Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 7

Caedmon Aisquith opened the door to the Starbucks and was assailed with the inviting aroma of fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon scones.

The comforts of a civilized life.

Such scents made him forget, at least temporarily, that he inhabited a most uncivilized world. A world where brutal acts of violence took place with chilling regularity.

When it came his turn at the head of the queue, Caedmon ordered a hazelnut coffee, wondering who the devil thought it a clever idea to call the medium serving a grande. It always made him think of an insecure bloke discussing the size of his appendage.

Coffee cup in hand, he glanced about the interior, which was jam-packed with small bistro tables, each customer an island unto him- or herself. Spying a favorable-looking islet, he strode in that direction, seating himself next to the window, his own porthole unto the world. This strategic move would enable him to keep an eye on the pedestrian traffic outside the window while monitoring every customer who entered the shop. Although he tried to shake off his earlier unease, he was still troubled by the anonymous phone call that he had received at the bookshop.

Knowing the Irish to be a persistent bunch, he removed his mobile and placed it in clear view on the tabletop. If they made contact again, he would be ready for them.

Christ! To think he was still fighting the old battles after so many years.

Purposefully nonchalant, he dunked his scone into his coffee cup. The rules of polite behavior were not so rigidly adhered to in the Americas, so he took a bite. Then, acting like a man totally absorbed with scone and coffee, he surreptitiously glanced out the window. From his vantage point, he had a view clear across all four lanes of Connecticut Avenue, able to see the Church of Scientology nestled in the trees beyond. Idly, he wondered how long Tom Cruise’s latest marriage to Katie—

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, catching himself pondering the inane.

Although pondering the inane was better by far than pondering old memories.

The memory in question had been named Juliana Howe. A reporter for the BBC, Jules had been a media darling, having acquired a well-earned reputation for edgy reporting.

As fate would have it, their relationship took seed as a routine undercover operation. When MI5 caught wind of the fact that Juliana Howe was in contact with a North African terrorist cell, they sent him in to assess the situation and track down her “unnamed” source. Playing the absentminded but sincere Charing Cross book dealer, Caedmon worked the case for six months. Like a pastry chef applying layers of icing to a stacked gâteau, he slowly gained Juliana’s confidence over pints at the Fox and Hound, dinner dates at Le Caprice, and evenings spent at Covent Garden.

And thus the legend of Peter Willoughby-Jones was born; Caedmon became the man that an MI5 background check had indicated would most appeal to the gently bred and well-educated Juliana Howe.

He also became the intelligence officer who committed the unpardonable sin of falling in love with his target.

Except the object of his affection knew him as Peter Willoughby-Jones. Would always know him as Peter Willoughby-Jones. Because of the nature of her work, the background investigators at Thames House deemed Juliana Howe a high-level security risk—meaning he could never reveal to Jules his true identity.

After the North African cell had been put under lock and key, Caedmon continued his relationship with Juliana, unable to give her up. He assured his superiors that there was still more intelligence to be gleaned, that being in daily contact with an investigative reporter at the BBC would prove beneficial. When the Real Irish Republican Army detonated a bomb in front of the BBC, his section chief suddenly agreed. But the bloody bastards in RIRA weren’t content to stop there. Bent on terrorizing the city of London, they detonated several more bombs that summer.

In the end, their bombs took from him the woman he loved above all others. And because a man who has lost his heart often becomes a heartless bastard, Caedmon took it upon himself to right that horrible wrong.

After he hunted down Timothy O’Halloran, the RIRA leader responsible for the bomb blast, he spent weeks in a pickled state, like an inebriate in a Hogarth engraving. The pain was unbearable. He discovered that killing O’Halloran had not exorcised the demons of that fateful bomb blast; it merely satisfied his need for revenge. But revenge did not bring solace. Nor redemption. It only taught him that he had the capacity to kill.

Not an easy revelation for any man.

When he finally came to his sobered senses, he discovered that MI5 does not burn its own, no matter the transgression. But it does punish them. Demoted to maintaining a safe house in Paris, it was five years before he was discharged from Her Majesty’s service. Finally, a free man.

Caedmon glanced at the mobile on the table, recollecting the earlier call.

Maybe he’d been too quick to cut the old ties.

“Rather late, old boy, for such regrets,” he muttered, garnering a pointed glance from the horse-faced woman at the next table.

He apologetically smiled. “Don’t mind me. I tend to rumble about when lost in thought.”

“Glad to hear that I’m not the only one who talks to them-self.” She met his gaze and held it. An overture.

“Yes, quite.” His mobile softly chimed, notifying him of an incoming e-mail. Relieved to have a graceful exit, he picked up the device. “I apologize, but I must attend to business.”

“Oh, sure.” Blushing all the way to her widow’s peak, his neighbor took a sudden interest in adjusting the plastic lid on her coffee cup.

Caedmon accessed his e-mail file. Staring at the log list, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, having no recollection of giving his email address to anyone named Edie Miller. Although that didn’t mean his publicist hadn’t given his private e-mail address to someone at a book signing. Assuming that to be the case, he opened the e-mail rather than delete it outright.

His eyes narrowed; the missive was not what he thought it to be.

From: Edie Miller

To: caisquith@lycos.com

Date: 12/01/08 02:16:31 p.m.

Subject: DANGER!!

urgent I meet w u @ NGA cascade café TODAY will wait until closing your life in danger mine 2 ps im not crazy

edie103@earthlink.net

“Indeed,” he murmured, reading the postscript.