the pound.
Big Al had done it. I had to control myself, as I remembered Bexley was still standing there.
'I'll just be about five minutes,' I said.
'Tell reception when you're ready. They'll put it back in the vault for you.' He left with a shake of my hand and a '
'Bye, Kelly!' and closed the door behind him.
The box was eighteen inches by twelve, a metal file container I'd bought for ten pounds in Woolworth's, with a very cheap lock on the top that opened under pressure. It meant that I didn't have to turn up with a key every time--I couldn't always guarantee I was going to have that with me. The only problem was that if I had to make a run out of the country, it could only be during banking hours.
I flipped the lock and pulled out a couple of old soccer fanzines I'd put on top in case it accidentally opened. I threw them over to Kelly.
'See if you can make any sense of those.'
She picked one up and started to flip through the pages.
The first thing I took out was the mobile phone and recharger. I switched it on. The battery was still working, but I put it in the recharger anyway and plugged it into the wall.
Next I pulled out a clear plastic freezer bag that contained bundles of US dollar bills and pounds sterling, five South African Krugerrands, and ten half-sovereigns that I'd stolen after the Persian Gulf War. All troops who were behind enemy lines in Iraq were issued twenty of the things as bribes for the locals in case we got in heavy shit. In my patrol we'd managed to keep ten of them each; we said we'd lost the rest in a contact. To begin with I'd kept them only as souvenirs, but they'd soon increased in value. I left them in the bag; I was interested only in the sterling.
I dug out a French leather porte-monnaie with a strap, in which I had a complete set of ID: passport, credit cards, driver's license, all the stuff I needed to become Nicholas Duncan Stevenson. It had taken years to get cover in such depth, all originating from a social security number I'd bought in a pub in Brixton for fifty pounds.
I then got out an electronic notebook. It was great; it meant that I could fax, send memos, word process, and maintain a database anywhere in the world. The problem was I didn't have a clue how to use it. I used only the phone number and address section facility because it could be accessed only with a password.
I had a quick look over at Kelly. She was thumbing through the magazines, not understanding a word. I pushed my hand to the bottom of the box and extracted the 9mm semiautomatic Browning I'd liberated from Africa in the late eighties.
Loading the mags with rounds from a small Tupperware box, I made ready and checked chamber. Kelly looked up but didn't give it a second glance.
I powered up the notebook, tapped in 2422, and found the number I wanted. I picked up the telephone on the table.
Kelly looked up again.
'Who are you calling?'
'Euan.'
'Who is he?'
I could see the confusion on her face.
'He's my best friend.' I carried on pressing the phone number.
'But...'
I put my finger to my lips.
'Shhh.'
He wasn't in. I left a message on the answering machine in veiled speech. I then put the laptop into the box, together with everything that I wasn't taking with me including the printout.
Kelly was bored with the fanzines now, so I put them back in the box. I knew there was a question on its way.
'Nick?'
I just carried on packing.
'Yes?'
'I thought David was your best friend.'
'Ah yes. Well, Euan is my best friend. It's just that sometimes I have to call him David because--' I started to think of a lie, but why?
'I told you to make sure you wouldn't know his real name if we got caught. That way you couldn't tell anyone. It's something that is done all the time. It's called OP SEC--operational security.' I finished packing and closed the box. She thought about it.
'Oh, OK. His name's Euan then.'
'When you see him he might even show you the floor I told you about.'
I poked my head around the corner and waved at the receptionist.
She came in, picked up the box, and left.
I turned to Kelly.
'Right, then, time for a shopping frenzy.
Let me see; we'd better buy some nice new clothes for us both, and then we'll go and stay in a hotel and wait for Euan to call. Sound good to you?'
Her face brightened.
'OK.!'
Once this was all over I would have to set up a different named account and move the money, and I'd stop being Stevenson. A pain in the ass to organize, but I could live with that for $426,072.
The cab ride to Trafalgar Square became a tour given by me to Kelly. I was more into it than she was, and I could tell by the taxi driver's expression in his rearview mirror that I was getting most of the details wrong.
We were going down the Strand when I spotted clothes stores on both sides of the road. We paid off the taxi and shopped for jeans, T-shirts, and a washing kit. Once that was done, we took another cab to Brown's Hotel.
I said to Kelly, 'You'll like this place. It's got two entrances, so you can enter from Dover Street and come out the other side, on Albermarle Street. Very important for spies like us.'
I switched on the phone, got hold of information, and called the hotel to make a reservation. Less than half an hour later we were in our room, but only after discovering that the Dover Street exit was no longer open. Finger on the pulse.
The room was a world removed from the ones we had been used to. It was plush, comfortable, and, best of all, had a minibar with Toblerones. I could have killed for a beer, but not yet; there was work to do.
Jet lag was starting to kick in. Kelly looked exhausted. She flopped onto the bed and I helped undress her, then threw her between the sheets.
'You can take a bath tomorrow,' I said.
She was a starfish in about two minutes flat.
I checked that the phone had a good signal and that the charger was working. Euan knew my voice, so the 'It's John the plumber, when do you want me to come and fix that tap?
Give me a ring on...' would have done the trick.
I decided to have a quick nap for ten minutes, maybe shower, have something to eat, then go to bed. After all, it was only 5 p.m.
At a quarter to six in the morning, the phone rang. I pressed Receive. I heard 'Hello?' in that very low, very controlled voice I knew so well.
'I need a hand, mate,' I said. I didn't want to give him time to talk.
'I need you to help me. Can you get to London?'
'When do you want me?'
'Now.'
'I'm in Wales. It'll take a bit of time.'
'I'll wait out on this number.'
'No problem. I'll get a train; it'll be quicker.'
