9. A Family Concern by Ian F White

Megan wandered into the bedroom, toweling dry her blonde hair, ankle-length pink cotton dressing gown loosely tied at her slim waist.

James sat upon a straight-backed chair by the window, framed in the bright sunlight, reading a copy of The Times newspaper, one leg crossed over the other. An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

It looks like he's wearing a halo, thought Megan. My little brother, an angel. A smile crossed her lips. How looks can be deceptive.

The open pack of cigarettes on the table beside him seemed familiar. She glanced over at her bed and her smile faded... but the sight of the shiny bronze medal lying there among the other contents of her purse distracted her from her planned tirade and she went down a different route 

"Really, Jamie... the javelin?" There was a strong Afrikaans accent to her voice now.

He mumbled something and she kicked the sole of his shoe. "Why couldn't it have been tennis? You know I love tennis."

"Careful, that's my accelerator foot." James shifted his leg slightly. "The javelin thing was nothing to do with me - tell uncle George when he gets back. And hide the accent; you should maintain your cover at all times."

She chose not to follow his advice. "And why did he choose such an awkward surname? Cry--, Crigton? I can't even pronounce the bloody name properly."

"Creighton." James shrugged, but didn't look up from the newspaper. "It's Uncle George's way. We're supposed to be newly-weds, so... it's not too unusual for a new bride to have trouble with her husband's surname, is it... darling?"

She huffed and turned to stare out of the window, arms folded across her chest.

A few seconds later, another thought came to her. "Will he be all right?"

"Who?" James asked absently.

"Uncle George, who the hell did you think I meant, stupid brak."

"Of course he will. He's a master of the game; knows exactly what he's doing. You know both he and father are classically trained. Stop worrying, Meg."

"You don't think Alan will beat him up... or worse yet... shoot him?"

James raised an eyebrow and looked up at her for a brief moment. "Oh, it's Alan now is it? I hope you're not getting emotionally attached - again."

Megan pursed her lips but said nothing more, so James shrugged again and returned to his newspaper, noisily turning over a page of the broadsheet.

But she had to admit he was right though, there was something about the Englishman. Maybe she'd made a mistake by her attitude and blowing smoke in Alan's face at the racetrack. She hoped not. From the moment she met him in his so called office, Megan knew he was the man for her, and then if--

She was suddenly startled out of her musings by the excited exclamation and vigorous flutter of paper as James leaped from the chair, crushing the dropped cigarette underfoot. "Goeie God!".

"What? What is it?" she looked from his flushed face to the paper in his tightly clenched fist.

"The Russians! How did we forget about the Russians?" There was panic in James's voice, as he stared wide-eyed at her.  We've got to find Uncle George - Now!"

James made for the door, and Megan rushed over to her wardrobe. She glanced over her shoulder as she grasped the handle and pulled. He was half-way into the corridor already.

"Hey, Jamie, wait - I need to get dressed." she called. And then her own eyes opened in surprise.

James backed into the room, hands raised, still grasping the newspaper. He was closely followed by the muzzle of a nasty-looking automatic pistol held by... "Charlie?" Megan was taken aback - but only for a second; she knew what to do.

Charlie Markman pushed his way further into the room and closed the door behind him.

"I got some questions for you two love-birds, and I want some straight answers - there's a lot of money riding on this." he said and grinned as he saw how little Megan was wearing. "Well now, there's no need to get yourself dressed on my behalf. doll."

"What's this all about, Charlie? I thought--" James began, but the American cut him off with a wave of his gun.

"Get rid of that paper and siddown over there, pal," Markman nodded at the chair near the window, and then turned to Megan. "And you sit on his knee, sweet-cheeks."

Megan stepped away from the wardrobe and as she did so, her dressing gown fell to the floor in a most dramatic fashion, which unsurprisingly had the exact desired effect.

James took two quick steps forward and - before the American had recovered from the unexpected but pleasant surprise - brought his hand down in a Karate-chop on the side of the other man's neck.

Markman crumpled to the floor, unconscious. James hit him again, "Just in case," then pocketed the pistol.

"Double-crossing bastard," Megan cursed as she dragged a floral-pattern dress out of the wardrobe.

"He certainly is," James agreed with a nod. "Pass me the belt from your dressing gown, Meg, I'll tie him up while you get dressed. Then we really must find uncle George..."