Inside Out

"Your novel has made you a millionaire," Keira reminded him. "My father also approved your no-interest loan."

"Good." The Friendship has never lacked for finances, Doug reflected with a smile. I suppose that's easy when your main bases include the Himalaya Mountains and Amazon jungles' hidden cities of gold.

"You'll need contacts also," Frank told him. "I don't know how much you're familiar with the entertainment business."

"I apprenticed with Clifford Antone for six months after I left law enforcement. He's the founder of a well-known club in Austin and mentored several famous musicians. He's also a viceroy. I think he taught me most of what I need to know. The rest I can learn as I go with other people's help."

"You're not lacking in confidence," Keira said. "I also notice you speak with an English accent."

"It's to correct a speech impediment," Doug replied, blushing.

"It works very well."

"Thanks." Doug again looked over the city below them. "I chose Soho for my club because it's one of the primary areas in London for arts and entertainment. That's it over there, right?"

Keira nodded in response to his gesture. "Yes. Father located a building that meets your specifications. Eleven stories, sturdy construction, and right across the street from that monument you described. Any particular reason why you wanted a location near it?"

"I want to attract the attention of the parties honored by that monument," Doug answered. "There's a clan of their kind in Austin who were my allies during my days in college and law enforcement. I think such creatures will be useful to me again here."

"I see," Keira said. "You'll be pleased to know I'm already acquainted with the clan. They're very active in London's theater industry."

"I'm not surprised. They use the same cover in Austin at Esther's Follies, the Paramount, and other theaters known for their dramatic shows. Do they also protect your city?"

"Of course. They patrol London every night to counter street crime. I'm sure they'll have no trouble making friends with you."

"There's just one problem," Frank said.

"Oh?" Doug raised his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"The current owner of the building. Are you familiar with the slums of London's East End and the people who control them?"

"Yes. Mob bosses." Doug looked confused. "Soho is West End, though."

"Well, many East End crime figures also conduct business and own property in other parts of London. This building is an example. Its current primary use is an apartment complex and warehouse for a small time but very dangerous East End gang boss. He's a Belgian who goes by the alias 'Lord Jim Kurtz'."

Doug blinked at the name. "Is he an admirer of the great writer Joseph Conrad?"

"Yes. He conducts most of his business out of a tiny pub in the East End named Conrad's. His gang is active in the local smuggling, gambling, and protection rackets. Kurtz is a user, a slumlord who takes advantage of all he can and rarely if ever lets an asset go."

"Ah. Well, I would think the Friendship has enough money to buy this building from him."

"We do," Keira said. "Father offered to purchase it three days ago on your behalf and Kurtz accepted the sum. However, he is not willing to hand over the building unless its new manager defeats him in a formal challenge. Kurtz is an old-fashioned admirer of medieval combat, you see, much like yourself."

"He wants a duel?" Doug asked, laughing. "Man to man?"

Frank shook his head as they came off the overpass. "More like gang to gang. Viceroy Knightley informed Kurtz of your plans for his property. Kurtz wants to know if you can command others as well as he can, well enough to defeat him in a fight."

Doug grimaced. "Oh boy."

"Don't count on London's clan for help if that's what you're thinking," said Keira. "They are experienced with battling Kurtz's gang, but not with you as a leader. You will have to be the leader of your side in the battle. Kurtz will not have it any other way."

Doug nodded at her words, considering ideas. "How big a gang we talking about here?"

"Around two hundred or so," Frank replied. "Nothing too large."

Doug gaped.

"You're not scared, are you?" Keira asked him. "For sure you dealt with men like Kurtz during your days in law enforcement?"

"Yes," Doug replied, "but such dealings never were pleasant." They never involved so large a gang either, he added to himself. "I don't suppose I can count on the local police for help with this?"

"No," Frank said. "They won't interfere in your dealings with Kurtz, but they won't aid your side or his. That was the best our society's and Kurtz's influence could secure."

"I probably should have figured that. Do I have any allies I can count on in this city at all, besides you two?"

"I have a recommendation," Keira answered. "There are some people my father contacted after Kurtz made his demands. Father told them about the situation and intrigued them. These people are former military, law enforcement, and diplomatic protection. Until recently, they were all members of an international counter-terrorism response force under the authority of the United Nations."

"Really? What are they doing now?"

"They're retired and working menial service industry jobs throughout Soho." Keira smiled. "Father thought they might make good employees for your club."

"Let me guess. They've all already been interviewed and hired." Doug wondered how many beneficiaries of the Friendship's status guarantee program were given such associates. "Pending my approval of them and theirs of me."

"Correct. Father is aware you wish to proceed quickly in resolving this situation. He has high hopes for you. He has asked your employees to assemble tomorrow night at the building which will become your club."

"Oh? Kurtz is allowing us to set up there?"

"The challenged person picks the venue," replied Frank. "Would you prefer someplace else?"

"No," Doug said after a pause. "However, there is one concern I have. If these people are like most I've known with their experience, they will not respect me at our first meeting."

"Indeed," Keira concurred. "That is why I took the liberty of asking them if there was any person who had led them who was as available as they are. Someone they would at once respect and follow again."

Doug beamed at her with pride. "And?"

"They all named the same person. A former South African special forces officer who they knew as a squad leader in their response force. Some of them served under him, while others supported him from outside the field. The man is highly decorated and only four years older than you are. He has led joint international military operations against terrorists on every continent. His final mission took place last year, and unlike most of the others, it ended in serious disgrace. Because of that disgrace, neither he nor many of those connected to him were able to serve in their response force any longer. None of it was his fault, understand, but —"

"I get it," Doug interrupted Keira. "Police work is unfortunately often the same way. What's this man's name?"

"Clarke, real name —"

"Did you say Clarke?"

"Yes." Keira glared at him. "Is his name familiar?"

"It is," Doug affirmed. "I've heard of him. He's known by his first name in military and law enforcement circles all over the world. Are you familiar with Tom Clancy's 'Jack Ryan' novels?"

"Yes, but what do those books have to do with this?"

"Jack Ryan is one of my idols as a historian. One of his most valuable allies is also a man named Clark. This has to be some kind of sign."

Keira crossed her arms. "I'm going to ignore your conceit that you're living in a world influenced by popular literature. I will also remind you that this Clarke is not your ally yet."

"Right. What's he doing these days?"

"He took his disgrace harder than most of his fellow response force members," Frank answered. "He's become an alcoholic. Until a few weeks ago, he was earning money as an illegal prizefighter. He feels that with his disgrace he can no longer hold down a legitimate job."

"How the mighty have fallen," Doug said with a sigh. "Do you know where we can find him?"

Keira nodded. "We're headed there right now."

***

They traveled for another hour, discussing further Doug's plans and those whom he hoped would soon be his allies. The young viceroy was fatigued from his journey to London, but he wanted to meet Clarke before checking in to his hotel.

Best to establish myself strong and fast in the eyes of the Friendship members here in London, Doug thought. Especially Keira. I long greatly for her admiration. Beautiful talented women are a constant presence in my life, but I always welcome more. Clarke also would be a great asset to me. One can never know too many warriors of renown.

He looked at the wooden building Frank had stopped in front of, a rundown London pub called 'The Crimson Boar's Head'. It was obvious at first glance that it was a dive, a haunt for the poor in spirit. It was an old building that looked about to collapse and had probably been in such a state for many years. "You're sure Clarke is here?"

"Most nights he is," Keira answered Doug. "I will accompany you inside to meet him. Frank, keep the car ready in case we need to leave." The cabbie nodded and turned on his radio while they got out.

Keira told me Clarke was among those who trained her to fight, Doug recalled. She got to know him when he frequented her family's theaters during cross-training operations between Britain's Special Air Service and his own South African Special Forces Brigade. They share an interest in combat, on and off stage. She hasn't told Clarke I'll be meeting him tonight, but she will introduce us. I hope it's enough to break the ice.

"Have you been in many places such as this?" Keira asked him as they walked through the pub's doorway.

"A few," Doug answered carefully. "Taipei and Austin have their share." He frowned, looking around the room. A long wooden bar dominated the far end next to a jukebox. Several rough-looking characters sat on stools in front of the bar while others talked in small groups and worked a pool table and pinball machines. The second largest man in the room, the immensely fat and bearded Arab bartender, sized Doug and Keira up with a glare.

"Scotch on the rocks," Keira answered the bartender's fury. "Make it a double."

The bartender grimaced and poured two drinks, then pointed a meaty finger at Doug. "He doesn't look like he can hold his liquor."

"I might surprise you," Doug replied. His eyes were on the most prominent figure at the bar, a giant bald black man almost seven feet in height. His black tank top and urban camouflage pants showed off powerful rippling muscles. A strong square jaw dominated his face, along with large eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes had locked on Doug and his guide as soon as they stepped inside.

"Keira Knightley," Clarke said in a deep unaccented voice. "I haven't seen you outside the movies in quite a while. New boyfriend?"

"No. He's just a friend of mine whom I'm showing around the city. Clarke, meet Douglas Ramsay, formerly of the Sheriff's Department in Travis County, Texas."

"Deputy Doug, huh?" The black giant looked Doug over and laughed. "You don't look like much."

"I might surprise you," Doug repeated himself. He stepped up to the bar and offered his hand to Clarke. The giant smiled and took it. Keira watched them as she exchanged Friendship gestures with the bartender, who waved the other bar patrons away with a glance. Doug grimaced at the pressure in Clarke's grip, but returned it with all the force he could muster. He was unable to keep from blinking in relief when the grip was at last released, then turning and gulping down his Scotch.

"Like I thought," Clarke appraised him. "You're mostly talk."

"Talk is as valuable as action," Doug answered, "especially in today's world." He sat down on the stool at Clarke's right while Keira stood at Clarke's left. "You'll forgive me if I don't say your real name, Clarke. I'm not sure that I could pronounce it."

"There are few outside my original tribe who can. For that reason I mostly use my adopted name, like Cher."

"You're originally of the South African San people, also known as the Bushmen."

"My people go by many names. We were the world's first democratic and gift trade society. Some say we're the genetic link between all peoples."

Doug nodded. "You're also among the pride of the South African Special Forces Brigade. Your reputation precedes you."

"Oh? I'm guessing you've heard of me from your fellow police officers in Austin?"

"Yes. Also Reverend Benjamin Shapiro, a former US Marine chaplain who now operates his own Baptist church."

Clarke smiled, showing a gleam of white teeth. "One of my main spiritual counselors."

"Mine too."

"I had almost forgotten Shap retired to Austin." Clarke looked Doug up and down again, re-evaluating him. "Do you still carry your shield?"

"Yes." Doug took a leather wallet out of his pocket and showed Clarke a bronze deputy sheriff's star. "What about you?"

Clarke produced his own wallet and displayed a gold commando knife within a laurel wreath. A large diamond was in the center of the insignia. "You understand that merely having such a shield means little?"

"Right," Doug agreed. He took another draught of Scotch as they put their badges back in their pockets. "One has to earn it continually."

"Do you earn yours?"

"I hope so. What about you?"

Clarke looked away and sipped his glass of bourbon. "If you know my reputation, you know that I do."

Doug glanced at Keira, who gave him a smile of confidence. "Well, I've heard you haven't been doing as well lately," he told Clarke. "You had a mission that went bad, and you were relieved of your command. Since then you've spent a lot of time drinking."

The giant frowned and put his glass down. "You preaching to me, boy?"

"No. I'm merely noting details. Keira has told me a lot about you. I'm a viceroy of the Friendship, newly appointed. I seek to establish a business venture here in London. I think you can be of help."

"Aren't you also a fiction writer? 'Faraway Reality'?"

"Yes. I'm working on the sequel, 'A Collision of Worlds'."

Clarke's grimace got deeper. "You'll understand I don't think much of fiction writers, no matter how good they are. However, any friend of Shap and Keira's is a friend of mine. The same for any knight who earns their shield, as I believe you do." He looked at Keira, who nodded in response to his silent question. "Your book taught me a great deal about you, as has this meeting so far. Tell me about your problem, Mr. Ramsay."

"Please call me Doug." The young viceroy described the club he planned to create and the obstacles arrayed against him. Clarke nodded frequently throughout. "Do you know of this Mr. Kurtz?" Doug asked after he finished his summation.

"I do. Kurtz is trouble. He's a lord of this city's darkness. I assume Keira told you about my recent work as a prizefighter?"

"Yes."

"Jim Kurtz was my main sponsor and manager. He found me in this place and offered me a job winning money in his rings. I won several fights for him, and lost many others."

"Including some you didn't have to lose," Doug guessed.

"Correct. Finally, I got sick of that. I told Kurtz I would no longer lose a fight just because he told me to. Then I proved it. He threw me out on the street and sent his main goon Igor after me."

"I recall that ended better for you than it did for Igor," Keira interjected.

"Yes." Clarke grinned for an instant. "However, Igor also did a number on me. He was Spetsnaz once, as highly decorated in Russia's Special Forces as I was in South Africa's. Neither he nor his current master is a man I would want to fight again."

"There are few men and women who live to fight battles," Doug said. "Still, I believe we have to fight sometimes if we are to accomplish anything."

Clarke nodded. "In that you are correct."

Doug put his empty glass down. "Keira's father has reassembled your old team. Your subordinate soldiers and many who supported you. I am told they're concerned for the welfare of the man who once led them in the field."

"You want me to lead them again." Clarke frowned. "I'm not sure I can do that."

"You can," Doug assured him. "I'm going to give you back your life." Seeing Clarke's stern face, he corrected himself. "What I can of it, anyway. You will again be among people who respect you, in a position that will allow you to use your skills to help others. Perhaps you will also come to again respect yourself."

Clarke was silent, his eyes focused on Doug. The young viceroy looked back with patient certainty. At last, Clarke turned away from him and looked at Keira. "This one's going to go far."

"My father and I hope he will," Keira replied. "I don't think he can, though, without you beside him."

Nodding again, Clarke turned back to Doug. "My grandfather served beside a great general with your first name, Field Marshal Douglas MacArthur, in the Second World War."

"That general is an idol of mine," Doug said, smiling. "I seek to emulate him in combat skill and oration."

Clarke laughed. "I don't think you'll ever come close."

The bartender slammed his palm on the bar, catching their attention. Doug and Keira looked where he was pointing and saw that a new customer had entered the pub. He was a large Cossack, as tall and muscular as Clarke, and just as bald except for a thick mustache. He wore a white muscle shirt and black leather pants.

"Here's your money, Igor!" the bartender shouted. He tossed a wad of bills at the newcomer. "You don't need to bother my customers on this visit!"

"Thank you, Fat Neville," Igor replied, catching the wad. "Mr. Kurtz appreciates your compliance." He looked around the room and giggled. For a second his gaze lingered on Keira. Then he saw Clarke and a strange expression came over his face. "Do you remember me?"

"I will never forget you," Clarke said. His fists and jaw were set in preparation.

Igor waved a finger at him. "Soon we'll meet again." He turned and left.

"What did that look he gave you mean, Clarke?" Fat Neville asked with a frown.

"It meant Igor hasn't forgotten he and Clarke have a history," Doug answered. "It also meant that he was not here to handle Clarke. That was the only reason he left without finishing what's between them."

Keira glared at Doug. "Can we please stop with the macho bullshit?"

Doug smiled. "As you wish, milady."

"Don't you be quoting 'Princess Bride' at me either."

"As you wish." Doug looked at Clarke. "So, are you going to help me?"

Clarke gave him another hard stare. "I reckon so," he said at last. The giant pushed his stool back from the bar and rose to his feet. "It's time I regained my old life, or that part of it you can give me. I also want to settle my business with Igor and his master. I'm trusting you, Douglas Ramsay. Take me to my team."

***

The Next Night.

Doug's new employees all visited him at his hotel the next day after he had checked in and rested. He spent ten minutes or so with each, verifying what Clarke and Keira had told him about them. The group consisted of twenty-seven men and women who all had served with Clarke as part of the U.N. response team. Doug found that he respected each and was proud to know them. He was in particular pleased that several of the group turned out to be people whom he had first met as high school students in Taipei. These people remembered Doug also, and were glad to be in his life again. Clarke vouched for him with the rest.

Late that night, they gathered at the building Doug hoped to make his entertainment venue. All had dressed for war in dark blue polyester shirts and military pants and armed themselves with various blunt weapons and firearms. Doug had hesitated to accept the latter at first. As the challenged in Kurtz's duel, he had selected clubs as weapons because he wanted to try to keep their combat non-lethal. Clarke reminded Doug that even though he was a man of honor Kurtz and Igor were not.