Bill smiled. "Think it'll do any good?"
"I only know of one way to find out."
"You're right. Will you go with me?"
"Me? Why?"
Bill shifted on the couch. "Maybe if you're with me, they'll see that somebody English is behind me and at least give me a fair hearing."
Molly nodded slowly. "I see. Very well, I'll go."
They stepped on each other as they forced themselves into the rat's nest this man called an office. Papers and empty disposable coffee cups littered the place, and a huge desk dominated virtually all the floor space. Bill whispered to Molly, "If this is an example of what the whole shop is like, I hope they only work on sub-compacts."
A collection of variously-sized wrinkles greeted them non-committally from behind the desk. "Which of you is here for the job?"
Bill extended his hand. "I am. Bill Hall, Mr.--?"
"Yank," said the wrinkles.
"Mr. Yank. Pleased to meet you." The wrinkles had not accepted his hand, so he withdrew it.
"No, you're a Yank. I'm not Mr. Yank, I'm Mr. Palmer. You're a Yank. That's all I need to know. Get out of here. I got no jobs for bloody Yanks."
Molly offered her hand. "Bill is my nephew, Mr. Palmer. My name is--"
"I don't care what your name is. You didn't tell me on the phone that he was a Yank. You go, too. Beat it."
Bill clenched his fists. "I'll beat it, Palmer. But 'it' just might be your head. I always thought the English had manners. I ought to belt you for talking to a lady like that."
The wrinkles shrugged. "I ain't no flippin' royalty, just a mechanic. I talk any way I please and to whom I please. And I don't please to talk to you any more, Yank." He turned to Molly and gave a mock bow. "Or to you, your ladyness."
Bill grasped the lip of the desk with his fingers, braced his left foot on one of the ornately carved legs and lifted. The oak seams began to crack and groan as Bill exerted more and more pressure.
Palmer jumped up. "What are you doing? You'll rip the top off my desk doing that!"
"That's right," Bill grunted.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because I don't like you. Because you're a jerk and a bigot. Because I feel like it. Or maybe it's 'D', all of the above."
Palmer sat down in defeat. "All right, all right. Stop before you destroy a perfectly good antique. What do you want, Mr. Hill?"
"Hall," Bill corrected.
"It's right behind you through that door, Mr. Hill."
Two weeks later, Palmer congratulated himself on having hired the Yank. He knew every kind of car from the newest English models to a 40-year-old Volkswagen. His diagnostic skill bordered on the magical; Palmer sometimes wondered if Bill didn't have x-ray vision.
Under Molly's coaching, Bill began to understand British money well enough to know that Palmer was paying him slave wages. He considered bringing the subject up, but decided that finally having a job was a major blessing, and he had better not press his luck.
One evening about a month after he started working, he came home with his hands dyed a deep brown. "I'm home, Auntie dear," he called. She hated the title and he loved to tease her with it.
Molly grinned to herself and wiped her hands on a towel by the sink where she had been preparing supper. She turned slowly and hobbled toward him like an ancient witch. In a voice that adults use to address small children she said, "Well, how's my big boy tonight? Did you keep your trousers dry today, or did you have an accident again? Oh, my! Look at those hands! You've been playing in the mud again, haven't you?"
Bill collapsed in a chair, laughing. He signaled for a time-out and asked for a truce. Molly savored her victory for a moment and sat. "How did it go today?"
Bill shrugged. "Tell me about your day first."
She waved the question off. "One day at the fabric shop is virtually the same as another."
"Must be nice."
"What do you mean?"
"Palmer keeps losing customers because they don't want a Yank working on their cars. He's tried several times to explain that I didn't push the stupid buttons, but they won't listen. I can really see major bigotry developing here." He sighed. "And in a way I guess I can't blame them."
"Oh, dear. If you're going to start wallowing in guilt again I shall go visit someone. Anyone, in fact."
Bill grinned. "Say hello for me." Molly chuckled and returned to the kitchen.
Bill flipped the TV on. A BBC commentator blandly recited casualty figures from the continued fighting in South America. Another team of investigators disappeared in Africa. Israel was invading what parts of Iraq had escaped the radiation. The Israelis already controlled Jordan and most of Syria. The Iraqis were on the defensive and called for help from the other Arab countries. None answered them.
Bill reached to turn the set off, but paused as the newsman turned to local events.
"Anti-American sentiment appears to be on the rise once more. Near Billingshurst in West Sussex today an angry mob hanged three American tourists. There were no trees in the area suitable for the event, so the perpetrators suspended their victims from the balcony of a summer house, using heavy electrical cords as ropes. This latest act is the nearest one yet to the London area, most such demonstrations taking place far to the north in the rural areas. Experts suggest that the growing anti-Colonial attitude could eventually penetrate the Capital City itself. In other news. . . "
Bill trembled, but not from fear. He tried to picture three innocent people. Were they men? Women? Children? The announcer hadn't even bothered to say. It was enough that they were Americans. He considered the man's euphemisms. Why didn't they call it what it was? Murder. But the victims were Americans, so murder was downgraded to "demonstration."
The next day at work, Palmer cornered him. "Don't talk to anyone today. If they find out you're a Yank you could end up like those three yesterday." Bill nodded. "Not that I care if one more Yank lives or dies, but I'd hate to lose a good mechanic who works cheap."
Bill grimaced. "Thanks a bunch."
He obeyed the order by keeping his head under hoods ("bonnets," he corrected himself) all day. Toward the end of the day the customers drifted away and left Bill with his employer. Bill leaned over the engine compartment while Palmer lay under the front end, inspecting the underside of the bright red Ferrari's V-12.
"You were right again," Palmer said. "These rod bushings have had a pretty rough go of it." He peeked around the block at Bill. "Good job, Yank."
"Thanks."
"You can go now if you want, Yank."
Bill winced. "Let me tell you something, Wrinkles."
Palmer snapped, "You know I don't appreciate anyone calling me that."
"And I don't appreciate being called 'Yank.'" Bill straightened a little and stared at a spot on a far wall. "I'm not a 'Yank' any more. Fact is, I don't know what I am. I'm stuck in a country that hates me for being born in the wrong place. I think I'm beginning to understand how some of America's minority people used to feel." He turned back to the engine.
Palmer frowned. "Tell me something, Mr. Hill," he said as he scooted himself out from under the car.
"You just sat on your wrench, Mr. Palmer."
"I did? Where is it?"
Bill choked on his laughter. "I said you sat on it."
Palmer turned red. "I don't believe I asked that."
"You wouldn't believe the one-liners that popped into my head."
Palmer cleared the bumper and stood with the wrench in his grease-covered hand. "Probably the same ones that popped into mine. Tell me your first name again, Hill."
"Hall."
"Hall Hill? That's an odd name."
Bill rolled his eyes. "No, Mr. Palmquist."
"My name is Palmer, Mr. Hill."
"And my last name is Hall. H-A-L-L. My first name is William. My friends call me Bill. You can call me Mr. Hill--" He squinted and shouted, "I mean Hall!"
Palmer doubled over laughing. Bill joined him. "Now you've got me doing it!"
Palmer calmed himself and leaned against the fender. "I have to tell you something, Bill--may I call you Bill? No matter, I will anyway. I've been doing that deliberately."
"I know."
Palmer shook his head. "You're remarkable. What you said just now. No reproach, no hint of anger or vengeance. Why?"
"Because it wouldn't do any good, I guess."
Palmer shrugged, then looked at the floor. "You haven't been here long enough to understand what people are feeling. I've seen this land through two wars and several economic setbacks and disasters. But without having lived here before the War, you can have no idea what the destruction of America has done to our economy. When your country died, ours collapsed. We've been so dependent on American commerce for so long that the death of the States threatens to destroy our whole way of life."
"Babylon has fallen," Bill whispered to the open garage door.
"Beg pardon?"
"Nothing. Just. . . something I read once."
Bill decided he was familiar enough with the London streets to take a different way home. For reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted to see the American Embassy. As he approached with both the front windows of Molly's car down, strange sounds floated to his ears.
A large crowd pressed against the iron gate of the Embassy. Bill pulled the car to a stop at a safe distance and listened.
"Give us protection!"
"How long before these crazy Limeys string us up, too?"
"We're Americans! You're supposed to take care of us!"
A man in a dark suit and aviator sunglasses strode down the driveway. The terrified Marine guard at the gate eagerly stepped back to let the Secret-Service man take over. The man with the sunglasses raised his hands for silence, but the throng continued to shout and shake the gate. The man whispered something to the guard. The Marine raised his rifle and fired three quick shots in the air. The mob quieted immediately.
The agent shouted, "Do you people have a spokesperson?"
The confused group mumbled to itself. A tall man in a cowboy hat pushed his way to the front. "I'm the spokesman." The crowd nodded its approval.
"All right, spokesman. What do you people want?"
"We want refuge in the Embassy. As American citizens we demand that you protect us. They're murdering Americans out there!" The mob rumbled affirmation.
The Secret Service man held up his hands again, and the rumble ceased. "Just where do you think we'd put you all? And even if we do let you in, then what? What do you do for food? For money? Do you think this many people can just stash themselves in a compound like this forever?"
The Texan roared. "Are you refusing to help us? Do you know who I am, turkey?" He reached through the bars of the gate.
The agent stood well out of reach. "I don't care who you were. If you were rich and prominent in the States, you're just another guy in a hat here." He stepped forward and caught the grasping hand, pinning the arm against the iron bar. "Get this through your fat head. All of you." He shouted to the crowd, "There is no more America. We all have to start over again. The Ambassador's trying to find a job and nobody'll hire her. Me, when I'm not here protecting the lives I swore to protect, I park cars at a downtown hotel. The British want to storm the Embassy and kick us all out onto the streets. So crashing this place won't do any good. Understand?" He released his grip and the Texan withdrew his arm.
Bill shook his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched a bottle smash at the man's feet. Sunglasses drew his pistol while the Marine leveled his rifle. Neither could bring himself to fire. The mob began to chant, "Let us in, let us in" and threw themselves against the gate. A woman toward the center of the crowd fell and disappeared under dozens of feet. More bottles crashed.
Already Bill could hear sirens in the distance. He eased the car into gear and drove away.
As he rounded a corner he stopped again. Several youths were beating a man on the sidewalk. He never could say why, but Bill sailed out of the car and charged screaming at the gang, fists poised. Two of the group turned to meet him.
Bill threw a flying tackle on one of them and knocked him back, which took out two other youths. The other one turned to hit Bill, but Bill's foot lashed out and caught the side of the man's knee. As he scrambled to his feet Bill mumbled, "The weakest joint in the body. Totally unprotected." An elbow drove into his left kidney. He spun and caught the side of the attacker's head with his own elbow. Aching from the blow he had received, Bill clutched the men's victim by the front of the shirt and hauled him to his feet. "Come on. Let's get out of here!"
The victim staggered into the street, bleeding from countless cuts and scrapes. Bill paused to pound one more face and saw that several of the young men had regrouped and prepared to rush him.
He silently prayed that they got old Eastwood movies over here. He reached in his shirt under his arm and smiled. In his best "tough guy" voice he said, "Go ahead. Make my day." He twitched his hand under the shirt a couple of times.
The men stopped. They exchanged looks and ran away down the sidewalk. The man Bill had rescued shuffled to his side and said with a heavy Russian accent, "Why do you not shoot them?"
Bill glanced at the man and said, "Why not?" He drew his hand out, made a pistol of his fingers, pointed at the retreating mob and said, "Bang."
The Russian stared. "You do not have gun?"
"Just this one."
"But they think you did."
"That's the idea."
"You take great chance."
Bill shrugged. "Why not? I used to bluff at poker and I was pretty good. Of course, that was in my B.C. days."
The Russian looked confused. "B.C. days? You are two thousand years old?"
He stumbled and Bill caught him. "Come on. I'll try to explain in the car. For now, we need to get you attended to. I don't know any doctors in town, and it's probably too risky to try to find one who will treat a Russian brought in by an American. Let's go to my place. Molly will know what to do." The Russian stared at him as Bill slapped the car into gear.
By the time they reached the apartment, the Russian was unconscious. Bill carried him up the stairs, awkwardly worked the door open and pushed his way in. Molly jumped in her chair as the TV droned.
"Bill, what on earth? Oh, my. Bring him over here." They spread the man out on the couch. With amazing efficiency Molly stripped his shirt off and assessed his wounds. "Doesn't appear to be anything serious. He'll be sore for a few days, though. Let's get some rags and peroxide and dress these cuts."
Bill followed her to the kitchen. "Why's he unconscious if it's not serious?"
Exhaustion, most likely. Taking a beating such as this tends to drain one a bit."
Bill caught her and hugged her. "You're something else. I drag a stranger in here and you immediately take care of him. You don't ask who he is, why's he hurt, how the heck did I get involved--nothing. You're very special, you know that?"
She blushed. "If you didn't feel he needed my help, you wouldn't have brought him here, now would you?"
"Logical."
"Quite. Now let's see to your friend."
When the Russian awoke he found himself encased in a blanket and felt fresh bandages in several places. He turned his head and met Molly's gaze. He said something in Russian.
"I hope that means 'Hello,'" Molly said.
The man smiled. "Actually it means, 'Where the--that is, where am I?'"
"In my apartment. I'm Molly Sanders." She held out her hand. The Russian hesitated.
"It's all right. You're safe here. Bill saw to that."
His face showed confusion, then growing comprehension. "Ah, Bill. This must be big American with pretend gun."
It was Molly's turn to look confused. The Russian said, "Well, if you are friend of my Good Samothracian, you are my friend." He took the offered hand. "I am Vasily Breshnev. No relation."
Molly sized him up. About 25, five foot ten or eleven, slight build but wiry with dark curly hair and the deepest brown eyes she had ever seen. He was clean-shaven and quite handsome.
"Your good Samaritan's name is Bill Hall. You're right, he's an American. Or was. Now he lives here with me. He's my nephew."
"He is angel of mercy to me."
"Tell me what happened."
Vasily groaned to a sitting position. Bill slipped into the room from the bedroom where he had been nursing his own wounds and listened to Vasily's tale.
"I was soldier at Russian Embassy. When the war destroy my country I was, as you Westerners say, out of job. The officials fly at once back to Moscow--where Moscow used to be--to die at home. I did not care to be so noble.
"I look for work but everybody here hate Russians for the War. I try to tell them the Americans start it--" Bill grimaced.
"--But they do not listen. Then this group of street boys, they say no Russians allowed on sidewalk. So I step into street, not wanting trouble. They say no Russians allowed in their street. So I step onto sidewalk. They say, 'We told you no Russians on sidewalk' and they attack. Eight, maybe ten boys. Not boys, no. About same age as your Bill, maybe little younger. Too many. I think I about to die. Then comes screaming madman, beats up boys and takes me to safety. They make to attack him and he reaches inside shirt for gun. Just like Marshall Dillon. 'Go ahead, make day for me,' he say. They run away. Then this screaming madman points finger like this and say, 'Bang!' I never see anything similar. This American is crazy, but I owe him my life."
"Not a bad rendition, Vasily." Vasily turned and discovered Bill standing behind the couch. He turned red under Bill's friendly smile.
"I thank you, friend Bill." He offered his hand and Bill shook it heartily. As Bill stepped around and sat beside him Vasily said, "When you come to my aid, did you know I was a Russian?"
Bill shifted position nervously, muttering a little "ouch" as his ribs protested the move. He looked toward Molly. "How about getting me a beer? I'll bet our friend could use one, too."
Vasily nodded. "If it would be no trouble."
Molly went to the kitchen and returned with two cans. Bill popped the top on his and took two long gulps. Vasily hissed his open and sipped slowly.
"You have not answered my question, friend."
Bill took another swallow. "No, I didn't know. I didn't care, either. Whatever differences our two countries had really don't seem to mean anything now. We're both strangers in a hostile country trying to do the best we can. I saw a man in trouble and felt it was my duty as a human and a Christian to help if I could."
Vasily recoiled. "A Christian? My friend, you must keep this to yourself."
Molly said, "Why?"
"Europeans, they blame Christian religion for the War. French lead this move, but already Germans, Spanish and Austrians make laws that condemn religion of Destroyer, Masters."
Bill said, "I don't remember anything about that on the news. If Christians were in trouble, I'd think Palmer would have told me about it. He knows I'm a Christian, besides being a 'Yank.'" He turned to Molly. "By the way, he and I had it out today."
Vasily sipped his beer while Bill told of Wrinkles Palmer and Hall Hill the Yank. Molly and Vasily laughed frequently at the exchange.
Later, after a hot meal and a little television, Vasily announced that he had to go. Bill tried to protest.
"It is dangerous for you," he said. "As long as you are related you may be safe. But I am intruder, 'Ruskie' who only bring you trouble. Also you are best not to tell people you are Christians. Britain still say 'no' to French demand to outlaw religion, but some in Parliament favor such idea."
"Look, Vasily. Nobody knows you're here. Why don't you at least sack out here for the night so you can feel better in the morning?"
"My friend, you risk yourself for me already. I have whole Russian Embassy to myself. Biggest house I ever live in." He laughed, then turned serious. "We do not know if these men see where you take me. I thank you both for kindness, but I must leave." They shook hands all around, then embraced. Vasily stepped out the door.
Bill watched at the window to catch another glimpse of his friend. His linebacker's vision caught a slight movement across the street. A metallic glint sent a chill through him.
Without a word he leaped to the door. Molly shouted after him, but he had already leaped down the two flights of steps. He reached the outside door just as two loud cracks ripped through his mind. He jerked the door open and saw a heap on the sidewalk.
Bill rolled his friend over and searched in vain for a pulse. Two huge bloodstains on the Russian's chest confirmed that Vasily Breshnev was dead.
Receding footsteps pulled his attention from the body. Without thinking, he sprinted after the sound. The Briton didn't run very fast, and Bill caught him within a block. He slammed the gunman against a wall and heard the gun clatter on the concrete sidewalk.
As Bill spun the man around to face him he recognized one of the street gang from the afternoon melee. He imagined he could identify his own knuckle-print on the man's broken nose.
"I say! He was only a bloody Ruskie!"
Bill grasped the man's neck on either side of the larynx and glared his anger into the wide, frightened eyes. "That 'Ruskie' was a man. More of a man than you'll ever be, Limey!" His voice was a deadly rasp.
"Good God, a Yank!"
"That's right. And all I need to do is exert a little pressure with my thumbs and you're as dead as my friend back there. Justice for murder, huh?"
The man tried to shake his head from side to side as Bill slowly squeezed his windpipe. His knee shot up and sent a burning spear through Bill from his groin to his spine. Bill collapsed as his enemy stumbled away.
Through a haze of pain, Bill groped and found the gun. Rage and anguish over Vasily's murder gave him the strength to raise it and fire once. The fugitive's hands fluttered toward his back as his body lurched forward and dropped to the street. Bill fainted.
He opened his eyes, then shut them against the bright light above him. Oh, Lord, he thought. The police have me. They're going to interrogate me.
Molly's voice said, "Bill, can you hear me?"
He slitted his eyes and saw her lean over him to put a cold cloth on his head. "That feels good," he breathed. "Where are we?"
"At home. You've no idea what a time I had dragging you here."
He opened his eyes and looked at a blank wall. "I killed a man."
"I know. Just rest."
He felt as if his insides had been ripped out from the knee shot he had taken. "How did you find me?"
"I followed the shots. When you bolted out the door I came after you. I found Vasily--" Her voice cracked. "There was nothing I could do."
"I know."
"Then I heard the other shot. I ran after it. I was afraid he'd got you, too. When I saw you lying there--then I saw this." She held up the gun. Bill thought it looked like the pictures he had seen of the old German Lugers. "I searched briefly and found the man you shot. He was dead."
"Probably still is."
Molly shook her head. "Yes, I suppose so. What did he do to you?"
"I don't know a polite way to answer that."
She smiled. "I think I get the picture."
Bill thought of his hand pulling the trigger that snuffed out a life and felt sick. "I've never been so mad. All I could think of was how he had to pay for what he did to Vasily." He turned his head and looked at her. "Revenge isn't as sweet as it's cracked up to be."
"Can you stand?"
"Enough to go throw up, I think." He worked his way to a sitting position and the nausea eased. He stood and minced around the room. "This place looks different. What's going on?"
"The police are looking for an unidentified American who shot a British citizen. They have a partial description. Before you ask, there was no mention of Vasily." She took a deep breath. "Also, that man had friends. If he knew where we are, so do they. We can't stay here. I've packed most of our essentials."
Bill now understood what was different. The personal touches were gone. The place looked more like a furnished apartment than a home. "Much as I hate to admit it, you're right. What time is it?"
"Two-thirty in the morning."
"So where do we go?"
"I don't know. But I doubt that we can stay in London, and persecution of Americans is getting worse everywhere else."
Bill took her hand. "Look. Maybe I'd better go it alone from here. There's no need for you to get mixed up in all this. You've got a home, a life--I'm the one they want, not you. This thing's getting ugly. Look what happened to poor Vasily. If something like that's going to happen to me, too, I don't want you getting nailed."
Molly drew her hand away and went to the kitchen. As Bill listened to the water run, he realized that he had come to think of her as the major focus of his life. She returned, sipping a glass of water. He studied the face, found himself noticing the flat chest, the broad but not fat hips. Then he noticed tears forming in the eyes.
"With all the excitement today--I mean yesterday--I didn't get to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I lost my job."
Bill Blinked several times. "Lost your--how? Why?"
"Would you believe harboring a Yank?"
Bill sat down heavily. The pain that wrenched him reminded him that he shouldn't have done that. "That's just what I mean. I'm nothing but trouble to you."
Molly acted as if she hadn't heard. "I don't know how they found out. I tried to explain that you're a relative, but they just shoved my pay in my hand and shoved me out the door." She sat beside him and offered him the glass. "It's not your fault. If it weren't that, they would have fired me because I'm a Christian. They've been looking for an excuse ever since they found they couldn't corrupt me."
"Are you sure you're not just saying that?"
"Look, Bill. Egad, I'm starting to sound like you. At any rate, your predicament has given me a chance to put my beliefs into action. So please stop talking as though you're a burden to me. You're not."
Bill thought for a bit while he drank the water. He burped as he tried to speak and they both laughed.
"Well, I appreciate that. I've been wondering lately if I'm not causing you a lot of grief." He paused for effect, enjoying her smile. "I heard some scuttlebutt at work yesterday. How do you feel about Switzerland?"
Her mouth fell open. "Switzerland?"
"As usual, they're neutral in all this. We'd be safe there for the time being."
She cocked her head to one side. "Switzerland. Alps and fine clocks. Why not?"