Free Labyrinth by Jon Land

shocked him and he swung to his right, to find himself facing a man in a perfectly tailored blue Customs uniform.
    â€œMr. Locke?” the man repeated.
    Locke shook himself from his daze. “Yes?”
    â€œThe name’s Robert Trevor, sir,” the man said in a British accent, extending his hand. Then, lower. “I’ve been sent to expedite matters a bit.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œMr. Charney thought you’d appreciate the courtesy.”
    â€œOf course,” Locke said, and allowed Trevor to lead him to the right, bypassing the long Customs entry procedure for a single, isolated room. The Englishman closed the door behind them.
    â€œIf you’d be good enough to show me your passport,” Trevor requested. Locke obliged. The Customs official stamped it twice. “I’m having your luggage brought in first and set aside. I’ve also hired a car to take you to the Dorchester.”
    â€œHow thoughtful …”
    â€œYou have Mr. Charney to thank again. He’s very thorough. The Dorchester has your suite all prepared.”
    â€œSuite?”
    Trevor nodded. “And there’s one last thing Mr. Charney asked me to provide you with. Quite irregular but understandable.” The man from Customs unlocked a drawer in the windowless office and slid it open. “I believe you are qualified with this,” he said, extracting a .45-caliber pistol, standard army issue.
    â€œIt’s been years,” Locke said, not reaching for it.
    â€œBut you’re qualified,” Trevor repeated.
    â€œYes,” he admitted, and reluctantly accepted the pistol. Charney had mentioned nothing about guns. What had changed?
    â€œSimple precautions,” Trevor explained, seeming to read his mind. “Mr. Charney didn’t want to unjustly alarm you before. He wants you carrying a bit of protection until he arrives.”
    â€œBut carrying guns is illegal over here.”
    â€œOfficially, yes. But exceptions are made for men with legitimate needs. We have worked with Mr. Charney often in the past. His requests are always well founded and never refused. Please carry it until he advises otherwise.”
    Locke stuck the .45 in his belt, made sure his jacket covered it. “Fits rather well,” he said, not quite comfortable with all this. Brian would not have issued him a gun unless a chance existed that he might have to use it. Something was wrong here; new factors were being tossed into the game. It was too late to turn back so Locke had to play along. Still, delivering a gun under these circumstances through a subordinate didn’t seem like Charney’s style. Then again, he was full of surprises, and Locke knew that if guns had been mentioned in the States, this mission would have ended before it began.
    â€œLet’s collect your luggage and get you on your way,” Trevor said, handing him back his passport and ushering him toward the door.
    They reached the claim area, and sure enough, a porter had already loaded his luggage on a pushcart. Trevor tipped him, then pointed Locke toward a waiting cab.
    â€œI’ll be moving on now,” he said, grabbing Locke’s hand in a firm handshake.
    â€œThanks for everything.”
    Trevor smiled, tipped his cap. “Enjoy your stay in London, sir.”
    Locke started for the taxi.
    The ride to the Dorchester from Heathrow took longer than he expected, and Locke passed it off to impatience and anxiety. He wanted to get to his room, get settled and refreshed, perhaps grab a short nap before contacting Alvaradejo at the Colombian Embassy.
    At quarter-past eight he was ushered into a newly redecorated suite, the rooms lushly done in browns and apricots. There was a fully stocked dry bar in the living room’s far corner and beneath it a refrigerator packed with mixers. Locke pulled the blinds open to let in what little sun the morning had to offer. It was a dreary day, the temperature not yet fifty