David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good (33 page)

       
Melissa didn’t answer
straight away.

       
“Why do you ask me
that?” she said, after a moment.

       
“I’m just being
methodical,” I said. “It was
Leckie’s
snout who came
to us, and first threw suspicion on al-
Aqsaba’a
.
Leckie’s
had successes against them in the past. Sole and
Shakram
worked at the same hospital as
Leckie
.
And that’s where the thefts took place. I think we’re due another conversation
with the man.”

       
“I guess so. I can see
where you’re going, I suppose.”

       
“But my question is,
what kind of conversation? And that hinges on whether we can trust him. What’s
your view?”

       
“I’d say we can, and we
can’t. He feels badly treated by Box, and the hospital’s his livelihood now. So
if he’s screwed something up, I don’t see him putting his head in noose to help
us. But if you’re asking me if he’s bent, you already know the answer.”

       
“I do?”

       
“Yes. He was kicked out,
right? That means he did something wrong. Being over zealous with his
interrogation methods, or whatever it was. I doubt we’ll ever hear the full
story. But the point is, if there
was
even the
faintest whiff of treachery, he wouldn’t have walked away. The rank he was at,
he’d have swallowed his gun.
On his own.
Or with help.
Either way, same result.”

       
I thought about the job
I’d recently been assigned in Chicago, where I’d been sent after a Navy
Intelligence agent who’d crossed the line. There was no possibility of that guy
resigning and walking into a cushy job somewhere else. It made sense that
things would be the same for the Security Service.

       
“How soon can we...?” I
said, as her phone started to ring.

       
“It’s my boss,” she
said, showing me the screen. “You don’t think Jones...?”

       
“One way to find out,” I
said.

       
Melissa hit the answer
button, and talked for just over a minute.

       
“I guess he didn’t,” she
said, when she’d hung up. “
Chaston
wants me to cover
a meeting for him, this afternoon.
Here.
He can’t get
back in time. Do you want to hang around till I’m done?”

       
“Not especially,” I
said.

       
“Then there’s something you
can do to help. Do you know the one thing
Leckie
loves more than golf?”

       
“No.”

       
“Champagne.
The good stuff.
Could you pick some up, somewhere?”

       
“I should think so.”

       
“Good,” she said,
tearing a page from her pad and starting to scribble. “Here’s my address. I’ll
have him meet us there, since we’re flying under the radar for the time being.
Will six o’clock work for you?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The cab driver dropped me on Piccadilly, but I used the side door to
Fortnum’s in order to avoid the crowds of inert shoppers, rendered immobile by
the bewildering selection of tea and confectionary. My original plan was to
just pick up one bottle of champagne, but on the spur of the moment I grabbed a
second. My shopping urges weren’t completely uncontrolled, though. I did manage
to resist the edible baked tarantulas from Cambodia.

       
I worked my way through
to the restaurant and left via the exit on the corner of Jermyn Street. An
elderly couple was just clambering out of a cab, so I waited for them to get
steady on their feet and then jumped into the back and asked for the Museum of
London. It’s right at the corner of the Barbican Centre, and out of habit I
never let strangers know my full address.

       
The traffic was heavier
than I’d hoped, and I had to swim against the tide of pedestrians that was
already building up along both sides of
Aldersgate
Street. I had to wait at the lights, as well, before finally turning into Beech
Street and heading for the main entrance to Cromwell Tower. The plaza in front
of the double doors was broad, but for some reason a couple of guys were
walking straight towards me. It was as if they were deliberately maintaining a
collision course. They would be in their early twenties, I’d guess. They were
tall - six foot four or five - and walked with the awkward, lumbering gait that
people end up with when they spend too many hours building pointless muscle in
the gym. Their clothes were unremarkable - cheap trainers, ill-fitting jeans
and black leather jackets. One was carrying a football. And both of them had
baseball caps - one the Baltimore Orioles, one the Toronto Blue Jays. I
wondered what Melissa would think of two teams that were named after birds.

       
We closed to within
twenty feet of each other, and the guy with the ball dropped it on the ground.
He watched it bounce,
then
volleyed it expertly at the
wall of the Tower. It hit the concrete just at the side of a notice beneath a
City of London crest that read -

       
NO BALL GAMES ALLOWED.
BY ORDER.

Their attitude reminded me of the
yobs
Melissa
and I had encountered in the garden at St Joseph’s, four days ago, and I
wondered how many more idiots there were like them spread throughout London. I
also wondered about taking a minute and encouraging them to show a little
respect for the environment.
Specially the environment around
my home.
But given the upcoming meeting with Melissa and
Leckie
, I decided to give them a pass. Some things in life
are more important than others, and I didn’t want to get embroiled in anything
that could make me late.

       
The two guys looked at
each other. It was like they were surprised I hadn’t reacted to them. Or maybe
disappointed. I kept an eye on them, and continued on my way to the entrance.
The guys split up when they were about ten feet away from me. The one who’d
kicked the ball peeled off to his right, to collect it. The other continued
straight towards me. He picked up speed, and started to lunge sideways when he
was about a foot away, aiming to barge me with his shoulder. I tracked his
movement and spun around sideways at the last moment, pulling my body out of
harm’s way. Deprived of his anticipated impact the guy was left staggering and
off balance, so without thinking I stepped across to finish the job gravity had
started. I stamped down hard, crashing the edge of my right foot into the side
of his knee. The joint gave way and he dropped onto all fours, howling with
pain. Then I smashed the ball of my foot into the side of his head, and he went
down the rest of the way, finally silent.

       
I spun round, needing to
locate his friend. I spotted him fifteen feet away. His right leg was raised,
his foot was up almost at chest height, and I was conscious of a white blur
closing the space between us. It was the football, rising sharply and blazing
towards my head. I had to jump sideways to avoid taking it full in the face,
and quickly tighten my grip to avoid one of the bottles slipping out of my left
hand. The guy took one step in my direction and then stopped, looking a little
confused.

       
“You nearly made me drop
my champagne,” I said. “Then we’d have had a real problem on our hands.”

       
The guy started moving
towards me again, closing to within six feet.

       
“You’re the one with the
problem,” he said.

       
“No,” I said, raising
the bottles to chest level and holding them out in front of me. “I don’t think
so. See? They both survived.”

       
“Not for long. I’m going
to break them. Then I’m going to break you.”

       
“Actually, breaking them
would be quite difficult,” I said, lowering the bottles again. “They don’t just
use any old glass, you know. It has to be extra strong. Able to withstand up to
ninety pounds of pressure per square inch, due to all those busy little bubbles
inside. So why don’t you save yourself the trouble? Turn around now. Walk away.
I’ll even let you collect your football before you go.”

       
He didn’t respond.

       
“OK,” I said. “How’s
this for an idea? I’m going to give you a choice. Option one – turn
around and walk away, unharmed. Or option two - we conduct an experiment to see
which is stronger: The glass in the bottle, or the bone in your skull.”

       
The guy shifted his feet
slightly, and his mouth gaped open about a quarter of an inch, but he didn’t
speak.

       
“It’s your choice,” I
said. “But you’ve got to make it now.”

       
He still showed no sign
of reacting.

       
“You’re running out of
time,” I said. “And the longer you stand there, the more I’m
favouring
option two.”

       
I heard a groaning
sound, behind me, and
realised
the first guy was
starting to come round.

       
“Maybe we should ask
your friend?” I said, stepping back so I could both see of them at once.

       
The first guy grunted
and pulled himself back onto all fours, so I gave him another tap on the head.

       
“Or not,” I said, as he
fell sideways and rolled onto his back.

       
That was enough to break
the second guy’s trance. He roared with fury and lurched forward, trying to
rush me. I started to swing the champagne bottle in my right hand but I could
see he was watching for it, just as I’d hoped, so I ducked down, set the other
bottle on the ground, then straightened up and brought my left arm around,
driving my fist into the side of his head.

       
The blow sent him
reeling, but he didn’t go down.

       
“You didn’t think I’d
really use the champagne, did you?” I said, placing the second bottle next to
its twin. “It’s Dom
Perignon
. I’ve used it for a few
interesting things over the years, but never as a weapon. That would be
sacrilege.”

       
We stood ten feet apart
for a moment, staring at each other. Then the guy charged at me again, swinging
his fists this time, trying to bludgeon me.

       
“Why are you doing
this?” I said, pulling back at an angle and jabbing him in the kidneys as he
lumbered past me. “When I’ve offered you the chance to walk away?”

       
He stopped, turned, and
came at me again.

       
“Give it up,” I said,
sticking out a foot this time and tripping him. “Show some common sense.”

       
He struggled back to his
feet and dived at me, arms out in front like a swimmer starting a race. Only he
wasn’t aiming for clear water. He was going for my throat, so I ducked down low
and when his thighs slammed into me, I instantly straightened my legs and sent
him somersaulting over my shoulder.

       
“Looks like there was a
third option,” I said, watching to make sure that this time he didn’t get up
again. “Who would have guessed?”

       
The two guys had both
ended up on their backs with their arms spread wide, about two yards apart,
like they’d been crucified lying down. I couldn’t see what had happened to
their football. The only movement I did detect was an old lady walking very
slowly away from the entrance to the building. She was less than five feet
tall, and looked at least ninety. We could have been
neighbours
,
I suppose, but I didn’t
recognise
her. She stopped
moving when she
realised
I’d seen her, then shuffled
round and made her way towards me.

       
“Did you kill them?” she
said, stopping next to the football guy’s head.

       
“No,” I said. “They’ll
be fine. Nothing more than a couple of bruises.”

       
“That’s a shame,” she
said, poking the guy’s head with the toe of her shoe. “I wish you had killed
them. People like that, making a nuisance of themselves, showing no respect. My
Eric would never have stood for it. I wish you’d killed them. I wish you’d
tortured them, then killed them.”

       
“Eric was your husband?”
I said.

       
“We were married
fifty-nine years, and even in his dying days he wouldn’t have stood for
nonsense like that. A week before the end he was outside our flat, yelling at
the next-door kids for making too much noise. Ten years ago, that was, now.”