Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
With trepidation, we stroll into the Amsterdam office building of the ranking officers. We climb the steps to reach the third floor and walk down a long hallway until we reach a wooden door with a glass window. My father’s title and name are painted on it.
Upon entering, we are met with a young secretary a few feet ahead, who couldn’t be much older than I.
She’s wearing a khaki military uniform, like the other privates on the base, except I can see from underneath the desk that she is wearing a skirt instead of trousers.
Her head’s down, typing frantically away on her typewriter.
Behind her is another wooden door, which I assume leads to my father’s office.
We wait in the middle of the room as she continues typing; not once has she glanced up or made any indication she took notice of our arrival. Once she reaches the end of the page, she grabs the paper from the insert and neatly places it into a pile beside her.
She then lifts her head to acknowledge us. “Mrs. Ashford, I presume?”
I nod. “My father said we are to meet with him now.” I assume she already knows this, but I feel I should make it clear anyway.
“He will be with you both shortly.” She stands and walks to us, gesturing to a settee off to her left. “Please take a seat while you wait. Would either of you like a cup of tea?”
Her tone is dry, but not harsh. Her expression is blank, but not lifeless.
There’s a sense of authoritativeness in her posture, which tells me she isn’t one to take antics from anyone.
I wonder how much of that is from being here, or if she was like this from day one.
I imagine a woman would need to hold her ground and be assertive working in a place like this.
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” I smile before taking a seat.
She nods and heads over to the tea cart in the far corner, takes the kettle, and pours us two cups of tea. “Milk and sugar?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Yes, thank you,” I answer, knowing Henry takes his tea the same as I.
As we wait, I mentally shake away the nervousness creeping in.
I clasp my hands and place them onto my lap, hoping not to show what I’m feeling inside.
The longer we sit and wait, the more anxiety takes hold of me.
The sooner we can go into his office and have our chat, the quicker we can leave and be far away from his sight.
The secretary hands us two saucers holding teacups. “Here you are.” Then she goes back to her desk, inserting another sheet of paper into the typewriter, and begins typing again.
Henry and I sit for several minutes in silence, sipping on our bland cups of tea. The only sound is the clanking of the typewriter’s keys and the occasional creak of a rusted pipe inside the walls. I jump in my seat as the office door suddenly opens, my father emerging.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, you can come in now,” he says, heading back inside his office and leaving the door open for us to follow. “Ms. Wilkes, please hold any incoming calls. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” Ms. Wilkes replies, her face still fixed on the typewriter.
Somehow, the air feels more stale inside the office—stiff and dry.
The office itself is surprisingly small, given my father’s title.
It’s large enough to fit only the necessities.
Yet I’ve never seen an office so sparse and empty.
There are barely any books on the bookcase, leaving empty spots in the nooks and crannies.
His desk is empty except for a small desk lamp and pen holder.
One would think a Major General’s desk would have high stacks of files, a wall devoted to a map of the world.
But no, not my father’s office. The walls are bare, with their off-white coloring.
My father sits upright in his chair in an uncomfortable position, exuding the same cold demeanor. Henry and I sit in the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Unsure where to put my teacup, I leave it sitting on my lap. Henry, following my lead, does the same.
I glance straight at my father, studying him to see if I can find out who he truly is.
Hoping that deep down he is a good man who will help his daughter without hesitation.
But I’m left wondering: if the powers I wield come to light, would he put the needs of his job over the needs of his own daughter?
I’m now terrified to find out, as there is a strong possibility he would disappoint me once again.
“How is Hullbeck treating you?” he asks after an extended, uncomfortable, deafening silence has lingered.
“Very well,” I reply, with a dryness in my tone. I’m not ungrateful, but trying to match my father’s stern attitude. “Thank you again for taking us in.”
I take hold of Henry’s hand resting on his knee and give it a light squeeze. We both glance at one another, giving the other a brief smile, then look back at my father. “We are immensely grateful for your protection.”
My father places his clasped hands onto the desk, leaning forward in his chair. “It is quite unfortunate you got mixed up with the Brexton gang while on your expedition. May I ask how the both of you got entangled with them?”
Quickly, I recall the details Grandad fed to my father in their phone call a few days ago. Our story needs to match his exactly, ensuring we raise no suspicions—for the sake of keeping the artifacts a secret.
If my father senses something is off, he will be inclined to verify everything and uncover that we lied—from our marriage, our child, to our run-in with the Brexton gang.
If we give my father no doubt over our story, then there is no reason for him to question it.
Luckily, I start on the right foot by corroborating Grandad’s story.
“As you recall from Lord Claremont,” I slowly start, playing the part of a scared woman who is being hunted by a dangerous gang, “our team was exploring the island of Crete on our way to our next site at Ephesus. Henry and I were walking along the shore of the island when we spotted three men acting suspiciously near a small dock and a wooden cabin hidden by tall bushes and rocks. Alarmed by what we were seeing, we crept closer to the men and saw them unloading crates of weapons and illegal drugs from their small boat into the cabin. We didn’t know they were the Brexton gang.
If we had, we would’ve never gone any closer and instead would’ve run away. ”
“I’m guessing you two found one of the many storage units they have overseas,” my father says. “One of the reasons why the Brexton gang has managed to be untouchable for several years is due to their smart tactic to keep their supplies out of the UK territory.”
My father leans back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests, satisfied intrigue swarming his cold face.
If I had to guess, he was one of the officers trying to disband the Brexton gang and believed I’d served him the long-awaited present he’d been searching for to take them down finally.
I’ve certainly captured his full, undivided attention now.
Turning it up a notch, I glance at Henry, emotionally enraptured by being dragged into this horrid ordeal, and draw on my husband’s encouragement to proceed, telling the story.
“Once we noticed what they were doing, we tried to leave the scene discreetly, but we were discovered and chased by one of the men. Luckily, we were able to hide from them as they continued their search for us, and we were able to flee the island by rowing back to our ship. Unfortunately, they saw us heading to our ship, which is how they knew how to follow us and tie up loose ends of what we witnessed.”
My father ponders for a moment, taking in all the information I’ve presented him.
Then nods and sits straighter. “Alright, then. After my discussion with Lord Claremont a few days ago, we sent a few of our men to keep an eye on you as potential targets. The good news is, we have not heard of any movements yet, but to be on the safe side, we will wait until we can safely say they lost interest and moved on. Once you are in the clear, you can safely go home. How does that sound?”
Henry and I glance at each other, knowing we simply have no other choice but to accept his terms. I hope by the time they let us go, the others have found out how I can become unbonded from the artifacts. We turn to my father and nod.
“That sounds great,” I reply. “Thank you. This is everything we could have asked for.”
My father looks down at my torso, then back at me. “It’s not just the both of you we need to think of here.”
Remembering I’m supposed to be with child, I look down and place a protective hand lightly on the bump.
“Yes, indeed,” I say, replying how I think an expecting mother would.
Knowing his last experience with expectancy did not end well, I never considered the emotions he may be feeling from seeing me going through the same ordeal that killed his wife and child.
Am I bringing up those horrific memories he buried inside for nineteen years? Could he be worried that I could suffer the same fate as her?
My father looks uncomfortable in his seat. Somehow, I know he is thinking of exactly what I have in mind. He stares at both of us, unsure of what else to say now that we covered the main conversation at hand.
“What exactly do you do, Mr. Ashford?” he awkwardly asks.
In his attempt to act like a caring father, assessing that his daughter is in good hands.
But I, for one, know my father does not care if Henry is a good prospect or not.
He only cares that I am now officially off his hands.
Not that I was ever in his hands to begin with, but to society, I’m no longer a burden to him.
Henry glances at me and smiles. “I’m an archaeologist, sir, just like your daughter.”
A smirk forms on my father’s face—the first sign of emotion I’ve seen from him since we arrived. I’ve seen this look plenty of times in my life to know what he is feeling: irritation and annoyance.