Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 11

  “I’m not sure about anything, Jackson. I don’t know which end is up here. We’re going to land in London with nothing. We have no leads. This hard drive, for whatever reason, is blank. It’s useless.”

  “Remind me then, if we have no leads, why are we going to Ukraine? Who suggested we go there?”

  “Well,” she looks at me, the confusion still floating in her eyes, “remember that intercepted message I told you about? The one from Dr. Wolf?”

  “Yeah,” I respond, “except I thought you said it was a partial message you received from Wolf. You never said it was intercepted.”

  “I did receive it,” she says. “I never said it was intended for me.”

  “You did,” I point my finger at her. “You said he sent it to you.”

  “Semantics,” she shakes her head. “Bottom line: it was sent to a scientist there who was working with Wolf at one point. They worked together in Germany. Now this guy is in Ukraine. He has a place in Odessa. I’ve met him once, briefly. So we’re starting there.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “At a party with a bunch of researchers, ” she says. “Does it matter?”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I don’t remember,” says Bella. “It was for a moment at a party. What’s your deal?”

  “Can you trust what this guy will tell you, if we can find him?”

  “I don’t know, Jackson. I don’t know,” she closes her eyes as she speaks. “It seems to me, we can’t trust anyone.”

  I completely agree.

  CHAPTER 9

  London’s Biggin Hill Airport is about twelve miles southeast of the city’s center. It’s apparently dedicated to serving large business jets, which is evident as we taxi past a seemingly endless row of white aircraft, most adorned with a corporate logo on the tail.

  The V-shaped runways frame a massive, impossibly green field. The edges of the airport are decorated with large trees that mask the surroundings, except for the occasional red roofs of neighboring homes. A large hangar sits aside each of the two runways puddled with water. The skies are thick with gray clouds that look ready to dump more rain on us.

  “How far to the meeting place?” It’s the first thing I’ve said to Bella in a couple of hours, both of us too tired and too anxious to talk. My watch reads 5:45 PM local time.

  “Forty-five minutes by car. Sir Spencer suggested we meet this Davis guy in a public place.”

  “Where exactly?” I ask. “And how are we getting there?”

  “I hired a car,” she peeks her eyes above the top of the magazine she is reading. “It should be here already. We’re going to meet at the Marble Arch on Park Lane and then get on a tour bus.”

  “A tour bus?”

  “Yes,” she hides her eyes but not her sarcasm. “Got a better idea, Jackson? You know, you could have made the call to Sir Spencer.”

  “I don’t have a better idea,” I admit, “but a moving tour bus makes it difficult for us to leave the meeting if it turns sour.”

  She exhales dramatically and slaps the magazine down onto her crossed legs. “Jackson, I don’t understand you. You didn’t give me any suggestions before I called Sir Spencer. I’m doing the best I can here, okay?”

  “You’re right,” I say. It’s consistently the best thing to say to any woman, I’ve learned, when I’m interested in diffusing an argument. “I’m thinking out loud. We’ll be fine.”

  She glares at me, not buying my surrender, and unbuckles her seatbelt. “It’s time to go,” she says. “Where are your weapons?”

  “Inside my bag here,” I motion toward my rucksack. “Why?”

  “They’re illegal here,” she tells me. “As is the ammunition I imagine you’re packing.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You’ll need to leave them on the plane,” she says.

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea. Sir Spencer, a man neither of us implicitly trust, set up this meeting.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” she says. “I can’t risk us getting arrested and stuck in a British police station because we’re carrying guns.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Do you have any other weapons?” She glances at my pack. “A knife or something?”

  I nod and open up a side pouch on the pack, rifling through socks and underwear to pull out a black Spyderco folding knife. “Like this?” I flip open the four-inch blade.

  “Just one?” she asks.

  “Just one,” I stuff the socks back into the pouch and close it.

  “I guess it’ll do,” she says. “It’ll have to. Leave your pack here. Let’s go.”

  I grab one of my fake passports and a burner phone, slipping both of them into an empty pocket. My old phone and ID get tossed into the trash bin on my way out.

  Bella leads me off the plane and into a waiting car, a white Range Rover. There’s a driver and an additional security guard sitting in the left front seat. Both men look like Jason Statham; balding, muscular and thick-necked, with chauffeur jackets that fit a half-size too tight across the chest. Neither of them say anything as we pull away from the jet and onto a road called A233.

  “Tell me about Davis,” Bella says. “Who exactly is he?”

  “Good question,” I answer. “I’m not one hundred percent sure.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “I met him a couple of years ago. I was working for the governor and he had me delivering iPods all over the place. The iPods had information on them that the governor wanted to secretly get to these people.”

  “Banking information?” She leans in toward me, lowering her voice.

  “Probably. The one I delivered to Alaska had banking information. I saw it. But the ones I took to Venezuela, Brazil, Florida, Nebraska, Oklahoma, Louisiana...here to London...I’m not sure.”

  “That’s a lot of iPods,” her eyebrows arch. “And you never thought to ask what was on them?”

  “I thought to ask,” I chuckle, “but I also thought better of it. I was so happy to be traveling, to be trusted with some ‘important mission’, that I didn’t really want to know what I was doing. Of course, I never thought it would rise to the level that it did. I never thought it would cost me my life.” Out the window, we zip by what look like Tudor style apartment homes, a young couple sitting at a bus stop.

  “You’re still alive,” she points out.

  “Yeah. But this isn’t my life. I lost that the minute I handed that first iPod over to Davis.”

  She looks at me, the slightest hint of pity in her eyes. “We’ll get your life back.”

  “I’m not naive enough anymore to believe that. It is what it is. I just want to stop running. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  “Got it.” The pity disappears from her eyes. “Tell me more about Davis please.”

  “I met him at a Tex-Mex restaurant,” I tug on my lap belt, loosening it a little bit. A sign that reads Bromley flies by to my left. “He showed up, told me his name was Davis, which I am pretty sure was an alias. We talked for a maybe a minute. I asked him what he did for living. He told me his job was ‘whatever needed doing’. “

  Bella frowns. “Sounds like something Sir Spencer would say.”

  “It does,” I say. “Sir Spencer said he’s a man who plays the odds. So maybe they have a history I don’t know about. I do know, as Sir Spencer mentioned, that Davis was an energy executive. He was involved in the big conspiracy to hurt your dad’s business.”

  “What energy company?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I never found out. Why the twenty questions? What’re you thinking?”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” she snaps, a defensive, sharp tone in her voice. She catches herself and lowers the volume again. “I’m wondering a couple of things.”

  “What things?”

  “First of all, what information could he possibly have that would help us? And second, is he dangerous?”

  Those
are good questions.

  “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions,” I admit.

  “Are you any good with that knife?” Bella glances at my pocket.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Marble Arch is across the street from a McDonald’s, a Pret A Manger, and a Thomas Cook travel agency office. It’s probably not what architect John Nash imagined when he designed the arch to be an entrance to Buckingham Palace. Instead of some grand adornment for the royal home, it now sits on the edge of Hyde Park, across from the home of the Big Mac.

  Bella points through the arch and across a plaza. “The buses are over there. That’s Cumberland Gate.” We jog through the gate, splashing through puddles to a row of red double decker buses. Amidst the evening rush of cars and taxis, one of the buses is stopped, its doors open next to a man who I assume is the ticket taker.

  “Excuse me,” a voice says from behind us. “Excuse me, Mr. Quick?”

  Bella and I turn around to see a man holding three tickets in his hand. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved dress shirt, underneath a windbreaker, and slim tailored pants. On his head is a dark blue pork pie hat. He looks a little like Walter White, from the television show Breaking Bad, only without the eyeglasses. He smiles, revealing his crowded, yellowed teeth. “Mr. Quick, good to see you again.” He offers his empty hand.

  “Mr. Davis.” I shake his hand, studying his eyes, which give away nothing. “Hello again.”

  “Miss Buell?” He offers her his hand, which she takes with a smile. “I have our tickets. Shall we?”

  He gestures toward the bus and follows us on board, handing our tickets to the man at the door. The bus is mostly empty, save a handful of people crammed into the narrow seats. A few of them are wearing the cheap earbuds offered with the accompanying audio tour.

  “How about upstairs?” Davis suggests. “We might have a bit more privacy up there.” He says the word ‘privacy’ with a short ‘i’.

  I climb the narrow stairwell up to the open air of the double decker. The wet seats are empty, not a single rider up here. The intermittent drizzle is enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from the top deck.

  When Davis’ head peeks through the stairwell, Bella and I are standing at the back of the bus, facing the front. She doesn’t look thrilled about sitting in water, so I take the sleeve of my shirt and rub one of the seats as dry as I can.

  “And who suggests that chivalry is dead?” laughs Davis. “Quite a gentleman, Mr. Quick.”

  Bella slides into a seat next to the outer guardrail and I sit next to her. Davis sits across the aisle, turned toward us. The bus pulls away from the curb and into traffic.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the tour guide’s voice booms through the large speaker at the front of the bus, “we’ll be taking the red tour, that’s the city sightseeing tour. It’s a two hour, fifteen minute drive, though you are most welcome to depart at any of the stops and rejoin the tour on another of our buses at any point today or tomorrow. Your tickets are valid for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Davis leans his right elbow on the seatback in front of him and turns his body toward us. “Mr. Quick, I recall that the last time we met, you indicated it was your first trip to The Old Smoke.”

  “I recall,” I said, “that you stiffed me on your margarita.”

  “Very good!” He smiles broadly and laughs. “I did, didn’t I? Quite rude, I suppose. Forgive me my trespasses, then, will you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good then.” He checks his watch. “So,” he looks up and the smile disappears from his face, “I understand from our mutual friend that you have something for me.”

  “Really?” Bella leans forward so she can clearly see Davis. “We understand you have something for us.”

  “Hmmm,” Davis knits his brow, his narrowed eyes dancing between Bella and me. “That’s interesting. What would I have for you?”

  I slip my left hand into the pocket of my sweatpants, gripping the jackknife. “Our mutual friend tells me that there wasn’t only banking information on that iPod I gave you. He says there was something relevant to Nanergetix’s latest project.”

  Davis stares at me, expressionless. He taps his fingers on the seat back, but doesn’t say anything.

  “What do you know about neutrinos?” Bella blurts out. “What can you tell me about Dr. Wolf’s work?”

  Davis blinks, wincing almost. It’s the kind of facial tic that tells me he has no idea what we’re talking about. His jaw sets, the tension in his face growing obvious.

  Sir Spencer set us up. He lied to Davis. He lied to us.

  “You don’t know what we’re talking about do you?” I ask.

  “Perhaps,” he says coyly. “Perhaps not.”

  “What information did you think we had for you?”

  A smile snakes across his face again, this one much less amiable than the one before. He’s not giving up anything. He’s trying to figure out why he’s here, like I’m processing what Sir Spencer was trying to accomplish by getting the two of us together.

  “Up ahead,” the tour guide’s voice blares from the speaker, causing all three of us to jump, “you’ll see Downing Street to the left. It’s through those wrought iron gates. That’s the home of our Prime Minister. Please don’t confuse it with Baker Street, the fabled residence of literary detective Sherlock Holmes.” The bus slows in the traffic and then brakes suddenly.

  “We’ll be letting on some guests here,” he adds, “and if you’d like to hop off at this point, you’re most welcome.”

  “Should we get off the bus?” Bella whispers into my ear. “I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t either,” I try not to move my lips or take my eyes off of Davis and still slip the knife from my pocket and onto the seat between Bella and me. I have a bad feeling I’m going to need it.

  ***

  “Why are you here?” asks Davis as the bus lurches forward. “Why is it you think you’re here?”

  “We want information that can help us,” Bella says. “Our friend tells us you can do that. He says you can help us.”

  Davis chuckles, still rapping his fingers on the seat. “You know, Mr. Quick,” he sneers, “I knew you were in over your head when I met you in that restaurant. It was apparent to me then that you had no idea about the grand scale of things. You trusted the wrong people then, and you’re trusting the wrong ones now.” From his right jacket pocket he pulls a handgun, a semiautomatic, and levels it at my chest, concealing it beneath the seatback.

  “Are you kidding me?” I mumble to Bella. “No guns,” I mock her. “We might get arrested?”

  “What are you saying?” Davis demands. “Don’t make any moves that might force me to pull the trigger.”

  “Just commenting on gun laws,” I say.

  How am I going to get out of this? I brought a knife to a gunfight...

  “You owe me, Mr. Quick,” he says, “and it’s quite a bit more than the cost of a margarita.”

  “For what?”

  “Your little stunt, your betrayal of your boss, cost me immeasurably,” Davis answers, the gun’s barrel bouncing in rhythm with his speech.

  “You weren’t implicated,” I say. “You’ve had no trouble. Why do I owe you?”

  “What do you owe?” he laughs “What trouble have I had?”

  “I lost the millions of pounds that I fronted your boss,” he spits. “Money that my bosses were not happy to lose. So they sacked me. And the technology your boss was trying to thwart, her father’s technology,” he points the barrel at Bella and I shift my body to block her. “it’s going to market. Better, more efficient fuel, is the scourge of the petrol industry. It was my job to help stop that. I failed. I’m a pariah. I can’t find work.”

  The bus slows and stops.

  “We’ve arrived at the Tate Modern, a wonderful museum,” the guide advises. “If you’d like to take a look, now’s your chance. Hop of
f here and hop on another bus at your leisure.”

  “We’re still years away from perfecting the nano-enhanced—” Bella tries reason.

  “Pipe down!” Davis snaps, his eyes widening and nostrils flaring. “It’s going to happen. Everyone knows it. Don’t try to sell me a false bill of goods Bella Buell.” He says her name with the disdain of an ex-lover. “It’s only a few months from market. And whatever this neutrino business is, I am certain that it too would only serve to pain me further.”

  “Why are you here then?” I ask, though I already know the answer. The bus pulls into traffic.

  “I’m here because our mutual friend offered me an opportunity to exact a measure of closure,” he says. “It’s something about which I’ve thought these last months. The addition of Miss Buell wasn’t even part of the fantasy, but it’s a gift I’ll treasure.”

  Sir Spencer wants us dead? Why would he want us dead?

  “You know there are video cameras everywhere in this city. One is bound to capture you killing us.”

  “You won’t get away with it,” Bella adds.

  “How trite,” Davis says, “and really it doesn’t concern you, does it? Does it matter if I am caught after you’re dead and buried?”

  At the moment he raises the gun, I push the release button on the Spyderco sheath, popping open the blade, and sidearm it toward Davis. It’s too late. My ears ring from the crack of a single gunshot and I grab my chest to find where I’ve been hit but find nothing.

  My knife is stuck into the seat behind Davis.

  I missed!

  Davis, however, is slumped over, bleeding from his head or neck. His pork pie hat is upside down in the aisle. From my peripheral vision, I sense something to my left as Bella screams. There, moving deliberately from the stairs to Davis, gun smoking, is our driver, Jason Statham number one. He steps within a foot of Davis and fires another quick shot at the disgraced energy executive, then whips his neck to look at Bella and me.

  “Time to go,” he tucks the gun into the shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket and turns back toward the staircase.