Evan said, ‘Take me to Hadley.’
Khan shook his head. ‘We talk in private. Keep walking.’ Khan ran across the street, Evan still clutching his arm. Khan pointed toward a small bistro. ‘We need transportation. I have a friend who owns that business, he’ll be sympathetic. Wait here.’
Evan tightened the grip on his arm. ‘Forget it. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Khan smoothed down his hair, straightened his suit jacket. ‘I need you, you need me. We have a common enemy. I’m not running off.’
‘There’s no way I can trust you.’
‘You want a sign of my good faith.’ He leaned close to Evan, his jaw touching Evan’s, whispering into Evan’s ear, ‘Jargo’s clearly after me now. I am a loose end. So are you. We have a mutual interest.’
He thinks the bomb was planted by Jargo. Not the CIA. Or at least he wants me to think he blames Jargo. ‘Why are you sure it’s Jargo?’
‘I protected him long enough. But no more. Not when he’s after me now. He wants war, he gets war. Wait here.’ He shrugged free and Evan knew he’d have to fight Khan, here on the street, to keep him close, and it would attract attention. He watched Khan hurry and vanish into the cafe.
Evan waited. Panicked Londoners jostled past him, a hundred people passing him in a matter of minutes, and he had never been so alone in his life. He decided that he had made a huge mistake in letting Khan walk free. But moments later Khan drove up to the curb.
‘Get in,’ he said.
34
T homas Khan headed southeast on the A205. Evan flicked on the radio. The news was full of the explosion on Kensington Church Street. Three confirmed dead, a dozen injured, firefighters battling to bring flames under control.
‘Where is Hadley?’ Evan said.
‘Running and hiding, just like you and me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve hidden Hadley from Jargo. I thought my influence with Jargo could survive our… recent problems. I was wrong.’
‘What problems?’
‘Once we’re safe.’
Khan exited in Bromley, a large borough of suburban homes and businesses. He navigated a maze of streets and finally steered into a driveway of a good-sized house. The driveway snaked behind the home and he parked where the car couldn’t be seen from the street.
‘I suspect we don’t have long,’ Khan said. ‘The home belongs to my sister-in-law. She is in a hospice. Dying of brain cancer. But soon the authorities will be looking to anyone who knows me for information.’
‘Like your friend who owns the coffeehouse. He can tell them you’re alive.’
‘He won’t,’ Khan said. ‘I smuggled him and his family out of Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation. I asked for silence, he will be silent. Hurry inside. Our only advantage may be that Jargo will believe us both dead.’
They entered through a back door. It opened into a kitchen. A mineral smell of disinfectant hung in the air. In the den, antique furnishings blended with an eclectic and colorful mix of abstract art. Bookshelves commanded one wall. The house had a comfortable air, but already wore a heavy sense of abandonment.
Khan collapsed on the couch. Clicked on the TV with the remote, found a channel airing live footage of the bombing site. The reporter indicated the destroyed business was owned by an Anglo-Afghani, Thomas Khan. The reporters tossed out theories and speculations as to a reason for the bombing.
‘They got it wrong. You’re from Pakistan,’ Evan said.
Khan shrugged. ‘I have bigger worries.’
Evan went to the kitchen. Hanging along a magneticstrip were a wicked assortment of knives. He picked the largest one and returned to the den. Khan looked up at him.
‘Is that for me?’ Khan did not act afraid.
‘Only if I have to.’
‘You won’t. Stabbing is intensely close-range and personal. Nasty. Messy. You feel the person die. A sheltered boy doesn’t have enough steel in his spine.’
‘I’m just learning what I’m capable of. You’re going to help me bring Jargo down.’
‘I said no such thing,’ Khan said. ‘I said we had a mutual enemy. I can hide for the rest of my life. I don’t need to fight Jargo. He thinks I’m dead.’
‘If he’s your enemy now, surely you’d rather see him taken down than worrying about him ever finding you.’
Khan shrugged. ‘The young worry about victory. I prefer survival.’ He tilted his head at Evan. ‘I thought you would be far more interested in hearing about your parents than planning an impossible revenge on Jargo.’
Evan took a step forward with the knife. ‘You know my mother worked for the Deeps.’
‘I only knew her by her code name. But I read the American news on the Web, I saw her face on a report after her murder and I knew who she was.’
‘You saw her when she was in England a few weeks ago.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was barely a whisper.
‘Why was she here?’
‘It’s oddly liberating to tell you what I always kept secret. I feel like I’m shedding an old coat.’ Khan offered a gentle smile. ‘She stole data from a senior-level British researcher involved in developing a new Stealth-style fighter. He had classified information on his laptop; you know the sort of man, technically brilliant but chafes at rules. Lax about security. He meets his mistress for getaways from the lab at a small hotel in Dover. Your mother took photos of him and the mistress, although probably he’d let his affair be exposed rather than cooperate, but more importantly, she obtained copies of the fighter data during their stay. That’s the real leverage. Unless you’re copulating with animals or small children, sex isn’t the great lever it used to be.’ Khan almost sounded disappointed; a man wistful for the good old days.
‘So she steals the data and you sell it.’
‘No. I provide the logistics to support her, I arrange for the money to go into her account. Jargo handles the sell.’
Logistics for support. Money. He would have to know where the money came from. The client list, Evan thought. This man had it. He kept his face neutral. ‘And who would Jargo sell this data to?’
Khan shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t need information like that these days? The Russians, who are still afraid of NATO. The Chinese, who still fear the West. India, who wants to take a bigger role on the world stage. Iran. North Korea. But also corporations, here and in America, who want the plans. Because they want to get contracts or out-maneuver the avionics firm who designed the plane.’ He offered Evan a neat, practiced smile. ‘Your mother was very good. You should be proud. She followed me to where I kept the files, accessed my laptop, stole the data, and I never knew until last week.’
‘I can’t find pride in her accomplishments right now,’ Evan said.
‘Now, if we’d wanted the man dead… well, your father would have been sent. He’s quite the able killer.’ Khan studied his fingernails. ‘Garrote, gun, knife. He even killed a man in Johannesburg once with nothing but his thumbs. Or perhaps that was simply a rumor he started. So much depends on reputation.’
The knife seemed suddenly lighter in Evan’s hands.
Khan made a murmur of sympathy in his throat. ‘I know them better than you do yet I never knew their real names. Rather sad, really.’
You’re just trying to goad me. Play me into making a mistake. ‘Since we’re helping each other, tell me what my mother stole from you.’
Khan’s tongue touched his lower lip. ‘Account numbers in a Caymans bank. She copied a file that had names
