King Solomon's Curse

Epilogue

Even in summer, the Shetlands were far from warm. Eddie zipped up his leather jacket against the wind as he stepped from the helicopter. Mossy moorland greeted him, the sky and sea beyond a melancholy slate grey. ‘Don’t think I’ll be working on my tan,’ he said.

‘It’s not one of Scotland’s top tourist spots, no,’ Peter Alderley agreed. The rocky isles were over a hundred miles north of the Scottish mainland, most of the bleak archipelago uninhabited.

Which was why they were there. There were no trees on this particular island, the only thing rising above the rugged terrain a squat blockhouse of storm-scoured concrete. It was an old military facility, a relic of the Second World War when the Shetlands had been home to several Royal Air Force bases.

It had also housed facilities of the Special Operations Executive, the wartime military equivalent of MI6. Ironically, this former SOE bunker now contained a secret of its present-day counterpart. Alderley led the way down to a thick metal door, presenting his ID card to a camera. A brief wait, then a buzzer sounded and the barrier grumbled aside.

The two men entered to be greeted by a pair of uniformed guards. Identities were checked again, scanners passed over their bodies to ensure nothing was being smuggled inside, then one guard signalled to another man in a control booth. A second harsh buzz, and an inner door opened. The visitors were escorted through.

They marched down a stark concrete corridor. Heavy steel doors were set in each wall. Eddie and Alderley were brought to the third on the left side. ‘Open number six!’ the lead guard called, putting a hand on his holstered sidearm. A sharp bang as heavy bolts retracted, then his companion opened the door.

‘I’ll wait out here,’ said Alderley as Eddie stepped forward.

The Yorkshireman gave him a look of mild surprise. ‘You came all the way up here, and you’re not going to see him?’

‘He’s said as much as he’s going to say to SIS. Maybe he’ll be a bit less on-message with you. Besides, I think what you want to say is between you and him.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s the least I could do. Although I’d prefer it if you didn’t kill him. He might be officially dead, but we may still have some use for him.’

Eddie shook his head. ‘You should’ve made it official. I’d have been happy to help out.’ The story given to the media was that John Brice, the renegade ex-spy and latter-day Guy Fawkes who had destroyed the Houses of Parliament, had died from his wounds following a shootout with police. In reality, he had been whisked away by helicopter to a secure government facility for surgery before being interrogated, then eventually imprisoned far from prying eyes.

‘I fully sympathise, believe me. But I’m sure that if he were to somehow repeatedly fall face-first against a wall, the guards wouldn’t rush to help him.’

‘Good to know.’ Eddie gave him a dark smile, then entered.

The room beyond was square, the walls the same bare concrete as outside. A bed, small desk, plastic chair, steel toilet bowl and matching washbasin were the only furnishings. Cameras in each corner gave the guards total surveillance coverage of the confined space.

Its occupant lay upon the bed, languidly watching him enter. ‘They said I had a visitor,’ rasped Brice. His throat was a patchwork of Frankensteinian scars, shredded flesh stitched back together. Protruding from it was a slotted metal disc: a mechanical larynx. His voice box had not been completely destroyed by Eddie’s bullet, but was damaged enough that he required amplification to speak in anything more than a whisper. ‘I didn’t expect it to be you.’

‘Ay up, Darth,’ Eddie replied, folding his arms as the door closed behind him. ‘Just thought I’d pop in and make sure you were uncomfortable.’

‘Is that all? I’m surprised you’re not here to execute me, Chase.’

‘Bit hard to execute someone who’s already dead. At least, officially.’

‘Officially, this place doesn’t exist either. And it would eliminate any risk of retribution against the government if the Yanks suspected I was still alive.’

‘Well, you got lucky. Alderley told me that the new Prime Minister specifically banned, what did he call ’em? “Extra-judicial killings” by any British agency. So the only reason you’re still breathing — well, wheezing — is because the bloke you didn’t want to win the election did win it.’

Far from gratitude, Brice’s only response was contempt. ‘Which proves exactly why he’s unsuited to run the country. In a time like this, we need strong leadership, not limp-wristed cowards. If he had any balls, he would have had me executed for treason, rather than throwing me in a hole to rot.’

‘I’ll tell Alderley. Seeing as he’s the new boss of MI6, I’m sure he’ll pass it on. Maybe the PM’ll change his mind, then we’ll both be happy.’

A flash of shock before contempt returned, even stronger. ‘Peter Alderley is the new C?’

‘Yeah, I think he was surprised too. But he was the only person who stood up to the old one while he was plotting to kill the entire British Parliament, so he got the nod.’

Brice shook his head. ‘Then the country’s in a worse state than I thought.’

‘I dunno, it seems to be bouncing back pretty quickly. They’re going to rebuild Big Ben, for a start. And it’s not a good time to be a paranoid racist shitmonger, now that everyone knows a rogue MI6 agent blew it up, and why — they look like arseholes by association. Maybe it won’t last, but looks to me like the country’s going in a new direction.’

‘The wrong direction. All those lovey-dovey feelings won’t last. But by then, it’ll be too late to turn back.’ The former agent finally sat up. ‘You’re the true traitor here, Chase. You sold out your country’s only hope for a strong future, and now you’re going to jet off to New York with your family and turn your back on the disaster you’ve caused.’

Eddie unfolded his arms, making a show of flexing his fists. ‘Speaking of my family, that brings me to why I’m here. Wanted to let you know that I’ve got permission from the new head of MI6 to come and see you whenever I want.’

‘No need to put yourself out on my account,’ Brice said with a humourless smile.

‘Oh, it’ll be no trouble. I’ll enjoy it.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘And I’ll be over if, say, I get wind that you’ve asked any of your mates to come to New York looking for a bit of revenge.’

‘And how would I arrange that from in here?’

‘You’re a top secret agent, I’m sure you’ve got a plan. But you’re not going to carry it out, are you?’ The Yorkshireman stepped closer, his expression becoming more threatening. ‘’Cause if I have to come back here, I’ll be the last person you ever see.’

‘And I thought Britain had a ban on extra-judicial killings.’

‘We just do it under other names. In this case, it’ll be “cleaning up a piece of shit”.’

‘That’s something I miss about SIS,’ Brice sniffed, unimpressed. ‘The repartee is so much more witty—’

Eddie lunged, punching him hard in the face and slamming his head back against the cell wall. Before the shocked prisoner could react, his attacker had grabbed him by the throat, driving his other fist into his stomach. Brice convulsed, choking, as the prosthetic larynx ground into his ruined neck. ‘This is one thing I’m not going to fucking joke about,’ the Yorkshireman snarled. ‘You kidnapped my daughter. Last bloke who touched my little girl got thrown from a seventh-floor window, but you got off easy by just being shot in the throat. Anything happens to my family, though, I will fucking kill you. And it will fucking hurt.’

He bashed Brice’s skull against the wall again, then stepped back. Blood dripping from his nose, the ex-agent gasped for air. ‘You’re… you’re not much of a father if you let it happen twice,’ he croaked.

‘It won’t happen a third time, trust me,’ Eddie assured him. ‘Anyway, I was in London for another debrief, and Alderley let me swing by on the way home so I could let you know the score. Now I’ve done that, like I said: you’d better pray you never see me again.’ He rapped on the door. ‘Okay, I’m finished.’

Still reeling from the attack, Brice nevertheless managed to stand. ‘Chase!’ he barked as the door opened. ‘History will prove me right. I was Britain’s best hope to return to greatness — Britain’s last hope!’

‘If you’re the best we’ve got,’ Eddie said as a parting shot, ‘the country really is up shit creek.’

‘What do we say to Daddy, Macy?’ Nina prompted as Eddie entered the apartment to find his family waiting in the hall.

Macy held up a picture she had drawn of a round-headed, pink-faced figure with elongated arms and legs. ‘Welcome home, Daddy!’ she cried before running to hug him.

‘Is this me?’ he asked, kissing her before examining the picture. ‘It’s very good! You got my head just right.’

‘Yeah, not a hair on it,’ said Nina with a smile as she embraced her husband. ‘How did things go in England?’

‘Pretty well. Hopefully MI6 is done with me now. Oh, Alderley told me the IHA’ll be looking after the Shamir until everyone decides what to do with it.’

‘You know you can call him Peter now that you’re Where Eagles Dare buddies?’ He made a mocking face. ‘Yeah, I suggested it to Oswald Seretse at the UN, and he passed it on to the White House — and let’s face it, the British government wasn’t really in any position to refuse President Schilling anything.’

‘Not after one of their agents took down an American airliner, no.’

‘Oswald asked if I’d be willing to help out with their initial research, since I had first-hand experience of where it was found — and what it can do.’

‘Are you going to?’ Eddie’s question was pointed, but not disapproving.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she answered. ‘I’m certainly not going to do anything that will take me away from home, though. I even told the producers that if they need me to do any pick-up shooting for the Ark of the Covenant documentary, I’ll do it here in New York rather than LA. They’re going to dedicate the series to Steven, Howie and the others who died, by the way. After I told them I was donating my fee to their families, I suppose they felt they had to make some gesture.’

They went into the living room. ‘So, you’re staying home for now?’

‘Absolutely. Even after two months back in New York, I can safely say I haven’t got itchy feet.’ She sat, patting the cushion to invite Macy up beside her, then regarded her husband curiously. ‘What about you?’

‘About what?’

‘How itchy are your feet? For England, I mean. You decided where you belong — there or here?’

‘Where do I belong?’ He smiled and sat with his wife and daughter. ‘Right here with the two of you. Wherever here might be.’