on a piano in one corner, and waitresses glided between the tables, carrying trays of drinks. Smoke hung thickly in the air, and the room was alive with conversation and laughter.
“What is this place?” asked Carpenter.
“It’s called Chumley’s,” replied Willis. “It’s a little oasis in the dry desert of temperance. What’ll you have?”
“I’m happy to be led by you,” Carpenter replied.
The American led them to the long bar that ran the length of one wall of the speakeasy, where they squeezed into a narrow space, Willis’s elbow striking a neat man in a scarf and coat waiting to be served. The man turned at once and regarded Willis with red, alcohol-soaked eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, his upper-class accent mildly slurred. “Allow me to furnish you and your companion with a libation.”
“No need, sir, but thank you,” replied Willis.
“Sadly, I must insist,” said the man. “Will you tell me your preference, or must I guess?”
“Guesswork won’t be necessary. Two scotches on the rocks will be most appreciated.”
“Educated palates,” exclaimed the man. “How delightful.”
The barman, a thick red-faced fellow wearing a white apron and drying his hands on a black towel, appeared in front of the man.
“Two scotches on the rocks, a gin and bitters and a vodka tonic, if you would be so kind.”
As the barman set about preparing the drinks, the man turned to Carpenter and Willis. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with his hair neatly parted on the right-hand side and a dark red tie beneath the white scarf he had draped around his shoulders.
“Scott Fitzgerald,” he said, offering a hand toward them. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The two men took his hand in turn and introduced themselves. The barman delivered their drinks to the wooden counter, and Fitzgerald withdrew a small sheaf of bills from a tan leather wallet. As he did so, he looked over at his new acquaintances. “Would you care to join me and my companion at our table?” he asked, depositing a handful of notes on the bar.
After a moment’s hesitation, in which a glance that was mostly bemusement passed between them, Carpenter and Willis agreed and followed Fitzgerald toward the corner of the tavern.
The three men weaved through the thick fog of smoke and men and women in various states of inebriation. In the corner of the speakeasy was a small round table, at which was sat a huge figure. The man was awkwardly perched on a three-legged wooden stool, and such was his size that the seat looked as though it had been procured from a doll’s house. He looked up as the three men approached and grunted.
“Took your time.”
“Sorry, Henry,” replied Fitzgerald. “The line was quite significant. I hope you haven’t become too thirsty in my absence?”
“Thirsty enough.”
Fitzgerald laughed, as though this was the most delicious witticism he had ever heard, and turned to Carpenter and Willis, who were standing by the table, looking down at the huge man.
“Do sit down, gentlemen,” Fitzgerald said. “John Carpenter, Bertrand Willis, this is Henry Victor.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Victor,” said Willis, extending a hand. It hung pregnantly above the wooden table for a long second, until the giant slowly reached out and took it. Carpenter followed suit, then sat back, his mind racing.
Can it be him? The file is so vague, but the description is supposedly reliable.
A chill raced up his spine.
Henry Victor was dressed in dark clothes, a heavy overcoat with high collars on top of a thick wool jumper with a turtle neck that reached to his jaw and a flat leather cap that cast a deep shadow over his face. As Carpenter looked closely, he saw two bulges in the thick material at the sides of the man’s neck.
“Something wrong?” asked Victor.
“My apologies,” said Carpenter, as smoothly as he was able. “The crossing was tiring, and I must confess I was in a world of my own there for a moment.”
Henry Victor took a long look at Carpenter, then turned his attention to Fitzgerald, who had enthusiastically engaged Willis in liquor-fuelled conversation.
“… It went without saying that the reviews would be poor,” he was saying, his face a swollen picture of drunken unhappiness. “If you write a novel about the superficialities of the rich and shallow, then you do not expect them to reward your efforts in the literary supplements. I must confess, I thought some of the notices unnecessarily unkind, but such is the literary game. I met with my editor today and found the conversation largely fruitless, as he wants what I do not have to offer him: a new novel.”
He looked around at his companions, suddenly aware that he had become the center of attention. He beamed an unconvincing smile. “But the trip from Wilmington, long though it was, has also brought me to this table and into the company of you gentlemen. So it cannot be considered anything other than a success. And besides…” Fitzgerald reached out and drained his gin and bitters. He lit a highly perfumed cigarette and inhaled deeply. “She laughs at nothing,” he said in a small voice. “My wife. She sits surrounded by giant furniture and laughs at nothing.” He looked up. His eyes were red and tears stood in their corners. “But let’s have no more talk of such gloomy matters,” he said. “Tell us of London, Mr. Carpenter. I am almost ashamed to say I have never been there.”
Carpenter did as he was asked, and the conversation resumed. After a time, Willis fought his way to the long bar and refilled their drinks, and the remainder of the night passed agreeably.
21
From the outside, the vehicle was unassuming; a black Ford Transit identical to the thousands that rolled along Britain’s roads every day. But this particular van was different. The engine that was propelling it at a steady ninety miles an hour had been taken from a prototype Piranha VI, a top-secret Swiss armored personnel carrier that weighed almost twenty tons, and the reactive armor that lay inconspicuously beneath the metal paneling of the van’s body belonged on a Challenger 2 battle tank. The van had been lowered, its chassis strengthened, its suspension stiffened and fitted with computer-controlled roll bars; a titanium safety cage had been threaded through the vehicle; a thick explosive-proof ceramic plate had been attached to the underside; the wheels had been equipped with run-flat tires; and the glass windows had been replaced by bulletproof thermoplastic.
Inside, the driver was in control of a vast array of communication and geographic positioning technology, encrypted satellite relays that could place the vehicle to within a couple of millimeters anywhere on the planet. The back of the van was both a mobile briefing room and a tactical command center. Swung down on a bracket across the rear doors was a high-definition touch screen, wirelessly connected to the Blacklight mainframe. Two lines of padded seats faced each other; above each an alcove was set into the wall that would hold a Blacklight helmet securely, and on the floor in front was a black slot from which a smaller touch screen could be raised at the flick of a switch. A narrow wall locker at the right of each seat was divided into compartments that would hold the standard-issue Blacklight weapons. All but two of them were standing empty.
Jamie and Frankenstein sat facing each other in the two seats nearest the rear doors. They had made their way to the Blacklight motor pool after leaving the infirmary, collecting their driver, a young private named Hollis, from the open mess on the way. Thomas Morris had asked to come with them, asked more than once, with increasing desperation in his voice, but Frankenstein had told him it would not be necessary. Morris eventually accepted this decision, sulkily, and had promised Jamie he would wait in the lab for the final results of the photo analysis, in case the technicians found something that could help. Jamie didn’t believe they would but thanked him anyway.
Private Hollis had seemed slightly in awe of Frankenstein and had immediately, enthusiastically agreed to drive them. The young operator was visually cut off from them by a dividing wall behind the van’s cab, but his
