I looked down at my mirror. Right on cue I saw the reflection of a bike's headlight. It wasn't necessarily a surveillance operator, but I had ways of checking.
I was riding like one of those forty-something losers. The family are all grown up, the house is virtually paid for, so now they want the motorbike their mom would never let them have. It tends to be the biggest, fattest touring bike their platinum Amex card can handle, and they ride to and from work without ever getting within spitting distance of a speed limit. Except I wasn't scared to open up the throttle. I wanted to see if the single light behind me would do the same.
It didn't.
He shot past me at speed on an eight-year-old greasy Honda 500 with a battered old blue plastic box on the back held down by bun gees He was wearing well-used leathers and Wellington boots, and turned to look at me through his visor, all beard and disgust. I knew just how he felt.
There were other bikes behind me, weaving in and out of the traffic. I moved into the middle of the road and twisted the throttle to jump a couple of cars, then swung back into the stream, crawling along behind a rusting van. I let a few more bikes and mopeds pass me, and even a bicycle, and after a couple more sets of lights it was obvious I had another weekend rider behind me, about two cars back.
I turned left at the next intersection, and he followed me.
Looking for a natural stop, I pulled in at a newsstand. Resting the bike on its side stand, I went through the charade of undoing my helmet and gloves, as an Yamaha VFR came past, probably waffling on the net, telling everybody where I was. 'Stop! Stop! Stop! Charlie one (the bike) static on the left. At the newsstand, Bravo one (me) still complete (on the bike).'
I took the helmet off but kept the mask on once he'd gone, then got off the bike and walked into the shop. I couldn't just ride straight off again, because that would show I was aware.
The young woman behind the counter looked alarmed because I hadn't taken my mask off. There was a sign politely asking me to do just that. If she'd asked I would have told her no-in my tear-the-ass out of it cockney accent-and to fuck off because I was cold. I didn't want the team to come and requisition the security video tape with yours truly on it. She wasn't going to argue; why should she care if I was there to steal the money? It could be dangerous for her.
I went back to the bike clutching a copy of the evening newspaper. If I was right, there'd probably be a bike at either end of the road by now. The net would be in chaos as cars hit their horns at the dickhead drivers who had suddenly decided to throw up (turn 180) in the traffic, all out of sight to me, trying to get in position for the stakeout. A static short-term target is always a dangerous time for a surveillance team. Everyone has to get in position, so that next time the target goes mobile they've covered every possible option. That way, the target moves to the team, instead of the team crowding the target. But where was the trigger? I couldn't be bothered to look; I'd find out soon enough.
I pushed the Ducati down into first gear and carried on in the same direction I'd been heading before, towards South Kensington subway station, about half a mile away. Parking up in the bike row on the north side, I walked into the packed station, looking as though I was unbuckling my helmet, though I didn't. Instead, I walked straight through and crossed the road, still with my helmet on. The south side of the station had a large, busy, and very confusing intersection, with a big triangular island housing a flower stall. Their propane gas heaters not only blasted out heat as I went by, but also a very comforting bright red light in the gathering darkness.
I moved with a crowd of pedestrians to the far side of the intersection, past a row of shops along the Old Brompton Road.
About fifty yards further along, I went into the pub on the corner, took off my helmet and mask, and settled on a bar stool just back from the window.
The pub was packed with shoppers wanting to get out of the cold and office workers having a drink with friends.
I saw the Golf within minutes, but without the passenger. He or she was probably foxtrot, scurrying around in the subway station looking for me.
Then I saw the VFR and its black-leather-clad rider. They would have found the Ducati now, and the whole team maybe four cars and two bikes would be bomb-bursting about, fighting the traffic, calling in the areas they'd covered so their control could try and direct them elsewhere in some kind of coherent pattern. I almost felt sorry for them. They'd lost their target and they were in the shit. I'd been there a thousand times myself.
12
I sat and watched as the Golf, with a dark-haired male at the wheel, came back round the one-way circuit and pulled in to pick up a short, brown-haired woman. They were off again before her door was even closed. They'd done all they could; now it was a question of waiting to see if the target returned to his bike.
It wouldn't have been a big deal to them when I became temporarily unsighted. This always happens for short periods. But the fact that it had happened at the subway station was a big problem for them. Once they'd failed to pick me up again, their next move would be to stake out the bike. Then some of the team would have checked out known target locations. There were only two: one was the apartment block, and they would be checking with the porter which apartment I'd gone to, for sure. The other was the address where the bike was registered-a PO box just a few shops down from where it was parked. It was an office suppliers, and instead of having a box number I had a suite number, because I wanted to make it sound like an expensive apartment block. No doubt that was what the woman was checking out.
Nick Davidson was the registered owner of the bike and Suite 26 was where he supposedly lived. The real Davidson was going to be incredibly pissed if he ever came back from Australia, because I'd taken over his life in the U.K. He was going to get a hard time from customs, immigration, and Special Branch (serious crime and antiterrorist division) if he ever stepped off a plane now that this had happened. He'd be listed.
It also meant that having Nick Davidson as my safety-blanket cover ID was now history, and that pissed me off. It had taken painstaking months to get a social security number, passport, bank account, all the things that bring a character to life, and now I had to lose him. Worse still, I'd have to lose the bike. There'd certainly be a trigger on it for the next few hours, depending on how important they thought I was.
An electronic device might even be attached to it. The only thing that cheered me up was the thought of what would happen to the person who'd eventually steal it after seeing it standing there for a few days.
They wouldn't know what had hit them when the E4 team closed in.
I'd nursed a Coke while keeping watch through the large Victorian windows. My glass was nearly empty, and if I didn't want to look out of place I'd need to get a refill. Fighting my way to the bar, I ordered a pint of orange juice and lemonade, and went and sat in the corner. No need to look outside now. I knew a team was on me. I just had to sit it out, keeping my eyes on the doors in case they started to check out the pubs. In an hour's time it would be the end of the working day. I'd wait until then and lose myself in the darkness and commuter traffic.
As I sipped my drink, I thought about Tom Mancini. His name was certainly familiar. One of my first jobs as a K in '93 had been to drive him from North Yorkshire, where he worked, down to a Royal Navy facility near Gosport, Hampshire. I was told to scare him so much that he'd beg to be handed over to the Firm's people, who I was delivering him to. It didn't take that much, just a few slaps, a stern face and me telling him that if he fucked me about the only thing left ticking on his body would be his watch.
Once we'd got him down in one of the 'forts' built along the coast, he wasn't even given time to clean himself up before the Firm's interrogation team explained the facts of life.
A technician at Menwith Hill listening station, he'd been detected trying to obtain classified information. I wasn't allowed in on the interrogation, but I knew they told him Special Branch would be arresting him the next day for offenses against the Official Secrets Act. They couldn't stop that. However, if he didn't get smart, that would be just the start of his problems.
He would shut up in court about what he'd really been tampering with.
Whatever that was, it seemed the Firm didn't want anyone to know about it, even Special Branch, for the charge would be for a lesser offence. He would tell them who he was getting the information for, and, of course, he'd have no recollection of this 'meeting' ever taking place. He'd serve a short sentence and that would be the end
