I followed him into the train station; he might not think anyone was following him, but he sure was acting suspiciously. He sat down without buying a ticket.
‘Clio, ditch the car. I think he's getting ready to catch a train as it pulls out. Best guess, London train, platform one. Get on it.’
A few minutes later, I watched as Clio walked into the train station. She looked up at the screens and then got onto the train that was idling at the far platform. An announcement over the tannoy declared that the 8.30 from Cambridge was preparing to depart.
My earpiece hissed and I heard Clio’s voice. ‘Is he getting on this train? We’ve just had a carriage announcement saying we were preparing to leave. I’m not going to be much use stuck on the wrong train.’
I looked over and Charles was still reading a paper. Had we got it wrong? Was he meeting someone else, somewhere else? Just as I was doubting myself, he sprang up and headed briskly towards platform one.
‘He’s heading your way. Following!’
I stopped talking and now ran past him, shouting out to the conductor, every inch the last-minute student, and leapt onto the train. A few seconds later he also got on and walked past me down the middle of the carriage in search of a seat. Given how rammed the train was, I thought he was on a hiding to nothing. I messaged the boys that the three of us were indeed heading to London, then began to relax.
Watching the countryside roll by, I sent out hugs of sympathy to the cattle that were standing in the white frosted fields. Calling Clio, I asked what she had done with the car and was pleased to hear it was currently being valeted and refuelled. She had also left them the number of the private garage she had “borrowed” it from. I wondered if the owner would ever know about its short disappearance.
Arriving in London, Clio and I re-grouped and watched as Charles pulled a phone out and tapped in a short text, then headed towards the taxi rank, commuters and tourists swirling around him.
Ramin’s voice now buzzed in my ear. ‘Ponsonby's just received a text message from an unknown number and he then googled directions to a café near St Paul's.’
We ran down to the tubes. Now that we had a destination, we could afford to lose visual contact. With morning traffic we could be sitting in the café by the time either man arrived if we took the train.
‘Ramin. Can you safely turn all the traffic lights to red for a bit? Let’s slow down London for a few minutes.’
Just under an hour later, I speared a piece of black pudding. This was one of the highlights of a British assignment, the breakfast. I knew it was unhealthy and unethical and according to many, morally bankrupt, but I stole things and shot people for a living. It was practically a given that I was going to eat meat.
Charles walked into the café and sat down at a window table. As he arrived, the owner waved at him and came over to remove the reserved sign. Clio scowled, and I had to reassure her that not everything was available online. If she'd had a few weeks to tail Charles in the flesh, she'd have known about this friendship. As it was, we were here anyway. No harm, no foul.
A man walked in and Charles nodded at him. Carl Ponsonby pulled out a chair and sat down as the waitress came over to take his order. Ramin followed in shortly behind and went to the counter, ordering a pot of tea, and chose a table on the other side of the room. Paul was outside somewhere, covering the street. Clio dabbed her lips with her napkin and headed to the back, ostensibly to use the loos, but in reality covering the rear exit.
The team was now in place. If Charles were carrying the egg, we would lift it here and head home.
‘Any sign of the egg?’
What the hell was wrong with Paul? He knew better than to communicate during a potential extraction. I needed vigilance from the team, not chatter. When there was a sign, I would let them know. I ignored the comment and nearly flinched when he repeated his query.
Leaning over my Sudoku and allowing my hair to cover my mouth, I told him to shut the fuck up and continued to mark up my newspaper whilst carefully watching their table.
‘Okay,’ I muttered, ‘Bradshaw, has just placed a large Russian doll on the table... Right, now he’s returned it to his satchel... Charles is showing Ponsonby something on his phone.’
Heads turned in the café as a man swore out loud and then, laughing, he apologised to the rest of the patrons.
‘Right. Looks like our boy does have the egg. All units ready. When they leave the café we will lift him, sedate him, remove the doll and —’
Whatever else I was going to say never made it past the screech of tyres. Out on the road, a car had pulled to a stop and the glass-fronted café exploded in a hail of gunfire. Charles’ and Carl's bodies flew back as shards of glass and bullets tore into them. Ramin grabbed one of the customers, shielding her as I ran towards the satchel. One of the men from the car was already ahead of me.
