Chapter 13

I left for London on Tuesday. I booked a first class, round trip flight with an open-ended return on Lufthansa for a reasonable $8,500. Well, reasonable when compared to British Airways $19,000! Just because I had some money doesn’t mean I need to throw it away.

Security Inc was not licensed in the UK so I was leaving the team behind. Mark Nelson, the CEO, had business contacts with firms there, and assured me that one such firm, owned and run by a former Special Air Service buddy of his, would be the perfect people to cover me while there.

“When you arrive, look for a fat Scotsman with beard and a prize-fighters nose. That will be Ian McDonnagh. Loud, obnoxious and irreverent, he is damned good at what he does.” Mark had told me over the phone before I left.

The Lufthansa first class cabin was quite nice. There were two levels of comfort, even in first class. One had wide, comfortable recliner with a full-length extending footrest that, when fully deployed and reclined, was a bed in all but name. The upgraded package had the same chair and a purpose build bed. Both offered outstanding leg room, flat screen televisions at each seat and excellent service from the flight staff.

To be better able to imagine the space available, each standard first class accommodation spanned three windows, where tourist class seats had only one. The upgraded first class spanned four windows.

The flight was ten and a half hours, so I spent the first couple tapping, one fingered, on my laptop as I reviewed script changes. Most of the changes were small and, frankly, tedious, but they were important. Experts and fact checkers were pointing out errors like a police officer releasing the safety on her Glock with a loud click. Yeah, see, Glocks don’t have external safeties to release, so not only do you change that bit, you change the bad guy’s reaction to that bit and make sure the change cascades correctly.

The bad guy may have frozen when he heard the ‘distinctive sound’ then dove to the left, attempting to find cover behind a shelving unit. So, with no sound, no recognition, you need to figure out a way to let the bad guy know the cop is there. Otherwise the scene, which was scripted out to last for several minutes as a gun battle erupts, is now ten seconds of “FREEZE!”

When boredom outweighed my need to be productive, I ordered a second, then a third whiskey and tilted my chair back to try and sleep. A very nice cabin attendant brought me a pillow and blanket, and lowered the lights over my seat for me. I was feeling pretty pampered, all things considered, as I drifted off to sleep somewhere over the Mid-West.

My morning flight left LAX at nine in the morning, and was scheduled to land in London at half past three in the morning local time. Flight time was ten and a half hours, but we were going to gain eight hours because of time zones, so the net effective change was almost a whole day, at just shy of twenty hours!

The cabin stewards woke us when the pilot announced that we were thirty minutes out from Heathrow airport, and distributed hot, damp towels, heated dry towels and a small kit with a toothbrush, razor and mouthwash. We were offered a wide selection of breakfast foods along with a variety of juices or, if we preferred, their signature Bloody Mary. They also offered, of course, champagne and Mimosas for those with gentler palates.

I wasn’t looking forward to going through customs. It had been bad enough in the Virgin Islands, with long lines of tired and cranky passengers, screaming children and surly immigration officials. I could only imagine what Heathrow had to offer. Lufthansa, as part of the first class package, had promised expedited lanes for their first class clients and a ‘rapid and pleasant customs experience’. I would believe it when I saw it.

I actually was slightly surprised. There was a single line for first class, but it lasted only through the first hurdle and then we were shoved into the teeming mass of passengers waiting for three inspection stations.

Okay, I bitched a lot, silently, but it wasn’t all that bad, Maybe four hundred people from two flights arriving. I can only imagine what it would be like during the busy hours.

I had been in line for half an hour, my legs starting to scream and I was seriously considering asking for a wheelchair, when there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, but are you David Weaver?”

I nodded, looking around. For what, I wasn’t sure. Cops? Armed insurgents?

“If I might see your ticket and some identification, sir?” The man was polite but firm, dressed in a suit, but the jacket had a crest that read Heathrow over it, and he was obviously an official of some kind.

“Very good sir. If you would please follow me? Let’s see if we can’t speed things up a bit for you.” He unhooked the cattle rope that every airport in the world uses to direct the herds of passengers, and gestured for me to step out of line. The other passengers were watching, but there was no real reaction.

I followed the man, slowly since my legs were screaming. He noticed my discomfort and slowed his pace.

“My apologies, I should have considered the walk and the wait in line. We were informed of your physical limitations. In fact, I was told to look for a one-armed man in line, as if you were a character in a movie.” he said with a smile.

He took me through an unmarked door and into the first office we came to, offering me a seat and telling me that it would be ‘just a tick’ before disappearing through another door at the back of the small office.

I had waited only two or three minutes when the back door opened and another official, holding a clipboard on which perched a rubber stamp and an ink pad, was followed into the room by a large, wide shouldered man with a thick red beard and a nose that had been broken several time and not set properly.

“You’d be David Weaver then?” the large man said when I stood to shake his hand. Instead of answering, I handed over my passport. The bearded man just handed it to the official without looking at it.

“Mark Nelson tells me you are a silent partner in the company. He’s a good lad, that Mark. Eilene, his wife, is a good sort too.”

“Elaine.” I said, smiling at him. I felt a little ridiculous, I mean, do people actually play these games? Little tests? How many one-armed men would fly thousands of miles to pretend to be me?

The big man stared at me for a moment, then a smile split his face. “Mark told me I wouldn’t be able to do it. I bet him fifty pounds I could have you playing secret squirrel and memorizing passwords and such. Ian McDonnagh, Mr. Weaver. Glad to make your acquaintance!”

His massive hand dwarfed mine and could have pulverized it, but I didn’t sense any malice at all in him.

“Mark told me to look for a loud-mouth Scott with a prize-fighter nose. That would be you?” I asked, straight faced and wondering if he could take it as well as give. Better to learn now than later.

He burst out laughing and damn near knocked me over when he pounded me on the shoulder. When he saw me buckle, he was quick to grab my elbow and sit me down.

“Damn, sorry about that, sir. Mark told me about your injuries. He said you couldn’t walk far, but didn’t define how far.” he said, sounding sincerely contrite.

I just waved him off.

“They’re mostly gone.” I explained, pointing at my legs. “Okay for short walks, but long ones or standing around in line are ... difficult.”

He just nodded. “Got some lads with some damn fine prosthetics these days, and even more with great gaping holes where muscles used to be.” He turned and tapped twice on the door behind him. It opened immediately and a man stuck his head in.

“Get me a wheelchair.” McDonnagh ordered, then turned back around.

The official had been reviewing my passport and stamped my entrance into the UK. “Sir, do you have anything to declare?” asked politely and, when I shook my head no, he made a notation on his clipboard and smiled. Handing back my passport, he said, “Welcome to the United Kingdom.” then left by the back door without another word.

Once we were alone, McDonnagh perched on the corner of the desk.

“We have you put up in a suite nearby for the rest of the night and all of tomorrow. Thursday we’ll drive you up to Sheffield where you are booked into a small bed and breakfast within walking distance of the home where Mr. Chazelle is staying. We will have a four-man team on you at all times, all good lads from Hereford.”

“A day to acclimate? That sounds pretty good right now. How far to Sheffield?” I asked, trying to recall the map of England I had browsed when planning the trip.

“About three hours, but we have a great monster of a coach, more of a mobile home, really, so it should be comfortable.”

There was a quiet rap at the rear door and it opened to show the same man back, pushing a wheel chair ahead of him. “Sir,” he addressed McDonnagh, “We can have a powered chair available just after nine or, if needed, a midnight requisition could be arranged?”

McDonnagh turned to look my way, a question in his eyes.

“I can’t operate a manual one very well. My team in the US has a folding electric one for me to use when I need it. Something like that would work well.”

He nodded, then turned back to his man. “See to it, Tim.”

They had me in a small, single bedroom suite and men occupying the rooms on either side and the room across the hall from me. McDonnagh escorted me, with his man Tim pushing, to the room and then dismissed Tim.

I got out of the chair and stretched, looking out the windows at the London city lights.

McDonnagh had moved to the bar and poured a splash of scotch into two glasses, and handed me one.

“Mark emailed descriptions of the two attacks on you, but I wanted to get your impressions.” He said, sitting in one of the armchairs.

I started with the attack in the restaurant, and why I was convinced it had been a random encounter, not a planned attack.

“It was the knife he used.” I said, and saw his confusion.

“They both had these huge, curved daggers under their jackets but the guy who stabbed me seemed to work himself up into a rage, and grabbed a small steak knife off a nearby table to attack me. The second man was reacting to the attack, and actually pulled his dagger.”

“It’s called a Janbiya or, sometimes, khanjar, and it is a traditional dagger and is mostly ceremonial, though the Kurds have made something of a fetish over executing prisoners with theirs.” he interjected, looking thoughtful. “So, where did you get the knife you used to stab the fellow in the eye?”

I told him that my attacker had withdrawn the knife to stab me again but that I had grabbed his hand. Angela had crushed his windpipe and I was left holding the blade. When I saw the second man about to stab Angela, I had just reacted.

He nodded, his expression blank. “And the other attack?”

“It all happened so fast. I think they were surprised by how quickly the door opened because the first shot came through the door.” I explained about how I hit the deadlock lever and the door handle lever in one swipe and I could see him considering it, imagining the motion that would take, before nodding.

“Anyway, I think they intended to shoot me through the door. Maybe to incapacitate or at least scare me, and then kick the door in to attack. The door popping open ruined the timing and it was the door, hitting me in the chest that launched me across the room.”

I explained about the coffee table, about my trousers being left on the couch the night before with the Glock still in the holster.

“By the time I got the gun into action and was ready to fire, I almost shot one of my security team. They had heard the first shot and charged in. Three shots, three kills and it was over.”

“How many holes in the coffee table?” he asked quietly.

I had to think about it, picture it in my mind and count. “Seven, I think. I honestly don’t remember how many shots were fired. Sometimes I am convinced it was ten, sometimes twelve ... I never thought to actually count them when it happened.”

He sat quietly and sipped at his scotch for a minute.

“You were very lucky, but you have good instincts too, that is clear. Skills we can teach a man but instincts, well, you can learn them, but it takes a long and sometimes painful time. Tell me, would you have shot them?”

“The guys in the hotel room? Hell yes! I almost shot Charlotte! I was already lined up on her chest and was pulling the trigger when I realized they were yelling ‘Clear’. How I didn’t, I’ll never know.”

McDonnagh grinned at me and nodded. “Been there, done that, got the shakes afterwards, Mr. Weaver.”

“Please, call me David.”

“Ach, no. See, if I had met you on the street or in a pub, then David it would be. But you are the client and Mr. Weaver you shall remain. Tis the way we do things here.” he said, brushing me off.

He polished off his drink and set the glass down on the side table, then stood and reached behind his back. From his waistband he pulled a holster, the handgun still in it, and handed it to me.

“That’s a Browning. Designed by the same fellow who designed the 1911 you yanks are so fond of. Single action, one in the pipe, thumb safety. Don’t shoot it unless you absolutely have to, then make sure it is a bad guy, not one of my lads, eh?” he said, and was gone, out the door.

I shook my head and laid the holstered pistol on the table. The holster was similar in style to the one I had at home, designed to hang inside of your waistband with a wide plastic clip that hooked on to your belt to keep it in place. It offered superb concealment behind even the thinnest shirt.

I withdrew the handgun and examined it. I had fired one similar, though a Czechoslovakian design when I was searching for the perfect gun for a one-handed shooter. The CZ pistol had been double action for the first shot, single action for follow-ups, but McDonnough had clearly stated that this was single action like the 1911, another pistol I had fired.

The 1911 had been my first choice, but the higher capacity models were much harder to conceal than the Glocks. The G-30 had fired, for me, almost as well as the 1911 had, so it was an easy decision when it came to a carry gun. I still had the desire to buy a couple of 1911s down the road, just for fun.

If this Browning operated the same way, and it appeared it did, externally anyway, then with the hammer back (it was) and the safety on (it was) then all that was required was swiping the safety as I drew. It fired a much smaller 9mm round than my .45acp Glocks, so it was easier to store fourteen rounds in a slimmer magazine, so a slimmer grip.

I had no reloads, but I also had no time to practice reloading and racking the slide one-handed, something most people never consider, or so Charles had told me. It was part of advanced training for military units, but not generally part of civilian training.

I did drop the safety and seat the grip in the web between my thumb and forefinger, wrapping my fingers up and over the slide. Holding the pistol in that manner, and squeezing, it moved the slide rearward enough for me to see a round in the chamber. Releasing my grip let the return spring move the slide forward again and a firm tap on the table top insured it was seated properly. With the safety back on, it went back into the holster.

I had slept for about six hours, all told, on the flight, so I wasn’t particularly tired. Instead, I turned on the television and found a news broadcast, then flipped open my laptop and found a WiFi signal. While I listened to the news, I did a little research and found that the pistol, a Browning Hi-Power, was indeed designed my John Moses Browning, the inventor of the 1911, the Browning light machine gun and a host of other designs that had seen usage in several wars.

The Hi-power was a cult favorite almost as widely loved as the 1911, and I was satisfied that I was as well armed as I could be. Of course, with the gun laws here, I would be thrown into the tower of London if they caught me with it.

I reviewed my email and smiled when I read one from the twins. They had included images they had taken from television and the newspapers. Shots of them on the red carpet, of them on stage with Adele. They were the toast of their school!

They also included two news stories about the shooting at the hotel, which wasn’t something to smile about.

Amanda sent a long, rambling email about how sorry she was, but she couldn’t deal with the violence and so on. She was apologetic, but didn’t want to see me anymore. It sucked, really sucked, because she was such a smart, sexy woman and I really liked her, but I refused to spend a lot of time mooning over her. She had the right to decide her own course in life.

There were emails from my loves as well, and they were uniformly upbeat. Christine’s contained an X-rated surprise! Opening the attachment, I had to actually enter a password to see it! I checked again, and one line in the email stood out.

“Remember what Lucy said that night? How her voice was so filled with need? One of my favorite memories”

I typed in ‘Claimme’ in the dialog box and the image appeared.

Lucy was bound with rope, her knees bent to her chest and her wrists bound to her knees. A rope stretched from each knee, forcing her legs wide open. There was a red ball on a strap, forcing her jaw wide open and her eyes well rolled back in her head, like they do when she has a really powerful orgasm.

Kneeling between her legs, with a harness contraption around her waist that held a surprisingly life-like cock-shaped dildo, except that it was pink, was Christine. She was bare other than the harness, her nipples hard and a smile on her face. She was holding her arm out and she was holding one of those poles you put your camera on? A selfie stick! She was holding a selfie stick to take the picture.

There was a magnifying glass icon and I clicked it, zooming in on the picture and I could clearly see the head of the pink dildo stretching Lucy’s asshole. I spent several second zooming around the picture, taking in details.

My cock was rock hard. My first thought was to call, but it was almost six in the morning here, so it was something like one in the morning there, and they had work and school, so I set the phone back down. Jesus, talk about a tease!

I felt a little guilty, but I set the laptop down and locked the door, putting on the security bar and the chain too, then snagged a box of tissues from the coffee table and returned to the couch.

A few clicks and my search pulled up just what I had in mind. I set down the laptop on the coffee table, put in my Bluetooth ear bud, and lowered my zipper.

The next day, after lunch, the McDonnough and his team offered me a tour of London, from the back of an armored Land Rover, and I accepted. McDonnough sat in back with me while the man he called Tim drove and another, no introductions were made, rode shotgun.

McDonnough kept up a running travelogue while we rode through the streets of London. We saw the bridge, of course, the tower with their ever-present guards and even drove by Buckingham palace. We rode along the river Thames and we toured the fashionable West End. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s cathedral and Hyde park came and went before we stopped.

We pulled up in front of what looked like a tiny pub, no wider that those row houses you see in Boston, or so it seemed. Three of us piled out and Tim drove around the corner to find a place to park.

The name of the pub was ‘Bastards End’ and the sign featured the silhouette of a hanged man. Inside it was dark and smoke filled, about half full of men who all looked hard. Not in a ‘Oh shit, I am screwed now’ kind of way, but more in a ‘Been there, seen that; kind of way.

We grabbed a small table and McDonnough raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. “This place is a bit of a legend if you travel in the right circles.” he said lightly, looking around and nodding at several of the patrons. “I think you are the only lad in here who had not served in Her Majesty’s forces. Most of the lads here trained at Hereford, though we do let in the odd lad who wasn’t raised correctly.”

It took me several moments to parse those sentences. Hereford was where they trained the best of the best. The Special Air Service were their equivalent of our special forces, and the Special Boat Service were our SEALs. That meant that all these men in here had spent years training to become some of the most efficient, the most lethal men in the world. I didn’t know shit about the military, but even I had heard about them.

“I feel a bit out of place.” I said quietly, putting the feeling of unease I felt mildly. The Brits were fond of understating things, so I thought I would give it a try. The truth was that I felt like I didn’t deserve to be in there. I would have felt the same way at a SEAL hangout in Coronado, California or a Green Beret bar in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

“If there is a safer place in all of London for you, Mr. Weaver, I couldn’t find it.” McDonnough said quietly, accepting a pint of beer from the barkeep.

We stayed there for a couple of hours, drinking bear and eating a very tasty meal he called a ‘Plowman’s Lunch’ which consisted of a half loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, a slab of beef and a quarter head of lettuce. It went down amazing with the beer!

There were a steady stream of men stopping by to talk to McDonnough. They would wander over, pull up a chair and hold a conversation that was, to all outward appearance, in English, but I understood about every third word. Their conversations were full of military slang, oblique references to people I didn’t know, places I had never been and battles I had never heard of.

Every once in a while, one of them would acknowledge me with a nod of the head, but very few spoke to me. I found the whole thing fascinating. I tried to imagine me doing this back home, but I would have been uncomfortable and found a reason to leave. Instead, I was rooted to my seat, watching these hard men interact.

On the way back to the hotel, McDonnough surprised me. “They seemed to take to you, Mr. Weaver.” he said, out of the blue.

“Oh? I guess I hadn’t noticed. I don’t think I said more than thirty words all night.”

“Well, that’s just the way of ‘em. If they hadn’t thought you were okay, they would have either tossed you out or given you another smile.” he said with a wide grin, drawing his finger across his throat to illustrate.

“Ah.” I said, wondering if the Browning in my belt would have made things better or worse.

The motor coach that took us north was a luxury RV, and had beds, a kitchen, shower and the whole bit. It was really quite comfortable inside and the journey went quickly.

Damien Chazelle was my age. Surprising, considering how highly Ari recommended him and his list of accolades. He, and a man I suspected was his significant other, a tall, spare man with a ready smile and thinning, blonde hair.

We met not in Sheffield, but about ten kilometers north in a small town called Wharncliffe Side and the pub was the Wharncliffe Arms, appropriately enough.

The pub had half-a-dozen tables, most of them empty, and a dozen seats at the bar, most of them full. It reminded me a bit of Bastard’s End, minus the smoke and the soldiers, but full of what we American’s like to smugly think of as old-world charm.

McDonnough and Tim followed me in as though they had no idea who I was and took a table back in the corner.

Damien seemed like a nice guy, very open and welcoming. He proceeded to regale me with the history of the little town. There were less than two thousand full time residents, with most of them working in Sheffield, but a few locals working nearby farms. The town was actually located in South Yorkshire, which was important for some reason that escaped me.

It was within walking distance to an ancient farming hamlet called Brightholmlee. It had been most famously mentioned in 1309, but other documents seem to suggest it was founded closer to 1200. It was most famous for samples of early architectural styles with most buildings dating from the late 1600’s or early 1700s.

Fascinating.

Wharncliffe itself was most famous for the Dragon on Wantley, who was killed at nearby Wharncliffe Crags, by a kick to his ‘arse-gut’, the only place on its body that was unarmored.

This story was amusing mostly because every time Damien said the word dragon, all the patrons of the bar would yell out “DRAGON!” and take a drink. I was laughing too hard to drink by the end of the story when Damien seemed to be trying to break a record the most mentions of a dragon in a single sentence.

“You know, dragons are, as dragons are wont to be, very dragon-ish in their perceptions of what a dragon is, as well as what a dragon wants and a dragon needs, not to mention dragon sensibilities which are hard to understand for non-dragons! (DRAGON!)

When the game ended, the guys at the bar sent another round to the table amid much laughter. “Not bad, Lad, but Liam ha’ ye beat by two!”

Once things had settled down, Damien leaned back with a grin. “I just wanted to get relaxed so we could talk, David. I’ve read the script and it has major possibilities, but I need to know you. I need to know how you felt, how you interacted with the others. If I am going to bring them to life, I have to understand them.”

“You are the maestro, I am just the guy who got buried. Tell me what you want and I will do my best.”

He leaned forward, his forearms on the table and a fire in his eye.

“Tell me about David Weaver. What is your earliest memory?”

“It’s funny, but my earliest memory, my mother was convinced that I built it up from hearing adults talk, that I couldn’t possibly remember. I clearly remember laying on my back on the coffee table in my parent’s home. My mother was sitting on the couch, leaning over to change my diaper. I could describe the room, the color of the couch, who was there and what they were wearing. The woman sitting near her on the couch was an old friend, visiting Chicago for the first time in a decade, and not to return for another, so she placed the memory at me being about nine months old.”

“Really? I don’t remember back nearly that far. Tell me about your mother.”

We talked all afternoon, and Damien was a skilled interviewer. His silent companion never spoke, but he took notes in a small, spiral bound notebook that he pulled from his pocket.

Damien had me digging up memories that I hadn’t known were there. Like the first time I met Christine. I was three and she was two. I remember her mother sitting her down in front of me on the grass while she was talking to my mother. Christine had the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen and I was fascinated.

When we finally left, late that night, I was hoarse and felt like I had been wrung out. Damien, on the other hand, was full of more questions, but he relented and made plans to meet here again the next day.

We spent three days together and I think, at the end, that Damien knew me better than any person on the planet. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but it was true. He had pulled from me memories of interactions between me and everyone in the story. Good stories, fights, laughter and pain, all laid out so he could get inside my head.

At the end, when we reached the signing of the contract with Starlight Productions, he slapped the table hard enough to bring every eye in the place to him.

“STOP!” he said in a loud, clear voice. He sat there, staring at me, his eye boring holes and he smiled.

“David, promise me that we will sit down, after the movie is in the can, and talk again. I want to know everything that has happened since that moment, but for now, it would only confuse things. I don’t want to know anything else. I want to work until that moment because you are right. The movie should end there. In fact, I want the closing image to be your hand signing your name on the contract. It’s fucking brilliant.”

I was shocked. The sudden stop, the sudden end of days of talking, of pouring out my entire life and ... stop.

I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair.

“Okay.”

“Excellent!” he crowed, throwing up his hands in celebration. “Fucking excellent. I am going to do this, David. I can see it in my mind. I can see the shots, see the way it is laid out. It is going to be epic.” His eyes were unfocused and it seemed as if he was lost in thought, his imagination taking over.

His companion who, to this point, had not uttered a word, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. His hand came up, palm facing upwards and he gave me a little motion, a lifting. When I stood up, he placed his fingers behind my elbow and guided me outside.

“I haven’t seen him this excited since his first short film was nominated for a Spirit award.” the man said softly. His voice was like him, spare and thin, almost reedy. “He will make your story come to life.” he finished, then turned his head to smile at me.