Tomkins had driven past Limehouse while Robert Vosse was doing eighty-five on the Westway in an unmarked BMW. Pavkov had taken a wrong turn in Canary Wharf, the satnav sending him east, then north, then south, a delay which bought Tomkins and Vosse precious time. Tomkins arrived ahead of both of them, parking in a residential street adjacent to Spindrift Avenue.
‘I’m here,’ he told Vosse. ‘Have you called for backup?’
‘Now why would I want to do a thing like that?’ the boss replied, the roar of the traffic lending his voice a dreamlike quality. There was a conspiratorial tone to Vosse’s response which made Tomkins feel as though they were uniquely bound together, like cops in a buddy film closing in on the bad guys. ‘The whole point of the operation is that it’s sealed off. I can’t have colleagues knowing about BIRD and BOX. We call for backup, everyone’s going to want to know why you and me are running around Canary Wharf at two in the morning chasing Iranians. No. We have to do this thing together, Cagney.’
You and me, thought Tomkins. We have to do this thing together. Meanwhile Cara is fast asleep and Tessa Swinburn is miles away. You snooze, you lose. The operation is reaching a climax and I’m at the centre of things, where I deserve to be. Making decisions, doing my job, impressing the man who needs to be impressed.
‘What do we do when the meeting takes place?’ he asked.
‘We follow whoever comes to talk to our friend from Belgrade,’ Vosse replied. Tomkins heard a sudden burst of acceleration from the BMW. ‘With any luck they’ll talk in the Fiat and we’ll get everything down on tape. Then either a foot-follow or it’s back in the vehicles. If the Iranians show up in a car, I’ve brought some kit and can tag them. That should lead us to BIRD.’
It sounded easy enough, though Tomkins began to wonder if Vosse was being over-confident. As he sat in the Mondeo, the tablet on the seat beside him, he tried to work out the variables. What if Zoltan was going to a private address? What if he met the Iranians on the street or one of them got nervous about surveillance? They were a team of at least four, which meant three of them could be staking out the meeting point in advance, looking for signs of trouble. Surely Vosse had thought of all this? An officer with his experience wouldn’t want to get too close to the prize for fear of scaring them off.
‘Where are you?’ Vosse asked.
‘Parked adjacent to number nineteen, sir. Out of sight down a side street.’
‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘Barnfield Place? OK. Anybody taps on the window, you’re a cab driver waiting for a fare. Keep your engine running and your hazard lights on so it looks like you’re not trying to hide.’
That was smart. Vosse was aware that the Iranians could be running counter-surveillance, looking out for cars that shouldn’t be there, sudden arrivals or movements on the street. Tomkins put the hazard lights on and listened as the satnav gave the last of its instructions to Pavkov, telling him to make a left turn onto Spindrift Avenue. He had finally arrived. Tomkins tried to imagine where the Serb would park, what the section of street looked like, who might emerge from the shadows to greet him. He could only sit and wait in the cramped Mondeo, listening out for approaching cars, approaching men, waiting for the boss to arrive, waiting for the Iranians.
‘Target is in position,’ he told Vosse. ‘Just pulled into Spindrift. Sounds like he’s parked and switched off the engine.’
‘Copy that, Cagney. I’m coming into Limehouse. Ten minutes away.’
Tomkins pressed the AirPods deeper into his ears, focusing on the sounds picked up by the microphones. He heard a cough, the click of a lighter, then a sudden nervous inhalation on a cigarette.
‘What have you got?’ Vosse asked.
‘Stay off comms,’ Tomkins whispered.
He shouldn’t have spoken to the boss like that, but he could tell that something was happening inside the Punto. There was the sound of a window going down then another cough as Pavkov cleared his throat.
‘You are Zoltan?’ said a voice. The accent was unmistakably foreign. It had to be one of the Iranians.
‘Who are you?’
‘They sent me. Tell me to ask you questions. I get in.’
Tomkins tried to control his breathing, listening as closely as possible to the take from the Punto. He looked down at the tablet and saw that Vosse was already in Canary Wharf, the BMW perhaps three or four minutes away.
‘Wait.’
This from Pavkov. Tomkins heard the noise of a door being opened, then a rustle on the microphones as somebody climbed into the Fiat.
‘I never saw you before,’ said Pavkov.
‘Good,’ the man replied. ‘That’s the way I like it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Who came to the car park?’ he asked.
Tomkins wondered if he should be writing things down, short-noting the conversation in case something went wrong with the tech.
‘A man and a woman,’ Pavkov replied.
‘They were police?’
‘Police, yes.’
‘You are certain
