It was incredible, really, that the two of them had finally met. Bulman remembered the first time he had heard the story of a teenage spy. It had been in a pub, the Crown on Fleet Street, a late-night drinking session with an old friend in the police who had been at the Science Museum when the parachutist came through the roof. He hadn’t believed it then, but something had told him to stick with it, and very soon he had found himself on what had become nothing less than a quest. He had spent months doggedly following leads that had gone nowhere, meeting contacts who had clammed up at the last moment, calling in favors, and, when necessary, making threats. Piece by piece he had put the story together. And in the end it had led him to Alex.
Bulman slept in a circular bed with black silk sheets on the top floor of a modern block of apartments in Chalk Farm. His bedroom had views of the railway lines leading into Euston Station. The place had been built only twenty years ago but already there were cracks appearing, maybe because of the vibrations from the trains. One was passing now. When he had first moved in here, the grinding wheels used to wake him up, but he had soon grown used to it. Now he quite liked it. He wouldn’t have been able to afford the place if it had been anywhere quieter.
It was the start of a new week. Seven days since he had been in Alex’s Chelsea flat. In the end, he had decided to give the boy time to work things out and to recognize he had no alternative but to work with him. He and that housekeeper of his would have talked things over and probably blamed each other for what had happened. Now that he thought about it, maybe that was another interesting angle. The girl—
Jack—was quite pretty. What was she doing, living with a fourteen-year-old boy? The
He threw back the covers and went into the kitchen, where the plates from dinner last night—and the night before—were still stacked up in the sink. Bulman enjoyed good food, but he couldn’t be bothered to cook for himself and the packaging from frozen meals was spilling out of the garbage. He found a clean mug and made himself a coffee, glancing at the newspaper articles that were pinned to a corkboard above the sink. “Secrets of Army’s Basra Breakfast.” “Intelligence Chief Appears on Face-book.” “SAS Commander Misses Flight.” He wasn’t proud of his work. Nobody took much notice of what he wrote, and the stories were always nearer the back of the paper than the front. What did it matter, anyway? They were read and then forgotten . . . if they were read at all.
That would all change soon.
Bulman opened the fridge. He took out the milk and sniffed it. It was sour. He poured it into the sink and drank his coffee black. What was he going to do until four o’clock? It was a beautiful day, a cold January sun glinting off the railway tracks. He watched a second train rumble past on its way into town, packed with commuters on their way to their boring jobs. He could almost imagine them, squashed into the newspapers they were trying to read. A month from now, those newspapers would belong to him.
A late breakfast. Shopping. A couple of beers at the Groucho Club in Soho. He mapped out his day as he got dressed in his usual open-neck shirt, blazer, and slacks. He never wore jeans. He liked to look stylish. He fastened the shirt with brightly polished silver cuff links, each one decorated with a miniature engraving of the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger, used by the commandos since the Second World War. Finally, he scooped up the briefcase that he always carried with him, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, finished his coffee, and went out.
There was a newsstand opposite the apartment with a display showing the morning headlines.
“Journalist Killed.” He couldn’t help smiling as he read the words. He wondered if it was somebody he knew, probably taking a bullet in Afghanistan or somewhere else in the Middle East. He had often tried to get himself sent abroad (“. . . our man, Harry Bulman, entrenched with the allied forces in Iraq . . .”), but none of the editors had been interested. Well, serves the guy right, whoever he was. Probably some stupid amateur who didn’t know when to duck.
He was about to cross the road and buy the paper when he remembered that he had used the last of his change down at the pub the night before. He’d been drinking with a couple of freelance journalists and somehow they’d all ended up around the slot machine, shoveling coins in. At one stage he’d won more than twenty-five dollars, but of course he’d put it all back in again and lost it. That was his problem. He never knew when to stop. He took out his wallet and opened it. All he had was a couple of credit cards.
He had no money at all.
The nearest cash machine was at the traffic lights on the other side of Camden Market. Bulman thought about walking, but as luck would have it, a bus appeared at that exact moment, rumbling toward him down the hill. At least he had his pass . . . it was valid for any subway or bus in London. He hurried over to the bus stop, arriving just as the driver pulled in and the doors hissed open. A couple of people got on ahead of him, but then it was his turn. He pressed his card against the scanner. The machine made a discouraging sound.
“I’m sorry, mate,” the driver said. “You’ve got nothing left on your card.”
“That’s not possible,” Bulman replied. “I took the subway last night and I had about thirty dollars left on it.”
“Well, it’s showing zero now.” The driver pointed at the screen.
“Your machine must be broken.”
“It worked for everyone else.”
Bulman held his card against the screen for a second time—but with the same result. He glanced around. The bus was crowded with people waiting to move off. They were all watching him impatiently. “All right.” He scowled. “I’ll give you the cash.” But even as he reached into his pocket, he remembered that he didn’t have any cash. The driver was glaring at him now. Bulman gave up. The bank was only a quick walk away. The sun was shining.
“Forget it,” he muttered. “I’ll walk.”
He stepped back onto the sidewalk. The doors closed and the bus moved off. Bulman was still holding his travel pass. He glared at it. When he had a spare minute, he would send a letter to Transport for London to complain. Maybe he would even write a newspaper article about his experience. Idiots. Why couldn’t they get the technology to work?
It took him ten minutes to walk down to the bank, by which time it was almost nine o’clock. All around him, the shops were opening. People were hurrying out of the coffee shops, clutching their oversized cups, then disappearing into their offices . . . another busy London day. Propping his briefcase under his arm, Bulman selected a debit card and fed it into the machine. He needed money for breakfast, to pick up a few groceries—and later on, he might treat himself to a taxi over to Chelsea. He punched in his PIN, touched the box for $50, and waited.
The screen went black. Then a message came up.
