13. Under the Radar Read online

  Myra’s voice turned so sad, Charles turned around to stare at her, the love of his life.

  “I guess you don’t know me at all, Charles.”

  “Myra, I couldn’t…I didn’t know…I panicked. How many times, how many ways do I have to tell you how sorry I am? I’m a basket case, can’t you see it? The way you were after Barbara died. I was there for you. I understood. You don’t remember how ugly and cruel you were to me, to Nikki. We understood.

  “My God, Myra, you looked right at Nikki and said, ‘Why wasn’t it you instead of Barbara?’”

  All color drained from Myra’s face. “I never…I would never…Why are you lying to me like this? You are lying, aren’t you, Charles?”

  There was such desperation on her face, Charles felt sick.

  The pitying look on Charles’s weary face told Myra the truth. “Dear God in Heaven! And you…Nikki…you never said…I must have been out of my mind. That poor child!” Myra sobbed, her shoulders heaving.

  Charles wanted to wrap his arms around her, but he simply couldn’t make them move. “We were there for you because we both loved you, and we both understood. No matter what. That’s all I’m asking of you now, to understand and be my rock. I desperately need a rock, Myra. Please.” Charles reached across to take Myra’s hand in his own.

  Myra clutched at it, tears rolling down her cheeks. All she could do was nod because she didn’t trust herself to talk about those dark, ugly days Charles was referring to. She squeezed his hand. Then she threw herself against him. Charles’s arms moved on their own and they were clinging together like two survivors on a raft at sea.

  It was Myra who finally spoke first. Her voice was filled with tears but hopeful when she asked, “Do you have a plan, dear?”

  Charles sighed. “Not really. My instructions were to settle in at the hotel and someone would come around and brief me. I know nothing more, Myra.” There was a catch in his voice when he said, “I don’t know what I feel. I’m back on British soil. I never thought that would happen. I certainly never expected to return under these circumstances.”

  Myra was saved from a reply when the special government car slid to a stop in front of the hotel. A doorman held the door for Myra. He looked her up and down and sniffed his disapproval at her attire. Myra straightened her shoulders, touched the glistening pearls at her neck, and swept by him and through the door that was being held open for her. She looked around to see if she could see a shop that would have something appropriate for a change of clothes. She turned to see Charles engaged in conversation with a man who looked official. Obviously, they were not going to have to check in. People behind the registration desk were openly staring, wondering who these two important people were who didn’t go by the rules.

  Within seconds they were whisked into a private elevator and taken to what had to be the most impressive suite in the hotel. Myra took her own tour and then headed immediately to the phone in the bedroom, where she called down to the desk and asked them to send someone up from the Hermès shop with a variety of outfits, then rattled off a list of sundries to be brought along as well.

  With nothing else to do, she decided to run a bath while she waited. The minute she heard the door close, she ran out to the main part of the suite. “Who was that man? What did he say? Is there news of your son? Talk to me, Charles.”

  “The man’s name isn’t important, Myra. He was sent here by…by a friend. He ordered food and said he would give us time to freshen up, then he would come back and take us to the hospital. That’s it in a nutshell. It won’t do you any good to pick at me because there is nothing else to tell.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Myra. I did say that before, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, dear, you did. I’m sorry, too, that I was such a…I guess Kathryn would say, bitch. Speaking of Kathryn, we should call the girls.”

  “You can do that while you’re soaking. I’ll leave it up to you as to what to say.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Room service. Charles paused while the waiter set out the food: thick ham-and-cheese sandwiches, American-style potato chips, pickles, and a huge pot of strong black coffee. American food. He suddenly realized he was hungry. Charles hesitated to see if he was going to be given a bill. He looked over at the waiter, who shook his head and said, “There is no charge, and I cannot accept a gratuity. Enjoy your meal.”

  Myra finished her own sandwich and the last of her cup of coffee. Nothing that she could remember had ever tasted as good as that particular sandwich.

  A second knock sounded. The manager of the Hermès shop, followed by two assistants, entered the room, their arms laden with clothing. Myra wasted no time. She pointed a finger. “I’ll take that, that, and that.” She shrugged at the colorful box of lingerie and left the room.

  The three women discreetly backed away toward the door. Charles could see the curiosity in their eyes, no doubt wondering about these two strange people who were occupying the best suite in the hotel. And apparently the woman had brought no clothing, not even cosmetics.

  Myra slid down into the slick wetness of the huge tub and sighed. The water felt wonderful—hot and steamy. She’d been chilled to the bone, but now, with food and hot coffee in her stomach, she felt like she could take on the world. Five minutes of luxuriating in the fragrant water was all she allowed herself before she reached over to pick up the satellite phone to call Annie. Her end of the conversation took all of two minutes to bring Annie and the others up to speed. Annie’s response took twenty minutes, with Myra gasping in surprise.

  “Annie, can you all handle it? Are you sure Pearl is safe? Crop dusters all the way to Utah. Mother of God! I should be there! But, I need to be here! Oh, Annie, I am so torn. I know, I know, you can all handle it. I’m going to worry. Well, Annie, I don’t see how you can stop me from worrying. I was born to worry. Listen, I want you to stay in touch as often as you can. Every few hours if possible. Crop dusters! No, no, Annie, it is not a lark.” She stopped talking to listen. “What in the name of God is a PW? Point Woman! All riiiight!” She listened again. “You’re going to invade the Heaven on Earth compound! Dear God!” Myra listened again as she wiggled her foot, hoping she could manipulate the hot-water faucet. “Lizzie is meeting up with Ted, Jack, and Harry. Well, that makes me feel better. Nellie and Elias are flying commercial and will be available, as will Bert, who has both feet in this mess. What about Maggie?”

  Myra finally managed to turn the faucet with her big toe but it made her toe hurt. Steaming water rushed into the tub. She wiggled her shoulders to better adjust the satellite phone at her ear. She continued to listen and, in spite of herself and the circumstances, her fist shot in the air. “I’m sure I can find a computer in this hotel, and I’ll go online to see the Post’s headline in the morning. Remember, we’re five hours ahead of you, and keep in mind that as you go west that difference will increase. But just call whenever you can. Good work, Annie, and tell Maggie I know there is a Pulitzer for her in this somewhere. Promise me something, Annie. Promise you will watch out for the girls and keep them all safe.” She wanted to say, “Especially Nikki because I have so many things to make up to that young woman.” But she didn’t because her eyes filled with tears, and she didn’t want her best friend to know she was crying.

  “Good-bye, Annie. Remember to call and give our regards to the girls, and to Murphy and Grady, too.”

  Myra raised her foot again to push the lever that would drain the water from the tub.

  She stood up and wrapped one of the hotel’s luxurious robes around her. She gave herself a mental shrug. As Kathryn would say, time to get this show on the road, kick some ass, and take names later.

  “Damn straight,” Myra snapped, using another of Kathryn’s pet phrases.

  Chapter 8

  It was still raining when Charles and Myra were whisked from the hotel into a waiting car. Myra wasn’t sure, but she thought it had some kind of official-looking gold seal on the door. The forty-five-minu
te drive was made in silence, the only sound to be heard was the pounding rain on the roof of the car. From time to time, either Myra or Charles would squeeze the other’s hand.

  Myra looked down at the watch on her wrist to see the glowing numbers and wondered again why they were making the trip in the middle of the night in such secrecy. Surely few would remember Charles’s long-ago days as a British intelligence agent. Who would even recognize him these days? Then she realized it was she who was being protected. She was the visible one, the one whose picture had been plastered around the world as a member of the infamous vigilantes.

  Myra felt the huge car slow, then come to a stop. Charles squeezed her hand so hard she thought he’d broken her fingers. She winced but didn’t make a sound.

  The door opened, and Charles stepped out. Then Myra. She tried to see through the pouring rain, but all she could make out was a dim yellow light.

  “It’s a private clinic, Myra. I rather thought this might be where we were going. It’s a…What it is is…a special place where the royals are brought when they don’t want the media to know about what’s going on. The chief physician here has only one patient. There are separate doctors to tend to the others if they become patients.”

  “How do you know all this, Charles?” Myra whispered.

  “I know because I was brought here once a very long time ago. The people who work here saved my life. It looks the same,” he said once the driver of the car had inserted a special key-card to open the door. Charles stepped through what looked like a regulation doorway, followed by Myra, and into a small foyer. “It rather resembles a country house, don’t you think?” When Myra nodded, he said, “That’s what I thought when I was brought here that first time.”

  Myra looked around. There were two chairs, a tiny desk, and a colorful carpet. The foyer was crowded with three people. The only picture on the wall was of the queen.

  Myra had the insane urge to curtsy, but she knew her bad knees wouldn’t allow it. She smiled inwardly, the chance of her ever having to curtsy before the queen was so remote she almost laughed aloud. She shivered. Charles’s hold on her arm tightened.

  The man who had driven them there, the man who opened the door for them, and who was talking into his sleeve, had to be an MI6 agent. Annie was going to love hearing about all this. Myra couldn’t help but wonder when that time would come.

  They were moving down a long, sterile-looking hallway. They turned the corner and saw a small waiting room with a beige-colored love seat and three chairs. A different picture of the queen graced the one solid wall. Although the lighting was dim, Myra was able to make out a blanketed figure curled up on the love seat. She watched as Charles looked over at the sleeping figure. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

  The agent led them around another corner, and Myra realized they were being taken to what would have been an intensive care unit back in the States. She heard Charles suck in his breath, or was it herself she was hearing?

  Two nurses dressed in starched white looked up and nodded. The older of the two got up, walked around the desk, and motioned for Myra and Charles to follow her. The agent stayed behind, his eyes glued to their backs. The nurse paused at the door for a moment before she opened it.

  It was a private room, with a hospital bed, a service table that stretched across the foot of the bed, and a private-duty nurse sitting in the one chair. Machines hummed and whirred.

  The private nurse looked up but immediately looked away to concentrate on the machines she was monitoring. The room was dimly lit, but Myra could see clearly the man lying in the bed. She flinched as did Charles at the tubes going in and out of the patient’s body.

  Myra and Charles inched closer to the bed. Tears rolled down Charles’s cheeks.

  “Dear God,” Myra said, “he looks just like you did when you were his age. Do…Do you know his name, Charles?”

  Charles heard the question but at the moment he couldn’t have spoken even if his life depended on it. His son, Geoffrey Barnstable. He’d been a crack pilot in the RAF, the Royal Air Force. What was it his friend had said? “Like your Top Gun back in the States. He distinguished himself many times, Sir Malcolm. Because of some health problems, none of them deadly serious, Geoffrey had stopped flying and was training pilots for the RAF. The plane malfunctioned, crashed, and killed the rookie pilot. Geoffrey was helicoptered to that hospital, where his prognosis is less than encouraging.”

  Charles couldn’t take his eyes off his son. He struggled in the dim light to see a likeness to himself or to the man’s mother. He hated that he couldn’t remember what Beatrice Barnstable looked like. Forty years was a long time, but still, he should be able to remember something other than her wild mane of dark chestnut hair. He shook his head to try to clear it. Later he would struggle to remember what his son’s mother looked like. All that was important just then was that he had a son, and he was looking at him right that second. Would God take him away just hours after Charles had found him so many years later?

  Charles looked over at the nurse. “Is he in a coma?”

  “A medically induced coma. Doctor is to bring him out of it today. Five more minutes, then you must leave, as we have some work to do here. You can wait in the private waiting room, or you can visit the chapel. There’s a small kitchen to the left of the waiting room where you can find tea, scones, and, I believe, some chocolate cake.”

  Charles wanted to reach out to touch his son but couldn’t make his arm move. Another time will present itself, he thought. At least he hoped so. He allowed himself to be led to the doorway.

  In the waiting room, Charles and Myra sat down in the two chairs across the room from the love seat where the blanketed figure still slept. Charles wasn’t sure, but he rather thought the sleeping figure might be his son’s wife.

  Myra reached out to take Charles’s hand in her own. “He looks like you, Charles,” she whispered. “I’m sure he’s a fine man just like you are. Can I ask you something, Charles?” Charles nodded. “How is it the queen knew about your son, and you didn’t? If this,” she said, waving her arm about the small waiting room, “is just used for royalty, why is he here? Is it because of you?”

  Charles leaned his head back and closed his eyes. What to say, what not to say? And did it really matter what he said at this point? “I was told that when Lady Beatrice was dying, Liz found out. ‘LB,’ as Beatrice liked to be called among friends, swore her to secrecy. They were childhood friends, that kind of thing. She asked that Liz look out for her son, as any mother would have done. Keeping a confidence, Myra, is sometimes a terrible thing. I know Liz was tormented over it, but she’d given her word, and the young man simply wasn’t interested in hearing anything about me. I was told LB never said a negative thing about me, but the young lad wanted no part of knowing about his father. All he knew or thought was that I abandoned his mum to go it alone. He’s carried that with him his entire life.”

  “And now you show up out of the blue at the eleventh hour. Oh, Charles, what will that young man think when he wakes to see you? Perhaps we…you should wait until he is a bit stronger before you present yourself. What if he goes into shock, or something equally bad?”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I rushed here because it seemed the thing to do. I’ve had nothing to do but think since I received that phone call. The call was so urgent—life-or-death. I reacted. I suppose when he comes out of the coma, I could make the decision then to see him or not see him. The last thing I want is for him to have a setback. I think I should wait until the doctor comes in before I make any decisions. Trust me, Myra, I will do whatever is best for Geoffrey.”

  Myra looked over at Charles. He’d said, “Geoffrey.” Not “my son.” She knew Charles well enough to know that it was not a slip of the tongue. He was mentally preparing himself to walk away. Better to think of the young man as Geoffrey rather than as his son, his flesh and blood, the son who wanted nothing to do with his father. But what would it cost t
his dear man sitting next to her?

  Across the room the blanketed figure stirred, the blanket slipping to the floor. The huddled figure squirmed, then sat up and looked around. Myra stared hard at her, as did Charles. Even in the dim light Myra could see a mass of freckles marching across the bridge of the woman’s nose. She had shoulder-length curly brown hair. She appeared to be slight of build and was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and what looked like a woolly sweatshirt. Myra judged her to be in her mid-to late thirties.

  The young woman murmured something that sounded like hello. Charles and Myra murmured hello in return. The woman reached for the blanket and covered herself. She was wide-awake, staring at nothing, her hands folded in front of her. Myra wanted to cry for the woman’s loneliness, for every emotion that was obviously rippling through her.

  “I think I’ll go to the kitchen and get some tea,” Myra said.

  Charles nodded, his thoughts far away.

  In the kitchen there was a pot of hot water simmering on a burner. She fixed the tea the way she knew Charles liked it and, at the last moment, fixed a third cup and added it to the tray, along with honey, lemon, and milk. Charles liked milk and three spoons of honey in his tea. He had a sweet tooth without equal.

  Myra carried the tray into the waiting room and handed Charles his cup of tea. He accepted it, looked at it, and returned to stare out the one small window at the darkness outside. She moved over to the lonely figure on the love seat and held out the tray. The young woman tried to smile and gratefully accepted the cup Myra offered.

  “Just some honey,” she said, twirling the honey stick into the small bowl. “Allison Barnstable. My friends and family call me Allie,” she said, holding out her free hand.