The Discrete Charm of Charlie Monk

by David Ambrose

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

Charlie Monk is the ultimate spy. He has no conscience, no fear--and no memory. Dr. Susan Flemyng thinks she may have found a way to give him his memory back. As the two of them embark on a series of experiments to recover Charlie's long-lost memory, they find something terrifying in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Release date: March 17, 2003

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 320

Sample

The middle-aged man seated opposite Susan nodded emphatically, anxious to convince her that he was paying attention and taking
in everything she said.


“Of course I understand. Of course I understand,” he repeated. “I’m not stupid. All I’m asking is that somebody tells me what’s
going on. What am I doing here?”


Susan was careful to maintain eye contact with him as she spoke. “You’ve had a viral infection of a very rare kind. It’s all
cleared up now, and physically you’re perfectly well. However, it has damaged a part of your brain, which has affected your
memory.”


“That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I know who I am, I know where I live, what I do…”

“You remember everything that happened before you were attacked by the virus.”

“But I haven’t been sick. I lead a perfectly normal life with my wife and family, and now suddenly I wake up in this place.
It’s obvious what’s happened. I’ve been kidnapped!”


He was becoming agitated, shifting on his chair, waving his hands and slapping the table to emphasize a point.

“You haven’t been kidnapped, Brian. This is a hospital. You’re being looked after.”

“Why am I wearing these clothes? Where did these clothes come from?” He got to his feet, disdainfully brushing the white cotton
smock and trousers he had on.


“They’re hospital issue. They’re what you always wear in here.”

“How long have I been here? Where’s my wife?”

“Your wife’s waiting to see you.”

“Well, bring her in, for heaven’s sake! Where is she?”

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and get her.” Susan stood up. “There’s just one thing, Brian. You’ll find she’s changed.”

“Changed? Changed how? What do you mean?”

“She looks older than you remember her.”

His brow creased with a puzzled frown. “Why? Why should she look older? Is this some kind of trick? Are you playing a trick
on me?”


“It’s not a trick, Brian. It’s just that you remember her as she was a long time ago, before your illness. The last time you
saw her was only three days ago, but the way you remember her is the way she looked twenty years ago.”


He blinked rapidly several times as he stared at her, still frowning. “I don’t understand. Why are you saying all this? You’re
trying to confuse me.”


She shook her head gently. “No, just trying to prepare you, Brian. I’ll go and bring your wife in now, if you’re ready.”

“I wish you would. I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t know what’s going on here. I want to see my wife, and
I’d be glad if you’d get her.”


There was panic in his voice, as well as the indignant tone of someone who feels he has been badly mistreated and to whom
an apology is overdue. It was the way this conversation between them always ended. The moment she was through the door and
out of sight, he wouldn’t remember a thing: not a word that had been spoken, nor even the fact that she had been there. Even
if she came back after five seconds, it would be as though he had never seen her before.


Susan closed the door behind her and entered an adjoining room where a male nurse sat watching a TV monitor. On it she could
see the room she’d just left, with Brian Kay standing with his arms folded defiantly, gazing at the door she’d closed behind
her. In a few moments, she knew, a puzzled look would come over his face—rather like someone who’d walked into some room in
his house, the kitchen, perhaps, or a bedroom, and suddenly couldn’t remember what he’d wanted there. After a moment, he would
give up trying and let the mystery drop, then he would go and stare out the window (which did not open and was unbreakable)
until something else happened to distract his attention.


Susan waited, and sure enough, as though he were following the scenario she’d just written in her head, he went over to the
window and remained there. Susan went through another door and into a corridor.


As she walked, she caught a glimpse of herself in a glass door, moving with that stately grace that being almost seven months
pregnant brought to a woman. At least it did to her. Or, to be precise, she thought of it as a stately grace. To others it
may have resembled more a ducklike waddle. She may even have thought such a thing herself in the past. But now, pregnant for
the first time, and more thrilled about it than by anything she’d ever done, she decided that “stately grace” was the only
possible description of her progress.


In a small, bare side room to the right at the end of the corridor, sitting on a plain, square sofa, was a woman around fifty
with graying hair and a face that must have once been very pretty, but was now lined and drawn with worry. She looked up anxiously
as Susan approached her.


“All right, Dorothy,” she said to the older woman, “if you’re ready…”

The woman nodded and got to her feet, clutching the purse that had been resting on her lap as though it gave her some measure
of confidence for these painful twice-weekly confrontations. The two women started back up the corridor.


“How’s it going?” the older woman asked, glancing at the bulge around Susan’s midriff.

“You know—good days and bad, the way it’s supposed to. At least so the books say.”

Dorothy smiled. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

“Have you picked a name?”

“Christopher. After my husband’s father, who died last year. Then Amery, after my father. It’s an old German name— Almeric
originally—used in English since the Norman conquest. Eventually it got over to France and became Amery. But we’ll call him
Christopher.”


“Nice name. I always liked Christopher.”

They entered the room where the nurse still sat before his TV monitor. He had been joined by a colleague whom Susan knew slightly.
They exchanged a nod of acknowledgment. On the screen Brian Kay could still be seen, gazing out the window, motionless.


Susan opened the door in the far wall and stood aside to let Dorothy enter. Brian turned to see who had come in, and for some
moments gazed at the woman who stood before him without so much as a flicker of recognition in his face.


Eventually she said softly, “Brian?”

It was usually the voice that made the connection for him. Recognition dawned, and with it came the appalling shock, the realization
that something was terribly and inexplicably wrong.


“Dorothy…?”

His voice trembled with disbelief, his breath taken away by the completeness of his inability to grasp the moment.

“My God, what’s happened? Are you ill? Your face…!”

They began again the process of calming and explaining that Dorothy had to endure each time she came to see the man she loved.
“This is Dr. Flemyng. She’s trying to help you, darling. You have to be patient.”


Brian looked at Susan, as though somehow offended by her presence. “I’ve never seen this woman in my life. What do you mean
she’s trying to help me? Help me how? What’s going on?”


Susan looked back at him with a gentle smile and prepared to go through the tortuous ritual yet again. But at the back of
her mind was a nagging thought that she hadn’t yet allowed herself to speak about to anyone. She barely even allowed herself
to think that maybe, just maybe, the idea that had been playing in her imagination these past few weeks could work.


It would take time, and a good deal of refinement and research, but maybe she had spotted an opening that would provide a
way through the cruel armor of his amnesia.




THE SEA WAS a slab of cold gray steel beneath a moonless sky. Only as they descended almost to its surface did it come alive, its ceaseless
motion growing more visible with every foot of altitude they lost.


A few yards above the rolling swell, a door was hauled back in the helicopter’s side and a blast of cold air hit the four
occupants—two pilots, the operator of the winch, and the man in wet suit and helmet who was to be lowered to the black waters
beneath.


Charlie Monk watched as the torpedo-shaped object on which his life would depend for the next few hours descended before him
and lay bobbing on the waves, attached to the hovering chopper by a single line. Then he hitched himself into a body-harness
and prepared to be swung out into space.


As he descended, he used the line to pull the floating object into position directly beneath him. He dropped onto it like
a man astride a motorbike, his legs in the water up to his thighs. Before releasing his harness, he pressed a switch and started
the battery-operated motor. Satisfied that it was running smoothly, he released his harness, detached the line from the dinghy,
and waved all clear to the chopper. Moments later, it had disappeared into the night, the clatter of its engine replaced by
the lazy, timeless sound of wind and waves.


Charlie stretched out on his stomach and fixed his feet into the cavity provided. Then, lying flat along the craft, he began
traveling over the water at a little over five knots. The electric motor was virtually silent, and the only proof of its surprising
power was the hard slap of water as the tiny craft skimmed and bounced its way across the choppy sea. When he really opened
up the throttle it would do far more—up to fifty knots in the right conditions, though out here the ocean was too rough for
top speed: The craft would merely bounce and capsize. But if he dipped the nose and plowed beneath the waves, it would become
a supercharged submersible, fast enough to catch, invisibly and silently, just about anything at sea.


A control panel set into the smooth surface of the machine gave him its speed and exact position according to satellite. He
calculated that in ten minutes at most, the lights of the luxury private yacht with which he was to rendezvous should become
visible.


He opened up the throttle a fraction. The little craft bucked and slapped the water harder than before. It was an uncomfortable
ride, even painful after a while. The trick of enduring it was more than simply to ignore it; what Charlie had been trained
to do was empty his mind of everything except the task ahead. His reflexes would take care of the rest. One of his instructors
had called it a state of active meditation. Charlie had never been sure what that meant; all he cared was that it worked,
helping him curb his impatience despite the adrenaline that was pulsing through his veins.


Another glance at the panel under his chin told him that the boat he was looking for should be in sight by now. He lifted
his gaze to the horizon, but could see nothing. He slipped his night goggles over his eyes—and immediately saw a cluster of
lights in the distance, no more than pinpricks in the darkness. The Lady Alexandra was exactly where she was supposed to be. He set course to intercept.


The standard maneuver was to submerge and approach from behind. On a night like this he could stay on the surface until he
was almost level with the vessel; there was little chance of being seen. However, he could save time by diving now and opening
up the throttle underwater. He reached down to the side of the craft and pressed a catch to open a panel. From the cavity
behind it he pulled out an air line with a mask, which he attached to his face.


Moments later his world was transformed into a silent, inky blackness that he sped through with exhilarating speed. The computer
kept him on course and would slow him automatically when he drew close to the yacht. It would also negotiate any invisible
obstacles picked up by his sensors: Sleeping whales, for example, were best avoided.


But tonight his trajectory was swift and direct. When he felt himself decelerate, he looked up through his goggles and saw
the hull just ahead, its twin screws, each powered by a thirteen thousand horsepower diesel engine, churning through the water.
He knew the vessel had set sail from the Canaries and was heading for New York, planning to make landfall at the Ambrose Lighthouse.
Although she would be capable of twenty-eight or thirty knots full speed, she could only cover such a distance by keeping
her speed to something between twelve and fifteen knots. As he tracked her, he found she was doing thirteen.


Staying beneath the waterline, he brought himself alongside toward the stern. As he closed in, he pressed another switch to
inflate an air bag that would cushion his contact with the aluminum hull. From the nose of his craft he extended a steel arm
with a suction cup on the end that would hold it in place alongside the yacht until he needed it again. Only then did he kill
the motor.


His head broke the surface of the water and peered up cautiously. He saw that only a handful of cabin windows were lit; it
was 3:00 A.M. and some of the eight-strong crew would most likely be asleep. The yacht’s owner, he knew, had a reputation for working
and making phone calls late into the night, so he expected to find him awake, along with anyone he might consider necessary
to his comfort and convenience.


So far as he could see, there was no sign of any movement on deck. The yacht’s engines had taken on a different note now that
he listened to them from above the waterline: a distant, muted hum had replaced the throbbing growl of sheer brute power.


Using two suction pads like the one he had fixed underwater to hold his torpedo scooter in place, he began to haul himself
up the hull. Each pad was fixed and released by the operation of a tiny valve; the rest was muscle power, each arm and shoulder
in turn taking the full weight of his whole body.


When he reached the rail he paused to check again that there was nobody in sight, then left the pads where they were and swung
himself over and onto the deck. He had been briefed on the precise layout of the vessel, even studying copies of the builder’s
plans. He had committed every detail to memory, so that he knew precisely where he was and what to look out for.


He moved swiftly, the blackness of his clothing making him all but invisible. Only the wet footprints he left behind showed
that anyone had been there, and in a moment they would disappear. When he reached the double doors that he was looking for,
he dropped one hand to his hip and slipped the silenced automatic from its holster. His other hand pushed one of the doors
silently open, and he slipped through, scanning the space inside for signs of movement. There were none.


A staircase appeared ahead of him, reaching a landing ten steps down, which then forked into two more flights that doubled
back beneath the first one. He took the right fork, then headed down a corridor toward the prow. The concealed lighting provided
a soft, luxurious glow. Ahead was a corner, and he could see that the light beyond it was brighter. This meant that there
was probably a bodyguard, maybe two, outside the stateroom of the man he was looking for.


He stopped, pressing his back to the wall, listening. The distant vibration of the engines traveled through every surface
in the ship—almost imperceptibly, but enough to mask the faint sounds of movement or even breathing that he was straining
to catch.


Then he heard it—the unmistakable crack of a tendon as a leg was stretched or crossed, plus the heavy yawn of somebody bored
and making an effort to stay awake. There was no other sound, no spoken exchange, no grunted acknowledgment by one man of
another’s presence. He concluded there was only one of them.


Charlie turned the corner with a movement so swift and balanced that it was almost balletic. The big man who had just rearranged
himself on his tubular steel and leather chair had barely time to realize what was happening before the edge of Charlie’s
hand slashed against his throat—so hard that his windpipe was snapped, the shock causing an instantaneous cardiac arrest.


The moment had been almost soundless, nothing but a dull gasp of air escaping the dead man’s lips. Charlie grabbed him so
that he didn’t fall sideways and hit the floor with a warning thud; there was an anteroom between the corridor and the boss
man’s stateroom, and Charlie knew there was a chance that some other goon might be on guard in there.


He lowered the dead man gently to the floor, and was still bending when the door behind him opened. The man who emerged opened
his mouth to shout a warning as he reached for the weapon under his arm. But Charlie sprang, covering the space between them
before the big gun was out of its holster. By the time the two men connected there was a thin-blade knife in Charlie’s hand
that plunged, as part of an unbroken movement, into the man’s heart. Charlie’s other hand was over the man’s mouth to stifle
the cry that had not yet quite reached his lips.


Before doing anything else, he pulled both bodies into the anteroom and locked the outer door. Then he approached the second
door and listened. Music played softly, a piano concerto—Mozart perhaps. Charlie thought he recognized it, but wasn’t sure.


He grasped the doorknob, turned, and pushed a fraction of an inch. It was unlocked. He waited, but there was no reaction from
the other side. He pushed the door farther open, gun in hand, its miraculously compact silencer adding no more than a slight
bulge to the barrel.


The man in bed looked up from the papers he was studying. He was obese but solid-looking, with thick dark hair and hooded
eyes. There was an expression of annoyance on his face; he was unaccustomed to having people enter his presence except on
his orders. But when he saw the black-clad figure standing there, annoyance turned abruptly to alarm. His hand shot out for
the panic button at his side, but it was barely halfway there before a bullet split his skull between the eyes.


Charlie moved closer to make absolutely sure that the man was dead. Part of his job was to make sure, to leave no room for
doubt. There was none. All he had to do now was finish up. It wouldn’t take long.


Five minutes later he was back on the water, slowly circling the Lady Alexandra until he heard the muffled detonation of the explosives he had planted in the hull. He waited until she sank, turning in
the water like a wounded turtle before spiral-ing out of sight. Then he pressed the signaling device that would bring the
chopper to collect him.


Flying back to base, he looked down at the sea and remembered the phrase he’d thought of earlier to describe it. “Like a slab
of cold gray steel beneath a moonless sky.” Where had he got that from? That wasn’t the kind of thing that usually came into
his head.


Still, he thought, wherever it came from, it was true.



VIRGIL FRY WAS an ingratiating little man whom Charlie would have despised if he’d bothered to have an opinion of him at all. His ratlike
features and pencil-thin mustache were forever composed into an artificial smile. In his cheap and flashy clothes, he seemed
forever about to break into some awful song and dance routine.


“So what’s this one, Charlie?” he asked, picking up one of the canvases propped against the wall. “Got a name, has it?”

Fry’s accent, which Charlie had been unable to place when they first met, was, he now knew, Australian.

“It’s a river scene,” Charlie said. “Mountains in the background—there, you see? Wild.”

“Oh, yes… yes, I see. Very nice.”

The little man scribbled “River scene” on his pad, then tore off the leaf and stuck it on a corner of the painting.

“And this one?” he said, moving on to the next.

“Clouds,” Charlie said. “Clouds and sky, and the play of light over the sea. You can’t see the sea, but it’s the kind of sky
you get over the sea.”


Virgil Fry nodded, made another note, and stuck it on a corner of the canvas. In all, there were fourteen paintings, all done
since Fry’s last visit one month earlier. For the last couple of years he’d come by every month and bought the whole of Charlie’s
output. That was a lot of paintings. Charlie didn’t care what Fry did with them, just that he took them away. Otherwise Charlie
would have thrown them out with the trash. That was how he and the little man had met. He’d come knocking at Charlie’s door
one day, saying he’d seen these paintings in a pile of junk outside, and he’d asked about them. Eventually he’d found that
Charlie was the artist.


“It’s a business proposition, Mr. Monk,” he’d said. “I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur, but I’m a dealer and I know what
sells. Your work will find a niche in a popular market. You see, you’re partly abstract, but only partly, not quite entirely,
if you see what I mean.”


Charlie didn’t see what he meant, and didn’t care, so he didn’t interrupt as Fry droned on.

“There are definitely people, not collectors, ordinary buyers, out there looking for just this caliber of product. At the
right price, you could do very nicely. I take forty percent. Naturally all my accounts will be open to your inspection. You
can if you so wish initiate your own audit at any time…”


Charlie had agreed in order to shut the little man up as much as anything else. The idea that people would pay money to hang
his paintings on their walls struck him as so improbable that he didn’t give it much thought. But Fry had been as good as
his word, and a regular trickle of money had been appearing in Charlie’s bank account since that day. Not that he needed the
money; his needs were more than adequately taken care of by the people he worked for. Painting for him was a diversion, a
way, though not the only one, of killing time between jobs.


He couldn’t remember how it had all started. He remembered drawing and scribbling when he was a kid, the way all kids do.
There had been art classes when he got older, but he’d only attended because they were compulsory, and, more important, they
didn’t involve any real work. Beyond that he’d shown no interest in painting—until “the Farm,” which was what they called
the place he’d eventually been sent to when everybody else had given up on him. But he still couldn’t recall what had got
him started, though he remembered how much, to his surprise, he found he enjoyed it.


From the outset he’d painted landscapes mostly, but with, as Fry had pointed out, a strangely abstract quality to them. He
didn’t analyze the process, though he was vaguely conscious of painting not what he saw so much as his response to what he
saw, something from within; though what the hell that meant was anybody’s guess.


If he had to define what painting meant for him, he’d have to say it calmed him and at the same time kept boredom at bay.
Restlessness and boredom were his twin demons. They’d got him into a lot of trouble in his life, especially his early life.
But that was a period he tried not to think about anymore.


“Till next time then, Mr. Monk.”

Charlie waved a perfunctory farewell as the door closed behind the departing dealer. Glad to be alone again, he turned back
to the easel on his balcony and the painting he’d been working on before Fry’s arrival. He sat on the low wooden stool and
picked up his palette of paints and a brush. Although he looked out over the anchored ranks of some of the most expensive
private yachts and motor cruisers on the West Coast, the landscape on his canvas was a desert, the image plucked partly from
memory, partly from imagination. At least, to him it was a desert. To others it might be just a pattern of line and color,
an abstract design; or partly abstract, not quite entirely, as Fry would say. Whatever that meant.


He switched on the radio he’d been listening to earlier. Sometimes in the afternoons when he was home he tuned in to the various
talk shows. He was fascinated by the things some people were willing to discuss in public. Much of the time it was just background
chatter, but occasionally a story so extraordinary came up that he found himself pausing in his work to listen more closely,
aghast at the lives some people led.


Today, for example, they had an ex-soldier in the studio. He was obviously deeply disturbed and claimed to have been the victim
of mind-control experiments in the army. Charlie found himself fascinated by his story, although he didn’t really believe
that such things happened. But there was a patent sincerity in the way the man spoke that made his story strangely compelling.
When the show ended, Charlie found to his surpise that he had been doing nothing but listening for the better part of an hour.
His brush lay on his palette, the paint dried hard on its bristles.




IT WAS A Saturday afternoon, and Christopher, Susan’s six-year-old son, was playing noisily with Buzz, his spaniel puppy, outside
in the garden. Susan was in the bedroom, getting out of her old jeans and into something a little more fetching before picking
up John at the airport. She always made an effort to look good for him, and he always told her she’d look good no matter what
she wore. They were, in other words, still as romantically in love after eight years of marriage as they’d ever been. The
separations that their different careers imposed on them were borne reluctantly and with a sense that such things only made
their time together more precious.


On that particular afternoon John was returning from a trip to Russia. Like her, he was a doctor, though he’d never gone into
research and had spent only a couple of years in regular practice. He’d been told in medical school that he had the makings
of a fine surgeon; it was as much a matter of temperament as cutting-e. . .