Harry had only one answer for that. ‘He’s a loose cannon; he’s killing without thought. Maybe he’s been at it too long.’ He stopped as the phone on the table began to ring. He checked the caller display. It was a withheld number.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Marshall,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I believe we have something to discuss.’
FORTY-FOUR
‘Give me a description,’ Harry replied. He signalled to the other two to be ready to move. They had discussed tactics earlier, and were comfortable with what they had to do. Rik had warned them that if the call came from Marshall, he would already have his technical bods running down the signal. They wouldn’t have much time.
‘I don’t follow. A description of what?’ Marshall, if it was indeed he, spoke slowly, without any sign of tension. It meant he was stretching out the call for as long as he could to allow his people to do their work and get a fix on their location.
‘Of yourself. A thumbnail sketch.’
There was a momentary silence. Then Marshall said, ‘As you wish. I’m slim, clean-shaven, of medium height with fair hair. That enough for you, Mr-?’
‘Not nearly close enough,’ said Harry. ‘Try again.’ He cut the connection and waited.
Seconds later, the phone rang again. It was Marshall sounding mildly contrite. ‘I apologize. That was stupid of me. You know what I look like, don’t you?’
‘Correct.’ Harry hoped the implied humility lasted long enough for him to convince the man that the three of them shouldn’t be shot on sight. ‘You recognized the code I sent you.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘It rang a bell. How did you find out about it, Mr-?’
Harry ignored the baited hook. ‘I have my sources. I also know about the subject of the operation.’
‘What about him?’
‘Really.’ There was another slight delay and Harry decided he’d been on long enough. Then Marshall spoke again. ‘Are you a journalist?’
‘If I were, you’d have read about this over your cornflakes.’
A dry chuckle echoed down the line. ‘Good point. Very well, where do we go from here? Are you suggesting a meeting?’
‘Give me a number I can call tomorrow. A mobile, not a landline.’
‘Actually, I’d rather we had a face-to-’
‘You’ve got ten seconds, then I’m gone.’
Marshall read out a number.
Harry disconnected and walked across the concourse after Rik and Joanne.
They split up and left separately, each merging into the crowd. Harry had already checked for security cameras and told the others where they were. There were probably others they were unaware of, but they wouldn’t be able to avoid them all. They regrouped along Victoria Street and walked north towards Green Park and Buckingham Palace, sheltering among clutches of tourists and office workers.
‘What did he say?’ asked Rik.
‘Not much. He’s trying to figure out whether his day just got bad or even worse.’
‘Did you mention Jennings?’
‘No. I didn’t want to be on too long. I’ll ask him later.’
Rik raised his eyebrows. ‘Later?’
‘I told him I’d call tomorrow. He gave me a mobile number.’ He recited it from memory and Joanne and Rik each made a note. It was a simple precaution; if anything happened to him, they’d have a means to contact Marshall. Whether it made any difference to their situation was debatable, but at least they wouldn’t be left in the dark. He glanced at his watch. They all needed a change of clothes and toiletries in case they had to stay on the move. ‘We need to pick up some stuff. Joanne, can you buy some skivvies from a shop?’
‘Sure. Won’t your places be risky, though? If Marshall’s working with Jennings, he’ll have men on the way there now.’
‘If he’s working with Jennings, we’re stuffed anyway,’ Rik muttered.
‘We need some transport,’ said Harry. ‘Rik?’
‘Sure. I know where I can get a loaner. Mine’s in an underground garage with CCTV. I’ll need to move it.’
‘OK. We’ll stop by on the way.’
He left Rik to make his own way and took off with Joanne for his flat in Islington. They walked by the building twice before he was satisfied there were no watchers, then Harry went up and packed an overnight bag, leaving Joanne downstairs to watch the street. Three minutes later, he left the flat and went down to the Saab.
He drove to Rik’s place, stopping on the way for Joanne to buy some essentials, then circled the block until Rik stepped out from an alleyway and climbed in the back. He was packed and ready.
‘Down to the end of this road and make a right,’ said Rik. ‘There’s a blue two-litre Renault parked next to a yellow skip. You can leave this in its place.’
‘A skip?’ Harry stared at him. ‘You know you’ll be paying for a new set of wheels when we come back, don’t you?’
Rik grinned. ‘No worries. I put out the word with a couple of the local lads. It’ll be safe enough.’
Harry drove off as directed and pulled up alongside a battered yellow skip piled with rubbish and builders’ debris. Behind it stood a dark-blue Renault Laguna. It had a high mileage but looked clean and ready to go. Rik jumped out and moved it, and waited while Harry manoeuvred his car into the vacant space and placed his and Joanne’s things in the boot.
‘Where’s the Audi?’ Harry asked.
‘In a lock-up. After those two bods tagged me from Blakeney, I figured it would be best to play safe. Where to?’
Harry took out the spare mobile. ‘I need to make a call. Head south, will you? We need to stay on the move.’
‘Who are you ringing?’
‘Marshall.’
Joanne was closing the rear door. She leaned forward. ‘Marshall? You said you’d call him tomorrow.’
‘I lied.’ He waited until Rik was driving before touching redial. ‘I don’t want to give him time to set us up.’
‘You said tomorrow.’ Marshall’s tone echoed with a hint of accusation, as if Harry had broken a minor rule of etiquette.
‘Call me impulsive. We need to meet. Go to the Marble Arch underground and wait downstairs near the Oxford Street south entrance. I’ll pick you up.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Not possible. It will take me a good thirty minutes-’
‘Make it ten.’ Harry cut the connection and looked at Rik. ‘Go for it. I’ll explain on the way.’
‘Heavens,’ Rik lisped breathlessly, ‘I
The underground tunnels beneath Marble Arch smelled of damp, decay and urine, a combination guaranteed to ensure that nobody dawdled on their way through. Most looked neither right nor left, sparing little thought for the bundles huddled beneath cardboard boxes in the darker reaches of the network, or the gaunt individuals lurking by the entrances. Apart from the concourse around the ticket office and the barriers, the walkways were ill lit, the overhead lamps casting a feverish glow and colouring everyone and everything the same drab tones.
Major Andrew Marshall paused for a moment at the top of the steps to the Oxford Street entrance, breathing in the fresh air of the Marble Arch intersection. The word fresh was relative, but it would be mildly better than what
