Mark Young - Off the grid

As Gerrit started to reach for his luggage, Helene shook her head. “I will have someone take your bags up. Dr. Clarke is waiting in the Palaise Cafe.” She gestured in the direction he ought to go.

He slipped money to the bellhop already grabbing his belongings. Waiting until Helene and the man walked away, Gerrit found his way to the cafe.

Henry Clarke waved from across the dining area as Gerrit entered. “Ah, Dr. O’Rourke. Good to see you’ve arrived safely. Mr. Lawton’s associates have been keeping me company.” Clarke motioned with his chin toward two men seated a couple tables away, a pink linen-covered table pulled out to allow both men to sit with their backs to the far wall. Teacups in hand, they looked like two NFL football players attending a women’s tea party. “I feel well protected, now that you’re here,” Clarke said, each word liberally doused with sarcasm.

Gerrit nodded to the two men. They eyed him without returning the greeting.

“The chap on the right is heading up our party here. I will introduce you after our tea.”

A waiter set a cup and saucer in front of Gerrit. Clarke leaned closer. “I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and ordered for you.”

Gerrit thanked the waiter, taking a sip out of courtesy. He hated the taste, like weak coffee squeezed through a filter a dozen times before getting to his cup. Dishwater had more kick. He tried not to wince.

Clarke sipped his tea. The scientist carefully set down his cup before speaking. “Dr. O’Rourke, may I speak bluntly since we are finally alone?”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

“Let’s drop all this doctor stuff, shall we? You’ve been out of the business so long I hesitate using your title. From what I gather, you’ve been off gallivanting with bobbies since your parents died. Have you used any of your academic training since that time?”

“That is none of your concern… Henry.”

The scientist’s jaw tightened. “While you remain in my service, O’Rourke, you’re just a glorified errand boy. My own private muscle, if you will. Don’t embarrass me in front of my colleagues.”

“Don’t worry, Henry. I’m sure you can manage that all on your own.” He instantly regretted his retort to Clarke. Focus on the primary mission, even if it meant putting up with this guy’s ego. “Look, neither of us asked for me to be here. My government-and apparently yours-believe there’s some risk to you. I intend to work with your folks,” he nodded to the two agents across the room, “to make sure you return home safely. We can part ways at that time. Until then, let’s try to work together. And I will try not to…embarrass you while I’m here. Fair enough?”

Clarke stared back sullenly. “Just stay out of my way.”

Gerrit lowered his eyes to make it appear he relented. The man’s belligerent attitude seemed out of place, unlike their meeting in Harrogate. Maybe Kane and George Lawton sitting in the same room forced Clarke to mask his true feelings back there. Not anymore.

Clarke leaned back for a moment, letting his breath out slowly. “I have-we have-certain pressures on the CESG right now, and maybe-”

“Forget it. Let’s just get you home safely, shall we?”

Looking resigned, Clarke nodded.

One of the two NFL guys sauntered up, the man Clarke singled out as heading up security. “Everything okay, Dr. Clarke?” The man kept his eyes focused on Gerrit as he spoke.

“Just fine, James. Have you met Dr. O’Rourke? As you know, he’s joining our entourage for a few days. Doctor, this is James Stafford.”

The man’s grip tried to crush Gerrit’s hand. “We need to talk, Dr. O’Rourke. Make sure our efforts are adequately coordinated.”

Gerrit gingerly extracted his hand. “Anytime you’re ready.”

“Meet you upstairs when Dr. Clarke is finished here?” James provided a room number. “In about twenty minutes?” The man turned and rejoined his partner without waiting for Gerrit’s reply.

Flexing his hand, trying to get feeling back, Gerrit watched Stafford whisper to his partner across the room. Between Clarke and Stafford, Gerrit felt about as welcome as a vegetarian at a barbeque rib cook-off. If he didn’t watch himself, they just might throw him on their grill and roast him alive.

35,000 Feet above the Atlantic Ocean

Turbulence jostled Richard Kane as he reached for the phone. All the money he spent on this jet-with all its luxury and comfort-could not buy him a smooth flight. The Global 8000 business jet dipped suddenly as if a giant hand let go and allowed the aircraft to free fall. A few moments later, the pilot raised the nose, slowly regaining altitude.

Cradling the receiver in one hand, Kane dialed a memorized number and let it ring. A sultry woman’s voice came on the line. “Richard, I’d know your tone anywhere.”

Kane breathed heavily, remembering his time with her only a few months ago when he was recruiting. The only language she spoke was the dollar bill-or euro. She was worth every cent.

“Collette, my dear. How’s Vienna?”

“Very productive. And on your end?”

Kane dispensed with the niceties. “Time’s short, Collette. I have to know whether Gerrit will be a team player. Everything is set to be launched in just a few weeks. Maybe sooner. I need him on board when we launch-or terminated if he chooses to walk away. Understand?”

“I understand, Richard.”

“Good. Gerrit just reached the hotel. He’s in play. Are your people ready?”

“We will be when I hang up. Au revoir, Richard.”

Kane killed the connection.

Gerrit reached James Stafford’s room, trying to knock twice in quick succession. Stafford yanked the door open before Gerrit could strike a second time.

“Grab a chair.” James quickly closed the door behind Gerrit.

The room was sparse, compared to Clarke’s, but even so it gleamed with elegance. After Gerrit sat down, James dragged a chair across the room and turned it around so he could straddle it. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, as you Yanks are apt to say. We don’t need an American telling us how to protect Clarke. So…why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Hang it, man. I know when George Lawton is behind something; it’s never what it seems. I don’t want to get shot-or fail in my duties to protect Clarke-because you and your CIA spooks are up to no-good, keeping us in the dark. Tell me what you’re up to or I’ll bounce you off this detail.”

“I thought the British were more tactful. And what makes you think I work for the CIA?”

Stafford glared at him without answering.

“By the way, don’t you work for Lawton?”

“I work for a lot of people,” he said, ignoring any further reference to the CIA, as if it was already understood.

“What did Lawton tell you?” Gerrit knew he was buying time. He tried to figure how to handle this without making another enemy. Clarke was enough to deal with right now.

“Never mind about him. I want to hear it from you.”

“Just stay focused on Clarke and you’ll be in the clear. That’s all I can tell you.”

Stafford shoved himself off the chair. “I knew it. Lawton’s got his hands into something else and using this as cover.”

“I’d let it alone. Better if you just do what you’re told…just like me.”

“Playing the good soldier, eh? Could get you killed in this business.”

“So could riding in a car. But we do it anyway.”

“A car only gets you and other passengers dead. This business can kill a lot more people. Particularly when you don’t know what you’re up against.”

“You have to trust the ones you’re working with.”

Stafford sneered. “What kind of world are you living in? In my business, I trust no one. That’s how I stay alive.”