Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“Excuse me, Mr. Mitchell, we’re running a bit low on bourbon.”

Peter Mitchell looked up from the chessboard and nodded to the barman. “OK, Leo, I’ll get some from the cellar.” His eyes flickered across to the man seated opposite him. “I won’t be a minute, Mike.”

Mike Graham shrugged. “Take as long as you want, Mitch. The coup de grace can wait.”

“Coup de grace?” Mitchell snorted. “It’s a temporary hiccup, nothing more.”

“Really?” Graham replied with a knowing smile.

Mitchell dismissed him with a wave of his hand then got to his feet and followed Leo to the bar. Graham took a sip of Perrier water and looked around him slowly. The bar was busy for a Wednesday night. He had been going to the Windmill Tavern for the past five years ever since he found out, quite by chance, that it was owned by Mitchell. The two men had become friends while serving in Vietnam together but had lost contact when Mitchell was injured in combat and flown back to the States for treatment. It was only when the two men had met up again that Graham discovered Mitchell had lost his right arm as a result of the injury.

Graham put the glass down then sat back to await Mitchell’s return. He was an athletically-built thirty-eight-year-old with a youthfully handsome face and tousled auburn hair which hung untidily over the collar of his shirt. He was a native New Yorker who, after graduating from UCLA with a degree in Political Science, had fulfilled his childhood dream by signing for the New York Giants as a rookie quarterback in the early seventies. A month later he was drafted into Vietnam where a shoulder injury put paid to a promising football career. He had liaised closely with the CIA in the last year of the war and was recruited by the elite Delta unit when he returned to the States.

Eleven years later he was promoted to leader of Squadron-B. His first mission was to take a unit into Libya and destroy a known terrorist base. They were about to close in on the base when news reached him that his wife, Carrie, and five-year-old son, Mikey, had been abducted by masked men outside their New York apartment. He was offered the chance to abort the mission but chose instead to give the order to advance. The base was destroyed but the two main targets, Salim Al-Makesh and Jean-Jacques Bernard, managed to escape. A nationwide hunt was mounted for his family but no trace of them was found. He was retired from Delta at his own request and the Delta Commander forwarded his dossier to UNACO as a possible field operative. Although the Secretary-General had turned him down on the strength of his psychiatric report, Philpott had personally overruled him.

Graham’s maverick tendencies had quickly put him at odds with his superiors and it had come to a head when he undertook an unauthorized mission to track down Bernard, the man he held responsible for the disappearance of his family. Although Bernard was subsequently killed, Graham found out that it was actually a senior CIA official who had ordered the kidnapping to give Bernard, who was working for him, time to escape. He also discovered where the bodies of Carrie and Mikey had been buried and, after the remains were exhumed, he had them reburied side by side in the grounds of the church where he and Carrie had been married. The Secretary-General had wanted Graham dismissed; Philpott had again overruled him. But it had been made perfectly clear to Graham that the next time he overstepped the mark he would be out. He knew it was a threat not to be taken lightly …

Mitchell returned to the table and sat down again. He studied the pieces then scratched his head thoughtfully. “You’re right, it doesn’t look good. Not good at all.”

“All you have to do is topple your king and hand me the twenty bucks we wagered on the game.”

“And go down without a fight?” Mitchell retorted. “You know me better than that, Mike.”

“I know you’re a tight-fisted son-of-a-bitch when it comes to handing over money,” Graham replied with a grin.

Mitchell made the move Graham had anticipated. The net was closing in on Mitchell. Graham put Mitchell’s king in check.

“That wasn’t very nice–” Mitchell trailed off and whistled softly to himself as he looked past Graham. “Now she is nice.”

Graham looked round and cursed softly under his breath. Sabrina was standing in the entrance, her hands dug into the pockets of her leather jacket, her eyes scanning the room for him. He turned back to Mitchell. “She’s a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t know.”

“Forget it,” Graham replied. “Make your move.”

“Aren’t you going to signal to her? She’s obviously looking for you.”

“She’ll find me. Now make your move, Mitch.”

Sabrina finally saw Graham. He was sitting at a corner table with his back to her. She headed for the table. A hand suddenly grabbed her arm and spun her around.

“Looking for some action, baby?” the man asked without releasing the pressure on her arm.

“Would you mind letting go of my arm?” she said politely.

“Sit down,” he said, and indicated to one of the other two men at the table to pull up a chair for her.

Mitchell looked past Graham, his eyes narrowed anxiously. “Mike, trouble.”

Graham looked around irritably. Three men in their early twenties. Probably city kids. “She can look after herself,” he replied with a dismissive shrug then gestured to the board. “I’m still waiting for you to make your move, Mitch.”

“Mike, we can’t just leave her over there!” Mitchell said sharply. “It’s three against one.”

Graham grabbed Mitchell’s arm as he tried to get up. “I told you already, she can handle them. Now make your move, or forfeit the game.”

Sabrina pulled her arm free just as the chair was pushed roughly against the back of her legs. She managed to keep her balance but when she tried to get past the table the man got to his feet and blocked her way.

“What’s the hurry? Sit down and have a drink with us,” he said, indicating the chair.

“Would you let me through?” she said sharply. “I won’t ask you again.”

“I’m really scared,” the man said, grinning at his companions. “Sit down!”

He made the mistake of grabbing her wrist to try and force her down onto the chair. She jerked her arm toward her body, pushed her wrist up sharply against his thumb, forcing him to break his grip, then kicked him savagely on the knee. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his knee in agony. One of his friends smashed a beer bottle on the edge of the table and sprang to his feet. Graham decided it had gone far enough. He got to his feet and crossed to where Sabrina was standing, her body tense as she waited for the man to lunge at her.

“It’s OK, Mike, I can handle this,” she said without taking her eyes off the broken bottle.

“I know that. But do they?” Graham looked at the two men. “She could take you both on with her eyes closed and still put you in hospital for the next six months. Think about that before you do anything stupid.”

The second man held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t want any part of this. I’m out of here. Joe, you coming?”

Joe’s eyes flickered between Graham and Sabrina, then he tossed aside the bottle and grabbed his jacket from behind the chair.

“And don’t forget to take your garbage with you,” Graham said, indicating the man who was still writhing on the floor.

The two men hauled their friend to his feet and half carried, half dragged him from the bar.

“OK, the floor show’s over,” Mitchell announced to the other customers.

A coin was fed into the jukebox and a Dire Straits track selected. Within seconds a certain normality had returned to the bar.