Kite winced, feeling the needle almost at the bone, but the strength of the man’s hold on him was so great that he could make no meaningful sound.
‘I had such an interesting series of conversations with Xavier,’ said Fariba. ‘He told me all about the summer of 1989. All about Luc Bonnard and a woman named Martha Raine. Cast your mind back to that time, Lachlan. I need your memory. When you wake up, I want you to tell me everything you can about Ali Eskandarian.’
5
‘Just because he rents a Jag from Europcar doesn’t make him a terrorist. Doesn’t make him BOX 88 either.’
Matt Tomkins and Cara Jannaway had jumped into a taxi outside South Kensington station and were trying to catch up with Dean in the Astra. Vosse was coordinating the pursuit from Acton.
‘Maybe we should discuss this later,’ Cara replied, nodding in the direction of the driver.
‘Fair enough,’ said Tomkins, and checked his mobile for Dean and Swinburn’s positions.
Cara addressed the driver.
‘Excuse me? Could you head to the Mandarin Oriental at the top of Knightsbridge?’
‘What’s that, luv?’
The driver had one ear tuned to the traffic, the other to James O’Brien on LBC. He turned down the volume on the radio.
‘I said can we head towards the Mandarin Oriental Hotel just before Hyde Park Corner?’
‘Sure thing. No problem.’
‘See?’ said Tomkins. ‘He’s not even listening to what we’re saying.’
When the driver turned the volume back up, Cara indicated that it was secure to talk.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘His normal car could be in the garage. He might have rented the Jag to keep up appearances. Might be an operation they’re working together. Who knows?’
‘Who knows—’
‘But who’s the flash Arab? Looked like they’d never met before, then they go off together. BIRD sent a message to his wife saying he was heading to lunch with a friend of Xavier’s—’
‘I know that,’ said Tomkins petulantly. ‘I read the group chat. Could be he’s bullshitting his wife.’
‘Speaking of group chats …’
Vosse had sent a message to the team with an update on the Jaguar. The vehicle had been rented for only two days by a woman named ‘Pegah Azizi’ using a French driving licence which Thames House was checking with Paris. The vehicle was due back by six o’clock that evening.
‘Azizi. What’s that?’ Tomkins asked. ‘Iranian?’
‘Sounds like it.’
Cara typed a reply: No sign of a woman in the Jag.
They could both see that Vosse was replying.
My thoughts exactly, he wrote. BIRD almost at Hyde Park Corner. Stay on him.
Cara switched lists, returning to the location feeds for Dean and Swinburn. Vosse was the only one with a fix on Kite’s position.
‘We’re too far away,’ she said, knowing that coverage of Kite’s phone wouldn’t be enough to pinpoint his position if he went into a high-rise or basement.
‘Relax,’ Tomkins replied. ‘It’s lunchtime. They’re probably going for something to eat. We just wait outside whatever restaurant they choose, pick BIRD up on his way out.’
Cara looked into her lap.
‘What if they’re not going to lunch?’
Tomkins looked at her blankly. ‘Where are they going then?’ he asked.
‘I dunno.’ She stared out at the stalled London traffic, windscreens blinking in the lunchtime sun. ‘I just have a weird feeling about this.’
Tessa Swinburn’s moped became boxed in at a set of traffic lights near the Mandarin Oriental and she lost sight of the Jaguar as it pulled away towards Hyde Park Corner. Kieran Dean had managed to stay on Kite’s tail a little longer, but his luck ran out on Old Park Lane when a double-parked Uber blocked his way while waiting for a pickup outside the Playboy Casino. Sounding the horn on the Astra, Dean watched in frustration as Kite’s Jaguar made a right turn onto Cheshire Street, quickly disappearing from view. Less than a minute later, a Chinese man with a fat gut and an empty wallet wandered out of the casino and clambered into the cab. Moments later Swinburn was at last on Cheshire Street, passing a small, dimly lit underground car park. He assumed that the Jaguar had gone deeper into Mayfair and turned north in the direction of Shepherd Market. A lorry was unloading on a double yellow and Dean was again obliged to wait while the driver wheeled a trolley off the road. He then continued along the western edge of Shepherd Market, emerging within spitting distance of the Saudi embassy. There was no sign of BIRD in any direction.
Vosse called as Dean was waiting at a set of lights outside the Curzon cinema.
‘Are you lot taking the piss?’ he shouted. ‘Villanelle’s in outer space, Cagney and Lacey went the wrong way on Piccadilly. What the fuck are you doing on Curzon Street? Get your arse back to the Playboy Casino. BIRD’s probably gone in there for a flutter with his pal from the Middle East.’
Dean reached for his second phone, loaded Waze and typed in ‘Playboy Casino’ as the lights turned green and a car behind him leaned on its horn. The journey time was estimated at less than five minutes, but he would have to go back out onto Park Lane and loop round via Hyde Park Corner.
‘On my way,’ he said.
Vosse had already hung up.
Cara had wanted the driver to turn north at the Hard Rock Cafe, but Tomkins had insisted that she’d seen the wrong car. As far as he was concerned, BIRD was still heading east towards Piccadilly Circus.
‘Think about it,’ he told her. ‘They’ve got the Ritz up there, The Wolseley, White’s and Boodle’s. That’s where men like that go for lunch. Not Shepherd’s Market.’
Cara thought he was talking shit but knew that she didn’t have the luxury of arguing with him: by the time Tomkins had realised his mistake, BIRD would be long gone. So, as the taxi waited in traffic, she thanked the driver, opened the door and stepped
