array of teeth… at which moment Crane realised that Nero was about to rip Loz’s arm off. With a curse on his lips, Crane tried desperately to extract Loz from the lion’s clutches.
Nero responded by holding tighter, pulling harder and sinking his claws into the hand.
The initial, searing pain had been incredible for Loz: the puncturing of the skin by those dirty, germ-laden claws. Then, mercifully, endorphins and other body chemicals kicked into Loz’s system and it all became unreal for him. A blur. He went limp and allowed it to proceed, unable to put up any fight or struggle.
With one last almighty wrench, Crane managed to drag Loz to safety, though Nero’s talons dug deep, leaving lines of ripped flesh in the back of the little man’s hand.
Deprived of his kill, the lion roared terribly, throwing himself against the cage in a frenzy. For a while Crane was fearful that Nero had the power to pull the structure down. But it held. Just.
Twenty minutes later Crane had calmed down, smoked his fourth cigarette. He sat on a chair, elbows on knees, deep in thought.
Loz cried softly on the rooftop, holding his injured arm between his knees. He rocked like a baby, in a pool of his own blood. The arm was in a terrible mess.
‘ Help me,’ he whined. ‘Billy — help me, man.’
Crane stood up, tossed his cigarette down and stamped it out. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he announced, turned and left Loz lying there.
Nero, now also calm, having devoured the remaining contents of the coolbox, sat regally inside the cage, eyes focused on Loz.
Chapter Three
The next day started in a haze of confusion for Henry Christie. He woke groggily to the sound of not one, but both his mobile phones ringing. He rolled across the expansive double bed and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Then, a little more focused, he blinked down at his phones which seemed to be in competition with each other as to which one could produce the more ludicrous ringing tone. Which was which? Henry had to stop and think for a moment. God, he wasn’t used to this crap. He was out of practice and that could become a problem. A fatal problem if he wasn’t careful.
Which was business? Which was private?
He plumped for one of the phones — it didn’t help that they were exactly the same make and model, either — and stuffed the other one underneath a pillow to drown out its chirping. Then he pressed one of the buttons to receive the call.
‘ Frank Jagger,’ he said. Already his heartbeat was on the increase.
The Russian had been on the road for two hours. He had driven north from Portsmouth, picked up the A34 and skirted around Oxford before joining the M40 northbound towards Birmingham.
Before setting off on his journey, he had quickly but expertly checked the car, firstly for any explosive devices and secondly for any tracking or surveillance equipment. He found neither. Then as he drove, he had remained cautious, always keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, noting and remembering vehicles behind and in front (he had a prodigious memory for car numbers, makes and colours), carefully watching those overtaking, those allowing him to overtake and those parked in lay-bys. By the time he was driving down the motorway slip road north of Oxford, he was almost sure — he never allowed himself to be a hundred per cent certain — that no one was following him. The Russian had been at this game for a long time and was proud of his professionalism. This is what had kept him — alive and put others underground.
In the world of counter- and anti-surveillance, the Russian was classed as a trained agent — which he was. Surveillance subjects fall into three categories: the type who are totally unaware; those who are crude but aware — and this refers to people who are expecting to be followed and who indulge in anti-surveillance methods to try to detect whether they are under observation. And lastly, as mentioned, the trained agent who is subtle and sophisticated and could easily be taken by watchers as someone who is totally unaware.
The Russian hardly ever indulged in obvious anti-surveillance tactics. He usually discovered if he was being followed using the one, two, three method; one sighting of a person or vehicle is acceptable; two sightings is coincidence… three means someone definitely has him under surveillance. Only then would he take some form of action, probably evasion — unless he wanted to kill his followers.
As he drove on to the motorway, he was feeling content. Six miles down the motorway, having travelled at a respectable speed, even slowly overtaking a cruising police Range Rover at one stage, he was even more sure — not a hundred per cent, of course — that no one was with him.
At the second motorway service area he came to — Warwick — he exited. He needed food. He had left Portsmouth without eating breakfast. He also needed to use the toilet.
The service area was nicely set away from the noise of the motorway.
The Russian parked, got out of the car and leaned against it whilst he smoked a cigarette. He watched arrivals and departures and listened to the sky. Not for a helicopter, but a plane. More difficult to spot — impossible when driving — and he knew the British security services often used light planes to tail suspects on the move… but there was no sign or sound of anything.
Satisfied, he inhaled the last of his cigarette and went for breakfast.
Henry Christie pressed the ball of his right foot on to the accelerator pedal. The big Jaguar XJS surged away from the lights, leaving everything else standing. It was the only perk of the job, he was thinking. Being able to pose around in this motor — just like the flash crim he was. He could think of nothing else that was as good as he hung a left and found himself driving alongside the Manchester Ship Canal towards the apartment block where he had left Jacky Lee the previous night. He pulled into the visitors’ parking bay and left the Jag there. Locked up and alarmed, of course. The Firm wouldn’t be very pleased with him if thirty-odd grand’s worth of car got lifted by a Mancunian car thief.
He swaggered cockily to the front entrance, fixing the unnecessary Ray-Bans on to the bridge of his nose, and was buzzed through into the reception area. A security guard observed him suspiciously as he walked to the desk. Henry cast the man a quick, supercilious look of contempt, achieved by a slight raising of the nose. He thrust his hands into the black leather reefer jacket and leaned against the reception counter.
‘ Mr Lee’s expecting me. I’m Frank Jagger.’
The pretty woman looked up and Henry acknowledged her by lifting up his sunglasses and giving her a quick wink and a smile. She pressed a button. The lift doors to her right hissed open. ‘Top floor,’ she said sweetly, returning the smile.
‘ Cheers,’ said Henry, repositioning the sunglasses with his forefinger.
He entered the lift and pressed the required button. The doors slid to quietly. Even though he was alone, Henry did nothing other than to lounge against the side of the lift, — fold the sunglasses into his jacket pocket, yawn and rub the stubble on his chin. Frank Jagger yawned a lot and tended not to shave. Two of his character traits.
Henry was also aware there was a CCTV camera installed in the top corner of the lift and that — most probably — his progress through the building was being monitored by Lee or his men. Henry could not afford to let anything slip at any time, or under any circumstances. It all had to be perfect. He was dying to scratch the small of his back where the wire was strapped on with sticky tape.
The Russian made good progress after leaving Warwick. He skirted around Birmingham to join the M6 with surprisingly little delay and kept travelling north, up into Lancashire, remaining constantly vigilant.
His next stop was at Lancaster motorway services, northbound, at Forton. Here he employed the same checking procedure as at Warwick, and once again saw no one, heard nothing to rouse his suspicion. He used the toilets, had a quick cup of tea and a sandwich and returned to his car. Deciding it was about time he inspected his hardware, he opened the boot and pulled back the spare wheel cover. Inside the hub of the wheel was a plastic
