LEON OPENED HIS EYES. So he was still alive! That was a nice surprise.
He was lying in a large bed, comfortable. The bed was modern, but the room was old with beams running across the ceiling, a stone fireplace, and narrow windows in an ornate wooden frame. He had seen rooms like this in books when he was studying Shakespeare. There was no sound of traffic. Outside he could see trees.
Someone had undressed him. His school uniform was gone. Instead, he was wearing loose pajamas, silk from the feel of them. From the light outside he would have guessed it was midmorning, he found his watch lying on the table beside the bed and he reached out for it. It was twelve o'clock. It had been around half past four when he had been shot with what must have been a drugged dart. He had lost a whole night and half a day.
There was a bathroom heading off from the bedroom--bright white tiles and a huge shower behind the cylinder of glass and chrome. Leon stripped off the pajamas and stood for five minutes under a jet of steaming water. He felt better after that.
He went back into the bedroom and opened the closet. Someone had been to his house back home. All his clothes were here, neatly hung up. He wondered what Luke had told Kate. Presumably, he would have made up some story to explain Leon's sudden disappearance. He took out a pair of combat trousers, a Nike sweatshirt, and sneakers, got dressed, then sat on the bed and waited.
About fifteen minutes later there was a knock and the door opened. A young Asian woman in a nurse's uniform came in, beaming.
"Oh, you're awake. And dressed. How are you feeling? Not too groggy, I hope. Please come this way. Mr. Ian is expecting you for lunch."
Leon hadn't spoken a word to her. He followed her out of the room along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. The house was indeed old fashion, with wooden panels, along the corridors, chandeliers, and oil paintings of old bearded men in tunics and ruffs.
The stairs led down into a tall galleried room with a rug spread out over the flagstones and a fireplace big enough to park a car in. A long, polished wooden table had been set for three. Ian and a dark, rather masculine woman sucking a peppermint were sitting down.
"Leon," Ian smiled briefly as if it was something he didn't enjoy doing. "It's good of you to join us."
Leon sat down." You didn't give me a lot of choices.''
"Yes. I don't know what Luke was thinking of, having your shot like that, but I suppose it was the easiest was. May I introduce my colleague, Mrs. Christine."
The woman nodded at Leon. Her eyes seemed to examine him minutely, but she said nothing.
"Who are you?" Leon asked, "what do you want with me?"
I'm sure you have a great many questions. But first, let's eat…" Ian must have pressed a hidden button or else he was being overheard, for at that precise moment a door opened and a waiter-in a white jacket and black trousers- appeared carrying three plates. "I hope you like meat," Ian continued.
Leon waited until the food had been served. Ian and Mrs. Christine drank red wine. He stuck to water. Finally, Ian began.
"As I'm sure you've gathered, he said, the national bank is not a bank. In fact, it doesn't exist, nothing more than a cover. And it follows, of course, that your father had nothing to do with banking. He worked for me. My name as I told you at the funeral, is Ian. I am the chief executive of the Special Operations Division of MI6 that deals with supernatural affairs. And you father was, for what better word, a monster hunter."
Leon couldn't help smiling, "You mean like…..Van Hellsing?"
"Similar, although no holy water and crosses and the rest of it. Your father was one of the best, highly trained, and very courageous. He successfully completed assignments in Italy, England, Washington, and Havana..to name but a few. I imagine this must come as a bit of a shock for you."
Leon thought about the dead man, what he had known of him. His privacy. His long absences abroad. And the times he had come home injured. A bandaged arm one time. A bruised face another. Little accidents, Leon had been told. But now it all made sense. "I'm not shocked," he said
Ian cut a neat slice off his meat. "Mark Hunter's luck ran out on his last mission," he went. "He had been working undercover in Mayfield and was driving back to clovertown to make a report when he was killed. You saw the car at the yard-"
"Clever…," Leon muttered, "who are they."
'Just people we use. We have budget restrains, we have to contract some work out. We hired them to clean things up. Mrs. Christine here is our head of operations. It was also she who gave your father his last assignment.''
"We're very sorry to have lost him, Leon." The woman spoke for the first time. She didn't sound sorry at all.
"Do you know who killed him?"
"Yes."
Are you going to tell me?"
"No. Not now."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't need to know. Not at this stage."
"Alright." Leon considered he did know. " My father was a hunter. Thanks to you his dead. I found out too much so you knocked me out and brought me here. Where am I, by the way?"
"This is one of our training centers," Mrs. Christine said
you've brought me here because you don't want me to tell anyone what I know. Is that what this is all about? Because if it is. I'll sign the official secrets act or whatever it is you want me to do, but then I'd like to go home. This is all crazy anyway. And I've had enough. I'm out of here."
Ian coughed quietly, "it's not quite easy as that."
"Why not?"
"It's certainly true that you did draw attention both at the junkyard and then at our office. And it's also true you know what I'm about to tell you must go no further, but the fact of the matter is, Leon, that we need your help."
"My help?"