The Valhalla Prophecy Read Online Free PDF Page B

situation forced him to traipse across two boroughs to get what free help he could at the nearest Citizens Advice Bureau.
    He tried to suppress a churning feeling of disgust. Money. That was what everything came down to. Sophia was used to it, couldn’t live without it, wanted more ofit—and now that she had access to it again, was using it against him.
    And she knew his sense of dignity wouldn’t allow him to beg others for it. He had friends all around the world, but while he could always rely on them for a favor, since he in turn would always help them if they needed it, the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to ask for was money.
    So now he was trapped by his own pride. Whether he caved in to Sophia’s demands or asked for monetary help from others to fight her, it would feel like failure either way. At least in combat there was always the
possibility
of beating the odds to reach victory, but right now he couldn’t see any good way out short of a miracle …
    His phone trilled. Chase knew it wasn’t Sophia; he had set her ringtone as Cliff Richard’s “Devil Woman,” but this was the cheap pre-paid Nokia’s default. He picked up the mobile and flipped it open, seeing on the screen that it was a London number. “Is that you, Jesus?”
    “I’ve heard some strange things from your mouth, Eddie, but that’s got to be near the top of the list.” Not a miracle, but the familiar voice was nearly as welcome.
    “Mac!” Chase cried, smiling for the first time in several days. “Fuck me, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I thought you were out of the country?”
    “I’m back, for the moment,” said the Scotsman. “I’ll tell you about it—well, as much as I can within the bounds of the Official Secrets Act—if you’d like to meet up. Are you busy?”
    “Let me check my Filofax,” Chase said sarcastically. “No, I’m free. Where do you want to meet?”
    “Come ’round to my place—you remember where it is?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Good. Half eleven or thereabouts? Oh, and there’ll be someone else here I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see again.” Even over the phone, Chase could detect the amusement in the other man’s voice. “An old friend.”

    “Well, fucking hell,” said Chase, unable to hold back a grin. “Look who it is. Hugo Castille, the Belgian waffler.”
    The lanky Castille sniffed through his beaky nose.
    “And Edward Chase, as polite and charming as always.” He peered at the shorter man’s head. “Your hair … it is getting a little thin, no? Especially on top.”
    “Oh fuck off, Hugo.” Still grinning, Chase shook the mustachioed Belgian’s hand, before the pair embraced and clapped each other on the back. “Christ, how long’s it been? A year?”
    “More than that,” Castille replied. “I have not seen you since the wedding.” His expression became mournful. “Mac told me what has happened with you and Sophia. I am very sorry.”
    “It’s okay,” said Chase, rather brusquely, before moving the conversation along. “Everything’s good with you, then? Coping with civilian life?”
    “I have a new line of work. Not too different from my old one,” he added with a sly smile. “I will tell you about it. You might find it interesting.”
    “Can’t wait.” Chase turned to his former commanding officer. “What about you, Mac? How’s the leg?”
    Jim “Mac” McCrimmon shifted his stance to put his left foot forward, supporting himself on a metal cane. A faint creak came from the ankle joint—not of bone, but aluminum and plastic. “Bearable. They think that given another two or three years, I should regain more or less full mobility. I intend to do it in one.”
    “Anything I can do to help, you just say the word.”
    The tall, bearded Scot smiled. “You already did, Eddie. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have lost more than just a leg to those Taliban bastards.” He gestured for Chase to take a seat in one of the deep red leather armchairs