The Show

By Edward Lackey

While jogging in Hyde Park, David Townsend foils the attempted kidnapping of the daughter of a Russian ex-patriate arms dealer. This dealer has unwittingly put some very dangerous people in touch with a greedy Russian Air Force base commander. What was supposed to be the sale of small arms and rockets turns out to be the West's worst nightmare, a tactical nuclear weapon. Townsend brings in his old friend and former Naval Aviator, Billy Ray Benfield, to help find the weapon and unravel the intricate plan to transport the weapon to the United States. Realizing the high stakes in this game, Townsend invites his friend, FBI Speical Agent Stacy Foster, onto the team. The trail, littered with misdirection and false leads, takes Townsend and Benfield on a desparate chase through the busy streets of London, beachfront properties in Karachi, and the New York City docklands. Each time the team gets close, the director of this labyrinthine plot provides a twist to frustrate the teams's efforts. After enduring this frustration, the team begins to get into the head of this clever man. At the climax of this long and vexing chase, the team realizes that it was less about the potential horrific destruction and more about the intricate plot of what the perpetrator of the event calls "The Show".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Lackey
• Release date: Nov 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301882342

Edward Lackey

Edward Lackey is a former Naval Aviator and retired corporate pilot who flew Gulfstream aircraft around the world. An avid reader, Lackey decided to try his hand at writing using his military and civilian aviation and travel experiences as a basis for his novels. He is currently working on the continuing adventures of Townsend and Benfield in his second novel. Lackey lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

Book preview

The Show

By Edward Lackey

Copyright 2012 Edward Lackey

Smashwords Edition

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

ONE

Friday, 09:30 AM. Friday, 0830 UTC. Belgravia, London

"Is that her? It sure looks like her. That’s gotta be her, but she’s not comin’ out of the side door." Seamus Donlan was switching rapidly from the dozen or so pictures in his lap to the tall, slender beautiful woman doing stretching exercises on the triangular shaped pedestrian island at the intersection of Harriet Street and Lowndes Square. Traffic was moving slowly on the northbound side of the lush green park.

Calm down, boy. She just came out of a different door than we expected. That’s her for sure. You can’t mistake that face—hell, it’s on the cover of half the bloody mags at the news agents. Tommy Laughlin was behind the wheel of the recently stolen Rover idling at the curb of narrow Harriet Street, just off the square. They were parked on the south side of the street by a gleaming red Royal Mail Post box just in front of a now idle Lebanese restaurant. One of the now more prevalent Black Irish with dark curls and olive complexion, Laughlin could easily have passed for one of the numerous Mediterranean immigrants populating London’s melting pot.

But there’s too many cars on the square, we can’t make the snatch in front of all those people. Shite, this is goin’ to be a right cock up—just like I tol’ you it would. Donlan, the younger of the pair, was the worrier and was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. With short curly red hair and thousands of brown freckles, Donlan fit the mold of the stereotypical Irish young man. He was only about five foot ten but was a chunky two hundred pounds of tight muscle and was the physical side of the pair.

The intellectual side of the team looked to his left and said, Relax. She’s just taking another route to the park. We’ll just have to fall back to our backup plan. You get out and follow along behind her to make sure she’s on her normal route and I’ll scoot down Brompton and go up Exhibition Road to the park. We’ll make the grab at the corner as she makes her way north. Laughlin snatched the stack of photographs from his cohort and started the engine. Good thing you have on those fancy nob’s duds we bought you at Lillywhite’s. You’ll blend in fine. Just don’t get too close and spook the bloody bitch. And keep your cell on. Give me a runnin’ ‘count as you move down Rotton Row so I can time my stop at the corner. You grab her and throw her in the back and we’ll be across the park before anyone knows what’s up.

Without a word, Donlan jumped out of the car and jogged down to Lowndes Square just as his target was moving off north toward the Brompton Road intersection. Turning the corner, he could easily make out the woman now in a brisk walk under the temporary scaffolding for the renovations to one of the buildings facing the square. She was a fit girl; he would do her in a heartbeat. Tall as well, she must be at least six feet but slim and trim in her running suit. She must do this a lot because her Adidas running shoes were worn and dirty from pounding the pavement and dirt trails of the park where she ran each morning at this time.

He moved a bit closer so as not to lose her as she neared the busy thoroughfare ahead. She crossed over to the opposite side of the street at the Sheraton Park Tower Hotel and stopped briefly at the corner across from Harvey Nichols to adjust the laces on her Adidas. Donlan eased up to within twenty feet as the crowded shopping street provided ample cover. She joined a noisy group of Japanese tourists who were coming out of the hotel and headed for the zebra crossing just along the sidewalk. Seeing the light changing to allow the large group of pedestrians to cross the busy thoroughfare, he picked up his pace to fall in at the rear of the pack and followed the woman from a safe half block distance.

As the crowd headed west toward more shopping venues, the girl left the group and started a slow jog up a short street that dead ended at a wrought iron fence with a narrow opening onto the tree lined South Carriage Drive. He pulled his lip mike closer to his mouth and spoke in a low voice, She’s across Brompton at Albert Gate and heading for the park. I’ll stay back ‘til you tell me you’re in position. Donlan was just beginning to breathe heavier. While lacking in intelligence, his physical condition—from years of soccer—complemented his partner’s street smarts. The pair had been full fledged members of the Provisional Wing of the IRA since their late teens. The tough streets of Londonderry served as a more than adequate training ground for the young men necessary for the fight. Laughlin and Donlan moved up through the ranks by volunteering for any and all of the shitty little jobs that nobody else bothered with or cared about. This ensured their place in the cell and garnered favor from the leadership. Even though their roles were minor, the two men established a reputation of loyalty and dedication. Because of the mundane tasks assigned them, they were able to remain below the radar of the Royal Ulster Constabulary and muddled along with ever decreasing action. With peace bursting out all over Northern Ireland and with little else in the way of job training, these two became thugs for hire to anyone needing strong arm tactics at a reasonable price.

Joining the queue of busses and black cabs Laughlin replied, Okay, I’m headin’ west on Brompton but the traffic is slow. It may be close so stay in touch. Laughlin had readily agreed to the job that had at first seemed to be an easy snatch and run. His broker had promised ten thousand for the girl—not a bad pay day for a few hour’s work. But like so many other easy jobs they had taken on—this one was not going to plan. Oh well, he’d just have to improvise. He was good at that.

Friday, 9:45 AM. Friday, 0845 UTC. Knightsbridge, London.

David Townsend stretched his legs and tried to get the beginning of cramps to subside. He sat on a dark green bench just off the fine gravel jogging path on the Hyde Park side of South Carriage Drive. He watched the heavy traffic along Exhibition Road to his right. The traffic on the north-south shortcut across the massive park was fairly heavy even at this relatively early hour. He had just completed a slow circuit of the park and was surprised at how well he had done. For the past few months Townsend had been flying the Dallas-Fort Worth—Frankfurt route. He had bid this month’s schedule so that he would have two weeks off in order to have time to spend a few days in London. He had flown the London route for years and this was the first opportunity to get back and he was enjoying the fine weather in his favorite European city. He had relished his London trips and on those twenty hour layovers he enjoyed jogging and walking through the streets and lanes of South Kensington and Knightsbridge. After months of these pleasurable wanderings he knew this popular part of London as well or better than most locals.

The leaves from the large oaks bordering the park provided welcomed shade and the gentle breeze was a pleasing end to his exercise. A vibration in his jogging pants pocket interrupted his reverie. The phone that he was now struggling to retrieve was one of a limited number of satellite phones being tested by a special department within the National Security Agency. This particular model, still playing its unique ring tone, was supplied by his old friend and fellow former Naval Aviator, Billy Ray Benfield—now a senior director in the agency.

Townsend pushed the answer key and said without preamble, You’re up awful early, Billy Ray.

From the earpiece, with remarkable clarity and smooth West Virginia drawl, came a chuckled response, Technically, Dingo, you have to go to bed before you get up. In this case I’ve not even seen my bed since the day before yesterday.

Townsend chuckled, Jeanie throw you out again, Mountain Man? What high dollar Detroit relic did you buy this time? Since graduating from the U.S. Naval Academy, his friend had cultivated a passion for early model muscle cars that he restored to showroom condition. His eight stall garage was filled to capacity with show grade examples.

Townsend could easily visualize the crooked sneer that accompanied the reply, I wish. They actually have me working on a hot project, if you can believe it. The Feds are all hot and bothered by an inordinate increase in traffic from some of the usual suspects and a few new ones that they haven’t heard of yet. Tom Ackerman called me Wednesday afternoon just before I had a chance to sneak out of here askin’ me to help out with some intercepts. I’ve got my guys using a few of the new protocols that I’ve been workin’ on to try and sort out the what’s, who’s and why’s. Benfield didn’t give a thought to passing such highly classified and sensitive information to his friend. First of all, Townsend was as safe as the Rock of Gibraltar when it came to classified material. In their years of naval service, first as combat crewmembers and later as intelligence officers, Benfield and Townsend had been privy to many sensitive Top Secret operations. Second, the phones that they were using were encrypted with modules that most of the NSA brass wasn’t aware of yet as the designer (Benfield) was prolonging the test phase.

Benfield’s prowess in cyber-tech was legendary throughout the Agency. Inspector Tom Ackerman, FBI Deputy Assistant Director, Special Investigations, had overheard the normally closed mouthed head of the NSA at a Bureau briefing many years ago lauding Benfield’s unorthodox, yet highly successful exploits. Ackerman then brokered a quid pro quo arrangement with NSA that provided Benfield’s availability for unique FBI investigations in which his expertise played a critical role in the successful resolution. On more than one occasion over the ensuing years, Benfield had solicited Townsend’s assistance in aviation related matters. The two friends were an integral part of an off-the-books group informally known as Ackerman’s Pennsylvania Avenue Irregulars—named after Benfield’s hero Sherlock Holmes’ ancillary force of amateur sleuths.

How is our sometimes fearless leader faring? Is he still up to his fanny in alligators most of the time? Townsend enjoyed his brief temporary duty with the maverick FBI inspector’s unit. After hours and hours of boring Atlantic crossings at thirty nine thousand feet, the diversions presented by his consultancy were very much welcomed.

Gators are a tame alternative to the subjects of his interest at present. Some of our friends in bin Laden’s old outfit are getting restless. His sad departure from the living has left a significant vacuum in the hierarchy and it’s got everybody’s attention at the Puzzle Palace. We’re trying to get a handle on the action and get it to Tom’s guys down at Quantico. By the way, how are you enjoying London? Benfield asked. I see that you’re near the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park.

Townsend laughed, Billy Ray, you never cease to amaze me. I see that you have the GPS tracking turned on. I guess I’d better be careful where I go with you looking over my shoulder. And what about the other phone, you got a trace on that one too?

I’ve got the capability but I don’t have it engaged all of the time. I need to let the lovely Feeb have her privacy. Benfield was referring to Special Agent Stacy Foster, who worked with Townsend and Benfield in a recent investigation. Foster was Ackerman’s deputy and a crack investigator destined for advancement. She had little rest after her nearly year long search for an elusive contract killer. They kept in touch using the unique phones on loan from Benfield.

Looking to his left, Townsend saw a statuesque brunette racing down the gravel path as if finishing the 100 meters at the recent Olympic Games. She was dressed as a serious runner in a bright yellow T-shirt and tight fitting black knee length shorts. Her long dark brown hair was in a pony tail sticking out almost horizontally from her light blue ball cap as she sprinted down the path beside the road. He noticed that there was a man dressed in what appeared to be brand new athletic gear struggling to keep up with the much faster lady in front of him. Quickly taking in the scene and the anxious look on the young woman’s face, Townsend decided on a plan of action and signed off with his friend, Billy Ray, I’ll get back to you in a little while. Gotta run.

Having gotten too close and spooked the target, Donlan was now trying his best to stay up with the woman as she put on full speed ahead to escape. He decided that he had better check in with his partner, She’s made me and is hauling ass in your direction, he huffed. Are you in position?

Laughlin pulled to a sudden stop on the far side of Exhibition Road, much to the annoyance of a London cabbie trailing closely behind, parking with two wheels on the sidewalk. As the blaring horn faded he replied, I’m just on the other side of the road. I can see her headed my way. She really is hauling her pretty little ass. Can you catch up with her? I don’t want to leave the car if it ain’t necessary.

Out of breath, Donlan gasped, She’ll have to slow down at the intersection and I’ll grab her there. As he finished he put on a burst of speed to narrow the distance when he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He felt a nudge on his right shoulder and then was head over heels in a sprawl on the red gravel path before him. Miraculously his cell phone and Blue Tooth survived the tumble and his companion heard a stream of expletives fit for any pub in Derry.

The target in this now disintegrating abduction skidded to a stop as the southbound traffic on Exhibition Road sped past. Looking over her shoulder she saw her pursuer tumble into a dusty ball, the end result of a not so gentle push from a man who was now jogging up to her.

Are you alright, young lady? Is this guy bothering you? Townsend could see fear and apprehension on the otherwise beautiful face. Looking over her shoulder he saw a parked sedan in the far northbound lane. He saw a man jump out of the driver’s seat and head toward them.

Correctly reading the scene, he said, These guys seem to be after you. Come on, let’s get out of here and we can call the police as soon as it’s safe. Townsend gave the girl a gentle push and the two of them sprinted across the road and through the wrought iron bars into Queen’s Gate. Townsend glanced back across the road and quickened his pace as he saw the driver help his limping comrade to his feet and hustle to their car.

I think my bloody knee is busted. Some arsehole bumped into me just as I was about to grab the fookin’ bitch. Christ, it bloody hurts. Donlan was pushed into the driver’s seat of the idling Rover by his buddy.

You drive the bloody car and I’ll follow these two. Stay on the line and be ready to meet up with me when I get to a place where we can put an end to this cock up. With that said, Laughlin quickly took up the pursuit of the target now accompanied by her unknown benefactor.

As they neared the Albert Memorial, Townsend risked another quick look back to see the exchange of tails and realized that the two men were determined as well as resourceful and that he needed to find a way to get some distance between them in order to call in the cavalry. Seeing a break in the traffic in front of the Albert Memorial, he led his new companion swiftly across the pedestrian crosswalk to the Albert Hall courtyard where a large group of American tourists were gathering around a guide.

Come on. I think the best place to hide a tree is in the forest. With that, Townsend politely edged his way into the midst of the tour group while keeping his eye on the far side of the road. The young woman was quite a bit taller than most of the ladies in the group so she moved slightly behind Townsend.

Across the road and fuming, Laughlin waited impatiently for the signal light to change and allow him to cross the busy road to follow the pair. He had momentarily lost sight of them as a gaggle of old biddies came out of the Hall. When the light changed, he was first across and began to frantically search for the trail. He could only assume that they would try to get as far away as possible while he was held up so he darted around the west side of the Hall hoping to get a glimpse of them.

Friday, 9:51 AM. Friday, 0851 UTC. Knightsbridge, London.

Townsend was reaching for his cell to call 999 when the woman grabbed his arm. No. You can not call the police. I must get away. Please, just help me to get away from these men. No police! With these words from his guest, Townsend was aware that this young woman was not as terrified as he would have expected. He also noted the accented English with an obvious Russian influence.

Okay. For the time being we’ll play it your way. Let’s get off the main drag and try to lose ourselves in the mews. The car gives them an advantage but we can even the odds by taking a more ‘pedestrian’ route. Come on, I know just the place. Townsend led them out of the group around the east side of the circular Albert Hall toward Kensington Gore where they jogged eastward toward Exhibition Road. He stopped across the busy street from the United Arab Emirates Embassy. Seeing a gap in the normally busy street they sprinted across and into Princess Gardens. After jogging a half block he led them into Ennismore Gardens, a quiet tree lined residential neighborhood of mews apartments. Townsend slowed to a walk so as not to draw any unwanted attention. He turned to the woman next to him and asked, Do you have any idea who these guys are and what they want with you?

I have no idea who they are. I saw a man following me out of my neighborhood when I started my daily run. I did not think much of it at the time but when I saw him again in the park I began to be afraid so I ran. Thank you for helping me, Mr… …

Bond. James Bond, Townsend replied with a straight face.

In spite of the danger and apprehension that she felt, she broke up with laughter, the tension easing. Well, Mr. Bond. I must say that you arrived just in time. My name is Irina Marisovna and I am very glad to make your acquaintance.

Actually, my name is David Townsend and I’m glad I could be of help. But I have a feeling that we’re not out of the line of fire just yet or that you are telling me all that you know. For the time being, I think that the best plan is to lose ourselves in the shopping crowds on Brompton Road and hope those two guys give up the chase.

Friday, 10:03 AM. Friday, 0903 UTC. Knightsbridge, London.

As Laughlin rounded the Hall he could see no sign of his target. Great, he thought, now where the hell has she got to. As he glanced around to the rear of the building he caught a brief glimpse of her headed down an alleyway back toward the Exhibition Road and now in the company of the interfering bastard who dumped Donlan. Not in running togs but still hoping to keep his target in sight he walked quickly after the two as he called to Donlan in the car. I’ve got them in sight. They’re headed back toward the main road. I’m about a block behind them. Where are you now?

Donlan had finally found a suitable place to reverse direction north of Bayswater Road and was now headed south. I’m on Exhibition Road southbound about midway through the park. What do you want me to do?

"Keep going south ‘til you get to Brompton then head east. I’ll follow them and let you know where to pick me and, hopefully, her up. If you can find a place to pull into and wait, do it. I haven’t a clue what she’s up to or who this arsehole is that’s helping her.

Friday, 10:10 AM. Friday, 0910 UTC. Knightsbridge, London.

Townsend led the way down a narrow alleyway eastward in Ennismore Gardens Mews. A knee high rock wall bordered the sidewalk separating the alley from a shaded park just behind a large church. This is Holy Trinity Brompton. We can cut through here to Brompton Road and hopefully mingle in with the shopping crowds. Think you can get over the wall okay…… Before he could finish his question Irina had adroitly leapt over the wall to the garden below.

As he landed beside her, Irina asked, How do you know Knightsbridge so well. From your accent I can tell you are American.

Townsend headed off down the narrow walkway and answered, I’m an airline captain and I’ve spent many layover days here in London. For years I would walk all over this part of town. I guess I know it as well or better than my own home town. And from your accent, Ukrainian I’d guess, I can tell that you’re not a native either.

Very good. Yes, I was born in Kiev but moved to Moscow when I was eight years old. I have been here in London for the past ten years. Even I did not know of this place where you have just taken me. Do you think that we have lost those men?

Townsend was just looking over his shoulder as she asked this and saw a familiar face just turning into Ennismore Gardens. Nope, ‘fraid not. Looking at her in her bright yellow shirt he added, We need to get off the streets and out of these clothes as soon as possible. For whatever reason, these guys are very determined to get their hands on you. Let’s pick up the pace again. I think I have a way of losing these guys.

Friday, 10:20 AM. Friday, 0920 UTC. Knightsbridge, London.

Seamus, where the hell are you? Laughlin had just slid down the rough rock wall, scraping his shins as he did so. They’re headed for Brompton Road.

I’m parked in front of a big church on the north side of Brompton. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here. There’s a cab behind me and… .holy shite, there they are! They’re just coming onto the sidewalk headed east. How soon will you get to the street?

Laughlin picked up his pace, I’m almost there. Keep them in sight and we’ll follow in the car ‘til we get a chance to grab the girl and kick the shite out of that meddlesome bastard who’s helpin’ her.

As he came up to the street, Laughlin looked to his right and quickly located the Rover. He slid into the passenger seat and Donlan pulled into the eastbound lane just ahead of a red double decker bus. That’s them. Keep your speed down and we’ll see where they’re headed. Donlan, to the annoyance of the traffic behind them slowed to a crawl in order to keep the yellow T-shirt in sight. After a few hundred meters, Laughlin said, Look, they’re crossing to the south side at that next corner. Looks like—oh fook, they’re going into bloody Harrods. Christ, there are at least six or seven exits out of that bloody store. There’s no way we can cover all of them. Pull over at the next corner and I’ll try to keep up with them inside.

Friday, 10:30 AM. Friday, 0930 UTC. Harrods, Knightsbridge, London.

After rushing into the Hans Street corner entrance to the famous shopping venue, Townsend led the way through the massive Food Hall on the Ground Floor into the adjacent Men’s Wear Designer Salon. Rack after rack of exquisite wool suits and silk shirts bathed the room in an aroma unique in its richness. He spied who he correctly identified as the senior advisor and approached with an air of sophistication and confidence that had the sales executive counting his substantial commission before the transaction was initiated.

May I be of service, sir? The obsequiousness was overpowering and Irina could barely contain a smile.

Yes, thank you. My friend and I are just in from LA and the airline has seen fit to lose our luggage and they have no idea when it will be found. In the mean time, we have an extremely important luncheon appointment in a couple of hours and are in need of new wardrobes. Can you help us? The sales advisor was nearly orgasmic with excitement and replied, It will be my pleasure to assist you sir. May I call an associate from the ladies boutique on the First Floor to assist madam while I see to your needs?

Townsend nodded as the man pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket and speed dialed a number. After a brief, quiet conversation, they were soon joined by an attractive middle aged lady immaculately dressed who immediately took charge of Irina and led her out toward the Ladies Designer Salon. Townsend noticed that the female associate looked with curiosity at Irina as if she recognized her. Interesting, he thought. I’ll have to explore that avenue when we have a chance.

Friday, 11:20 AM. Friday, 1220 UTC.

Do you see them Tommy? They couldn’t have gone in more than a couple of minutes before you. Donlan, still at the wheel of the Rover, was lapping the massive block long department store closely checking each exit as he passed in hopes of catching a glimpse of their prey.

They just fookin’ disappeared. I’ve been all over the bloody Ground Floor and there’s no sign of either of them. I’m headed up the escalator to the First Floor now. You keep a look out for them on the streets. They’ve got to be in here somewhere. Laughlin was not as confident as he tried to sound. This place was huge and there were so many bloody people that he could lose his own sweet mum in the crowd. Christ, what had seemed like such a simple job had turned to shite from the very start. The broker was not going to be pleased. Now the bloody bitch would be warned and more on her guard. They would play hell nabbing her after this cock up.

Friday, 11:30 AM. Friday, 1030 UTC. Harrods, Knightsbridge, London.

It had taken just under an hour to fit out the two luckless travelers with expensive and well fitting clothes and footwear: Dior and Crockett & Jones for him and Valentino and Christian Louboutin for her. As Townsend handed the beaming sales associate his platinum AMEX card for the nearly three thousand pound transaction, he slowly scanned the hall for any sign of their stalkers. He noticed that Irina was also in sector scan. Good. She needed to be aware of her surroundings as it would greatly ensure her continued safety and well being. He knew that with the intensity and dedication that these two guys had demonstrated so far this was not just a random act. These guys were focused and Irina was in serious trouble. Probably more than she realized at present.

While the sales associate completed the transaction, Irina surveyed her companion, nattily attired in the sleek, dark blue Dior suit. She was uncertain of his age—somewhere in the fifties she guessed. There was just a hint of gray around the edges of his light brown hair, cut short in the current style with minimum sideburns. He was near her own six foot height and was trim at around 180 pounds. In his running togs she had noted an athlete’s body now gently aged but still well conditioned. His face was darkly tanned—she assumed his conditioning was conducted mostly out of doors—and virtually unlined. The somewhat intense blue-green eyes were seemingly in constant motion and at times cruel then quickly softer as if a switch had been thrown. All in all, David Townsend was an attractive man.

Townsend folded the receipt and placed it in his wallet as they turned toward the Food Hall with their running togs in the large green Harrods shopping bags the advisor had gladly provided. "Let’s head over toward the west exits and we’ll