Eden's Gate Read Free

secured the safety chain.
    He checked the window again; already people had begun to gather for the parade, bringing their lawn chairs and picnic coolers with them. The town was all decked out in red, white, and blue bunting swinging from streetlamps. A squad of men who looked to be in their fifties, wearing bits and pieces of military uniforms, marched by. A blue and white police car was parked on the corner, but the cop was nowhere in sight. Nor were the people he’d come here to make contact with. But that would change soon.
    He stepped away from the window and took his 9mm Beretta from the waistband beneath his sweater at the small of his back. He cycled all nine rounds out of the breach to check the action, then removed the magazine, reloaded the rounds in the same order they had come out, and stuffed the gun back in his waistband.
    Breakfast was softly scrambled eggs, a rasher of medium-done bacon, hash browns, tomato juice with a slice of lemon, and unsweetened hot tea, also with a slice of lemon. He sat down to it, one eye toward the goings-on down on the street, and the other on the door. He was a man who did not like surprises not of his own making, and he had a feeling that this town, or at least the surrounding countryside, had plenty of them.
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    After breakfast he had a smoke by the open window. The street was filling up with people now, many of whom had already set up along the curbs. There were kids and dogs everywhere. In the distance to the northwest he could hear several different marching bands warming up, and every few minutes the fire engine would give a blast on its siren.
    Lane used his cell phone to make a local call. Everything would depend on timing, he thought as he waited for it to go through.
    Frances Shipley answered it on the first ring, her husky British accent mellifluous and out of place almost anywhere except in London
or on stage. He and Frannie, who was a lieutenant commander in Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, had been married for one year. Lane could not imagine a life without her. Together they headed a super secret and very tiny organization of troubleshooters for the White House and number 10 Downing Street called simply “The Room.”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œI’m getting set to head downstairs. Is everything ready on your end? Tommy’s in place?”
    â€œHe’s about a half-block out. Looks like he’s eating an ice cream cone. Cheeky bugger.”
    â€œAh, some people have all the luck.”
    â€œYes, don’t we, darling?” Frannie said sweetly.
    â€œAny sign of our people? I haven’t seen anything from here yet.”
    â€œThey’re in town.”
    â€œOkay, don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Lane said, and he was about to switch off.
    â€œWatch yourself, William,” Frannie cautioned.
    â€œYou, too. Ta-ta.” Lane broke the connection, pocketed the phone, and pulling on a light Gucci leather jacket, left his room and headed downstairs.
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    The parade was a half hour from starting and downtown was full. Shops such as clothing stores and hardware stores, and banks, post offices, city hall, and libraries were closed for the holiday. But places like restaurants, gift shops, bakeries, and ice cream shops were open and doing a land office business. There was probably no one left in town who wasn’t here, and the tourists were easy to spot because their boots and jeans were too new, and they stood around self-consciously.
    Lane spotted the woman across the street coming out of an art gallery specializing in Indian and cowboy artifacts. She was very tall and slender, wearing a light yellow dress with large blue polka dots, and a very large, gay nineties sort of summer hat that on her looked fantastic. Her maiden name was Gloria Swanson, and like her namesake she had wanted to become a serious actor. But because of a lack of talent she’d never made it. In her late forties,