NUMBER SEVENTEEN
The taxi took us into the centre of London, down Oxford Street and into the shabby end of Clerkenwell. We turned into Kelly Street, a road that went from nowhere to nowhere with nothing worth visiting on the way and stopped at Number Seventeen. It was a broken-down red-brick building on four floors. You entered through a set of glass doors. Immediately behind them was a wide empty space that might once have been a shop. Now all it was selling was dust.
“Out!”
The driver was a man of few words, but then “thank you” and “goodbye” would have been enough words for me. Now that I’d taken a closer look at him, I saw that he’d come off the same assembly line that had produced Ed and Ted and I guessed they must have telephoned him from the hotel. He had the same sort of gun too. And he was pointing it at us in just the same way.
He’d unlocked the doors and we got out of the taxi and walked towards the glass doors. There was nobody in sight in Kelly Street. Otherwise we might have tried to make a break for it. I hesitated, but only for a moment.
“Kidnap and murder,” I said. “You think you can get away with it?”
“Yeah,” Tim added. He nodded at the cab. “And you’ve parked on a yellow line.”
“Just keep moving,” the driver said, waving.
He led us down a corridor and through a door that opened on to a bare, uncarpeted staircase. The concrete felt cold underneath my feet as we climbed up and I wondered who or what would be waiting for us at the top. There was a rusting fire extinguisher attached to the wall. The driver reached out and turned the tap. It looked as if he’d gone crazy. There was no fire that I could see and anyway no water was coming out. A moment later I understood. Part of the wall swung open — a secret door, and the extinguisher was the handle.
“That’s very neat,” I said. “But what do you do if the place catches fire?”
We stepped through the wall. And suddenly we were surrounded.
There were people everywhere. In front of the entrance there was a pretty receptionist taking calls on an even prettier telephone system. I hadn’t seen so many flashing lights since Christmas. There were five or six offices on either side and the central area was being criss-crossed by suits with men inside. You could hear the jangle of telephones from every direction and voices talking softly like they were frightened of being overheard or even, for that matter, heard.
“Tim…!”
I nudged Tim and pointed. Another door had opened and I could see into what looked like a fully working laboratory with its own collection of technicians in white coats. But you didn’t need a microscope to see what they were working on. They had the telephone box from the alley. And they were taking it apart piece by piece. I watched as one man sprayed the glass with some sort of powder while another unscrewed the telephone receiver. But then the taxi driver prodded me with his gun and gestured at the door nearest the receptionist. “In there,” he said.
We went in. It was an office like any other with a desk, a computer screen, a few leather chairs and lighting as soft as the executive carpet. Sitting behind the desk was an elderly man with grey hair that had probably come with the job. He was a black man, dressed in a three-piece suit and an old school tie. His movements were slow, but his narrow, grey eyes seemed to move fast.
“Please sit down,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He punched a few letters on his keyboard but the screen was turned towards him so I couldn’t see what he was writing. Meanwhile, Tim had shifted onto the edge of his seat and was craning to look over the top of the desk. The man noticed him and stopped typing. “Is there something wrong?” he enquired.
Tim coughed. “You’re only using two fingers,” he said.
“Yes.” The man smiled and held up his hands. “But I do have a complete set.” He pushed the keyboard away. “So you know about Charon?”
“Maybe…”
“Of course you do, Mr Diamond. You are Tim Diamond, I presume?”
Tim stared. “How do you know that?”
“I was guessing. We found a name tag in the coat that McGuffin was wearing when he… left the company.” I couldn’t help smiling at that. “I presume he exchanged coats with you in an attempt to escape from Charon. That was the sort of thing McGuffin would have tried. And you must have found the hotel key in his coat. Am I correct?”
“Keep talking,” Tim muttered.
“I have your details here on the computer,” the old man went on. He glanced at the screen. “Tim Diamond Inc. Detective Agency. Camden Town.” He turned to me. “You’re not on my file.”
“I’m his brother,” I said.
“Ah.” He typed a few words onto the screen.
“Nick Diamond. Want me to spell it?”
“I think I can manage.”
“And what exactly is it that you do manage, Mr…” Tim began.
“My name is Mr Waverly.” He smiled. “I am the chief executive of this organization.”
“And what organization is that?”
Waverly lowered his voice. “I take it you’ve heard of MI6.”
“I’ve driven up it,” Tim said.
“No,” Waverly corrected him. “You’re thinking of the M6 motorway to Birmingham. I’m talking about intelligence.”
Tim’s face brightened. “Then you’re talking to the right person!” he announced.
“Military intelligence!” Waverly explained.
“Spies,” I added.
“McGuffin was an agent working for me,” Waverly went on. “He was pursuing a killer known only as Charon. I don’t know how much he had told you, but Charon has a contract on a Russian diplomat by the name of Boris Kusenov.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. I didn’t think it was an important question when I asked it. It was just something I wanted to know. But it seemed I’d touched on a sore point because suddenly he looked less like the head of the British Secret Service and more like a used car salesman with a second-hand secret.
“It doesn’t matter how,” he said and I realized that it did matter a lot. “All that matters is that he doesn’t kill Kusenov on British soil.”
“Suppose he stays on the pavement?” Tim asked.
Mr Waverly swallowed hard. “I mean, we have to ensure that Kusenov is not killed while he is anywhere in Britain,” he explained, choosing his words carefully. “It would have huge international repercussions. That is why it is essential that you tell me everything McGuffin told you.”
“But he didn’t tell us anything,” I said.
“That’s right,” Tim agreed. “He wanted to use a telephone but we haven’t got one. So he went out to use the one in the alley.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the laboratory. “He was lucky you hadn’t taken it before he got there.”
“We took the call box after he was killed, Mr Diamond,” Waverly said. “McGuffin got through to this office. He told us where he was. Then he was shot. So we took the telephone box to search it for clues.”
“Did you find any?” I asked.
“Not yet. But he must have left something. McGuffin was a resourceful operative. He was secretive. A loner. But he’ll have done everything he can to get a message to us.”
There was a pause.
Tim and I glanced at each other. Waverly may have been hiding something, but we had to tell him everything we knew. After all, he was the head of MI6. And that meant he was on our side.
“How about ‘south by south east’?” I said.
“What?”
“They were his last words,” Tim explained.
“Just that? South by south east?” Waverly tapped the words into the computer then pressed the button that
