my way out. But today I was glad it was so close to Liverpool Street. It had loads of charity and corner shops.
Walking back from Brick Lane towards Shoreditch, I kept my eyes open for somewhere to change into my new clothes. I found the Hoxton Hotel, a monument to glass and steel. I looked like Tracey Emin’s unmade bed, but so did many of the
I went into the toilets, quickly washed my face and splashed my hair to smooth it down. I emerged wearing a green parka, brown cords, blue baseball cap, and cheap Timberland rip-offs that were so scuffed and knackered they looked the height of Hoxton chic.
I made sure the blue cap shadowed my face, dumped my train clothes in a bin and turned towards the City again. A cafe selling salt-beef sandwiches took another few quid off me. I munched as I walked and tried to work out my plan of action.
The later editions were already showing colour pictures of the burnt-out silo and blaming Muslim fundamentalists. ‘Reliable sources’ said the local Muslim population had had its fill of Amsterdam’s decadence, and Iranian-funded extremists had stepped in to take direct action. The papers said that, in response, the Brits, along with the rest of Europe and the US, had taken their own threat matrix up a level as the UK waited to see if it would be next on the attack list.
I got my salt beef down me and felt better than I had at any time since the Vietnamese with Jules.
I passed a pound shop and picked up a shrink-wrapped pack of steak knives with plastic handles pretending to be wood and the world’s biggest fuck-off pair of pliers. Back out on the main I hailed a cab.
‘Regent’s Park tube, mate.’
He was happy. It was a good fare. And I was happy because the cab had no cameras. I got my head down and pretended to sleep. We moved slowly towards the West End. We were caught in stop-start traffic on Marylebone Road.
I leant forward. ‘I tell you what, mate, quick change of plan. Can you go down Harley Street and drop me off near John Lewis?’
‘No drama.’ He looked around, both hands off the wheel, as we ground to a halt yet again. ‘I blame Ken Livingstone. Them fucking bendy buses fucking everything up.’
We turned left into Harley Street and followed the one-way system south towards Cavendish Square, Mercs and Rolls-Royces parked up every few metres with their four-ways on.
‘Some fucking money down here and no mistake.’
I looked from side to side and nodded. But I wasn’t admiring the cars or the shiny brass plates: I was scanning the street for a stakeout on the clinic. It was a known location. Being paranoid pays dividends in this business.
I wasn’t expecting to see anything as obvious as a two-up in a smoked-glass MPV or guys hanging around in Ray-Bans. If anything, it would be somebody in the building, or camera surveillance. The Firm could have requisitioned a CCTV camera a kilometre away and zoomed in on the entrance on twenty-four-hour soak.
The clinic was on the first floor of the building to my left as we carried on south. I looked up at it through my new thicker-rimmed glasses. The chandelier burnt away in the consulting room. The lights were on; I hoped somebody was at home.
We got to the bottom of Harley Street and turned left into the square.
‘Just here will be fine, mate.’
The fare was twenty-six pounds. I gave him three tens and told him to keep the change.
It looked like I’d made his day. ‘Hang about … here you go, mate. For you.’ He passed me a couple of clean receipts.
I smiled to myself as he drove away. Maybe I’d fill them in and present them to Jules as expenses.
I brought up my hood as I crossed the bottom of Harley Street and headed back the way we’d come. I must have looked like the guys at the Bender checkpoint. The clinic was now across the road, to my right. I’d done the drive-past, and now I was going to do the walk-past.
I hoped he was there. I hadn’t called ahead. The only time you ever make contact with the target is when you either grip him or drop him.
The sky had been threatening rain, and it finally started as I drew level with the clinic. I kept my hands in the chest-height pockets of the parka, head down but eyes up, trying to catch a glimpse of Kleinmann thrusting a fistful of leaflets at a new victim. There was no one in sight.
Unless there was an exit at the rear, he could only go left or right. There were cars parked outside, but mostly with uniformed drivers. Chances were, he’d turn left and head for Oxford Street.
Scaffolding shrouded a building in the process of renovation about sixty metres further on. A working platform had been constructed halfway up the basement well, skirted by plywood sheets to stop debris falling onto the pavement. Stacked against it were a neatly folded furry blanket and some flattened cardboard boxes. Its occupant was currently not in residence.
I jumped the railings, ducked beneath the window sill and got comfortable under the blanket. I had eyes on the target door. Sleeping rough was part of the city landscape. Passers-by wouldn’t give me a second glance. These bundles only came to life at last light; heads appeared, wary of muggers, the protection racketeers who charged them for good cover, out of the wind and the neos’ British wing who’d just fill them in for the fun of it.
It was just after half three. I kept my eyes on the target and tried hard not to fall asleep.
4
I lay there for about an hour and a half. I was getting ready to bin it and start staking out the Vietnamese when the unmistakable haircut of Max Kleinmann emerged from the doorway. He walked down the three marble steps and chucked a left towards the square. I pulled off the blanket and refolded it exactly as I’d found it.
Hood up and hands in the lower, bigger pockets of my parka, I started south again. I fingered the blister- pack, bending it over the sharp ends of the knives until they pierced the plastic. I hadn’t opened them before now, in case I got stopped and searched. An open knife is an offensive weapon. One still in its packaging is a birthday present for your mum.
He was walking quickly but he wasn’t aware: he was too busy waffling away on his mobile. His head was down, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Rain glistened on the pavements as the street-lights flickered into life.
He dodged the traffic on his way to the green area at the centre of the square. He was either going to carry on towards Oxford Street, or head for the entrance to the underground car park.
He passed a red phone box and disappeared. I followed him into the stairwell, no more than five seconds behind. I slowed down almost immediately and heard a door bang.
I ran down the first flight of concrete steps, turned on the landing, then down another. The smell of stale piss made my eyes water. I didn’t know if there were cameras down here, but I had to assume there were. I pulled one of the knives out of my pocket and held the pretend wood in my palm with the blade against my wrist. I went through the door into the basement.
The smell of exhaust fumes took over. Cars lined the concrete walls. There was movement to my left. Kleinmann was in a black jacket and matching jeans. Ahead of him, lights flashing, was a new red Volvo two-door hatchback.
‘Hey, Doc! Am I pleased to see you!’
I waved. Big smile, big surprise. I still couldn’t see any cameras
His eyes narrowed, trying to make out who I was.
‘Fancy seeing you here, Doc!’
I got nearer, looking down so my face was covered by the baseball cap.
He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at me. ‘Do we—’
‘Know each other? Yeah, course we do.’ I grabbed his hand with my right one, making sure he felt the weapon dig into him, and embraced him with my left. ‘Fuck me about and I’ll cut you.’
His body shuddered as he tried to step back. I gripped him and dug deeper.
