Dark Winter (45 page)

I left the building, passing an Indian security guy in an oversized shirt collar and a peaked hat balanced on his ears. Thank fuck just one of them had come in after me. If they both had, or if I hadn’t been quick enough with Sundance, it might have been a different story.

57

Kelly’s eyes stared out at me from the Polaroid as rain pounded the tarmac and drummed on the roofs of the parked cars. It looked like the storm was back, and here to stay for the night. I was sheltering in the doorway of an expensive shoe shop just off Sloane Square, surrounded by scaffolding for the building works next door. A row of skips blocked the kerb, laden with sodden plaster and old, very wet bricks.

Traser told me it was eleven sixteen as I slipped the creased photo back into my bumbag, alongside Sundance’s Brazilian Taurus .38 revolver and suppressor. I peered out towards Sloane Square tube station. It was closed. In fact all the tube stations I’d seen on the way here after about eight o’clock had had a couple of bored-looking policemen standing in front of their gated-off entrances. White marker boards told pissed-off travellers that there’d been a power failure affecting the whole system. Something to do with the wrong kind of rain. London Underground was closed until further notice.

I hoped Suzy was around here somewhere, waiting like me, standing off until the RV time. If not, my options in the next fifteen minutes were going to be limited. I’d have to try to use the fact that I didn’t have her two bottles to my advantage: I’d tell the source I was only handing over three, that the other two would come when Kelly was released. Not that it would do me any good. That kind of threat only worked in Hollywood. If I was the source, I’d take my chances with the ones I’d got, and drop both of us anyway.

The foot traffic at this time of night was busier than I’d have expected, maybe because of the tube shutdown. At least the taxis were enjoying themselves. There was a never-shrinking line of umbrellas at the rank on the square.

I was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a Fila nylon jacket to match the Fila baseball cap that was hiding my face from CCTV. The outfit was rounded off with a new pair of trainers, already wet and dirty after my trudge through the City. The DW was next to me in a Nike daysack, nestling inside my rolled-up leather bomber and jeans. I’d got a no-insurance, no-licence minicab about a quarter of a mile away from B&Q. The driver spoke just enough English for me to direct him south as the ancient Rover’s clapped-out exhaust rattled below us. He’d dropped me off at Bethnal Green, where I’d gone shopping in the Indian discount clothes shops before hitting the tube at around the time the Yes Man must have decided the situation could no longer be contained in-house. I’d only gone two stops before we were all chucked off at Bank and the station was closed.

My eyes were glued on the bus stop, but none of the people waiting under their shiny wet umbrellas, or sheltering against Smith’s windows, looked remotely like her. I checked traser again, and at twenty-six past, head down, daysack over both shoulders in case I had to do a runner, I ventured out into the rain. Two minutes later I had my back pressed against Smith’s windows and the daysack between my feet, keeping under the four-inch ledge to help kid myself I was out of the rain. About thirty metres to my right, the other side of the crossing, one male and one female police constable stood outside the closed tube gates, already bored, but probably pleased to be under more cover than I was, and certainly happy about the overtime. The pair of them had a good laugh about something the woman had said. If they’d known what was really happening, there wouldn’t have been any jokes.

Two men walked past from right to left, still in their office clothes, carrying briefcases and contorting themselves beneath one small fold-up umbrella. My eyes followed them towards the Kings Road, then switched to a woman coming in the opposite direction. Thank fuck for that. She might have her head down, but it was definitely Suzy.

A guy in his twenties came to share my ledge. He still had his NatWest suit on, collar up, logo on the breast pocket. He lit a cigarette: the smoke drifted the few feet between us and I smelt the alcohol on his breath.

I looked left again. Suzy had pushed her hair up into a ball cap, and her jeans jacket and baggy cream cargoes were soaked. She’d slung a large leather bag across her shoulders.

As she got closer, I lifted my head so she could see me. She was all smiles. ‘Hello. How are you?’ She gave me a friendly kiss on both cheeks.

‘Fine. Enjoying the weather. Just on my way home.’

‘I’m parked round the corner. I’ll take you.’

It would have been unnatural to go back the way she’d just come, so we carried on towards the tube, taking the junction right that led south towards the river. We followed the bend in the road until we were in dead ground from the police.

About half-way towards the next T-junction, Suzy’s head lifted just enough for me to see her lips move under the dripping peak. ‘You seen all the closed tubes?’

I nodded. ‘Got kicked off one at Bank. Power failure, my arse. It’s just like when they’re moving nuclear weapons along the motorways. All the junctions get closed off at three in the morning because of some mysterious accident further on, which suddenly clears as soon as the convoy has passed.’

Her lips curled into a wry smile. ‘Looks like the boss had to come clean with Number Ten after all. Fair one. I wouldn’t take any chances now – would you?’ She gave a slightly surreal giggle. ‘Bet Tony’s flapping big-time. Can you imagine the spin that’s going on in there?’

‘They’ll never keep it buttoned. It’s going to be a nightmare this time tomorrow.’

She glanced quickly behind her. ‘I spent the first half of the evening in the lobby of a Marble Arch hotel to keep out the way, but I got kicked out. They thought I was a hooker. So I did a quick couple of laps round the shops, got changed and here I am.’

‘I almost got caught in the B&Q the other side of the station. Sundance? Fucker drew down on me. Anyway, we’re here.’

‘What now?’

‘I’ve got to make the call.’

We arrived at the T-junction. Victoria station and Pimlico were signposted left, but we didn’t want to go there. I knew a right and a left would take us past Chelsea Barracks and on to the bridge.

There was a lot of activity on the other side of the wrought-iron main gates, behind the Gore-Tex-covered, SA80-carrying MoD police guards. Trucks were lined up on the vast parade square, lights on and engines revving.

Chelsea Bridge came into view, and so did a phone box. We dug around in our pockets and between us came up with about four pounds in change. Squeezing into the box beside her, I got the Polaroid out again to phone the source. Suzy took it from me and studied it.

Three police vans packed with uniforms screamed towards us from the other side of the bridge. It was nearly midnight, maybe time for a change of shift. She handed Kelly back. ‘It’s going to be a fucking sight slower tomorrow, when everyone gets to know about this shit.’

The Cabinet Office, at number seventy Whitehall, had a suite of rooms for the use of government ministers and officials referred to as COBR, Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. They were lettered rather than numbered, and emergency meetings tended to convene in room A. They’d be having one right now. The Chief of Defence Staff, heads of the intelligence and security services, the Met and fire service, every man and his dog, would be sitting round a table in crumpled shirts, working out what the fuck to do about these five bottles of
Y. pestis
on the move around the capital, while at the same time trying to keep everything looking as normal as possible for as long as they could. With Tony presiding, the Yes Man would be trying to explain his way out of the shit. That boil on his neck would be glowing nicely by now. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

I dialled the number, picturing the chaos in the rooms adjoining A: phones ringing, people running around with bits of paper, others instructing the military to stand-to, but not explaining why just yet, others still trying to get the official yes or no on their actions-on for bio attack.

My phone rang three times before the source answered. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘It’s me. I’m back. Where do you want it?’

He was trying to sound calm. I heard him take a breath, and made out the voice of a TV announcer. ‘Do you have all five?’

‘Yes. Do you still have what I want?’

There was another pause. The News 24 theme tune blared in my ear and the newsreader piled straight into the headlines. Not surprisingly, it was all tube-station closures and power failures. ‘Things are extremely tense at the moment, aren’t they?’

‘They know about you – they know what we’re doing.’

‘Of course. I wasn’t expecting otherwise. Go to the usual coffee shop, and call me as soon as you get there. Someone will come to meet you. Do you understand that?’

‘Yeah, I got it.’

The phone went dead.

We got out of the box and into the shelter of a small mews. As we dodged the rain in the overhang of a small garage, I opened my bumbag and pulled out the pistol. ‘Here, it’s Sundance’s.’

She opened the chamber to check it wasn’t just full of empty cases.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll go and meet Fuck-face’s man, you follow me to wherever. Chances are they’re not going to release us till they’ve dumped all this shit around the place.’

Rain flicked off her cap as she nodded. ‘That’s if they plan to let you go at all.’

I shrugged. There was nothing I could do about that until it happened. ‘Give me an hour wherever I land up. If I’m not out by then, or you hear the shit hit the fan any earlier, you come and get Kelly, DW, me – whatever’s left.’

Blue flashing lights passed silently along a nearby street. She put the revolver in her bag. ‘Right, we’d better get a vehicle, then, hadn’t we? You keep dog.’

MOE girl moved away from me and began to check the cars squeezed into the narrow mews. The older the better, that was what she’d be looking for: easier to break into, easier to wire up. She stopped by a battered V-reg Renault 5, and five minutes later we were driving south across Chelsea Bridge. At the far side we turned left, heading east towards Westminster. After Tower Bridge, we’d cross back to the north of the river, skirt the ring of steel around the City, and head for Starbucks.

58

Smithfield was a hive of activity. Vans and trucks jostled for position alongside the brightly lit market, loading and offloading everything from small boxes of whatever to halves of cow. Men in white coats, hats and wellies milled about, having a fag and rubbing their hands together to stave off the cold.

The clapped-out Renault came to a halt, and so did the windscreen wipers. They hadn’t been much help anyway. I jumped into the public phone-box we’d stopped beside, fishing in my pocket for change. I got the Polaroid out of my bumbag again, thumbed a coin into the slot and dialled. It rang several times before he answered.

‘Hello?’ He sounded as calm as though he was contemplating a walk in the park.

‘I’m nearly there.’

‘Good. A white van will meet you.’

‘I’ll be in the alley next to it.’

‘Make sure you’re facing the road. He’ll be there soon.’ The phone went dead.

Rain cascaded down the windscreen as I got back into the car. I gave Suzy the pickup point. She listened with a sad smile on her face, then leant closer and kissed me very gently on the cheek. ‘This really might be the last time.’

There wasn’t a lot I could say back. I returned her smile, then checked my documents and bumbag and climbed out. My wet tracksuit bottoms clung to my thighs as I adjusted the daysack on my back. ‘Hope not.’ I gave a little wave.

‘Me too. Maybe out of work . . . you know, I come and see you, you come and see me, that sort of thing.’ She revved the engine.

‘That’d be good. I’d like that.’

She finally found first and drove off to get a trigger on Starbucks, while I set off on foot.

There was hardly anyone around as I walked towards the coffee shop and turned into the alleyway. The whole area was shut down for the night; everything was dark apart from the street-lights that shone weakly through the downpour.

A car splashed past, and a couple of people under umbrellas hurried towards Farringdon station. I didn’t know why: you could see it was closed. I didn’t see uniforms, but they’d be under shelter somewhere.

A white Transit, as knackered as the Renault, came slowly downhill and stopped opposite me. I squinted through the rain to try to identify the driver. As he lowered his window, I stepped out of the shadows. It was Grey, still on his own, still looking benign, the ultimate smiling assassin. ‘Give me the bag, please, and get into the back.’

That wasn’t going to happen. If I controlled DW I had a better chance of seeing Kelly. ‘No way. It stays with me.’

He smiled as if he was my host for the evening, and pointed to the side door handle.

After two attempts I eventually got the thing open, and the interior light flickered on. I climbed in. The van was the same inside as out, the steel floor rusty, dented and scraped. It smelt like a spice counter. He pulled the door shut, and I got down on my knees in the darkness to keep DW stable. I leant the side of my head against the cab bulkhead and listened to him climb back in. Almost as soon as we started rolling he was gobbing off in Indian or whatever, probably telling the source that everything was all right, he’d got me.