simon Welles, MI6. So sorry to intrude, but I thought it high time we had a talk.” He nodded to the SAS men. “Take the wog to Scotland Yard and have him booked on forgery charges; the others will come with me.”
Jalil was dragged to his feet, twisting and squirming, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “The gods will curse your children, you petty bureaucrat!” he said, spitting at Welles’s feet. “You have no honor.”
“Now, there’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Welles replied, chuckling.
Jalil misinterpreted the statement as a slur against his color and began hurling invectives in his native tongue at the top of his voice. The two burly SAS men hauled him out the door, his feet kicking at the air.
When Jalil’s curses faded away, Welles turned to Michael and Erika. “On your feet.” He saw them eyeing the automatic rifles and nodded to the SAS men, who stepped back and pointed their weapons at the ceiling. Michael then helped Erika to her feet.
“You two can make this easy, or not, it’s up to you.”
“What do you want with us?” Michael asked.
“I’m under no obligation to tell you anything; however, I think it would be in your best interest to cooperate.”
Michael shot Erika a glance. She appeared inordinately cool, and he found that both inspiring and worrisome.
“My car’s waiting downstairs,” Welles said, motioning toward the door. “We can talk freely there.”
Out on the street, they found a large Daimler Limousine waiting, its engine idling. The driver sat behind the wheel looking bored, while beefy MI6 agents stood by the open passenger door. One had his hand on the door’s handle and one on a holstered pistol. The other had his pistol drawn and held at the ready.
Welles let Michael and Erika enter first, then followed them inside. The two MI6 agents brought up the rear and took their places on either side of Michael and Erika. A moment later the driver stepped on the accelerator and the car glided away from the curb, headed back toward central London.
Michael and Erika sat facing Welles, who examined Michael’s new passport, flipping through it with the same infuriating expression of smug amusement on his face. Michael wanted to punch the man. Welles reminded him of all those arrogant bureaucrats who used the system to heap abuse on those less powerful. He’d run into them his entire working life and he hated them with unspoken passion. Here was one, however, that had real power. And it scared him.
Welles closed the passport and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “A nice job, really. Too bad your friend won’t have the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of his labors. Forging a British passport is a serious offense. Of course, so is using one....”
“You can’t prove I was going to,” Michael said.
That smile again. “Perhaps not.... But I believe Scotland Yard would very much like to see you right about now.”
“I don’t know anything about what happened to Ferguson.”
“Didn’t presume you did, old boy. But the murder of the old man at the East Grinstead Home is another matter entirely.”
The tone in Welles’s voice made his blood turn cold. “What are you talking about?”
Welles drew out the moment like a consummate actor.
“Martin Cadwallader was found dead this afternoon. Someone injected the poor old sod with air. Left the bloody syringe right next to his head.” He paused again, letting the silence do his work. “The nurse also found your business card on the floor.”
“We visited the man earlier today, I didn’t—”
“And these were delivered to Scotland Yard not two hours ago.... Anonymously.”
Welles reached into a pocket built into the car’s door and pulled out a collection of black and white 8x10s showing Michael and Erika exiting their car and entering the East Grinstead Home. Seeing these, Michael lost his self-control.
“I’m being set up!” he shouted.
Welles stared back, his gaze cool and penetrating.
“I know.”
“You know?” Michael stared back, incredulous. He felt the reassuring pressure of Erika’s hand on his arm.
Welles reached over to a console of buttons and pressed one. The whine of a motor behind him told Michael the privacy window was being raised between the driver’s and passenger’s compartments. Welles leaned forward, his eyes taking on a predatory glint.
“We’ve been monitoring you ever since your office began inquiring about the Royal South Wessex business.”
Erika’s grip tightened on Michael’s arm. “Then you admit it did exist,” he said.
“Oh, quite. But that’s all I can tell you.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Erika asked, speaking for the first time since entering the limousine.
Welles glowered at her, but his voice remained icy calm. “You’ve no doubt heard about what happened to Sir William Atwater?
Michael nodded, sensing the MI6 man was about to reveal something important. Welles continued.
“We believe he was killed by Russian agents bent on not only keeping a lid on this business, which could prove to be very embarrassing for them, but also to keep a sleeper agent from being discovered. Someone who has been in place for a very long time. It’s imperative we discover who the sleeper is.”
“Then why don’t you bastards go public?” Michael demanded. “Tell the world. Make them squirm.”
Welles sighed and looked out through the tinted windows at the passing landscape. They were coming to the market section of Whitechapel, now as quiet and deserted as a churchyard.
“I wish I could. But it could be embarrassing for us, as well....”
Michael sat forward on his seat, his anger returning. “Why? What was that regiment doing in Finland?”
He asked the question reflexively, not really expecting the man to answer, and yet, Welles appeared to consider it. A moment later, he nodded.
“All right, you deserve to know at least that much,” Welles said.
Michael’s pulse raced. Now, at least he would know why people were chasing him, why people were being murdered, why his father had died.
Welles smiled. This time it was warm and relaxed. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re on your side.”
“Really. You people all look the same to me. And you all play the same dirty tricks with no regard for anyone. Like Jalil.”
Welles’s expression hardened. “Your friend is a criminal. And he’ll get what he deserves.”
It was Michael’s turn to smile. “Us, too, I imagine.”
“You’ve got nothing to fear,” Welles said, opening up the bar. He extracted a crystal decanter and poured himself a whisky into a glass tumbler. He nodded to Michael. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “Just get on with it. Why was the Royal South Wessex in Finland?”
Welles was about to speak when a small hole appeared in the window next to his head, sending a spider web of cracks running to all four corners and the patter of broken glass on the leather upholstery. Welles’s eyes widened, suddenly devoid of all expression. Then his mouth dropped open like a trap door releasing a torrent of blood. The car jounced and Welles slumped against the door, dead.
Erika screamed when the silver-gray Jaguar roared out of nowhere and slammed into the side of the limousine, sending it into a fishtail. The driver twisted the wheel in the direction of the spin and tromped on the accelerator. Tires screeched and the car rocketed forward, the Jaguar keeping pace.
They raced side by side for two city blocks, each trying to gain the advantage. Because of the late hour, the streets were nearly deserted.
Reaching a portion of the road that narrowed, the Jaguar fell behind and Welles’s driver used the opportunity to make an evasive maneuver. He slid the Daimler into a sharp left turn, tires screaming. The Jaguar made the turn easily and closed the distance between them, staying half a car length behind.
Inside, Welles’s body had been thrown against the opposite side of the car and threatened to topple off the seat.
The chatter of machine gun fire rent the air and bullets slapped into the limousine, another piercing the window next to Welles’s lolling head. It continued through the car, shattering the privacy shield behind Michael and Erika. Without a moment’s thought, Michael grabbed her and hurled her to the floor.
“Stay down!” he screamed, throwing himself on top of her. She squirmed, fighting him.
The two MI6 agents, having gotten over the shock of their superior’s untimely death, tried to lower the windows and found them inoperable.
“Kick them out!” the driver yelled, putting the Daimler into another sharp turn.
Not wasting any time, the two men kicked out the windows and fired at the Jaguar from both sides. The Jaguar fell back behind the limousine, making itself a more difficult target. The agents leaned farther out. Suddenly one of them screamed and fell back into the car, his hands clutching at his throat where a bullet had pierced the carotid artery.
Erika, covered with the man’s blood and screaming hysterically, threw Michael off of her, and clambered up the seat, wrapping her arms around the driver’s neck.
“Stop the car!” she shouted. Stop it, now!”
The driver struggled, trying to keep control of the car. “Get her off me! Goddamnit!”
The car began to swerve and the men in the Jaguar took this as their cue to start ramming the Daimler from behind. This made Erika even more frantic. “Stop the car, I have to get out! I have to get out!”
“Get this bloody bitch off me, or we’re all going to die!” the driver said, his voice almost choked off.
Bullets slammed into the car again and the driver took the next right turn, throwing Erika over and nearly succeeding in choking him. Michael reached up, wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her back. The driver rubbed his throat and checked the rearview.
Erika, still in a panic, began hitting Michael with her fists. “Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!”
He had no choice. Rearing back, he slapped her across the face, hating himself when he saw the raw look of betrayal in her eyes.
“What’s the matter with you, are you trying to get us killed?”
More bullets hit the limousine, sounding like hailstones.
“You don’t understand!” Erika shouted. “I can’t be here!”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
An odd look flashed across her face and she began to cry. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean for this to happen. I—”
Michael grasped her shoulders. “Of course, you didn’t,” he said.
The two cars were now traveling through the market district, each side of the road lined with empty stalls that, during business hours, offered fresh produce and other sundries.
Michael frowned, remembering something. “We’ve got to take the next left to Tower Bridge,” he shouted, “or we’ll end up in a dead end.”
“I know, mate,” the driver said, eyes flicking to the rearview. “We’ll take the next left.” He paused as he saw a truck backing into their path. He smiled. “We got the bloody bastards now!”
He stepped on the gas and Michael saw what he was trying to do. If he could get past the truck, the Jaguar would be trapped, forced to go a whole block out of its way in order to find them. By then, they would be long gone. But the driver didn’t see what Michael saw: a long piece of metal hanging off the back of the truck.
“STOP!” Michael yelled.
The driver, seeing the problem, stomped on the brakes. But it was too late. The limousine went into a spin, and the driver tried frantically to compensate when it careened into the truck with a frightening sound of tearing metal. Michael was thrown against the seat just as a piece of steel plunged through the windscreen neatly decapitating the driver.
Dazed and bruised, Michael saw his passport jutting out from beneath Welles’s body. He grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and got up to look out the window. Outside, the silver-gray Jaguar screeched to a halt fifty feet away, the doors popping open. Two men leaped out and moved forward, Skorpion machine pistols clutched in their hands. Through the shattered window he heard one of them speak German to the other, a joke, something about English scrap metal. The one who’d spoken, the taller of the two, had a head shaped like a bullet and walked with a swagger in his gait.
The surviving MI6 agent struggled to reach his weapon, which had flown out of his hands on impact and now rested on the road three feet from him. The bullet-headed German reacted, instantly riddling the agent with .32 caliber slugs.
Erika whimpered, her eyes shut against the horror, and Michael placed himself in front of her. It was a noble if futile gesture, he knew it, but if he was going to die, he wanted to face it head on. He realized his knees were shaking. The bullet-headed man stopped ten feet from him, and Michael could see the blackheads in the man’s nose.
The man raised the Skorpion machine pistol and grinned, revealing short stubby teeth.
The driver of the Jaguar leaned out of car and called out in German, “Karl, we must leave, there is no time.”
“I’m going to end this crap, now,” he replied, his voice sounding harsh and guttural.
Michael felt Erika grab onto him as she rose to her feet and stood beside him. Suddenly, the one called Karl straightened up, his eyes widening.
“Karl! Let’s move!” the driver of the Jaguar shouted.
Karl took one last look at them, eyes round with fear, and then he ran to the Jaguar. Tires spun when the driver stomped on the accelerator, and a moment later it was gone. Erika stared after the departing Jaguar, her expression oddly calm.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked.
She gave him a wan smile. “Yes.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Come on, there’s a tube station nearby.”
Grabbing her hand, they started for the station, which lay a block away. A large club crowd had gathered, heading home on the last train, making it easy to lose themselves within it. Michael bought tickets with his remaining pocket change, and when they reached the stairs leading to the Underground, he saw Police and Emergency vehicles streak by, their sirens dopplering as they passed.
The Whitechapel Underground station was several degrees hotter than aboveground and packed with travelers staring into space or into the eyes of soon-to-be loved ones. A train had just arrived and was disgorging passengers. Michael checked the sign displaying its destination and saw it was headed for New Cross, completely the wrong direction. Then he remembered the station was a hub for the District Line and would take them back in the general direction of Kensington. He checked the clock, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. The last train to Wimbledon was due any moment, and one of its stops was South Kensington. Erika joined him at the map, her face etched with worry.
“Where are we going, Michael?”
“We’ve got to get some new clothes,” he said, indicating the blood on her dress. “How are you fixed for cash?”
“All the English money I had was back in the limousine.”
She pulled out a wad of German Marks and Michael saw that most of the bills were large denominations. He sighed and leaned against the wall, shaking his head.
“That means we’ll have to risk the bank first thing in the morning.”
“But surely they won’t react that quickly,” she said.
“Never underestimate the British government. But you may be right. The bank will most likely be clear. It’s the ports we have to worry about. They’ll probably have people stationed at all the exit points. It’s the chance we’ll have to take. The problem is we have no place to go until then. Even if a hotel would take your money, they’d take one look at us and turn us out.”
A gay couple clutching each other’s derrieres, passed between them, giving Michael an appraising glance. Their eyebrows arched when they noticed the condition of his attire. Erika gave them a withering glare, then turned back to Michael, who drew her over to a spot near the wall.
“I have other friends...in Sloan Square,” she said.
“No, I don’t want to involve anyone else. It’s too dangerous. We’ll keep moving until daylight. When the bank opens, we’ll exchange some of your money. I only bloody hope they don’t arrest us.”
Another train pulled into the station, and Michael saw it was the Wimbledon train. “Come on, this is it.”
They ran for the train, slipping inside just as the doors clattered shut. Michael let Erika have the one seat available and stood in front of her, holding the bar overhead. He tried not to notice the stares of the other passengers, for he knew they were both a frightful mess. And even though their position was a precarious one, this was not what was continually nagging at his mind. It was the look of naked fear in the eyes of the German gunman, the one called Karl. It was a look of a man who was staring death in the face.