if in prayer, the tips of his fingers just touching his chin. The fucker was creepy, no doubt about that. No doubt at all.
But Jay reckoned he could learn a few things about deportment from Mr. Kosigin. He liked Kosigin’s style. Kosigin was Brooks Brothers for work and L.L. Bean for casual moments, as buttoned-down as an oxford shirt. He would never feel right in Armani, even if it was original. He was aloof, but that just made him seem stronger. Jay liked to visit him in his office. He liked to study him.
It was like a message, when Kosigin gave him the job which led to Reeve being delivered unto him. It was like a dream. Jay could have taken Reeve out a dozen times since, any number of different ways, but he wanted a face-to-face. He wanted to know what had happened to Reeve, and what he’d told the brass. Just for his own personal satisfaction.
Then he’d kill him.
And if Reeve wouldn’t tell, or made any rash first move… well, Jay would drop him without a second’s hesitation.
“Where’s this fucking bulletin board?” he murmured, walking through the packed concourse. It was like a demolition derby of luggage carts and parties of elderly couples, all with walkers and umbrellas and bags of golf clubs and raincoats folded over pencil-thin liver-spotted arms. Umbrellas in La-La Land! It was a madhouse, and the lunatics had been in charge so long that nobody bothered to question the system anymore.
“I love this town,” he said out loud, maneuvering past the latest obstruction. He finally saw the information kiosk, though it was doing its best to blend in with the scenery. He passed a couple of his guys without acknowledging their presence, but when he got to the board, he stopped and turned on his heels, checking all around, studying the scene through the plate-glass window-a jam of cabs and minibuses and a frantic cop windmilling his arms at them. The cop had a whistle in his mouth, referee-style. Jay remembered that moment in the scrape, when he knew he had to jump and fight or he’d implode, he’d been lying there so long and so quiet. He knew that in technical parlance, he had “cracked”-but fuck that. Reeve was so tight-arsed he’d have lain there and let a bomb detonate between his cheeks. If Jay hadn’t got up and run, very probably neither of them would still be alive. That was something else he wanted to tell Reeve; he wanted Reeve to thank him for getting him out of that situation. He reckoned he was owed a little respect.
He looked around him again, and up towards the ceiling, and nothing he saw looked like a trap.
So then he studied the bulletin board, both sides, and he smiled at the clerk at the information desk, just in case he had something to do with it. Then he turned his attention to the notices again, especially the folded paper napkin with the name
But there was nothing. He lifted one corner of the napkin, but the layers started to peel, and he had to take off another layer before he could make out that there was writing there. So then he licked his lips and hauled the napkin off the board in a single swift movement, so that the clerk looked at him quizzically. “All clear here,” Jay said, as if to himself. Then he unfolded the note, the note telling him to fly to London. It gave the name of a hotel, and said a message would arrive there for him in the name of Rowe.
Rowe: that was a nice touch.
One of his hired hands came up, removing his earpiece as he approached. “So?”
“So nothing, just a fucking note.”
They’d been all wound up. They’d been told of Reeve’s rep. Jay had wanted them ready for anything. They were going to go away frustrated, pent-up, needing to unwind.
“Everyone to the cars,” Jay said. “We’ll go back to the gym, maybe hit a bar later. I just got to make a call first.”
He went to the public pay phones and called Kosigin.
“Well?” Kosigin demanded.
Jay read the note out to him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked when he’d finished.
“Personally,” Kosigin said, “I want you to follow the instructions.”
“And what if I’m walking into a trap?”
“I thought you were clever enough to avoid traps?”
“I am, but I also don’t believe in walking into them in the first place.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I’ll go, but I want to take some men with me. It won’t be cheap.”
“It never is.”
“You want to come along for the ride?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You still want me to go?”
“Absolutely,” Kosigin said before hanging up.
Their conversation had gone exactly as Jay had known it would.
He looked around him for a sales desk, then walked over to the information kiosk.
“Which carriers fly to London?” he asked. He might have to try more than one. Could be difficult to make a block booking at such short notice…
PART NINE. BLOOD HUNT
TWENTY-THREE
THERE WERE POLICE ON DUTY at Heathrow, a lot of uniforms. Reeve would bet there were some plainclothes detectives around, too. Maybe they were looking for him. At this point, he could only trust to luck. Everyone deserved one lucky break per mission. They might have a description of him, but it would be pre-haircut. They couldn’t have a recent photograph; ever since his days in the SAS, Reeve had been camera-shy. The weekend soldiers sometimes wanted photographs, and he didn’t refuse. But before posing for their cameras, he would don a balaclava and dark glasses. The weekend soldiers loved it.
Reeve had a lot of planning to do. He wasn’t too happy about returning to Jim’s Saab, which he had parked in a long-term parking lot only a courtesy bus ride away from the Heathrow terminals. He didn’t know how clever the police would be; he didn’t think they would trace him as far as the Saab, but he couldn’t be sure. To add to this, the car was a liability, and might break down at any minute. But he had very little alternative. He didn’t want to rent a new car. That would mean handing over his credit card, and he guessed the police would be tracking its use. (They probably didn’t know about his secret bank account, and even if they did they might not want to freeze it: if he accessed cash or wrote a check they’d have another way of tracking his movements.)
The people at the parking lot, on the other hand, knew only the false name he’d given them. He’d paid cash up front-so probably there wouldn’t be a problem. But Reeve didn’t enter the single-story office straightaway. First he took a look around the lot. He could see the Saab. It wasn’t hard for him to spot among the shiny new Jags and BMWs and Rovers. The company had hemmed it in behind more expensive cars, reckoning them a better ad to potential customers. Reeve didn’t blame them-he was actually relieved the Saab had been hidden from view during his time away.
He walked into the office.
“Had a good trip?” the girl behind the desk asked.
“Yes, thanks,” he said. There was complimentary coffee on a table nearby, and he helped himself to a cup. There was powdered milk only, so he took it black. It was bitter, but it woke him up a bit.
“Now, Mr. Fleming, you didn’t specify a return date, so we’ve not been able to valet your car.”
“No problem. The dirt is the only thing holding it together.”
She smiled and filled in the rest of the form, which he had to sign at the bottom. He couldn’t recall what first
