Page 50 of Need to Know

It was then I noticed an androgynous man with dark long hair, his surprisingly beautiful sapphire gaze fixed firmly on me. He was wearing a cream linen summer suit and leaning against a pillar in the entrance foyer. I pretended that I hadn’t noticed him as nonchalantly, I passed through the double doors and out onto the sun drenched square full of tourists.

It was a glorious day, so instead of going back to the hotel I decided to take a walk down Simsonweg and into the Holocaust Memorial Gardens to mull over what I’d learned. Jorgen said he was approached at an event at the Berlin Institute of Technology. Start-ups are always in need of investment, and events like that invite the rich and well-connected. Erik Thorne’s a billionaire who, according to Nate, has a wide investment portfolio. Who was the American who’d offered Jorgen ten grand to pass the chips onto Nate? Could it be that Nate’s husband was doing something shady to void their pre-nup? That sounded far-fetched, even for me! There were lots of men who fit the same description of being a handsome older American man with silver hair and a short beard.

I strolled down the pathways of the peaceful memorial garden. A covert look behind told me, to my surprise, the pretty man from earlier was there. He must have recognized me. It wasn’t the first time I’d been followed by a fan. But, I couldn’t be distracted by him. I sat on a bench to check my phone and see if Nate had left any messages. Where the hell was he and what was he doing? The pretty man sauntered up and sat on the far end of the bench. Without even waiting a beat to pretend he hadn’t had his eyes on me, he said, “Berlin is so lovely this time of year,” in an accent about as British as you could get!

“Sorry mate, I’m on holiday…really not in the mood to do autographs and selfies,” I grumbled.

“HA! Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Boyd,” the stranger chuckled. He slid along the bench and offered his slender hand. “Alexander Deveraux, MI6.” I didn’t take his hand. I looked the man up and down. He had an angular face, razor sharp cheekbones and impecably shaped brows. His build was slender, and wiry. His pretty sapphire blue eyes were unreadable and, honestly, I didn’t know what to make of him.

“Sure mate! I didn’t ride in on the last dick! If you’re MI6 I’m a chocolate teapot. Let me see your ID,” I insisted. The man smiled provocatively as he eased his hand into the inner jacket pocket of his linen summer suit and pulled out an ID card. He passed it to me. Sure enough, it said his name was Alexander Deveraux and that he was an MI6 active field agent with a level six clearance. Was that high? I didn’t have a clue.

“Did you print this out yourself or buy it on Amazon? I’ve got a better one I used for cosplay last Halloween,” I scoffed as I passed the card back.

“It’s real alright, as am I,” he assured. “Look Jack, much as I’d like to share catty barbs, we don’t have time. I understand from a colleague across the pond that you and your…friend Nate Linden encountered a bit of trouble here in Berlin. It was suggested that we have a private chat and find a way to help you move forward. What do you think?”

So much for me and my pathetic attempt at a covert operation! How did the British and American secret service know that Nate and I were in trouble?

“Do I have a choice?” I asked dryly.

“You always have a choice, Jack,” Deveraux said, “Make sure you make the wise choice.” Then he stood and sauntered out of the memorial park. I didn’t know what to do. This man was a fucking secret service agent and he wanted me to go for a private chat! I was really worried about Nate now. His phone was dead and I had no idea where he was. What if those men from the ship hotel had found him? What if he was tied up in the boot of a car? If I was going to believe Deveraux and go with him, someone needed to be aware of my location and predicament. I swiftly sent a text message.

Luce, this is not a drill! I’ve been asked to accompany an MI6 agent named Alexander Deveraux for a ‘chat’. I don’t know where he’s taking me. If you don’t hear from me, contact the British Embassy or the Foreign office or someone…and tell Roz…Nate left the hotel alone a few hours ago and I don’t know where he is.

The message sent, I rose and followed the man who said he was from the British Secret Intelligence Service. An SUV with diplomatic plates was waiting at the curb outside the park, and as if he already knew I’d give in to my curiosity, Deveraux stood beside the open rear door. I slid into the back seat and the door was closed. Agent Deveraux took the passenger seat in the front. Central locking clicked, securing all doors.

“You know where to go, Marc,” the agent directed. The driver nodded and eased around the corner and into the flow of traffic.

“I’ll need your phone, Jack…security reasons,” Agent D said eyeing me in the rear-view mirror. I pouted, he glared. “Hand it over!” he said again brooking no argument. I was relieved I’d had the forethought to send a message to Lucy. Reluctantly, I passed the phone to Agent D who switched it off and placed it into a Faraday bag. Then he put the bag into the glove compartment.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we sped past a huge billboard with my movie poster on it.

“That, my dear, is need to know!” Agent Deveraux said, his mouth twitching into a smirk. So much for the glamour of being a movie star! At that moment, I despised seeing my massive grinning face looking down at me.

****

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jack

The Brandenburg area of Berlin is embassy central, with the main players, Italian, French, US; Russian, Chinese, and British embassies being less than ten minutes walk apart. I’d thought Agent Deveraux was taking me to the British Embassy on Wilhelm Strasse, behind the Adler Kandinski Hotel, literally a stone’s throw from where he’d picked me up, but we were definitely not travelling in the right direction. Was the driver taking the long way round to psych me out, or was there another reason for the long drive? I glanced out of the car window to see that it looked like we were heading toward Zehlendorf, an upper middle-class suburb with some lovely old houses that escaped the British bombs during World War 2. I was familiar with the area because my friend Nina lived nearby and she’d inherited a fantastic house from her great-grandmother. As the vehicle made its way through the city I looked up at the rear-view mirror, catching the MI6 agent in the passenger seat watching me. His glances were...appreciative, salacious even.

“Hey, Agent D, where are we going?” I asked again. My brain wasn’t as sparky as usual. The last time I got spiked I’d felt like a dish rag for a week, listless, unable to sleep, and paranoid about what had happened to my body while I’d been out of it. I shuddered at the memory. Would this time be as bad? I needed to pull myself together, find Nate, and be done with this mess. We’d hide under the covers in our luxury suite until the entourage arrived on Thursday and took over.

“Don’t worry Jack, nearly there, you’ll find out soon enough,” Agent D gentled, a playful lilt to his voice. I didn’t know if I believed or trusted a word he said…but I was stuck in this car with him now, and I doubted he’d pull over and let me out if I said I’d changed my mind.

We passed a huge building that flew the stars and stripes…some kind of consulate, maybe? Then the driver took a left, and left again. Suddenly we were in a curved roadway that led to a sub-basement car park. Lines of black SUV’s were parked here, several with US flags and diplomatic number plates. The driver pulled up close to a doorway and Agent Deveraux collected the Faraday bag with my phone inside and got out. He sauntered toward the door in a graceful way I admired. I bet he was a fantastic dancer! A redheaded woman in a grey trouser suit stood with her arms folded, and a scowl pinching at her pretty face. She and Agent Deveraux began a conversation, but I was too far away to hear or lip read.

“Where are we?” I asked the driver.

“Sorry Mr. Boyd, I’m not supposed to speak to you. But, um…” he paused for a thoughtful moment, “Would you mind? My niece is a huge fan!” he said turning in his seat and passing me a small notebook and a pencil. I thought for a second about what my character Aden Baker would do in this situation. What would he do if he’d been pressured to get into a car while unarmed, and taken to an unknown location by a morally ambiguous character? What if he’d then been driven to an underground facility, where he remained trapped in a vehicle with the driver? Aden would have wanted to get out of the vehicle stat, and find a way out of whatever building complex he was in, to hunt for his missing husband. With a smile, he would have graciously taken the pencil and then jammed it into the driver’s eye. He would have pushed the driver’s lifeless body out of the vehicle, clambered into the driver’s seat and gotten the hell out of there, followed by the bad guys in a fleet of bullet proof SUV’s.

The driver, Marc, was in his late forties, and had thinning red hair fading to silver. His eyes were kind, and so I took the pencil and paper. “What’s your niece’s name?” I asked.

“Annalisa.”

“That’s a pretty name,” I said as I wrote, ‘To Annalisa, thanks so much for being a fan, lots of love Jack Boyd.’

I passed the pencil and autographed notebook back.