car.”
Dean adjusted his glasses, clicking the small tab at the back near his left ear. The tab opened a video feed in the lower portion of the glass; another click and the screen displayed a view from a microscopic lens located at the back of the glasses, allowing Dean to see the woman who was tailing him without actually turning around. She looked as surprised as any of the other passengers. He tapped the feed off and craned his head to the left, looking through to the next car. A conductor and two policemen were moving through the car, glancing at the passengers. Dean slid back in his seat.
“Your passport, sir,” said one of the policemen after Dean presented his ticket.
“Sure,” said Dean. He took out his passport and gave it to the policeman.
“You just landed in London?”
“Yes,” said Dean.
“Where are you staying?” asked the bobby.
“Go ahead and tell him,” whispered Rockman.
“Renaissance Hotel,” said Dean. “What’s going on?”
“Official business,” said the officer, handing the passport back. He pointed ahead and they moved on, stopping near the end of the car and questioning another man.
“They seem to be looking for someone,” Dean told Rockman after they left the car.
“We figured that. Not clear what they’re doing. May have nothing to do with us.”
“The woman you said was tailing me is getting up,” said Dean, watching her. “She’s going after them. Should I trail her?”
“Negative,” said Rockman. “You’re just Kegan’s assistant, remember? Stay where you are.”
It was nearly twenty minutes before the train started moving again. Rockman had tapped into the local radio network in the meantime and determined that the police were looking for a man they called Sand. The name did not appear to correspond to any of the outstanding notices or warrants, but in one of the transmissions they mentioned an MI-5 operative; the operation appeared unrelated. Sylvia Reynolds, meanwhile, had gone back to her seat.
“It’s possible they think you’re Sand,” said Rockman. “Might be a terrorist thing.”
“If so, why didn’t they arrest me?”
“If they really are looking for someone who’s a terrorist, odds are he won’t look like you. Relax. We’re working on it.”
Dean slid back in the seat. The Art Room was
“Your tail only went to the ladies’ room,” Rockman told him. “Lia doesn’t think she spoke to the police.”
“But we’re not sure.”
“No. Was she close enough to hear you when you told the policeman where you were staying?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, don’t sweat it.”
Once the train resumed moving, the ride into Paddington took only another twelve minutes. Dean got out and, directed by Rockman, tucked around to the right to the outdoor cab stand. Sylvia Reynolds no longer appeared to be following him. Lia had been spotted by Reynolds — it had been impossible to hide when the police came through — and she stopped trailing Dean, though Rockman assured him she was close enough to back him up if something happened.
“Who’s backing her up?” said Dean.
“She can take care of herself,” said the runner. Then he added, “Not that you can’t.”
“Thanks.”
There were members of at least two different intelligence agencies in the giant train station — British and Russian. Guided by Rockman, Dean steered a seemingly haphazard path away from them, heading toward the taxi queue outside. There he joined the line, pulling his bag up as the line moved steadily. It was just after morning rush, and there was a steady flow of large black cabs, punctuated by newer models in green, blue, and red. Dean got into a black one in the far lane, swatting the car on the rear window before getting in. He told the driver his destination only after he was inside, then settled back as they waded into traffic.
His swat on the window had not been for good luck. The Desk Three op had placed a penny-sized wide-angle cam on top of the chrome. He took out his handheld computer and turned on the transmitter, which would work for forty-five minutes, then fry itself beyond recognition with one last burst of energy.
He fed the image into the lower portion of his glasses as well as relaying it back to the Art Room. But after a few minutes he found the fish-eyed feed of the traffic behind him distracting and turned it off. The Art Room claimed he was no longer being followed.
The Renaissance was a luxury hotel near Holburn Street and several blocks from the conference itself. Not using the conference hotel made it easier for surveillance and, more important, kept him away from the British intelligence network already set up there. Three different rooms had already been reserved in the hotel for him under different names, and as he rode through the morning traffic the Art Room checked the hotel’s reservation banks to see who had booked near them. They went with a large room on the sixth floor, wiping the others off the system.
Three doormen sprang to attention as the cab pulled in under the archway into the courtyard at the front of the hotel; Dean pulled a twenty-pound note from his pocket and stuffed it into the cabbie’s hand.
“Too much of a tip, guv,” protested the cabdriver paternally, but Dean waved him off.
“How much did you give him?” asked Telach.
Dean ignored her, following the doormen to the front desk, where the clerk found that his room was ready, despite the early hour. When Dean was alone in the elevator Telach hissed at him not to go overboard in tipping again.
“Rubens will have your head.”
“He already has the rest of me,” said Dean. “So where’s my friend?”
“She switched off and started following Lia,” said Telach. “Must be doing contract work for MI-5.”
The Art Room supervisor explained that British intelligence would routinely collect dossiers on various experts, a preemptive “just-in-case” operation. Dean would have attracted some attention because, cover story or not, he was new to them. The fact that he was covered by a rent-a-spy meant he was considered small potatoes.
“As long as I’m not mashed,” he told her.
“We’re inside the hotel’s computer, which has a link to the video system, so we’ll see her or anyone else if she comes in. So far we don’t have any indications of agents there. It may be that she wants to see what Lia’s up to now — whether she was trailing you or someone else. We’re betting that she was only supposed to find out where you were staying, which she would have been able to do when you spoke to the police. She hung with you long enough to make sure you were headed in that direction, then went after the lead that seemed more interesting.”
“Yeah, but I could go anywhere in the taxi.”
“True, but they don’t know that you’re up to anything particularly interesting. But an American op shows up, that’s different. Lia’s worked with the British before, and with Sylvia. So she’s a hell of a lot more interesting. Don’t get offended,” Telach added.
“I’m not. I’m beat. I want to take a nap: ”
“No time,” said Telach. “We need you go to a store near Charing Cross.”
“Why?”
“We’ve recovered the E-mails that led Kegan to file the contact report. They’re pretty bare, but the last one mentioned the Mysterious Anderson bookstore. You’re supposed to be there at ten. It’s close to your hotel. You can walk.”
“I’d like to catch some rest,” protested Dean.
“Next lifetime,” said Telach.
As soon as she was sure Dean had gotten into his taxi, Lia watched Reynolds come back inside and get into the Heathrow Express back to the airport; obviously her job was done, at least for now. Lia waited until the train left, then took her own circuitous route in and out before ducking down a Tube entrance and making sure she
