Queen Victoria's Revenge (15 page)

“Me, up in Scotland. But I'm coming back to London on the ten-fourteen train out of Edinburgh this morning. I don't know what time or where it arrives but I imagine that is the sort of thing that can be found out easily enough. My problem is that there will either be people on the train with me or some waiting in London who will want me to go away with them. I don't want to go with them. Is there anything…?”

“No problem, Mr. Hawkin, no problem at all. This is the kind of service we are happy to provide. I'll see you at the station.”

That was taken care of. With the immediate future provided for, rested and cleansed, his appetite pounced. He pulled his sweater on over his shirt, it would have to do since his jacket was still at the Glasgow airport. But no eyes were raised in sartorial protest when he entered the breakfast room, wood-paneled and well-lit, lights twinkling from the battery of silverware at each place, the soothing white of the tablecloths. He ordered with vicious attention, first orange juice to let his stomach know that more was coming, then porridge—no more oatmeal, he was learning fast—to establish a foundation. After this something advertised as egg, bacon and tomato that turned out to be a deliciously grilled tomato, meaty bacon, an egg cooked in hot fat, toast from a special metal rack designed to take all the heat from it, some orange marmalade for the rest of the toast, all washed down by a pot of tea. Life, internally at least, had never looked better. All this was timed nicely to match the train. With minutes to go he checked out, bought some newspapers and magazines from the stand in the lobby—then finally descended to the station at the last possible moment. Looking neither right nor left, he hurried to the platform and had just found his compartment when the train began moving. There were white doilies on the seats, which also seemed to be a bit wider and covered with a superior grade of prickly velvet than second class. The only other occupant was a thin man in army uniform with a clerical collar who was reading the
Church Times,
and who seemed completely unaware of Tony's presence, even when he trod, with apologies, on his toes when he entered. Rum and smiles were from a different part of the world. A change of scene was certainly called for and he elicited information from the conductor when he presented his ticket.

“Buffet coach at Carlisle in one hour, when we join the Glasgow train.” A British Rail map on the wall explained this circumstance. Apparently trains left from Glasgow and Edinburgh at the same time, then joined up in Carlisle and became a single train for the rest of the journey south. Fate, or Scottish eating and drinking habits, had ruled that the buffet car would be on the Glasgow section. Forcefully deprived of drink, he found himself a prisoner of raging thirst, made worse by thoughts of eternity prompted by the silent padre. He sought to distract himself with reading, but the headlines only reminded him of his predicament. There was some small pleasure to be derived from sharing his troubles with none less than the U.S. Government. It seemed that all of the Arab countries had honored their promises and had forked over the ransom money—with a single exception. The country was not named, but dark hints were dropped that they would be declaimed before the world if they didn't ante up the promised $200,000. Very interesting. The rest of the news was about strikes, inflation, rising food prices—he might have been reading a newspaper at home for all the difference it made. The magazines did not interest him, not with the thought of a large whisky interfering with his concentration, so he threw them aside and walked the corridor, counting the minutes and wondering, not for the first time, what he was doing in this fix.

Carlisle eventually hauled itself slowly over the horizon and they rattled into the yards. There was much backing and stopping until the two sections were joined and coupled. Tony was hovering at the door when it was unlocked and was the first through. The buffet car was doing a roaring business—they had had an hour advantage of him—and he attempted quickly to catch up. For reasons best known to British Rail, larger bottles of Scotch whisky were available on this train and he obtained one, along with a glass, a tiny shred of ice and a can of warm soda water. Cigars were available as well so he bought a Dutch panatella and indulged himself. It was all very satisfying until he noticed the landscape was moving again outside—but directly opposite from the way it had been moving earlier.

“We're going in the wrong direction!” he said aloud.

“Och, aye, south,” the man behind the bar answered, gloomily polishing a glass, and the customers nodded in agreement. Scots nationalism was a power to be reckoned with, he realized. Someone kindly explained that the coaches were turned around in the shunting yard and they were indeed going to London, not back to Scotland. After this he was part of the conversation and heard much arcane lore about the sport of football and in exchange answered a number of questions about America. Hunger tweaked a bit after twelve, but fresh sandwiches took care of that. All too soon they were pulling into London and he had to hurry back to his compartment to retrieve his raincoat and cap. The military clerical must have found some deep truth in his newspaper because he had spread it over his face and was snoring heavily behind it. Tony crept out and was one of the first to disembark in the cavernous station. A now unhappily, familiar band of grim Highland faces faced him, four men in all, all strangers but all alike in their steadfast determination. A large red hand seized his arm, clutching it firmly.

“If you no give us trouble, we'll no give you trouble. There's a car ootside and we're getting into it.”

“Tony—how wonderful to see you here,” a gentler voice called out. Esther Ben-Alter strolled up, bewitching in a bright red, tightly cinched raincoat, and kissed him on the cheek. His four would-be captors formed behind him, unsure but steadfast. Esther looked pointedly at each of them.

“It would be best if you let go of this gentleman and left quietly. The two nice young men who are standing next to you really are specialists in the martial arts and sincerely don't want to harm you…”

“Move aside—we're armed.”

“Well we're not and it makes no difference.”

It didn't. The speaker attempted to pull a gun from his pocket as he turned but there was a swift motion and he stopped turning and slid slowly down until a companion clutched his unconscious form and supported it. The other two also tried to protest but there were more quick moves, most of which Tony did not see, and very quickly they were all seated on a baggage truck, two with their eyes closed, the other two barely conscious.

“I'm glad to see you,” Tony said.

“The feeling is a mutual one,” she assured him. “I have a number of interesting things to tell you and hope you have things to tell me as well. Meanwhile, meet my associates, Jinon and Isaj.”

Tony shook two hard brown hands as they walked. “Jacob Goldstein told us you were a good friend of his,” one of them said. Which was it? They were very much like twins. “He said we were to help you whenever we could.”

“Tell Jake thanks when you see him and your help is much appreciated.”

They took a cab from the rank in front of the station, the two muscular sabers sitting on the facing jump seats, arms folded and silent, matched interior outriders. No one seemed interested in talking in the cab so the ride proceeded with silence on all sides. Tony admired the double-decked red buses and the hurrying traffic, shop fronts and parks. Their vehicular destination proved to be a street corner in a rugged-looking section of the city. Their final destination was a good three blocks farther on. Eternal vigilance is the life of the secret agent. Nor was their path that direct. First they went down stairs set in the sidewalk where a sign promised entrance to a subway. No trains were in evidence, simply a tunnel under the street. Very mysterious. What would a real subway be called? Probably an “underground” or something like that. After this there were narrow passages between buildings, an entrance to an office building with an exit on a different street and, finally, their destination. This proved to be a dark, peeling building with a large sign over the entrance that read The Marmion, with the smaller message below that it offered Bed & Breakfast. All of the windows were shut tight and badly in need of washing, while a general seedy air of decay radiated from every stone. Tony looked at it suspiciously; Esther caught the glance.

“It's not much to look at, which is far from accidental. Some of the accommodations are really quite comfortable. There are plenty of people going in and out all the time, which makes it a good cover. We can get you a room here, if you want, that is if you are worried about the skyjackers still being after you.” Tony cocked his head dubiously. “Gefilte fish for breakfast,” she added, seeing his hesitation, further temptation to convince him to make up his mind.

“I think it is just what I need, thank you for offering, and I would love to stay here. But there is something I must do first.” He noticed her raised eyebrows. “No, really, there are some things I have to find out and they might be dangerous. A phone call, that's all. I'll make it someplace away from here and will then be right back. You have my word.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “Whatever you say, the door is always open.”

Tony made a note that the lodging house was on Lamb Street, easy enough to remember, as being led to the slaughter—what had made him think of that connection!—and he went briskly around the corner and away until he saw a roving cab.

“Piccadilly Circus,” he told the driver. It was the only place in London he knew, other than Scotland Yard; no thank you! He must get a map, learn his way around. Learn where the centers of cultural interest were, see the paintings in the National Portrait Gallery, the Tate … his thoughts spiraled downward into gloom. What was he thinking about? Every man's hand, with the exception of a few Jewish ones, was turned against him. And he was wanted by the police, or maybe he was not wanted by the police. That was what he had to determine now, the reason why he had slipped away from his Israeli saviors. He had to find out what Scotland Yard's position was on the hot money that he had passed. A phone call to the United States Embassy was in order to determine just what his status was.

Eros danced lightly before him in the Circus as he paid off his driver. Scotland Yard was down that way and over there the hotel where he was known, so he quickly turned his back and walked away from them both. This led him across a narrow street filled with rushing cabs to a doorway where a man in a white apron was unlocking and opening a metal grille. As he did this a glass sign above the door flashed to life, green letters against white, spelling out O'Flaherty's Irish House. The doorway and the simple sign were like nothing he had ever seen before, but somehow they plucked an alcoholic string within him. It had been some time, an hour at least, since he had had any beverage and his system was sending out little whimpering messages for restoking of the internal flames.

“Are drinks served here?” he asked the aproned man who had secured the open grille into place.

“Sure and if the're not oive been in the wrong business for many years.”

Thus reassured, and following two other men hurriedly bent on the same errand, he treaded the steep stairs down into an underground specie of saloon quaintly walled with New York subway toilet tiles, cracked and aged in places but still well polished. Like an island in a sea of thirst, an oval mahogany bar stood in the center of the room, with racked glasses and bottles pendant above, beer-pump handles projecting from below. “Half of Guinness,” the first arrival said to a red-cheeked bartender who looked all of fourteen years old. This lad turned away instantly, began pulling on a wood and brass handle, and his place was taken by another barkeep of the same age and complexion. “Half of Guinness and a Paddy's,” the second man said. A dark mug of liquid appeared before each of them, along with a single glass of golden liquor. Always ready to learn, and not wanting to be outdone, Tony ordered a pint of Guinness to go with his Paddy.

It was a wise choice. Paddy proved, as well it might, to be a mellow Irish whiskey that blended serenely with the midnight soothing of the dark beverage, rich indeed, a meal in itself, but what could it be?

“Guinness?” the man next to him at the bar answered in response to his request for information. “Ahh, Guinness.” He looked ceilingward as though for inspiration, a small man in a dusty derby, a number of days past his last shave, wearing a shirt without a collar like the ones in the old haberdasher shop ads. A relic of his youth—or was it possible that shirts without collars were still made in some parts of the world? “Yes, Guinness,” he said looking back at Tony, some higher instruction received. “Why sure and 'tis the finest drink on God's green earth, brewed by the banks of the Liffey, though not from the water these days, His Mercy save us, that water being the color of death itself. A stout, yes, a member of the beer family yet rising above their mundane pastures as a great tree rises up from a field of nettles. Mother's milk I have heard it referred to as many times, have ordered it myself that way, for it is maternal nourishment indeed. A jar of Guinness, or a glass as it is called in this part of the world, is medicine for the soul and liver such as no doctor need prescribe. When taken with a dram of whiskey, why it reaches heights of pleasure of a rarefaction more known to the angels than to mankind. That, your honor, is Guinness.” He lowered his eyes over his glass reverently.

“Why, yes, thanks, I had no idea…”

“I must add that with a dram, as you are doing, it works wonders internally, as well as to the soul of the drinker. Being a poor man, unlike yourself, I rarely, if ever, indulge myself in that combination…”

The words faded into silence and fell to the bar between them and lay there curled up dustily as though waiting for a wet answer.