A tall figure walked down the coble stone sidewalk of Gilbert Street, his jacket pulled tight against his frame with his head bowed against the misty rain. The sound of an approaching moped bike echoed between the red brick building walls. The figure continued at his current speed but turned his head to watch the small bike splash pass him on the street.
“What idiot rides a bike in this weather?” he mumbled to himself. He was sure this was the second time he had seen that exact bike which meant he was being followed.
The bike continued straight down the narrow street. The tall man turned sharply at the corner onto Weighthouse Street but his gaze was continually towards the bike making so that he wasn’t paying attention to the road ahead of him. Just as the bike moved out of sight, he walked headlong into a set of plastic orange construction walls that where placed inconveniently in the middle of the walk. With a crash, the orange walls gave way and fell with the man. Quickly jumping up from his blunder, the man breathed out a low curse of his own stupidity. There was nothing graceful he could do to recover nevertheless he tried to find his composure as he attempted to dust himself off from the gravel and water. He replaced the knocked over wall and began walking on, acting as if nothing had happened.
“Pissing, banana eating-surrender monkeys”, he said as he looked behind him again. He was referring to Britain’s SIS. He was sure that was who was following him. He walked another block and then stopped, leaned up against the red brick wall building and waited.
His name was Rick, Rick Coontail and he was a west-coast, American old-Yank product, walking the wet streets on London on a Sunday morning. His longish blond hair was ruffled up but it still had a quality of style that only good looking people seem to naturally exude. He was wearing a dark gray tweed jacket, brown collar shirt with a mustard orange necktie. And jeans.
A few people passed him, most minding their own business. One older looking gentleman in a bowler hat and a blue neck-tie looked up at him as he passed by. But Rick merely ignored him and continued wait as he looked up and down the street. He was sure his lead was solid but he was taking a terrible risk coming here.
Another ten minutes passed until the Rick moved again. He looked one more time up the street, then set of to his right at a fast pace. Just ahead of him threw the rainy mist loomed the church of King’s Weigh House Chapel with its dark red brick and terracotta dressed tower.
Two individuals were approaching on the side of the church. The first was a sensible woman holding a weather-grayed umbrella. The second was a man walking double time holding a magazine over his balding head. Rick studied them as they passed him but neither lifted their eyes to meet.
Reaching the intersection of Duke St and Weighthouse, Rick stopped again and looked behind him. It looked clear. He reasoned momentarily with himself, knowing that he had doubled back a number of times and zigged zagged his way through the underground tunnels. If someone had been good enough to tail him, maybe they deserved finding him.
He looked at his watch to note the time. It was now or never. He made his choice and walked up the steps and through the front doors of the church.
Inside was bright compared to the overcast morning outside. It was a pity the church was so well-lit. A gloomy Gothic twilight cathedral meeting would have been preferable but Rick had no control over where and when. He just needed to make the contact and get the information.
Rick walked forward to the font with holy water at the entrance. He reached down and dipped his fingers into the water and the made the sign of the cross. The mass was about to start. He scanned the congregation, trying to identify his man among the backs of heads. He spotted his target at the end of a row near the back sitting next to a family with three little girls. There was a massive wooden pillar behind the man that nearly hid him from the entrance.
“At least he had picked a decent place to sit.” Rick thought as the congregation was just starting to sing a hymn. Rick quietly moved forward and slid into an open seat next to his contact.
“Good place.” He whispered with a sarcastic undertone.
The man he sat down next to turned and looked up. He was middle-aged, looked ironically to be a mole and had the air about him that bespoke years of being a bachelor. A small man, neat in dress to the point of fussiness, the neck-tie knotted tightly, and every button done up on his blue jacket suit that shinned from years of cleaning and brushing.
“You’re Monique’s friend?” he asked in a heavy accent.
“Yes,” Rick looked around the church and noted the balcony. “We can still be observed from the galley.”
“I don’t think so; everyone will be looking toward the front.” The man said as he turned his attention forward.
“Hope your right. I appreciate you meeting with me.”
“Just get on with it.” The mole said, “I could get into a boat load of trouble if my boss at the embassy finds out I talked to you.”
“You need something from us?”
The little man turned to say something but he stopped as the hymn, “Rock of Ages” by the sound of it, came to an end and a hush fell upon the congregation. A priest in heavily embroidered robes got up and began the service. There was no mistaking that this was a service for Slovaks as everything was being said in Russian. Rick didn’t understand a word of it. The two sat in silence listening to the priest while the child sitting next to them fidgeted with her mother.
As soon as another hymn began, Rick whispered surreptitiously to the mole: “What’s the mood in St. Petersburg?”
“They favor the EOH,” said the man.
“So what is up with all the pirate and slave trading activity?”
“They don’t consider it piracy. It is just a matter of business to them. Hybrids aren’t always considered people to them. You have to remember that. The men are privateers; they all have letters of marque from the tsar.”
“I am looking for a missing agent. Pretty Devon silver-fox girl: Name is Huntington, Reagan Huntington.” Rick said as he slipped a photo to the man.
The man looked at the image for a brief second and then stuffed it under his leg as the hymn ended. He said no more as the service continued. Rick had to wait for another twenty minutes. After the congregational donation was finished and Rick had dropped in a £5 pound note, another hymn began.
"The man you are looking for is Roman Nikonov . . . Nasty man . . . Big Russian bear.” The mole said as he handed the photo back from under his leg. “I wouldn’t count my chickens on finding Ms. Huntington.”
“You have a place?” Rick asked as he pocketed the photo in his jacket.
“Croatian coast, maybe Split or Dubrovnik.”
“Thank you my friend.”
“I ain’t your friend.” He said. “But you helped out Monique and she is why I am doing this.” He said with finality. He got up and moved to the front of the church to partake of the holy sacrament with the rest of the congregation. When he returned to his seat, Rick was gone.
They all sat in the basement of the old church in Hvar, staring each other down, or at least staring at each other. Carla and Shelia sat across from each other on the old metal chairs, pulled around in a semi-circle. Carla was quietly sipping a french bottled water and Shelia, was checking her SAT phone every few seconds hoping something would come through adding more light on what had happened in Glasgow. Rick, Utah Blaine, Barett, Psy and Zeus were staring at the intel on the TV then back to the floor where maps and charts were laid out. The Church had been converted into some sort of Museum, but it also had the satellite connections that Rick needed. Several wires ran haphazardly across the floor connected to various pieces of electronic equipment and one humming laptop, piled onto the folding table in the middle of the room. The cool air and slight breeze from a open window on the far side of the room would have made things pleasant, but the tension in the room from the recent events made everything feel a little hot.
