Free Spy by Ted Bell Page A

marriage, I’d say. Sturdy.”
    “Good word, sturdy.”
    “Yes. I imagine our marriage will be a sturdy little barque upon which to ride out the tumult. You know, the tides that sweep us along, and all that sort of thing.”
    “Quite poetic for a flatfoot. Have you set a date yet?”
    “Good Lord, no! As I say, I haven’t even officially asked her yet. Although I suppose I’ll get round to it one day.”
    “Well, you—”
    A somber porter in cutaway and striped trousers appeared out of nowhere and interrupted whatever it was that Hawke had on his mind. He leaned down toward Hawke in what Congreve imagined to be a conspiratorial fashion.
    He whispered, “Sorry to disturb your lordship, but there’s a gentleman would like to have a word, sir.”
    “Is he downstairs?”
    “No, sir. He’d like you to give him a call, sir.”
    “Who is it?”
    “He said please give you this, sir.”
    Hawke took the small envelope from the silver tray and extracted a stiff cream-colored card. He glanced briefly at it, with a silent nod to Congreve as he got to his feet. His expression had changed so quickly, it was as if someone had tapped him with a wand. His eyes, a second ago alight with warmth and humor, had instantly turned ice blue.
    “Sorry, Constable, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I might be a considerable while. Perhaps I’ll ring you in the morning. Something’s come up, you see, and—”
    “Don’t give it a thought, dear boy, I’ll just see myself out. Most enjoyable afternoon.”
    Hawke turned back to the porter.
    “I’ll use a private booth, please,” Hawke said and quickly strode off into the smoky shadows, porter in tow. Something caught Congreve’s eye and he turned to see the accidentally dropped card falling to the faded Persian carpet as Hawke disappeared from the room.
    Congreve gazed at the spattered window for a moment, following the descent of a single raindrop, then rose and tossed off the balance of his whisky. He stared at the card face down on the floor for some long seconds. He and Alex were lifelong friends and they had few, if any, secrets between them. He bent and picked the thing up, pausing for a moment to give his conscience some operating room, and then opened the folded message.
    On it was the single letter, C, written in green ink.
    C was the name given to every chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes known as MI-6, since 1909. This was, as Ambrose well knew, because the Service’s original founder, Sir Mansfield Cumming, had a habit of scrawling a big green C on every SIS document he signed.
    Ambrose Congreve certainly knew the implications of a summons from C. He sighed, audibly, and sank down into the soft womb of the nearest chair, still holding the card twixt thumb and forefinger. It was once more time, it seemed, to don the cloak and unsheathe the dagger. Knowing Hawke as he did, his happy fantasies of marriage and a quiet dog-and-stick life of a country scribe would most probably be put on hold.
    Yes. Perhaps delayed indefinitely if, as he imagined, Hawke was soon to journey back into the heart of darkness.
    “So it begins,” the Scotland Yard man said, the merest trace of an anticipatory smile crossing his lips.

10
    W EST T EXAS
    T he big red, white, and blue painted trailer rig was parked on the shoulder at the crest of the hill. Just sitting there. Big red baseball bat on the sides and rear doors. The words Yankee Slugger in blue letters circling the bat. Homer Prudhomme slowed the cruiser, approaching the sixteen-wheeler from the rear. Franklin looked over at him. He was still a little wet behind the ears but he was coming along pretty good for a rookie.
    “Okay, we got him,” the sheriff said. “Tuck in there behind him, son. Keep your brights on. He’s not likely to bolt on you again. Some hophead with a sense of humor most likely. Pay attention to what you’re doing, however. These road warriors can get