In the Shadow of Shakespeare (37 page)

She
was never completely comfortable moving underground, and had terrible thoughts
of being caught in the tube like an earthworm, stuck in the muck of a bomb
blow-up and being smothered by smoke. 

Paddington
station grew in her line of vision as her calamitous fantasy came to an end and
she concentrated on the tube map and the voice telling her where she was in
space and time.  She fixated on the dots before her stop, there were two,
and caught site of a man reading
The Guardian
below the map.  He
looked up at her.  His face registered something more than noncommittal
acquaintance, and slightly alarmed, she quickly turned her head. 

She
bounded off the steps happy to be away from the mass of people pressing in on
her.  She had forgotten how crowded London was, so different from four
hundred years ago.  

Walking
the street towards her hotel she felt as if nothing was left from long
ago.  The great fire of London had burned most of the old houses and
structures, and what had survive existed in little pockets, quite like a
species on the brink of extinction.

A
light mist filmed the air and she pulled up the collar of her raincoat as
people jostled past her.  No, she felt none of Kit in this place. 
His presence had vanished like the rain.  As the clouds parted and the
blue sky appeared again, she caught site of the white of her hotel, the
Paddington Arms.  Dipping into a small shop for a bottle of wine, Alice
did not notice the man reading
The Guardian
on the tube had slipped in
behind her.

Chapter 48

Chester
Lightley held the phone away from his ear as Cedric Cecil jabbered about his
precious nation's secrets.  Lightley ran his hand over his bald head as
the old drone babbled on.  It wasn't the first time that he thought that
Cecil wanted his job.  No, indeed,
needed
his job. 

Tiresome
nobles. 
They still think they run the country.
 

Well,
he knew where he stood.  A hard working bloke from Liverpool, growing up
on the rough side of town, he had worked his way through the ranks to get this
job.  It wasn't handed to him as a form of inheritance as Cecil's
was.  And that, he thought, was precisely what was so tiresome about the
man. 

Lightley's
hand skimmed his left earring, a small hoop his wife had wanted him to
get.  In fact, she had wanted the whole package – shaved head and
earring.  A package common to many balding Englishmen.  Lightley
didn't mind.  The sex had gotten better.  Nona had wanted him twice a
week now. 

He
stood and walked over to the window, looking down from the top floor window of
MI6.  The view was lovely along the South Bank of the Thames from here, he
could see the Vauxhall Bridge, and Cecil's voice receded in the distance as he
took in the panoramic view along the river.  He ran his hand down his suit
coat and unbuttoned the middle button; smoothing a hand over his belly, a bit
bulging, he thought. 
Now if I could only get rid of this
…Thoughts
of Nona and him twisting on the bed came to mind. 

"Do
you know we have someone following her?"

"You
wha?" Lightley snapped back to attention, his Northern accent betraying
his working roots.

"Precisely." 
Lightley detected the gloating, gilded lilt of Cecil's received pronunciation,
made more pronounced by the fact that he thought he had him by the balls.

"You're
out of your range here, Cecil.  This is our jurisdiction.  We have a
man on the case."

"You
don't seem to understand Lightley, this is probably one of the most, no,
the
most
, important matter regarding the crown, nobility, and secrets regarding
the nation."

"Right.
Absolutely."  Lightley drummed his fingers on the table, letting
Cecil think he got the better of him.  "The Italians are in on this
too, you know."

"Of
course I know that." Cecil snapped.  "The reason for my call, is
to let you know where we stand in this matter.  We don't need to be
stepping on each other's toes.  I bid you good day."

Lightly
held his chin in his hand as he heard the unmistakable click of dismissal from
Cecil. 

"Bloody
hell."  He sighed, shut off his mobile and pocketed it.  Cecil
had just added considerable meat to his already well-heaped plate.

He
stood once again and stared out the window thinking of the Cecils and
Walsingham.  Sir Francis Walsingham had set up England's spy network back
in the reign of Elizabeth I, at much personal cost to himself.  He spent
much of his own money in order to protect the realm.  The Cecils too, were
in on the spy network, and would often hire their own spies for their own
special projects.  Many times spies would compete against each other
within the budding intelligence network. 

And
this is what I've inherited
.  Lightley rubbed his bald head, realizing
things weren't so different today.  The agency had many competing
interests and competing projects that turned agents against each other, and
against their bosses.  The situation was compounded by the fact that the
Cecil's still maintained their own intelligence service, and would employ this
service whenever they thought that ancient foibles were to be uncovered. 
And this ancient foible hit a very personal sore spot of Cecil's.  The
family had been divided about how to deal with Christopher Marlowe working as a
spy for the Cecil's and Walsingham throughout the years. 

The
latest fiasco had involved Celeste Cecil.  The family had basically turned
against her when she exhibited a mystical streak, giving her husband ample
opportunity to act on this vulnerability.  And act on it he did. 
Celeste now sat in a psychiatric ward while her husband rambled in their large
estate on the East Coast. 

Lightley
pulled the dossier from his desk drawer.
Enter Alice Petrovka.
  He
took the picture from the file.  Interesting woman, he thought.  He
gave a wry smile, knowing the agent in charge of the woman would have no
trouble what-so-ever in trailing her.  Yes, at least
his agent
wouldn't have any trouble trailing this woman.  He was unsure of Cecil's
agent.  Cecil had a tendency to find agents that were rather unsavory
underworld figures.  Thugs from America.  Lightley couldn't be sure
what motivated them, although the forensic psychologists on board said like
many Americans they operated from a hero complex and were motivated by fame and
glory.

He
grimaced.  This was a dangerous game they were playing, and one he did not
relish.  But Lightley was known for his finesse in these types of sticky
situations.  That's why he rose to the top of his field.

He
stared at the picture as he took his mobile from his pocket.

"Ah,
Miss Alice.  You have no idea of the danger you're in."  The
eyes in the picture levelly met his, seemingly unconcerned.

He
quickly phoned the agent in charge of the woman.

Chapter 49

She
turned the corner and breathed a sigh of relief as The Paddington Arms appeared
in front of her.  The brief sunshine had quickly turned into a thick
rain.  She ducked under the awning and shook out her umbrella.  As
she walked through the entrance way and made her way to reception, she could
not shake the feeling that someone was following her.  She turned around
and saw no one but a gentleman in a dark hat. 

Alice
sat in a chair next to a window, pretending to be interested in a
magazine.  He hesitated, but did not look in her direction, simply went to
the desk, obtained a key, and went towards the stairs.  Alice watched him
from her magazine.  When he was out of sight she went to the reception
desk. 

"Excuse
me, could you please tell me who that gentlemen was who just checked in?"

"I'm
sorry ma'am.  We cannot give out guest information.  Are you an
authority?" 

Alice
realized she would be expected to produce some identification.  "No…I
just…he looked like an old friend of mine and I did not want to bother the man
by confronting him if he wasn't."

The
girl nodded.  "Here are your keys.  Enjoy your stay at the Paddington
Arms." 

Alice
traversed the stairs to her room located in the back of the building.  It
was an old building, with many additions tacked on in later years. Thus the
stairs rose, then fell again, not going completely up, but continuing their
journey in a sort of maze.  It wasn't the first time Alice felt like she
was in Wonderland.  She stopped, hearing foot-steps behind her, and
thinking to let the fellow lodger pass, she waited.  But the sound stopped
as she did. 

"Hello?" 
She stood at a stairwell and waited.  Nothing. 

Climbing
the last flight, her room stood at the top of the stairs.  Unlocking the
door she entered the room with her bag. It was a simple but large room, well
made with a pink and yellow bed spread laying on a four poster white bed. 
The dresser contained the usual things found in a fair to middling hotel in
London:  a tea set with digestive biscuits, and an electric kettle that
would be sure to instantly heat a good supply of water for the tea. 

Alice
fished her cell phone from her bag and rang Celeste.  She sat on the edge
of the bed and waited for her to pick up the phone.  Recently Celeste had
managed to scrounge up enough money to rent a small apartment in the
city.  The apartment was in the middle of the city by the park.  She
mentioned she loved it – was loving her freedom. 

No
one home.  She set the phone down.

She
filled the kettle and plugged it in.  As she ate the biscuit, she turned
the water on in the bath.  The water filled the tub and she threw in some
lavender scented crystals she had bought at a little corner shop along with the
wine on the way to the hotel.  The sweet scent of lavender filled the air
and she began to relax. 

She
sat on the toilet and watched the water.  Tomorrow she would be in the
water filled city of Venice.  She knew she would find Kit there.  She
just had to.  Sticking her foot gingerly in the tub to check on the water
temperature she wondered again what he had thought when she never arrived at
the ship to give him the money from the play.  It would have been their
last embrace.  She quickly slipped out of her clothes and into the
water. 

As
it stood they had simply parted.  The water quivered around her breasts as
she thought of him and the dream of him drowning.  He was seeking asylum,
something to give him safety where he had had none.  And still
didn't. 

But
what of
time
?  According to Bernie, time didn't really exist, and
they all were contained in a dynamic hologram.  After some time, Alice
reluctantly emerged from the water.  She sat on the edge of the tub drying
her hair.  Surely he must be back from South America.  Selina had
mentioned he had planned an extended stay there doing further research to help
support Bohm's theories. 

Donning
a white terry hotel robe, she wrapped her hair in a matching white towel and
made her way into the spacious living room area.  She was glad now that
she had decided to splurge on a large suite.  London always made her so
tired.

Alice
picked up the phone and found Bernie's number among her list of contacts.  
As the phone rang she hoped it would be Bernie to pick up and not Selina.

"Hello?"

"Bernie?"

"One
and only.  At least at this number."

"Good. 
No split personality for you."

"Are
you kidding?  With an ex-wife as a shrink?"

"What? 
Did I hear correctly? You and Selena are divorced?"

"Not
quite yet, but soon," He sighed.  "You probably haven't heard,
have you?"

"What."

"She
ran off with
your
ex-husband."

Alice
tapped her pencil she had fished out of her bag on the table. 
"Figures.  No matter, they deserve each other."

"You
were right about them, Alice.  They were always so cozy together.  No
wonder they locked you up.  To continue their sneaky work, and –"

"That's
kind of why I called you Bernie."

"To
discuss their sneaky work?"

"No. 
To discuss what happened to me.  Why I was locked up."

"Oooh. 
Okay."

"What
I really need to know is what happened to me."

Bernie
paused.  "Honestly, I don't know, Alice."

"I’m
beginning to doubt myself.  Maybe I
was
crazy."

"What
I can tell you is this…People from all over the world have experiences similar
to this…shamans, healers.  That's what I learned in the rain forest."

"But
what if I wanted to go back?  Back in time.  Or you say time doesn't
exist.  Then how can I tap into that time period again, when to us…it's
all been said and done for four hundred years."

"Well,
I don't rightly know.  Maybe conditions were just right and you fell into
it."

"Do
you think it's possible to make conditions right again."