Read this dossier. Cover to cover. Take your time. The car will wait.”
It was a red leather portfolio marked MOST SECRET with a thick dossier inside.
The first thing Chase came to was an aerial sat photo of a house. A large Georgian brick home, quite beautiful, located within a rolling parkland of green beeches and elms.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called Quarterdeck. A large manor house in the Cotswolds. England. The home of the reigning chief of MI6, Sir David Trulove. That’s his picture you’re looking at. A crusty old admiral who keeps getting in our way. He’s been a persistent thorn in our sides, not unlike Brick Kelly, his American counterpart at CIA. The much-heralded era of the ‘special relationship’ between Britain and America is now about to come to a swift conclusion. One that history will ‘little note, nor long remember,’ I might add.”
“What’s all this?”
“Satellite images of the estate. Diagrams of the security systems and armed personnel in place both on the grounds and inside the house. Architect’s elevations of the house itself. Bit of an armed fortress, that house. The security measures are quite formidable.”
“You want me to kill the head of MI6 in order to gain my freedom?”
“Yes.”
“What about your precious Spring Fling?”
“Dawn. Don’t make that mistake again. You don’t have to do it personally. You need to create a team. May I suggest you start with one of our senior agents, Ku Lin. UK based, runs a cell for us there. Put him to work on this. Create or provide Ku Lin with weapons that will make the correct outcome certain. There is no budget. You’ve got one month.”
“Is that all?”
“For now.”
“I feel like I’ve heard that scenario somewhere before, General Moon.”
“Hmm. But really, Dr. Chase, what choice do you have?”
Chase was silent for a moment.
“Let me give you a little inside information on world domination, General Moon,” Chase said, “since you people are so obviously hell-bent on it.”
“Oh, please. I should love to hear it.”
“It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. Look at Caesar or Napoleon. Better yet, look at Tojo and Hitler, God rest their souls.”
Moon burst out laughing as Chase moved to the door.
“One more thing before we go,” Moon said, as if he’d almost forgotten. “The J-2 project is compromised. One of the new fighters you designed has fallen into enemy hands. Stolen at sea by a British intelligence officer from a carrier deck. But the circumstances are unimportant. What is important is the fact that your fingerprints are all over that fighter.”
“And your point is?”
“Somehow, somewhere, men are now going to be coming for you. So. Your usefulness to us draws to an end. You need to complete your work before the end draws near to you, my friend. And your family.”
“If you have been lying to me about them . . . God help you. Because I won’t. I will see you dead.”
Moon laughed out loud.
“Oh! Oh, my! I shall miss you when you’re gone, Chase, truly I shall. And one more thing. You might want to tune in to CNN in the morning. It promises to be a rather exciting day in Washington, my sources tell me.”
THAT VERY NIGHT, AS HE fought valiantly for sleep, Bill Chase heard, or perhaps only imagined, the heavy sound of an old dragon’s tail moving over dead leaves.
C H A P T E R 1 6
Arlington National Cemetery
T he day was bitter cold, cold and wet.
As the seemingly endless funeral procession wended its way across Memorial Bridge, the sleet gradually turned to snow. Arlington House, General Robert E. Lee’s beautiful and historic old mansion sited at the top of the hill, was barely visible in the storm. In this light, the house looked frozen and forlorn, even a certain shade of grey, like the general’s ghostly armies after Shiloh and Antietam, and Gettysburg.
It had been a long time since anyone had seen a Washington crowd so still and silent. The
It was a red leather portfolio marked MOST SECRET with a thick dossier inside.
The first thing Chase came to was an aerial sat photo of a house. A large Georgian brick home, quite beautiful, located within a rolling parkland of green beeches and elms.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called Quarterdeck. A large manor house in the Cotswolds. England. The home of the reigning chief of MI6, Sir David Trulove. That’s his picture you’re looking at. A crusty old admiral who keeps getting in our way. He’s been a persistent thorn in our sides, not unlike Brick Kelly, his American counterpart at CIA. The much-heralded era of the ‘special relationship’ between Britain and America is now about to come to a swift conclusion. One that history will ‘little note, nor long remember,’ I might add.”
“What’s all this?”
“Satellite images of the estate. Diagrams of the security systems and armed personnel in place both on the grounds and inside the house. Architect’s elevations of the house itself. Bit of an armed fortress, that house. The security measures are quite formidable.”
“You want me to kill the head of MI6 in order to gain my freedom?”
“Yes.”
“What about your precious Spring Fling?”
“Dawn. Don’t make that mistake again. You don’t have to do it personally. You need to create a team. May I suggest you start with one of our senior agents, Ku Lin. UK based, runs a cell for us there. Put him to work on this. Create or provide Ku Lin with weapons that will make the correct outcome certain. There is no budget. You’ve got one month.”
“Is that all?”
“For now.”
“I feel like I’ve heard that scenario somewhere before, General Moon.”
“Hmm. But really, Dr. Chase, what choice do you have?”
Chase was silent for a moment.
“Let me give you a little inside information on world domination, General Moon,” Chase said, “since you people are so obviously hell-bent on it.”
“Oh, please. I should love to hear it.”
“It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. Look at Caesar or Napoleon. Better yet, look at Tojo and Hitler, God rest their souls.”
Moon burst out laughing as Chase moved to the door.
“One more thing before we go,” Moon said, as if he’d almost forgotten. “The J-2 project is compromised. One of the new fighters you designed has fallen into enemy hands. Stolen at sea by a British intelligence officer from a carrier deck. But the circumstances are unimportant. What is important is the fact that your fingerprints are all over that fighter.”
“And your point is?”
“Somehow, somewhere, men are now going to be coming for you. So. Your usefulness to us draws to an end. You need to complete your work before the end draws near to you, my friend. And your family.”
“If you have been lying to me about them . . . God help you. Because I won’t. I will see you dead.”
Moon laughed out loud.
“Oh! Oh, my! I shall miss you when you’re gone, Chase, truly I shall. And one more thing. You might want to tune in to CNN in the morning. It promises to be a rather exciting day in Washington, my sources tell me.”
THAT VERY NIGHT, AS HE fought valiantly for sleep, Bill Chase heard, or perhaps only imagined, the heavy sound of an old dragon’s tail moving over dead leaves.
C H A P T E R 1 6
Arlington National Cemetery
T he day was bitter cold, cold and wet.
As the seemingly endless funeral procession wended its way across Memorial Bridge, the sleet gradually turned to snow. Arlington House, General Robert E. Lee’s beautiful and historic old mansion sited at the top of the hill, was barely visible in the storm. In this light, the house looked frozen and forlorn, even a certain shade of grey, like the general’s ghostly armies after Shiloh and Antietam, and Gettysburg.
It had been a long time since anyone had seen a Washington crowd so still and silent. The
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