Charlie Bishop was known around the small coastal town as The Tinker. Though he stood at only five feet, ten inches, his comportment, close-cropped gray hair, and lantern jaw made for an intimidating presence. He had appeared in Royal Beach, seemingly out of nowhere, more than a decade ago, lived in a modest but well-maintained cottage, and drove a wood-paneled Wagoneer that predated his arrival. He could fix just about anything, and the locals relied on his expertise for everything from boat engines to children’s toys. He hadn’t tried to conceal his identity, but he certainly didn’t announce it. Turns out the small fishing hamlet neither knew nor cared who the former U.S. Secretary of Defense was, much less what he looked like. Only the nearly clairvoyant owner of the local diner, Maggie Malloy, recognized him, but to this day rarely mentioned it. Not even to Charlie himself. It was one of the many reasons why he’d married her.
Maggie Malloy-Bishop turned sixty this year and had the energy and demeanor of a woman half her age. Her three children, all boys, from a relatively brief and disastrous first marriage, were grown and off living productive lives. The grandson she had raised after her oldest boy had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant, her little strong man, was off saving the world. Her other grandchildren, three girls that belonged to her middle son and his doctor wife, visited twice a year. Most of the time, she and Charlie had the place to themselves. Her hair had remained a glossy copper, and her pale gray eyes glimmered with a knowledge that belied education. When they had first met, Maggie had joked that with his love for gadgets, his surprising sewing skills, and his military background, Charlie was three of the four men described in the title of JohnleCarré’s classic espionage novel. The only thing missing, or so she thought, was the spy. When the mysterious, dark-suited men began appearing at their door—and disappearing into the back room of the cottage—she reevaluated. She loved Charlie Bishop with her whole heart, and she didn’t need or really want to know the secrets that room held. She knew in her soul he was a good man, and that was enough.
Charlie would have scoffed at Maggie’s assessment. He wasn’t a good man. He had sent young men into deadly circumstances, not that different from the ones he had been ordered into as a soldier. Same shit, different war. He had let evil men walk free in exchange for worse men or vital intelligence. His list of sins was long, but this last leg of his journey to Calvary was without moral ambiguity. He never acted without knowing the whole story. He, more than anyone, knew that people were not always what they seemed. When he was both satisfied he was doing what was right and had the means to do so, he interceded.
This mess with Emily and Jack Webster had plagued him for as long as he had lived in South Carolina. He knew more than most, and what was relevant he shared. When the man he suspected of abducting Emily disappeared from their lives for more than a decade, Charlie had thought the matter closed. Dario Sava had found a new career for himself, a much more volatile career, and a very peculiar choice for a man poised to step into a powerful political position. With a man inside and some discreet surveillance, Charlie had concluded Dario Sava was the arms dealer he sought. Then, out of the blue, there was another attempt to snatch Emily Webster just weeks ago. The timing could not have been more perplexing. Dario Sava was on the verge of pulling off an unprecedented exchange. Why on earth would he complicate such a delicate, intricately timed event with the abduction of a young woman? Was Emily Webster a distraction? A red herring? Or was this something else entirely? One thing was certain: now that Sava seemed to have reignited his interest in Emily, it was time to disclose as much information as he could to Emily and Jack Webster. It was that thought distracting him from the Homeland Security report on his screen when Maggie, quite uncharacteristically, knocked on the door.
“Charlie? There are some people here.”
Her announcement conveyed no other information, but Charlie knew by the tone of her voice that this was not a typical visitor. Not a local needing a winch repaired on a trawler, and certainly not one of the laconic men who called themselves Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown. Yet still, when Charlie opened the door to his office, he couldn’t contain his surprise. A phalanx of four men and a woman stood behind his nephew, his old friend, and the daughter his friend prized above all else. Nathan Bishop, Jack Webster, and Emily Webster. It seemed they had brought the proverbial mountain to Mohammed. There was no hesitation as Charlie rushed to embrace the group, his broad smile conveying his exuberance. The trio returned his affection in kind.
“God damn, it’s good to see you.” Charlie held them tight. “Saved me a trip to that rat trap up north.”
That comment had Nathan’s head shooting up. “You have information?”
Charlie’s natural response was to assess the room. Jack commenced introductions.
“The big guy is Tox, that’s Chat, Ren, and Finn, and the redhead is Twitch. And you remember Emily.”
“Last time I saw you, you socked me in the nose with a sippy cup. Glad to see you’re just as feisty.”
“Good to see you, Charlie.” Charlie didn’t miss Nathan’s possessive hold on Emily’s waist. As if to convey the same attachment, he held out his hand for Maggie, who had been observing the interaction from the kitchen doorway. “This is my Maggie.” There was no need to elaborate. After handshakes and hugs, Maggie said, “I’ll whip something up. You must be hungry.” Ren’s eyes lit up. “I’ll help. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”
Maggie smiled. “A man after my own heart. Amazing how this one,” she cocked her head toward Charlie, “can build a motorcycle out of spare parts but can’t crack an egg. I suspect some intentional incompetence.” Charlie pinked and chuckled, quickly ushering the group into his inner sanctum.
Twitch eyeballed the electronics like a child on Christmas morning. The room seemed to be divided into two different centuries. On one side, a tech set-up rivaled Twitch’s at Knightsgrove-Bishop. Monitors dotted the semicircular desk and a mainframe hummed quietly. A satellite phone was on the desk and a collection of disposable cell phones filled the open drawer below it. A digital lock marked the door of what was certainly a weapons closet, and a workbench held a variety of gadgets. The other side of the room looked like the office of the owner of a bait shop. A rutted desk held a landline and some homemade fishing flies. Paper files, with receipts and accounting records poking out, sat in a precarious stack. A bizarre-looking striped burrfish with bulging eyes and a rectangular body was mounted on the wall behind the desk. Mirroring the tech workbench was another. This one held a small motor, the work surface stained with grease and covered with a smattering of sawdust. Nathan, Charlie, Jack, and Emily settled in a small sitting area. Twitch sat at the computer desk out of habit. Chat, Finn, and Tox stood at various spots around the room.
Charlie slapped his thighs with both hands. “No sense beating about the bush. Let’s talk about Dario Sava.”