D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

“...Federal German Police are still investigating the brutal murder of War hero/Industrialist Friedrich Rainer. Current theories held by the Bundespolizei presume that he may have been assassinated by members of the Red Brigades in protest for alleged crimes against the people. Rainer, a manufacturer of controversial pharmaceuticals sold in Third World countries, has long been thought to be on a radical ‘hit list.’ Thus far, no one has claimed responsibility.” Honeycombe paused, shuffling his script. “Authorities have also continually refused to comment on the similarities between Rainer’s death and last month’s murder of writer Hans Kleisner....

“In local news, the body of Sir William Atwater was found today in St. James’s Park, dead of an apparent heart attack. Sir William, wartime head of MI6, was knighted by King George VI in 1946 and was a member of the Order of the Garter. Private services will be held in Westminster Abbey on Friday....

“In a moment, after a brief word, we shall return with the weather for the coming week, and the garden report....”

“Same old bloody crap,” Michael said, switching off the set. He went over to the entertainment center and turned on his hi-fi system’s Audio Research pre-amp. The two MacIntosh monoblock power amps he left constantly powered to save wear and tear on the delicate valves. While the pre-amp warmed up, he selected one of his favorite records, Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s 1973 tour de force: Brain Salad Surgery. A moment later the first strains of William Blake’s incomparable Jerusalem trumpeted out of the dual sets of Altec-Lansing speakers and Michael felt himself transported.

So enraptured was he by the piece’s end, he almost missed the soft, persistent knocking at his front door. He turned down the music and went to the door, his standard abject apology to Mrs. Herrick’s delicate sensibilities on the tip of his tongue. The words died on his lips when the door swung open bringing him face to face with a goddess.

She stood with her weight on one hip, a long-fingered hand poised to knock. Dressed in jeans and a snug-fitting t-shirt, she was slender and tall, even without the high-heels she wore. Blunt cut blond hair swept past her shoulders, framing a sharp, angular face. Prominent cheekbones set off an upturned nose, which in turn magnified the effect of ripe, sensual lips, lips that parted to show even white teeth. But the most unsettling thing about this vision standing before him was her eyes. Almond shaped, with a feline slant, they were of such a startling blue he was unable to find words to describe them. Electric, azure, sapphire, and ultramarine, all fell miserably short.

Michael snapped out of his trance-like state when he realized she had spoken to him. He shook his head, an awkward smile forming on his lips. “I’m sorry, the music was a bit loud.”

“Emerson, Lake and Palmer,” she said, with a warm syrupy voice heavily flavored with a German accent. It sent a chill running up his spine.

“Y—you know them?” he said, feeling butterflies skittering across the inside of his stomach’s lining.

“Ja, they are my biggest favorite.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Uhh, can I help you?”

The young woman nodded, a hopeful look on her perfect face. “Ja, ja, is Michael Thorley living here?”

I couldn’t be this lucky, he mused. He said, “You’ve got him.”

“That is not possible,” she said, frowning. “I am looking for a much older man.”

“I assure you, I’m the only Michael Thorley here.”

The young woman bit her lower lip, and Michael felt a sweat break out on the back of his neck. Reaching into the pocket of her jeans, she pulled out a slip of thin white paper, obviously ripped from a phone directory. “I am sorry. I have just driven over from Germany and I found your name in the phone book. Perhaps your father?”

A wistful look came into Michael’s eyes. “My father died a long time ago.”

Tears flooded those cerulean eyes, her pouty lips quivering with desperation. “I—I was so sure.... Now, I have nowhere to go.”

Michael felt awful. Here he was entertaining lusty, if hopeless, fantasies and this girl, this incomparably lovely girl was crying her eyes out on his doorstep. He reached out to her, at first reluctant to touch her out of some irrational thought that she might disappear, or that he might wake up from some dream induced by a long, tiring day at the office. He only hesitated a moment, then grasped her arm. Her skin felt silky, warm, and inarguably real.

“Please, come in, won’t you?” he said. His throat felt tight and his pulse throbbed in his ear.

She shook her head. “No. I must go. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

She pulled from his grasp and started away, making him even bolder than he’d ever thought possible. “Please wait.”

He almost lost his nerve, then forced himself to continue. “I feel terrible that you’ve come all this way. Come inside, I insist.” When she looked doubtful, he added, “Besides, it’s not a good idea to be roaming about when you’re upset. You might accidentally walk in front of a lorry, or something.”

Or not so accidentally, he thought.

The young woman studied him then, as if for the first time, and Michael knew what they meant by the term: under a microscope.

Wiping her tears, she nodded and walked past him into the flat. Michael quickly closed the door and followed her inside. “Would you like some wine, Miss....”

She turned to face him, a guilty look on her face. “Please, forgive me. My name is Erika, Erika Rainer. My father was Friedrich Rainer....”

The name sounded familiar. And then it hit him as he glanced inadvertently at the television. “My God...the