They travel in silence for another mile.
“I remember you,” says the driver.
“Have we met?”
“Name’s Dave,” he takes one hand off the wheel to shake. “My wife’s younger brother used to be a boxer, beautiful to watch, fists like bricks. He detached a retina just before the Sydney Olympics. Crying shame. Got a job as a bouncer in Acton. One night he threw a drunk out. The guy came back with a gun and tried to shoot my brother-in-law but he shot a girl instead. Innocent bystander. Almost killed her. Remember the case?”
Ruiz nods.
“Anyway, this girl gets out of hospital and decides to sue the nightclub and sue my brother-in-law. You sorted that out for us. Made her see sense. I appreciate that.”
“How is your wife?” asks Ruiz.
“She left me for a dog breeder.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I got a Pekingese in the divorce settlement.”
Fifteen minutes later the truck drops him at West Ham Station and Ruiz catches a tube to Earls Court. He goes to a twenty-four-hour convenience store and buys a toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash. He passes a nightclub. A drunken girl dances on the pavement clutching a miniature bottle of champagne. She’s wearing a tiny black dress and high heels, impervious to the cold or the hungry stares of passing men.
Sitting on the steps of a terrace house, Ruiz watches the Mercedes for half an hour, making sure that it’s not under surveillance. Satisfied, he runs his fingers under the wheel arches and the bumpers, looking for tracking devices. Then he gets behind the wheel and drives away, heading east along Old Brompton Road, running the first red light just to make sure.
At Lancaster Gate he wakes the hotel night manager by leaning on the buzzer. Pays extra for a room. He slips a note under the professor’s door, not wanting to wake him. Opening the window, he undresses and lies down on top of the sheets, with one arm across his eyes. The curtains, printed with small pink flowers, are lifting and settling in the breeze. He can hear cars and horns in the street. A party. People fighting on the pavement. Glass breaking.
Sleep never comes on its own terms. Insomnia is part of his metabolism, lying awake in the dark of the night, his breath loud in his chest. He used to rage against it, medicate, drink too much, exercise to exhaustion, but now he’s learned to survive upon less, tasting the ash in his mouth each morning and feeling the grit in his eyes.
When he finally dozes, he remembers the American with his southern drawl, wishing Claire a happy wedding. He can still feel the weight of the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger. He can picture putting a neat hole in the American’s forehead, red mist on the window behind. He had contemplated pulling the trigger. Wished for an excuse. Not a good state of mind.
16
The seven-hour flight ends with a bump on the runway and a delay getting to the gate. Chalcott rolls his carry-on bag through Customs.
“How was the flight?” asks Sobel.
“Terrible.”
“London is lovely at this time of year.”
“What are you, my fucking tour guide?”
Sobel tries to remain stoic as they weave through the crowd to a waiting car. Chalcott has several moods that range from bullying to wheedling self-pity, but bullying is his favorite. A boarding school background most likely, his parents in the diplomatic service, his holidays spent with relatives or in guarded compounds in Third World countries.
“Any sign of North?” asks Chalcott.
“They’re searching the river.”
“He’s dead then?”
“Not confirmed.”
“If we keep Terracini quiet, we should be back on track.”
“In essence.”
“What does that mean?”
Sobel adopts a passive-aggressive tone. “Luca Terracini accessed the newspaper archives last night. He downloaded photographs of Yahya Maluk and Ibrahim.”
“You said you had Terracini under control.”
“We have someone at the newspaper keeping watch. We’re ready to intervene.”
“If Ibrahim is spooked, he’ll clear the accounts.”
“We can follow the trail.”
“You’re stating the obvious, Brendan, but things that are solid can melt into air.”
Chalcott goes to the wrong side of the car. Forgets about the left-hand drive. Curses. Gets in the passenger seat. The drive from Heathrow takes them over the A4 flyover, past buildings used as billboards and a neon sign flashing the temperature: 21 degrees. It is four years since Chalcott was last in London. Each year it gets more crowded, less charming and slightly shabbier. Changing by the week or by the day, leaving most people confused.
“There is one more thing,” says Sobel. “The audit at Mersey Fidelity could show up some discrepancies.”
“What sort of discrepancies?”
“Unexplained deposits and withdrawals. It could set off alarm bells.”
“Who’s conducting the audit?”
“Not one of ours.”
“Can we change the personnel?”
“This is England, we can’t just…”
“What? Change an auditor? Pardon my fucking ignorance, but aren’t we supposed to be allies? We fought two fucking wars pulling their skinny white butts out of the European mud. Where’s the quid pro quo, eh? Where’s the ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?
“Let me tell you something, Brendan, if this goes pear-shaped, our political friends in Washington are going to wash their hands of us. Remember the Iran-Contra Affair? Secret arms sales to fund that dirty little war in Nicaragua? This will make it look like a fucking accounting error.”
17
Ruiz wakes mid-morning. Joe O’Loughlin is sitting in a chair beside the window, his face tilted to the light, color in his hollowed cheeks.
“I knocked. You didn’t answer. The chambermaid let me in.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten. How did you sleep?”
“Lousy.”
“You’re not very clear on this sleep concept, are you?”
“It’s overrated.”
