CHAPTER 8
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
Mila’s hair was now black. Technically, it was the wig that was black, but she’d learned many years ago that to really sell a disguise, you had to make it your own- be a woman with black hair, in this case.
She was dressed in a conservative gray business suit, and carried over her shoulder a brown leather briefcase. Tinted glasses helped hide her still youthful face, and high heels made her seem taller than she was.
She had taken the Victoria line of London’s Underground from Oxford Circus all the way out to Tottenham Hale. From there she transferred to a regular passenger train out to Waltham Cross Station, and then grabbed a cab into neighboring Waltham Abbey.
It was early yet, only ten thirty, and while many of the shops were already open on Sun Street near the old church, the shoppers had yet to show up in any kind of numbers.
As she walked down the middle of the walking street, she could feel the eyes of those in the stores looking out at her, wondering who she might be. That was fine. It didn’t matter if they remembered the black-haired businesswoman who looked like a lawyer or stockbroker or some other high-powered type. She wouldn’t be that person for long.
Her destination was a half block before the end of the street, a small suite of offices on the upper floor of a building, above a pub called Sir David. The door to the offices was off to the side, allowing the pub to have as much front real estate as possible. There was no sign next to the door, nothing to indicate what kind of business was beyond. There was only a cream-colored plastic box with a speaker on top and a button on the bottom that Mila pushed.
The speaker crackled to life.
“Yes?” a male voice said.
“I have an appointment,” Mila replied, her voice low so that it wouldn’t carry down the street.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.”
As the speaker went dead, the front door lock clicked. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open. Carpeted stairs rose through a narrow, dingy passageway to another door at the top. Just before she reached it, it opened.
“Come in,” the man standing on the other side said.
She covered her hesitation with a smile. The information she’d uncovered in Stockholm had been right. It was him.
The six years since she’d last seen him had not been particularly kind to the man. He looked older, much older, and favored a hip as he backed out of the way so she could enter. She had expected some change, of course. According to what she’d learned, he’d been forced out of the business because he’d contracted lung cancer, and while surgery and chemotherapy treatments had put it into remission, it was obvious his illness had taken a huge toll on him.
“I assume you’re Mr. Johnston,” she said.
“I am. Please, this way.”
She sensed no recognition in his eyes, but given her disguise and the fact that she supposedly died just hours after the only time they had ever met, it wasn’t surprising.
He led her through two rooms, stuffed with old books in boxes and on shelves, to an office at the back.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, motioning to the guest chair in front of the desk. “Would you like some tea?”
His English accent amused her. It was good, but she knew he was as American as she was.
“Not right now, thank you,” she said as she sat.
“You won’t mind if I have some, I hope.”
“Not at all.”
Johnston walked over to a hot plate on a cabinet in the corner, and picked up the teakettle. Once he’d filled a cup, he carried it back to the desk, stirring constantly, and sat down in his stuffed leather desk chair.
“You’re right on time, Ms. Carter. I appreciate that.”
“Time is not something to be wasted.”
“Very true.” He smiled and took a tentative sip of tea.
“In the interest of time, perhaps we can get right to business? You said you had one of the books on my list.”
“I do.”
He stood again, and used a key to unlock a nearby cabinet.
If he’d actually figured out who she was, this was the moment he’d make his move, and retrieve not a book but something more lethal. She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag, encircling the grip of the pistol inside, and pointed it at the retired spy.
Since his body blocked her view, she couldn’t tell what was in his hand until he turned around. At the sight of the book, she released her gun.
He set the Steinbeck on the desk in front of her. On the worn dust jacket was printed The Grapes of Wrath and the author’s name. Below this was a faded illustration of a man in overalls looking down into a valley at several trucks heading, presumably, to California.
“Viking Press first US edition, 1939. I’m lucky enough to have two copies, but this is the one in the best condition.”
“Good.” She pretended to examine the book. “And the others on the list?”
“I have leads on the Maugham and two of the Greenes. Perhaps next week. The Hemingway is proving to be more difficult than I expected.”
She shrugged. “No matter. It’s not the books that are important.”
The man looked at her for a moment. “Pardon? I must have misunderstood you.”
She reached into her bag once more, and this time pulled out the suppressor-enhanced pistol, aiming it at the man’s chest. “I don’t think you misunderstood me at all, Agent Evans.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who sent you?” he asked, all traces of his English accent gone.
“No one sent me.”
“No one?”
“I came on my own.”
He examined her face, confused. “I don’t know you.”
“Actually, you do.” She removed the glasses and pulled off the black wig. From his continued look of bewilderment, she could see he still had no clue. “How about this? Las Vegas in May of 2006? You weren’t there, but you were the one who hired me to take a package there. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”
For several seconds he just stared at her. Finally he said, “Not possible. Mila Voss is dead.”
“Come now. You handed me the package yourself. In a hotel room in Arlington, remember? The ugly orange bedspreads, and the lime-green carpet? You rushed me out. I thought at the time it was because the room was too disgusting to remain in, even for you. But I think you just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss my flight.”
The blood drained from his face. “Dear God. We…we were told you were dead.” He paused. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Really? How did they come to think I was going to be a problem that had to be dealt with? It was because of the Portugal trip a month earlier, wasn’t it? Turns out you were the agent in charge of that. I don’t remember you. I’m sure you weren’t on the plane.”
“I…I was in Lisbon.”
“That explains it. So what? Did one of your men tell you they thought I needed to be looked into?”
“It wasn’t like that. I had to report it to my superiors. What they decided to do wasn’t my call. It came from the top.”
