of it. If he ever uttered a word to anyone about the deal, however, someone like me would come and pay him a visit.
Tom had been fucking about with the big boys. I knew that R.A.F Menwith Hill, on the moors near Harrogate in Yorkshire, was one of the largest intelligence-gathering stations on earth. Its massive golf ball-shaped 'radomes' monitored Europe's and Russia's airwaves. It might be a British base, but in reality it was a little piece of the U.S.A. on British soil, run by their all-powerful NSA (National Security Agency). It was manned by about 1,400 American engineers, physicists, mathematicians, linguists, and computer scientists. The staff was complemented by 300 Brits, which meant that there were as many people working at Menwith Hill as there were for the Firm.
Menwith Hill operated in close tandem with GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters) at Cheltenham, gathering electronic information from as far afield as eastern Russia. GCHQ did not, however, have automatic access to the intelligence gathered at Menwith Hill. All information went directly to the NSA at Fort Meade in Maryland. From there, information collected on terrorism that might, for example, affect the U.K.' was redistributed to the security service, Special Branch or Scotland Yard. Britain's contract with the U.S. is that we can only buy American nuclear weapons on the condition that bases like Menwith are allowed to operate on British soil, and that the U.S. has access to all British intelligence operations. Sad but true: They are big brother. Britain is just one of the little runt siblings.
From what I could remember, Tom was full of shit. He came on all brash and confident like a Jack the Lad cockney trader, which was rather strange, because he came from Milton Keynes and was about as boring as his zip code. By the end of the drive south, however, he had been like a small child, curled up on the back seat.
It worried me yhat Val knew I had met Tom, that he had access to details about a twenty-four-hour period of my life that I'd all but forgotten about, but I was in it for the money, nothing else, and so I cut that thought away, just in case it made me change my mind.
I finished my drink, picked up my helmet and headed for the rest room.
Placing the helmet on the tank in a stall, I sat down on the lid, unzipped my jacket, and pulled out the envelope.
After an afternoon of people missing the bowl and flicking cigarette butts in the urinals, the place stank. I inspected the nylon-fiber type, bubble-wrap envelope. Then, resting it on my knees and using both hands, I pressed down and started to run my palms over it, fingertips moving up and down the contours of the contents. I turned it over and checked the other side.
I couldn't feel any sort of wiring, or anything more solid than what I hoped was the cash, but then again, that didn't mean a thing. A wafer-thin battery from a Polaroid film tucked between the bundles would kick out enough power to initiate a letter bomb. It might be Val's special little way of saying thank you.
I picked it up and put the fold to my nose. If it was a device, and they'd used any exotic or older-style explosives, I might be able to smell them. Sometimes it's marzipan, sometimes linseed oil. I was expecting something more sophisticated, but these things have to be tested for.
All I could smell was the urinals. The bar noise rose and fell as the outer door opened and closed. I carried on inspecting the envelope.
I decided to go ahead and open it. It felt like money, weighed like money. If I was wrong, the whole pub would know about it soon and a pissed off insurance company would be shelling out for a refit.
I opened the knife blade of my Leatherman and gently cut down the center of the envelope, checking inside every inch or so for wires. It was looking promising. I started to see green U.S. bank notes. Each bundle of used hundred-dollar bills that I carefully pulled out was banded and told me the bundle contained $10,000; there were ten of them. I was a very happy camper indeed. Val had put his money where his mouth was. I didn't just respect him now, I liked the man. Not enough to introduce him to my sister yet, but then again, I didn't have a sister.
Someone else entered and tried the toilet door. I grunted, making it sound like I was having a big-boy dump. He checked the next one, and I heard the sound of jeans coming down and him getting on with the business.
I smiled as I started to stuff the money into my leathers, feeling quite pleased with myself as my next-door neighbor farted for England.
Staying in the pub for another half-hour, drinking more orange juice and lemonade and reading the newspaper for the third time, I wondered if the team had been called off yet. Nine out of ten times it boils down to money. They were probably hoping to earn a little Christmas bonus out of me. E4 operators get treated as badly as nurses; they work their butts off and are expected to carry on regardless.
By now they'd know the address was a PO box arrangement, and that would have set their alarm bells ringing. They'd probably plan to go into the office tomorrow, open up my box and see what was in there. They'd even put me on their own special mailing list; as mail addressed to Suite 26 came through the Royal Mail's sorting system, it would be sidetracked for a while so that prying eyes could have a little look-see. All they would find was my Visa bill. Well, Davidson's bill. Perhaps they'd be nice enough to pay it. I certainly wouldn't bother anymore.
By tomorrow, if they decided to dig deeper, they'd also know that Mr.
Davidson had been to Norway recently, returning by the same route he'd traveled all those weeks ago. What would they make of that? I doubted that their conclusion would be a skiing trip after Davidson had been seen coming out of the targeted apartment block where one of the owners was a Russian who'd got hit just days ago, in a country a mere day trip away from where Davidson had disembarked. Fuck it, it was too late to worry about all that now. As long as they didn't have a photograph of me, I'd be okay.
I sat there with another Coke and a packet of peanuts. Thirty five minutes on, I finally decided to make a move. The rush-hour traffic on all sides of the triangle was moving at about three feet a minute, a confusion of headlights and exhaust fumes. Every fourth car had its indicator lights flashing, thinking the other lane was quicker. The pedestrian traffic, too, was much heavier, and moved quicker than the vehicles. Everybody was huddled over, fighting the cold and just wanting to get home.
Leaving the helmet under the table, I exited through a door that led out onto a different road. The motorbike helmet was a VDM. So were my leathers, but I could hardly discard them. All I could do was cut down on the things that would trigger me.
The priority was to get a hotel for the night, before I contacted Tom in the morning. I also needed clothing: Without a bike, there was no way I could walk around looking like Judge Dredd.
If you want late-night shops, it has to be the West End. I grabbed a taxi to Piccadilly Circus, and changed $1,000 at various currency exchanges, throwing in a couple of hundred at a time.
The shopping frenzy was another short cab ride away, in Selfridges, where I bought clothes, washing and shaving kit, and a nice little duffle bag for my new-found wealth.
Then I booked myself into the Selfridges Hotel using my Nick Stone credit card. To have used Davidson's would have invited a knock on the door within hours.
After a bath and a change of clothes all very predictable, jeans, Timberland boots, blue sweatshirt, and a dark-blue nylon down jacket I called room service for a club sandwich and coffee.
13
Saturday, December II, 1999 I woke up and looked at Baby G. It was just after eight, time for a quick couple of laps round the bath before getting dressed.
Looking like a kid in his shiny new Christmas Day clothes, I left the jacket with my leathers and went down to breakfast, taking the money bag with me. There was $25,000 left after a very grateful clinic had received not only what was owing to them, but also a huge stash on account. It's strange how finance directors will come in of an evening to collect a payment, even brew coffee and pour it.
The newspapers were full of doom and gloom, and as I downed my breakfast, listening to the Americans or Israelis talking about the shopping they were going to be doing before they went back home, I felt good about fulfilling my responsibilities to Kelly, even though I knew I should be doing a lot more than just paying out money.
Back in my room, I settled on the bed and called the number on the paper that Liv had given me.
A young woman answered. Her 'hello' sounded as friendly as if I was the fourth wrong number in a row.
'Oh, hi. Is Tom there?'
'No, he's not,' she snapped. 'He'll be in Coins. Who are you?'
