“Where is Kershaw now?” Marcus asked, unemotionally, hoping for a second chance at revenge.
Dyke smiled briefly. “He was arrested trying to leave the country. He will go to prison for a long time, if not hanged, which would probably suit you better given the circumstances.”
The thought of killing the wrong man was taking its toll on Marcus. He leant back on the wooden chair, rocking on its two fragile back legs, and closed his eyes, praying he could put the clock back and do things right. With Kershaw now in custody he was never going to get his rightful revenge. It all depended on what Dyke's motive is. “What does he want from me?” he asked himself. Marcus realised he was in a tight spot, but the thought of Barbara kept him focused. She was the only reason he had to keep going, to keep alive, at least until she was old enough to know the truth. She deserved to know it, warts and all. “So,” Marcus finally asked, feeling depressed, “what happens to me now?”
Richard Dyke, although looking solemn, inwardly was congratulating himself on reaching this far. He had no idea how Marcus would react. His gut instinct told him Marcus was worth saving. Given the circumstances, it was not impossible to feel some empathy with his actions towards his mother. However, any court would condemn him and he would be locked away, not for a fixed term in an offender’s prison, but indefinitely, in an alyssum, here or in Austria.
“I am not the police, Marcus, well, not as you know them. I work for the Home Office.”
Marcus blinked and looked up once again at his interrogator. As interrogators go Dyke was very good. Just the right amount of charm when needed, but his tone always delivering a feint suggestion of coercion. Marcus realised his future was in jeopardy, but then a feeling of quiet relief came over him as if he had seen the road to salvation.
All these years he believed he would face retribution for his transgression - a transgression only a Priest could give absolution for if he believed in a Devine power, but now, here in London this man has seen his value and, just maybe, offer him the mercy and understanding he so desperately needed.
“The same question applies - what happens to me now?”
Dyke opened the buff folder again and turned a page. “I am in charge of a section at MI5. Have you heard of MI5, Marcus?”
“Not by name, but I assume England has a Secret Service like all countries.”
“Indeed, and for a very good reason, especially now. I assume you have heard of The Cold War.”
Marcus tilted his head slightly. “Are you asking me to be a spy?”
“Not exactly. We need people with special skills. Skills like yours' and languages particularly.” Dyke looked at the page in front of him, “Russian, for instance, and German. What else do you have?”
Marcus smiled briefly, wondering if he should lean over and rescue the bottle of confiscated whisky. “French, Spanish, Italian and some Croatian.” He confirmed casually. “And what are these skills needed for. I don't kill spies.”
“You have scruples. That's not always a trait we encourage, but tell me why.” Dyke asked with genuine interest.
“Your spies, their spies, whoever they are, are just people doing a job. They are not criminals. To me they are civilians, and I do not go around killing innocent people if that's what you are asking.” Marcus finished defiantly; realising only then he had made a fist with his right hand and was inwardly shaking with emotion. “I am not a killer. I did what I did to survive . . . and for . . . yes, for revenge.”
Dyke closed the folder and tapped his right index finger on the table. “Europe, and the rest of the World, has changed dramatically since the end of the War, and although the War is over, battles not literally fought, we are still at War. Britain has enemies, more than you can imagine. Russia, once our ally just ten years ago, is now a world threat to the peace millions of men, women and children died for. There is tension all over the World; the new India, Israel and Korea for example, and nearer to home, Northern Ireland. There are many fractions that want, for many reasons, conflict to continue. It could be a coup d'état by the military, it could be a revolution sponsored by communist minorities - whatever the reasons if we consider our interests are being jeopardised, we will act accordingly, we will do what we have to, to survive.”
Marcus slowly pushed the chair back and stood, stretching his arms above his head and yawned. “Nice speech. Another coffee?” he asked, wanting to keep awake a little longer. It was nearly midnight and he hadn't had a drink for over an hour. “I assume I can't go back to Austria, even if I wanted to?”
Dyke shook his head but paused before replying. “Nihil est sacrosanctum.” Marcus looked at him curiously. “Sorry, my Latin is a little rusty.”
“Nothing is sacrosanct.” Dyke translated, smiling at a memory. “My old Latin teacher used to say that. Do you know what it means, Marcus?”
Marcus frowned and shrugged. He didn't want a lesson in Latin, or any other language. He wanted it to all go away and start over again, with Rosemary and Nathan Star still alive and he, living happily ever after with them. “Marcus!” Dyke's voice shocked him out of his daydream. “Do you know what it means?” Marcus shook his head in submission.
“Nothing is sacred - Nothing is forever, take your choice, but the sentiment is the same. Anything set in stone by law or human dictate can be changed if the will is there. Now, do you understand, Marcus? I am saying anything is possible . . . if I decide it.” Marcus blinked and focused on Dyke's last sentence. “Ah, you do understand. I can see it in your eyes, Marcus. Good, we are getting somewhere.” Dyke was feeling more confident than he had thirty minutes ago. He was convinced he would have to signal Smith to eliminate the young Marcus, but he was glad the tide was turning. He was beginning to like his new protégé.
Marcus cupped his hands around his coffee mug. His eyes willing the bottle of cheap liquor to move back across the table. Dyke sensed Marcus's yearning and voluntary slid the bottle across to Marcus. “Thank you,” Marcus said, pouring the dregs of the bottle into the murky coffee. Dyke gave him time to digest the now drinkable beverage before bringing down the hammer. “We will train you in fire-arms, self-defence and other skills you will need. You will be what we call a 'sleeper'. We will call on you whenever we need your skills. You will come anytime, day or night, from wherever you are, without question, and carry out the orders we assign to you.” Dyke paused, but Marcus just listened, waiting for the punch-line, and it came.
“In return, Marcus von Hartstein will disappear, forever cremated in Austria where Dr Star left him. You can continue with your new persona, and carry on with your life at the Stock Exchange.”
“And if I decline?”
Although Dyke was looking directly at Marcus, he could see his man at the door reaching slowly into his inside jacket pocket. Dyke didn't blink or move his head to indicate any instructions to his man, not then.
“Let's just say Barbara will grow up without a brother. Do you want that?”
Marcus knew that he had no choice. Using Barbara as a bargaining chip was a clever move on Dyke's part, and Marcus was reluctantly impressed with this man, although life had warned him never to trust anyone, no matter how charming and sincere they appear.
Marcus nodded in the affirmative. “OK, but I have one condition.”
“If it is in my power to approve,” Dyke answered, intrigued.
“I don't want any payment for anything I do for you. I am not an employee. Do you understand?”
The man at the door frowned. It didn't make sense to him that someone would work for free.
“If that's what you want to keep your conscience clear, then yes, I can arrange that. Anything else?”
“No,”