Sitting inside was a bald man in his fifties, wearing a white shirt, black tie, and blue nylon jacket.
Beyond him lay a wide tree-lined road and pavements of clean beige gravel. The large mansion houses were mostly embassies and their residences. Flags fluttered and brass plates gleamed. The sale price of even one of the staff apartments would probably clear my debts at the clinic, pay Kelly's education right through to doctorate level, and still leave enough to put a new roof over most of Norfolk.
The gate man looked me up and down as if I was something one of the posh embassy dogs had left coiled on the curb. He didn't get up, just stuck his head out of the window. 'Yes?'
'Number 3A, mate. Pickup.' I pointed to the now empty backpack on my back. I really hadn't planned to be a messenger today, but it seemed the easiest thing to do. At least I looked the part, with the leathers and my South London accent turned up a notch or two.
He pointed up the road. 'Hundred yards up on the left. Don't park in front of the building. Put your machine over there.' He indicated to the opposite side of the road.
I let in the clutch and waited for the steel barriers blocking my way to disappear into the road. The Israeli embassy loomed up on my left.
A dark-skinned guard in plain clothes stood outside on the pavement. He must have been feeling quite cold, as his coat and suit jacket were unbuttoned. If anyone attacked the place he had to be able to reach his weapon and gun them down before the uniformed British policeman on the opposite side of the road got a chance to step in and make a simple arrest instead.
About two hundred feet past them both I parked in the line of cars opposite the apartment building. Walking across the road toward its grand gates, I started removing my gloves and unbuckling my helmet, then I hit the bell and explained to a voice where I wanted to go. The side gate opened with a whirr and a click and I walked through and down the drive.
The building was bigger than most of those around it and set back from the road. It was made of red brick and concrete and was decades younger than its neighbors, with manicured gardens on each side of the drive that led downhill to a turning circle with an ornate fountain at its center.
Pulling off the ski mask that kept the cold off my face, I walked through the main doors into a glittering dark marble and glass reception area. The doorman, another king sitting on his throne, seemed to view me the same way as his mate down the road. 'Delivery, is it?'
Nobody calls you sir when you're in bike leathers.
It was time to play messenger boy again. 'Nah, pick-up P. P. Smith, mate.'
He picked up the internal telephone and dialed, his voice changing into Mr. Nice Guy the moment he got a reply. 'Hello, reception here, you have a messenger for a collection. Do you want me to send him up? Certainly. Goodbye.' The phone went down and he turned surly again as he pointed to the elevator. 'Third floor, fourth door on the left.'
As the elevator doors closed behind me I had a quick check round for closed-circuit cameras, then pulled out my Universal Self Loading Pistol. Checking chamber, I hit the button for the third floor. I never knew why I checked chamber so much. Maybe it just made me feel more in control.
As the elevator kicked in with a slight jerk and took me upward, I folded the ski mask over the Universal Self-Loading Pistol and placed it, and my right hand, in the helmet. If there was a drama, I could just drop the helmet and react.
The elevator slowed. Placing my thumb on the safety catch, I was ready.
The door slid open with an up market ding, but I stood my ground for a few seconds, listening, helmet still in my left hand so I could draw with my right.
The temperature changed as I stepped into the hallway and the doors closed behind me. It was hot, but the decor was cold: white walls, cream carpet, and very brightly lit.
I followed the carpet, looking for the fourth door on the left. It was so quiet that all I could hear as I moved was the creaking of my leathers.
The door didn't have a bell, knocker, or even a number. Using my knuckles against the heavy wood, I stood off to the side, my right hand back on the pistol grip, thumb easing off the safety catch.
I hated this bit. It wasn't as if I was expecting trouble; it was highly unlikely to happen here, given all the security I'd had to pass.
But still, I hated knocking on doors and not knowing who or what was on the other side.
Footsteps echoed on a hard floor and locks were undone. The door started to open, only to be stopped by a security chain. A face, or rather half a face, moved into the three- or four-inch gap. It was enough for me to recognize its owner at once. I was pleasantly surprised. It would be much friendlier dealing with her than some square head Looking almost innocent, Val's woman from Helsinki was showing me just one very light-blue eye and some dark-blond hair. It probably got lighter in the summer, when the sun got to work on it.
The only other thing I could see through the gap was her dark-blue woolen turtleneck.
She looked at me without any expression, waiting for me to speak.
'My name is Nick. You have something for me.'
'Yes, I've been expecting you.' She didn't bat an eye. 'Have you a cell phone or pager with you?'
I nodded. 'Yeah, I've got a phone.' Fuck what Valentin had said. I needed one with me for when the clinic called later.
'Could I ask you to turn it off, please?'
'It is.' It was pointless wasting the battery while sitting on a bike.
Tilting the helmet slightly so the pistol wouldn't fall out, I reached into my right-hand pocket and pulled out the phone, showing her the display.
She gave a very courteous 'Thank you,' then the door closed and I heard the chain being undone. The door reopened fully, but instead of standing there and ushering me in, she turned and started to walk back into the flat. 'Close the door behind you, would you please, Nick?'
As I stepped over the threshold I smelled floor wax. I followed her down the hallway, taking in the apartment's layout. A couple of doors led off either side, and one at the far end was partly open. The floor was plain, light wood, the walls and doors gleaming white. There was no furniture or pictures, not even a coat hook.
I switched my attention to Val's woman. I'd thought it was her high heels that had made her look so tall in Finland, but I could see now that her legs did that all on their own. She was maybe just over six feet tall in her square-toed cowboy boots, which made a slow rhythmic clack as her heels hit the floor. She walked like a super model on a catwalk. Her legs were sheathed in a pair of Armani jeans, the logo on the back pocket moving up and down in time with her heels. I couldn't keep my eyes off it.
Slipping the pistol into my right-hand pocket, I moved the phone into my left, all the time looking at her and thinking that Armani should be paving her for this. I was almost tempted to buy myself a pair.
One door to the right was partly open, and I glanced through. The kitchen was just as sterile as the hallway: stark white stools at a breakfast bar, no kettle, no letters on the side. Nobody lived here.
I walked into the living room where she now stood, a large white space with three unmatching dining-room chairs at its center. Muslin curtains covered the windows, making the light dull and hazy.
The only other objects in the room were four very large Harrods bags, which looked as if they were about to split at the seams, and a Borders bag, the telltale shapes of books pushing at its sides.
I moved to the far corner of the room and leaned against the wall.
Through the double glazing of the large picture windows I could hear the faint murmur of traffic.
She bent over one of the shopping bags and pulled out a buff envelope.
'My name is Liv. Valentin sends his regards,' she said as she brought it over to me. 'And, of course, his gratitude. This is for you. One hundred thousand U.S. dollars.'
Wonderful. That was the slate clean at the clinic, and another four months' treatment in the bank.
She extended a perfectly manicured hand that showed she was no longer a teenager. The skin on her face was crystal clear and had no need of makeup. I reckoned she was in her early thirties. Her hair was shoulder length, parted over her left eye, and tucked back behind her ear.
If she was wearing nail polish today, it was clear. She wore no rings, no bracelets, earrings, or necklaces. The only jewelry I could see was a discreet gold tank watch with a black leather strap. But then, she needed adorning like the Venus de Milo needed a velvet choker and diamond tiara. I was beginning to see why Val might
