“Call me when you land and then call when you get on the train.”
“Okay love.”
“Bye.”
David put the phone down. He thought about the fact that on the way out he’d had tears in his eyes when he thought of being killed and taken from his family and had then thought he would make sure he didn’t get hurt. How close had it been though? He didn’t feel like crying now. He was changed. He felt a sudden flow of strength. He’d made mistakes sure enough, but he’d shot Wheeler dead and much as it had pained him to think of having killed a man it felt suddenly good to be the one talking to his wife, sitting on the plane, going home. He felt bad about Beaumont, but at least he’d shot the man who’d wounded his partner. It could have been a lot worse. He found strength and solace in his survival and the scar across his psyche hardened, healing like the hands of manual workers, creating a first layer of tougher skin across the novice softness and making it easier for him to work at his own labour. David had his first taste of hardening from experience as far as mortal combat was concerned.
Chapter 66
London Vauxhall
2-30 p.m.
April 18th
The Priory Arms in Vauxhall on Landsdowne Way seemed innocuous enough to Charley Cobb. He’d made himself presentable, ditched the pseudo police look and walked miles around the M25 and finally when he got far enough into London he’d taken a taxi to Vauxhall. It had been no mean feat. Most of the day was gone and he needed to make contact. Only the buyer could offer safety of that he was sure. It would go badly if he wasn’t the first there, but he might be able to get a ticket out as a consolation prize, either that or do for the competition. He was getting desperate.
The contact, Peter Brook, was sitting at a window table. Brook was a solidly built, stocky man in his early thirties. He had light brown hair, side parted in a neat college boy style. He was wearing a brown pin stripe suit, Next, Machine washable. The cut was good on Next off the peg suits, he could get trousers to fit, jackets a bit bigger on the chest and body, with shorter sleeves for his muscular stocky arms. He wore black framed spectacles for reading. He took them off and displayed light hazel eyes which took on a hard pebble like quality when he saw Cobb approach the pub through the window looking over the small front of house ‘beer garden’. He watched him walk past, then return and enter.
Cobb had no idea how they would make contact. He was tired and dusty. He didn’t have to push his way to the bar, the pub wasn’t busy yet.
Brook had been there every day for the last two. He’d sat at the window table, spending money on drinks, to keep the landlord happy, buying lunch there and for his cover reading a racing post and pretending to make bets on a cell phone. He’d got know every face and knew the faces of the five men he was expecting, but knowing that even disguised he’d know anyone who wasn’t a regular.
Cobb, pint in hand, turned to face the room. Brook looked him directly in the eyes. He knew Cobb. He’d been surprised at how good the sketch in the papers had been. He nodded, putting a knowing look in his eyes. Cobb made his way over.
“I’m supposed to meet an employer here today.”
“That’d be me. You’re Cobb right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Brook, you’ve been busy.”
“Am I first here?”
“Yes. You still want the job?”
“Yes, but I need to get out of sight.”
“I’ll arrange it. I get you to a hotel tonight and drop the details of the job in tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“My car’s around the corner. Let’s go.”
“You lead.” Cobb relieved nearly lost his edge of survival.
Brook rose and they got to the door. Cobb put his hand into the shoulder bag, gripped his pistol and pushed the bag against the Brook’s back.
“It’s for sure that after it’s passed through the bag it’ll have enough energy to rip a path into you and lodge itself somewhere nasty and as this is a Russian made PSS no-one is going to hear a thing when if I pull the trigger. Walk steadily and don’t move too far ahead of me.”
“Okay Cobb. Take it easy. I’m to take you to Claridge’s Hotel set you up in a good suite, order food and get you ready for the job.”
“What is the job?”
“I don’t know. I’m just a link in the chain.”
They got to a plush and polished black Honda Accord S type saloon. The contact blipped it and unlocked the doors. Cobb looked around and let the contact get in the driver’s side. He put the black bag on the back seat and got in after it. The contact looked at his face in the mirror.
“Okay no tricks. The round doesn’t have to pass through the bag now, know what I mean?” Cobb said quietly.
“Sure enough. Look Cobb just relax a little. Even if you don’t trust me I’m all you’ve got. Without us and the job you’ll have a hell of a time getting out of the country or going home for that matter.”
Cobb lowered the PSS pistol’s barrel which had been pointing at the back of the Brook’s seat. He didn’t put it away.
The black Honda Accord purred quietly way from the bright blue fronted pub and headed into central London.
Chapter 67
Baker Street Area of London
3 p.m.
April 18th
The phone rang waking Mason from a deep and comfortable sleep. He reached out lifted the receiver and acknowledged the call. A shower, change and coffee saw him ready for an outing into London. He’d removed the self manufactured false facial hair and looking at himself in the mirror he decided to get his head shaved to the length of the shortest hairs and he decided to dye it back to his natural black. He knew he’d have to buy clothes and decided on Oxford Street. There was the matter of cash and whilst bathing he’d run through the hotels he’d seen. Mentally picturing each one led to his choice of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel on Baker Street. A visit to the laundry room in this hotel would yield enough kitchen uniform to access the hotel at the back.
He left the Bickenhall Hotel room around three thirty. He decided to go unarmed. He locked the pistol in the small room safe using a self made combination and hoped for the best.
It was all too easy to get the laundry room and staff access areas. Most people hesitated, were nervous or held back in out of bounds areas, but having the confidence to just walk through the doors marked staff only and do so with an affected air of rectitude was one of the skills that delineated the successful in the killing trade. The trick was to look like you belonged there.
There was no lock on the staff door around the corner from reception and he pushed it open and made his way down a narrow stair case to a basement area. There was a decent though not large sized open area in front of him, a small lift to his left and storage rooms behind him and to his right.
To his delight the laundry baskets were sitting waiting to be taken away near a cellar hatch hydraulic hoist. He was at the back of the hotel and there were steps up beside the hoist and he could smell fresh air. He opened a
