The Valhalla Prophecy (5 page)

So now he was here, alone in a crappy rented flat overlooking a congestion-clogged main road through one of the grottier parts of London. He couldn’t even open the window to let in cooler air without its being joined by noise and diesel fumes.

Staying in bed was not an option, he finally decided. If nothing else, years of military routine made inactivity seem almost criminally wasteful. He shoved away the covers and rolled upright.

The sight of his surroundings lowered his mood still further. One room; that was what his life had been reduced to. He even had to share a bathroom with one of the other tenants.

But the damp-stained studio was not nearly so depressing as what was on the little folding table by the door. Chase stared at the documents poking out of the torn envelope like spilled guts from a small animal. They were from Sophia—or rather, her solicitor—and one of them, once he signed it, would probably be the last thing she ever wanted from him.

If
he signed it.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. Sophia was seeking a divorce, to get rid of him as soon as possible so she could hook up with whichever rich, braying arsehole from the City she’d set her sights on. Under British law, before a divorce could be granted husband and wife needed to be separated for at least two years, or there had to be reasonable grounds.

Adultery was one of these, and it had certainly been a factor; Sophia had practically rubbed his face in it before he finally moved out, unable to tolerate her taunting any longer. But there were two problems. The first, in which he saw the hand of her father, was that Sophia wanted
Chase
to be the one who admitted to an affair. Daddy dearest was protecting the reputation of his daughter—or, just as likely, the Blackwood name. An
heiress sleeping around behind the back of her war-hero husband was irresistible gossip fodder, whereas some yob from Yorkshire betraying a beautiful aristocrat would arouse nothing but sympathy for her.

The second was more simple. He didn’t
want
to end the marriage.

For all Sophia had done to him, for all the arguments and screaming and unfaithfulness … he still loved her. He had made a commitment to her, a promise, and the thought of breaking that promise was almost physically painful. Though he was no longer a member of the armed forces, he still placed a high value on duty, honor, and loyalty—even if Sophia did not.

It also implied surrender, failure. As a former member of the Special Air Service, he was unwilling to accept either.

Another sound, this time definitely a sigh. Chase forced himself to his feet and stretched, working the stiffness out of his muscles. The mattress was as unforgiving as his wife. He crossed the room to the counter that acted as his kitchen and filled the kettle, preparing—however reluctantly—to start the day.

Half an hour later, he had eaten, showered, and dressed. To his disappointment, the letter had not magically vanished in the meantime.

“Buggeration and fuckery,” Chase muttered, glaring at it. Sophia’s solicitors, he already knew from experience, would not hesitate to follow up on their inquiries by phone or even in person if a response didn’t come immediately. Their letterhead said they were based in the City of London, so they were probably charging her father a thousand pounds per hour for their time, while his own financial situation forced him to traipse across two boroughs to get what free help he could at the nearest Citizens Advice Bureau.

He tried to suppress a churning feeling of disgust. Money. That was what everything came down to. Sophia was used to it, couldn’t live without it, wanted more of
it—and now that she had access to it again, was using it against him.

And she knew his sense of dignity wouldn’t allow him to beg others for it. He had friends all around the world, but while he could always rely on them for a favor, since he in turn would always help them if they needed it, the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to ask for was money.

So now he was trapped by his own pride. Whether he caved in to Sophia’s demands or asked for monetary help from others to fight her, it would feel like failure either way. At least in combat there was always the
possibility
of beating the odds to reach victory, but right now he couldn’t see any good way out short of a miracle …

His phone trilled. Chase knew it wasn’t Sophia; he had set her ringtone as Cliff Richard’s “Devil Woman,” but this was the cheap pre-paid Nokia’s default. He picked up the mobile and flipped it open, seeing on the screen that it was a London number. “Is that you, Jesus?”

“I’ve heard some strange things from your mouth, Eddie, but that’s got to be near the top of the list.” Not a miracle, but the familiar voice was nearly as welcome.

“Mac!” Chase cried, smiling for the first time in several days. “Fuck me, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I thought you were out of the country?”

“I’m back, for the moment,” said the Scotsman. “I’ll tell you about it—well, as much as I can within the bounds of the Official Secrets Act—if you’d like to meet up. Are you busy?”

“Let me check my Filofax,” Chase said sarcastically. “No, I’m free. Where do you want to meet?”

“Come ’round to my place—you remember where it is?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Half eleven or thereabouts? Oh, and there’ll be someone else here I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see again.” Even over the phone, Chase could detect the amusement in the other man’s voice. “An old friend.”

“Well, fucking hell,” said Chase, unable to hold back a grin. “Look who it is. Hugo Castille, the Belgian waffler.”

The lanky Castille sniffed through his beaky nose.

“And Edward Chase, as polite and charming as always.” He peered at the shorter man’s head. “Your hair … it is getting a little thin, no? Especially on top.”

“Oh fuck off, Hugo.” Still grinning, Chase shook the mustachioed Belgian’s hand, before the pair embraced and clapped each other on the back. “Christ, how long’s it been? A year?”

“More than that,” Castille replied. “I have not seen you since the wedding.” His expression became mournful. “Mac told me what has happened with you and Sophia. I am very sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Chase, rather brusquely, before moving the conversation along. “Everything’s good with you, then? Coping with civilian life?”

“I have a new line of work. Not too different from my old one,” he added with a sly smile. “I will tell you about it. You might find it interesting.”

“Can’t wait.” Chase turned to his former commanding officer. “What about you, Mac? How’s the leg?”

Jim “Mac” McCrimmon shifted his stance to put his left foot forward, supporting himself on a metal cane. A faint creak came from the ankle joint—not of bone, but aluminum and plastic. “Bearable. They think that given another two or three years, I should regain more or less full mobility. I intend to do it in one.”

“Anything I can do to help, you just say the word.”

The tall, bearded Scot smiled. “You already did, Eddie. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have lost more than just a leg to those Taliban bastards.” He gestured for Chase to take a seat in one of the deep red leather armchairs in his living room. “In fact, we might be able to help you.”

The Yorkshireman didn’t move, his expression darkening. “I’m not here to take charity.”

“And I didn’t ask you here to offer it. I know you better than that, Eddie. Come on, sit down. I’m going to, whether you do or not.” He rapped his left shin with the cane. “Standing on this bloody thing isn’t exactly comfortable.”

Chase reluctantly sat as Mac and Castille did the same. “So,” he said, “you’ve become a spook, eh? You bloody sellout.”

Mac chuckled. “Yes, I remember what you think of the men and women of our intelligence services. But they’re not all that bad. Well, a few of them. Actually, I’ve been working with somebody you’ve already met.”

Chase pulled a disgusted face. “Aw, not that fucking Capri-driving bell-end Alderley, surely?”

“The very same.”

“How’s his nose?”

“Still crooked where you broke it.” A wry grin. “He remembers you too, funnily enough.”

“Good. Can’t believe you’re working with that twat! At least I’ll never have to deal with him again. Tosser.”

“So you have been in Africa, Mac,” Castille said. “What have you been doing there?”

The older man’s grin widened. “Nothing I’m going to tell you about, Hugo. I know you don’t mean any harm, but if I even gave you a hint you’d be chatting to some random stranger in a bar about it before the end of the day.”

“That is not true!” Castille protested. “I do not give away secrets.”

“Only because the rest of us tackle you to the fucking floor every time you open your mouth,” Chase told him, laughing.

“Let’s just say I’ve been doing some consulting work on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, and leave it at that,” said Mac. “The main thing was, it got me back on my feet—foot—and actually doing something useful again. Which after three months in hospital and most of a year withering away convalescing was a huge relief. It felt better than any amount of talking to the shrinks,
put it that way. Made me realize just how much I need to
do
things, to contribute. To have a purpose.”

“I think we are all like that, no?” added Castille.

Chase eyed him. “This is the bit with the hard sell, right? The reason you asked me here?”

“Partly,” Mac admitted. “But Hugo’s right—I think you’ll be interested in what he’s got to say.” A hint of concern entered his level gaze. “It might be exactly what you need right now, considering what Sophia’s been putting you through.”

“You seem to know a lot about it, for someone who’s been out of the country.” Chase gave him a suspicious look. “For that matter, how’d you get my number? I only got that phone after I moved out.”

“I’ve been working with MI6, not 118. They can do quite a bit more with their directory inquiries. But that’s not important.” He nodded toward the other man. “Hugo, why don’t you tell him about the job?”

Castille straightened in his seat. “I am working for a private contractor,” he told Chase. “There is a job that has just come up—I would like you to join me on it.”

Chase shook his head. “I only got out of the military last year; I don’t want to be going right back into it under another name. And I know it’s big business right now, but I
really
don’t want to traipse around some godforsaken desert shithole acting as a human shield for a bunch of arseholes from an oil company.”

“No, no,” said Castille, gesticulating enthusiastically, “this is nothing like that. Do you remember Hal Sullivan?”

Chase glanced at Mac. “Your old mate from the Kiwi SAS?”

“More than just a mate, Eddie,” Mac told him, nodding. “He taught me practically everything I know about being a soldier. He’s a good man.”

“I have been working for him,” Castille continued. “And it is not bodyguard work. It is, how to describe it? Aid and rescue work—in places where there are men who do not want people to get aid or rescue.”

“Troubleshooting,” added Mac. “Humanitarian work,
but with a fist in the glove if it’s needed. Hal actually approached me about being a partner, and I might have considered it if not for this.” He thumped his artificial heel on the carpet. “It’s right up your street, though. You’d be using your skills to help people. And I know how important that is to you.”

Chase considered his words before cautiously asking Castille: “What’s the job?”

“A rescue mission,” said the Belgian. “A team of aid workers in Vietnam has been kidnapped by bandits. The father of one of them called on Hal to rescue them; he is putting a team together now.” A beseeching look. “You would be a great help, Edward. You have experience of just this kind of mission.”

“Yeah, and look how it turned out,” Chase replied, voice drenched with sarcasm. “I married the hostage. And why isn’t the Vietnamese government sorting it out, instead of someone having to hire mercs?”

“They’re dragging their feet, apparently,” said Mac. “From what I gather, these bandits have the local authorities in their pockets. And going through normal channels in Hanoi could take days—which the hostages might not have.”