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

“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