“What?”
“Anybody know you round here?” Weeks asked.
“Not really. That group I was supposed to infiltrate was based in this area, but that’s all. Why?”
“Because when we arrived in this exclusive establishment, two men got up and left. One of them is now standing on the opposite side of the road looking this way, but I’ve no idea where the second one’s gone. I’ve never seen either of them before, so it looks to me as if they recognized you, and I wouldn’t mind betting we’re going to have company any time now.”
Bronson turned round slightly in his seat so that he had a view of the street outside. The figure Weeks was talking about was leaning against the wall of the building opposite, a cigarette cupped in his left hand, staring across toward the cafe. Bronson had a good memory for faces, and now that he could see the man clearly, he recognized him immediately. He’d never spoken to him, but he’d been one of the group at the warehouse when Bronson’s true identity had made the news.
Weeks was right. Bronson had no doubt that within a few minutes Georg or some of his men would be arriving, and because of what had happened in Germany and Poland, their response to his presence in the area would be violent, and possibly fatal.
“Well spotted, Dickie. We need to get out of here, right now. You reckon there’s a back entrance?”
“Bound to be,” Weeks said, standing up. “There’ll be a backyard or something.”
The two men walked across to the counter, lifted the flap and stepped behind it, to the immediate and very obvious irritation of the proprietor, who stepped over to block their path.
“You can’t go through here. It’s private.”
“Get the hell out of my way, fat boy, unless you really like hospital food,” Weeks said, lifting a large clenched fist to the man’s face.
For a second or two, it looked as if the cafe owner was going to try his luck, but then he shook his head and stepped to one side.
Weeks led the way through the back room, like the rest of the cafe a dark and grubby space, the shelves lined with tins and packets, a couple of fridges and a large freezer humming away in one corner, toward the rear door.
And as he opened it and stepped outside, Bronson realized what should have been obvious to him from the first. The only reason the man would have had for standing in plain view on the opposite side of the road in front of the cafe was to alert Bronson to his presence, and force him to pick another, less public, way out.
In fact, the man had been acting like a sheepdog, driving the sheep-Bronson and Weeks-exactly where he wanted them to go: out of the cafe through the back entrance.
Because the moment they stepped outside and the door clicked shut on the latch, Bronson saw a group of five men waiting about twenty yards away, covering the only exit from the narrow alleyway.
48
27 July 2012
Bronson knew immediately who they were, not least because the man he knew as “Mike” was standing in the middle of the group, a satisfied smile on his face.
“You might have fooled Georg, but I had you sussed from the start,” he snarled. “You fed us a long line of bullshit, but all the time you were just another bloody copper. And now you’re going to get what’s coming to you.”
The other four men were carrying short lengths of timber, less obvious weapons than baseball bats, but just as effective in the right-or rather the wrong-hands.
But before any of them could move, a deep chuckle sounded beside Bronson as Weeks took a step forward.
“That’s the problem with some of you north London villains,” he said. “You talk too much, and you don’t think things through.”
Unhurriedly, he reached inside his jacket, extracted a Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistol, cocked the weapon and aimed it straight at Mike.
Beside him, Bronson took out the Walther and mirrored his actions.
Mike’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The other men had frozen in place the moment the pistols appeared.
“We don’t have time to mess with you today,” Weeks said, “so you’re quite lucky, really. Why don’t you just take your bits of carpentry away with you and do something useful with them, like build a table. But if we see you around here again, we’ll make sure you don’t bother us-or anybody else-ever again. Now get the hell out of here.”
But as the five men turned to leave, under the silent threat of the two pistols, Bronson raised his other hand.
“Hang on a minute,” he said.
The group stopped as one and turned back to him.
“It’s just a question,” Bronson said. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the opening ceremony of the Games today? What Georg has got planned, I mean?”
Mike shrugged reluctantly.
“He’s organized a massive demonstration for this evening,” he said, “right in front of the cameras. That’ll get the message out to the biggest number of people possible. Then he’ll pay us off, and that’ll be it.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes.”
Bronson shook his head.
“He’s fooled you all. You won’t get paid. In fact, if you’re in this area, you’ll probably end up dead. He’s smuggling a massive bomb here, and he’ll trigger it during the ceremony. That’s what all this has been about, right from the start.”
“Bollocks,” Mike snapped. “Georg is an environmentalist. He’s making a stand against overdevelopment, and especially against overdevelopment for sport. He’s committed to a nonviolent approach.”
“Glad to see that you remembered the official message,” Bronson said. “But don’t forget you killed that nightwatchman. That was hardly ‘nonviolent,’ was it?”
“That was an accident. We didn’t know he had a weak heart. Apart from that, all we’ve done is smash up machines and try to disrupt things.”
“Just following Georg’s instructions?”
Mike nodded.
“What Georg has been telling you is exactly what he thought you wanted to hear,” Bronson said. “You’ve been causing trouble to suit his agenda, and to divert attention away from his real target. If he’d told you that the other part of the group, the people in Germany, were planning on blowing up half of northeast London, you wouldn’t have helped him, would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, welcome to the real world, Mike, because that’s his actual agenda. What you got involved with is a last gasp of Hitler’s Third Reich, if you like. Georg’s German friends have decided that the London Olympics will provide the ideal opportunity to finish off what the Nazis started with their V1 and V2 weapons. Their aim is to destroy as much of London as they possibly can.”
Mike just stared at him.
“Bollocks,” he said again. “You’re making this up.”
“Why would I bother?” Bronson asked. “I’m just giving you a reality check, and a warning about what’s going to happen.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly,” Bronson replied.
Mike glanced around at his companions, all of whom looked somehow uncertain, so clearly Bronson’s words
