The Brotherhood of the Rose Read online

  Chris set his watch for the English time zone. The morning sky was bleak. As dampness crept over him, he glanced out the back and frowned. “We’re being followed.”

  “That blue car a hundred yards back?” the driver asked. He studied his rearview mirror, seeing Chris nod. “It’s one of ours. But there’s something else bothers me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The orders we got. From Misha in Washington.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t get it. We’re supposed to make sure you arrive okay, but then we’re supposed to scram. It makes no sense. Whatever you’re up to, even you three have to need backup. There’s got to be a mistake.”

  “No, that’s what we asked for.”

  “But—”

  “That’s how we want it,” Saul said.

  The driver shrugged. “You’re the customer. I was told to get you a flat that’s safe. The equipment you wanted’s in the trunk. They call that a boot over here. I’ll never get used to the way these people talk.”

  10

  Pretending to settle in, they stopped unpacking their bags the moment the escorts left. Saul glanced at Chris. On signal, they scanned the room. The place was small, more homey than rented rooms in America—doilies, lace curtains, flowers in a vase. Like the car, it smelled of dampness. Though the escorts had vouched for the safety of the place, Saul didn’t know if he could trust them. On the one hand, he saw no reason not to. On the other, too many people had become involved, too many chances for further betrayal.

  As if they heard his suspicions, Chris and Erika nodded. Since the room might be bugged, they didn’t say a word but quickly changed from their uniforms. The men paid no more attention to Erika’s nakedness then she did to theirs. In nondescript street clothes, they took apart, tested, and reassembled the weapons the escorts had given them. The other equipment they’d requested functioned perfectly. Leaving nothing behind, they crept down the musty back stairs of the rooming house. In the rear, they crossed a mews toward a maze of alleys, using complex evasion procedures to lose a tail in the London rain. Not even Misha Pletz knew why they’d come to England. Now on their own, they’d become invisible again, their destination undetectable.

  Except, Saul thought uneasily. One other person knew—the man who’d supplied the address and description of their target. Strict security would have required silencing Hardy to protect themselves. But how could I justify it? Saul asked himself. Hardy helped. I like the son of a bitch too much.

  All the same, he kept repeating. Loose ends bothered him.

  11

  They were waiting, and he hadn’t thought to take even such an elementary precaution as avoiding his apartment. Of course he’d been drinking heavily, the familiar excuse. Not only had it clouded his judgment. It also had stunned his reflexes, so when he staggered into his apartment and turned to lock the door, he didn’t move fast enough from the footsteps charging toward him. Maybe sober he could have yanked the door back open and rushed down the hall, but as adrenaline hit the alcohol in his stomach and made him want to throw up, the man who’d been hiding in the closet twisted his arm, slamming him hard against the wall, spreading his legs in a frisk position.

  The second man, darting from the bathroom, pawed along his body, checking his buttocks and privates. “Snub-nosed thirty-eight. Right ankle,” he told his partner, pocketing the weapon.

  “Sofa,” the partner told Hardy.

  “Lawn chair,” Hardy told him.

  “What the—?”

  “You guys practice hard enough, you’ll soon get up to verbs.”

  “Just do what the hell you’re told.”

  Hardy’s forehead throbbed from its impact against the wall. He sat. His heart skipped a beat, but his mind stayed surprisingly calm, no doubt the effect of a day spent at the corner bar. Indeed since Saul had left, he’d been drinking harder than ever. Despite his determination never to let his drunkenness make him undignified, he’d let his pants become wrinkled, his shoes scuffed. Though he’d begged to go along, Saul had refused. “You’ve helped enough.” But Hardy had understood. He thinks I’m too old. He figures he can’t depend on a…

  Lush? Hardy had stupefied himself to forget that Saul now did what he himself—if he’d had any guts—should have done years ago.

  The two men were in their early thirties. Hardy smelled their sick-sweet aftershave. He glanced at their all-American anonymous features. Short neat hair and Brooks Brothers suits. He recognized them. Not that he’d seen them before, but in his prime he’d often used their counterparts.

  GS-7s. The agency’s drones. Their rank made him angry, aggravated by his drunkenness, telling him he wasn’t considered dangerous enough for a shakedown by a first-class team. They represented contempt.

  He seethed but didn’t show it, bourbon making him brave. “Well, now that we’re nice and comfy—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” the first man said.

  “I told you.”

  “What?”

  “You’d get up to verbs.”

  The two drones glanced at each other. “Make the call,” the first one said. The second picked up the phone, and even through a blur, Hardy noticed he touched eleven digits.

  “What? Long distance? I hope to God it’s collect.”

  “I’m gonna love this,” the second one said and spoke to the phone. “We’ve got him. No, it was easy. Sure.” He stared at Hardy. “Guess what?” He grinned. “It’s for you.”

  Reluctant, Hardy took the phone. Though he knew what was coming, he pretended he didn’t. “Hello?”

  The voice from the other end was as dry as chalk, as crisp as dead leaves—brittle, ancient, without a soul. “I trust my associates treated you well.”

  “Who—?”

  “Come now.” Phlegm obscured the voice. “No need for games.”

  “I want to know who—”

  “Very well. I feel like being amused. I’ll play along.”

  Hardy fumed when he heard the name. “I hoped I’d never hear from you again, you bloodsucker.”

  “Name-calling?” Eliot clicked his tongue. “What happened to your manners?”

  “I lost them with my job, you jack-off.”

  “Not at my age.” Eliot laughed. “I believe you may have had some visitors.”

  “You mean apart from Tweedledum and Tweedledee here? Visitors? Who the hell would want to visit me?”

  “Two very naughty children.”

  “The son and the daughter I’ll admit to won’t even talk to me.”

  “I’m referring to Saul and Chris, of course.”

  “Refer all you want. Whatever this is about, I haven’t seen them. Even if I had, I’d never tell you.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  “No, something else is. What’s gone wrong?”

  “That’s very good. Answer a question with a question. It helps to avoid mistakes.”

  “It gives me a pain. I’m hanging up.”

  “No, wait. I’m not sure what they told you. They’re in trouble.”

  “They told me nothing. They weren’t here. For God’s sake, I’m trying to enjoy my retirement. Take your drones. Stay out of my life.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s Chris. He violated the sanction. Saul’s helping him escape.”

  “So the first thing they do is come to me? Oh, sure. For what? A lot of good I’d be. Against the Russians? Bullshit.” Hardy winced.

  “Perhaps you’re right. May I speak to one of my associates, please?”

  Hardy felt too sick to answer. He handed the phone to number one.

  “What is it? Yes, sir, I understand.” He gave the phone back to Hardy.

  “You made a mistake,” Eliot said.

  “Don’t rub it in. I know.”

  “I have to admit you were doing quite well before that. Especially considering you’re out of practice.”

  “Instinct.”

  “Habit’s more reliab
le. Really, the Russians. Why did you have to mention them? I hoped you’d be a better opponent.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “You wouldn’t have mentioned the Russians unless you knew they claimed the violation. Apart from our differences, I was right to have you fired. Sloppy tradecraft. When you’re interrogated, you ought to know you never volunteer information, no matter how seemingly irrelevant.”

  “I don’t need a lecture, for Christ’s sake. How’d you know they’d come to me?”

  “I didn’t. Actually—no offense—I thought of you only this morning. After I’d tried all their other contacts. You were my last resort.”

  That insult may have been why Hardy made his choice.

  Number two put a briefcase on the coffee table. Opening it, he took out a hypodermic and a vial of liquid.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t use the chemicals sooner,” Hardy said.

  “I wanted to talk to you first. To reminisce.”

  “To gloat, you mean.”

  “I don’t have time for this. It’s my turn now. Hang up.”

  “No, wait. There’s something I want you to hear.” Hardy turned to number one. “In that cabinet.” It was plastic-coated plywood, from the K-Mart. “Excuse the expression. There’s a shot left in a fifth of Jim Beam. Would you bring it to me?”

  The drone looked uncertain.

  “For God’s sake, I’m thirsty.”

  “Lush.” Lips curled, the drone opened the cabinet and gave him the bottle.

  Hardy stared at it. As if caressing a woman he loved, he slowly turned the cap. He swallowed the inch of liquid, savoring its wonder. On balance, it was the only thing he’d miss. “Still listening?”

  “What was that about?”

  “Hang on.”

  I’m seventy-two, he thought. My liver’s a miracle. It should have killed me long ago. I’m a goddamn remnant, a fossil. Thirty minutes after the chemicals had been administered, he knew he’d have told the drones everything Eliot wanted. Saul and Chris would be killed. Eliot would have won again.

  The son of a bitch kept winning.

  Not anymore.

  A lush? Saul wouldn’t take me along because he couldn’t depend on me. Eliot sent two drones because he didn’t respect me.

  “I’ve got a confession to make,” Hardy said.

  “We’ll still use the chemicals.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re right. Saul came to see me. He asked questions. I gave answers. I know where he is. I want you to understand that.”

  “Why so direct? You know I won’t make a deal.”

  “You’ll have me killed?”

  “I’ll make it as pleasant as possible. Alcohol poisoning. I doubt you’ll mind.”

  “Keep listening.”

  He set the phone on the coffee table and glanced beyond the drones toward the window. He weighed 220 pounds. In his youth, he’d been a tackle on Yale’s football team. With a wail, he surged from the sofa, ramming past them, charging toward the window. For an instant, he feared the closed blinds would hold him back, but he should have expected they were as cheap as everything else in this goddamn crackerbox.

  His head struck the window, shattering the glass. But his girth jammed in the window frame, his stomach sinking on jagged shards. He moaned, but not from pain, instead because the drones were grabbing his feet, straining to pull him back. He kicked, struggling, hearing the blinds rattle as the shards rammed deeper into his stomach. Desperate, tilting forward, he wrenched his feet away and suddenly hurtled bleeding into space. More glass went with him, glinting from the sun. He saw it vividly, feeling suspended. Gravity insisted. Plummeting, he left the splinters above.

  Objects fall at an equal rate, provided their mass is the same. But Hardy had a great deal of mass. Faster than he’d imagined, he swooped toward the sidewalk, praying he wouldn’t land on someone. Fifteen stories. The drop made his stomach swell. Toward his testicles. After all, he was upside down. Before he hit, he blacked out. But a witness later said his body exhaled on impact.

  Almost as if he laughed.

  12

  The estate was huge. Saul crouched in the dark on a wooded bluff, peering down a murky slope toward the lights of the English manor house below him. Three stories high, its rectangular shape made it seem even higher. Long and narrow, it had a large middle section flanked by smaller wings to the right and left. Its clean straight lines were broken only by the row of dormer windows projecting from the slight slope in the roof and by the confusing array of protruding chimneys, stark against the rising moon.

  Saul aimed a nightscope toward the wall enclosing the estate. In its earliest form, a nightscope had been based on the principle of projecting an infrared beam to illuminate the dark. This beam, invisible to the unaided eye, could be easily detected through special lenses in the scope. The device worked well, though the objects it revealed were necessarily tinted red. Nonetheless it did have a crucial drawback. After all, an enemy using the same kind of scope could detect the infrared beam from your own. In effect, you’d advertised yourself as a target.

  A better principle was obviously needed, and during the late ’60s, in response to the escalated fighting in Vietnam, an undetectable nightscope was finally invented. Known by the trade name Starlight, it illuminated the dark by magnifying whatever minuscule light source, such as the stars, was available. Since it projected no beam, it couldn’t draw attention to the person using it. In the ’70s, the scope had become commercially available, mostly in sporting goods stores. There’d been no difficulty in obtaining this one.

  Saul didn’t use it to study the manor, however, because the lights from the windows would have been so magnified they’d stab his eyes. But the wall was in darkness, and he saw it clearly. It seemed to be twelve feet high. He focused on its weathered rocks, its vivid chinks of ancient mortar.

  But something about it troubled him. He felt as if he’d knelt here before and studied the wall. Struggling with recollection, he finally understood. The estate in Virginia. Andrew Sage and the Paradigm group. The beginning of the nightmare. At once he corrected himself, for the wall down there reminded him of someplace else, the orphanage, and that was where the nightmare had really started. With eerie vividness, he imagined Chris and himself sneaking over the wall. In particular, he recalled the night…

  The screech of crickets stopped. The forest became unnervingly quiet. As his skin prickled, he sank to the ground, drawing his knife, his dark clothes blending with the gloom. Controlling his breath, he kept his face down, straining to listen.

  A bird sang, paused, then repeated its cadence. Exhaling, Saul rose to a crouch. Still cautious, he huddled against an oak, pursed his lips, and mimicked the song of the bird.

  Directly, Chris stepped from the dark. A second figure emerged like the rustle of wind through bushes. Erika. She glanced back down the slope, then crouched beside Saul and Chris.

  “The security’s primitive.” Chris kept his voice low.

  “I agree,” Erika added. She and Chris had separated down the slope, checking the estate’s perimeter. “The wall’s not high enough. There ought to be closed-circuit cameras. There’s no electrified fence at the top.”

  “You sound like that disappoints you,” Saul said.

  “It bothers me,” she answered. “England’s in a recession. Its lower class resents its upper class. I’d be frantic for security if I were Landish. Given his position in MI-6, he ought to know how to protect his estate.”

  “Unless he wants to make it seem there’s nothing to protect,” Chris said.

  “Or hide,” she added.

  “You think the security’s not as primitive as it seems?”

  “I don’t know what to think. And you?” She turned to Saul.

  “I scanned the grounds,” he said. “I saw no guards, though there must be some in the mansion. We were right, though.”

  “Dogs?”

  Saul nodded. “Three of them. Maybe others I didn�
�t see. They’re roaming freely.”

  “Breed?”

  “All Dobermans.”

  “The Marines would feel at home,” Chris said. “Thank God, it isn’t shepherds or standard poodles.”

  “You want to forget about it?”

  “Hell, no,” Erika said.

  The two men smiled.

  “Then let’s do it. We were worried about timing—how to get our hands on him. He might have solved the problem for us. Take a look.” Saul pointed toward the rear of the manor. “See the greenhouse?”

  “The lights are on.”

  The long glass structure glinted in the night.

  “Like Eliot, he worships roses. Would he let a servant in there? Or a guard? In his holy of holies? I don’t think so. Only the high priest enters the sanctum.”

  “Maybe he’s showing his roses to guests,” Chris said.

  “And maybe not. Just one way to tell.”

  Again the two men smiled at each other.

  13

  They crept down the slope through mist and bracken toward the rear of the estate. Clouds drifted across the moon. The night was chilly and damp. Chris braced his hands against the wall and bent a knee so Erika could climb to his shoulders, grip the top of the wall, and pull herself up. Saul went up next, climbing to Chris’s shoulders, but when he clutched the top, he dangled, allowing Chris to use his body as a ladder. At the top, Chris and Erika helped Saul squirm beside them.

  Flat, they scanned the estate. Lights gleamed. Below them, dark objects loomed.

  Chris raised a tiny cylinder to his lips and blew. Though the night stayed quiet, Saul imagined the ultrasonic tone. The dogs would hear it, though. But what if they’d been trained to ignore its appeal?