Murphy showed up later that day looking much better. Where he went or how he managed to repair himself remained a mystery. However the plume of smoke rising from the direction of the local junkyard might have had something to do with it.
Bael was sitting on the front porch reading a book and watching Maharet toil in the garden. Every time she bent over to pick something up he took a moment to appreciate the view.
His daughter was off somewhere causing mischief but he didn't hear any police sirens so Bael figured she was doing fine on her own for now. That of course begged the question of what he was going to do with the rest of his day. He had some tasks to complete and phone calls to make. But they could wait.
Maharet came over and sat down beside him on the wooden bench. “Darling…”
“Yes, dear?” Bael had already learned that any sentence starting with the word “darling” ended with him needing to do something.
It was truly remarkable how quickly he was catching on to this whole husband thing. Just the other day when she asked how something looked Bael had automatically replied that it was stunning. Unfortunately she was talking about a section of peeling wallpaper. But it was still a step in the right direction, as far as he was concerned.
“We never go anywhere.”
“Oh? I suppose we've been busy.” He considered his options. “Why don't I find a nice restaurant for us and make a reservation. We can dress up and make an evening of it.”
“That is a lovely idea. I would like that very much.” She gave him a peck on the cheek then went back to gardening.
Bael considered his options. He might as well get a head start on his tasks for the day. He lingered for a bit, watching his wife work. The view from the porch really was quite lovely.
***
In a London high rise office building a phone that was never supposed to ring was doing exactly that. The CEO of Sheriff Investments started to panic. He had made himself a promise that if it ever rang, he would ignore it and say that he had been out of the office if questioned.
Better yet, he could disconnect the phone and pretend that there had been some kind of fault on the line. Surely it couldn’t be his fault when a phone that was never supposed to be used failed to work. It wasn't like they ever tested it.
Alan reached behind his desk for the cord and gave it a good solid yank. The ringing died down immediately. For good measure he unplugged his own phone and decided to go have an early dinner.
The secretary tried to wave him down but he just shook his head. “No time for that Stacy, I’ve got to go.” Then he sprinted off to the elevator before she could tell him that it was urgent.
His purple Jaguar burned rubber as it left the underground parking garage. He got all the way to Harrows before the caller caught up to him.
“Oh it is so good to see you Mr. Weston!” The waiter said enthusiastically. As one of the oldest continuously operating restaurants in London, Harrow's had a cult following among the city’s elite financiers and power brokers.
The restaurant offered fantastic service, amazing food that jumped from your mouth to your soul, and a very reasonably priced Tuesday drink special. They had begrudgingly accepted a third Michelin star that month, but were considering giving it back.
“Come, I have tables open or if you would prefer a seat at the bar…” The waiter said, taking in Alan's anxious state. Dinner wasn't quite ready and the restaurant was mostly empty, but Alan was a regular.
“The bar.” Alan replied. “Definitely the bar.”
He ordered a scotch and breathed a sigh of relief while he contemplated his next move. When he had taken the job as CEO at the company it had come with the condition that if the owner ever called, he would do whatever the man wanted without question. When Alan had asked what the owner of the company might want from him, his predecessor just laughed.
Perhaps he could disappear, go to New Zealand and raise sheep or something, Alan mused. Surely that couldn’t be too hard. A polite tap on the shoulder brought him back to reality.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Call for you, sir.” The waiter said. “He says it’s important.”
“Tell him I’m not here.” Alan demanded. “Say I’ve left unexpectedly then hang up.”
“Right sir, of course.” The waiter nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.
A few minutes later Michael the bartender walked over holding an ancient brass and wood rotary phone. The bell on top was ringing so hard it threatened to dent the metal. He clunked it down on the bar.
“Call for you sir. ” The bartender explained. “I think you should take it.”
“And why do you think that?” Alan asked angrily. “Why shouldn’t I just let it ring?”
“Well I am no authority on telecommunication.” The bartender said, his voice hinting at disapproval. “But when a phone starts ringing that is not attached to anything one should answer it immediately. If not for the sake of courtesy, then perhaps at least to satisfy curiosity.”
Alan’s eyes went wide. The phone wasn't plugged into the wall. It wasn't plugged into anything. He looked at the antique phone. It was ringing. Someone wanted to speak to him. It would be rude not to answer.
Fear of being discourteous fought fear of the unknown, and because Alan was British, the fight was over quickly.
“Hello…” Alan said hesitantly into the mouthpiece. “This is Alan Weston. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
To his surprise a warm pleasant male voice came over the line. It was deep with the kind of neutral American accent that invited itself to board meetings and sat in a chair listening intently with a half smile. This voice belonged to someone that could wear tennis shoes to visit the Pope, but would never do anything so distasteful.
“Alan! It is so good to finally speak. I've been looking forward to working with you but I just haven't found the time. Thank you for taking such good care of my company. This is Bill Sharoth. I was wondering if I could pick your brain, you know, throw things at the wall and see what sticks.”
“Yes, of course.” Alan chugged down his Scotch and waved for another. He knew that name. It had been with the company for generations. There was a painting of Bill Sharoth hanging behind the CEO’s desk in a lovely gold frame. He tried not to think about the fact that the man who painted it died over two hundred years ago.
Alan knew that it might be a family name that had been passed down to the man he was speaking to today. But he doubted it. Oh he doubted it very much. This voice sounded like old money, old money that had been new when Bill first made it.
“Great! Great!” Bill laughed jovially. “I was just wrapping some things up here before I made my way over to see you. How is the weather over there? Will I need an umbrella?”
“The weather is fairly mild but I would not rule out the possibility of rain.” Alan said, hedging his bets. “Where will you be coming from?”
“I’m in Northern California, a wonderful little town. Actually, you know what, I'll be right over. I've reached a good stopping point and my wife wants to do a little sightseeing with our daughter before it gets too dark.”
“Yeah… I can make that work.” Alan did some mental math. It was at least a twelve hour flight from San Francisco to London. He could be out of town by then. He could be so far away they would never find him. “Should I have someone waiting for you at the airport?”
“Oh, there's no need for that. We're bringing our own car, it's much simpler that way. It shouldn't be too bad of a drive.” There was a pause as a conversation went on in the background that Alan couldn't quite make out.
Bill was talking to a woman who replied then a shout of joy announced the presence of their daughter. “Great, give me a few minutes to get everyone sorted and then I will head over. Can you give the phone back to Michael please?”
“Yes, of course.” Alan handed the phone over to the bartender, exchanging it for a new glass of scotch. “He wants to talk to you.”
Michael the bartender took the phone and listened intently, his face betraying no particular emotion. He noted down something on a pad and nodded with what might have been approval. “Yes sir, of course. That is a wonderful vintage. Oh yes, thank you for remembering. You are too kind.”
Michael smiled broadly as the conversation progressed. “Of course, sir. It has been quite some time but you are always welcome at Harrows… Oh, you wish for a private dinner? I suppose we can make that happen… Humans are fine? Perfect, how would you like them prepared? Oh, I misunderstood... Yes, Molly and the children are doing well… No, it turned out to be a case of weasels… Yes, the children took it in stride, quite vicious little things, but the weasels tolerate them…”
This went on for several minutes. Finally Michael said goodbye and hung up. He tore a sheet from his notepad and handed it off to one of the waiters. The young man looked it over and nodded with approval and respect. “I will get right on it.”
Michael returned, he noticed the questioning look on Alan’s long thin face and raised an eyebrow in response. “Do you require something else?” He asked.
“What was that all about?” Alan looked back at the waiters who were in a huddle near the kitchen with the chef.
The broad shouldered Frenchman was stroking his chin and nodding. “Oui…” He said softly. “We can do this.”
Michael straightened his vest before he spoke. It was as if he did not wish to disrespect the name he was about to say. “The Baron Bael-Sharoth has returned to London. This is a sign, a portent of the final days. He has given us his orders and we will follow them.”
He frowned. “Though I admit his orders confuse me, I will do as the Baron commands. Bael-Sharoth has made his desires known, and we will serve him.”
Alan felt the hairs raise up on the back of his neck. This was bad. This was so bad. The staff were standing around him now and giving him looks he didn't particularly like. If there were other patrons, they had apparently vanished.
“What are his orders?” Alan asked, almost jumping out of his skin when he heard the click of the front door locking. “What does he want?”