by Mark Leggatt
The door of the restaurant burst open and five black-helmeted figures rushed in, brandishing machine pistols. “Hands on heads! Get on your knees!”
The figures spread around the restaurant, covering all the angles. One of them jabbed the stubby barrel of a Heckler & Koch rifle towards Montrose. “Metropolitan Police,” growled the man. “You heard him.”
Montrose slipped from his chair and onto the floor, watching the bodyguards and Arkangel reluctantly complying. The cops frisked the bodyguards and confiscated their pistols. The fat guy protested loudly before a policeman kicked him behind the knees and crashed a rifle butt down onto his shoulder.
Two men walked into the restaurant. The first man, dressed in an immaculate grey suit, nodded to the policeman. The fat man was pushed face first onto the floor. The policeman kept his boot down hard between the fat man’s shoulders as another policeman ran over and fixed Velcro cuffs to his ankles and wrists then dragged him out of the door to a meat wagon.
The man in the grey suit leaned against the door, rubbing his chin while he scanned the restaurant. Montrose glanced sideways at him. He’s not a cop. He’s a spook. What the hell have I walked into?
Kirsty’s voice hissed in his ear. “If they suss you, you’re fucked. I know you can’t talk. I’m going to try something.”
The man in the grey suit stood in front of Arkangel. “Name.”
Oh, shit. Montrose caught the accent. New York. That means I’m dead meat.
Arkangel turned his head slowly to look up. “I think you will find that under English law you must give me a reason for your request and your behavior.”
“Yeah? That so? Well, I’m an American, so I don’t give a shit. Name.”
Arkangel’s features twisted into a sneer. “You will find my name on my diplomatic passport. And the names of these two gentlemen are also on their diplomatic passports.”
The American nodded slowly. “That right? Show me.”
They each pulled out a passport. A small man in a crumpled suit stepped forward and scanned each one on an iPad. He nodded to the American.
The American shook his head and leaned over Arkangel. “Get the fuck out of here. And your boyfriends. I don’t want to see you again.”
Arkangel and his bodyguards stood, collected their weapons and headed for the door. The American watched them go then faced Montrose.
Kirsty, whatever you have in mind, anytime right now would be a really good idea.
The American walked slowly over to Montrose’s table, staring at the roof, deep in thought.
“Excuse me, sir?” said Montrose. “Can I get up now?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then the American looked straight into his eyes. “No.”
“I was just eating lunch. I’ve got nothing to do with this. Whatever it is.”
The American took a seat at Montrose’s table, picked up the half bottle of wine and checked the label. “Good choice.” He scratched his lip. “So, you got a diplomatic passport? ID? Note from your mother?”
“Uh, no, sir. Only my credit cards.”
The American nodded at the cop. Two hands appeared from behind Montrose and patted him down. “What’s that in your ear?”
“My ear?” Montrose shrugged. “It’s a hearing aid.”
“Show me.”
Montrose pulled the earpiece from his ear, gathering as much wax as he could, then held it out in his palm.
“Just the one ear?” said the American.
Montrose was about to pretend he hadn’t heard him then thought better of it. Might get me shot for being a smartass. “The other’s not too bad. Can I get up? My knees hurt.”
The American smiled. “Yeah, have a seat. And leave the hearing aid out.”
“Why? I can’t…”
“Use the other ear.”
Montrose pocketed the earpiece and twisted in the chair so his left side faced the table.
The man smoothed his hand over the snow-white tablecloth. “What’s your name?”
Remember the drill. “Fox.”
“Full name, Mr. Fox.”
If you’re gonna tell a lie, make it a big one. “Full name?”
“Go for it.”
“Harris Beauregard Claverhouse Fox.”
The American grinned. “The first?”
“The only, as far as I know. But call me Harry.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay, Harry, let’s find out who you really are. Campbell, give me that thing.”
The man in the crumpled suit scurried over and placed an iPad in front of Montrose.
“Harry,” said the American. “Put your hand on there.”
Shit. “Look, I’ve never been in trouble. Even in college. Although, there was this one time...”
“Shut up. Do it now.”
Montrose heard the policeman behind him shuffle his feet, widening his stance. He placed his hand on the iPad. A light scanned his hand and the iPad beeped.
“Okay, let go.”
He kept his hand pressed down and saw the word Dionysus flash up on the screen before the American grabbed it from the table.
The American considered the iPad for a moment. “Well, I’ll be straight with you, Harry. What we have here is something that worries me. But it tells me good things, too. You’re on the right side. What it doesn’t tell me is who the hell you are. Damn sure it’s not Mr. Fox. And that’s the thing that worries me.”
Maybe, dude. But I’m fucking delighted.
The American looked over Montrose to the policeman. “We’ll take care of it from here. Have your guys wait outside.” The American watched the policemen leave, then pulled his chair closer, moved the bottle of wine out of the way and rested an elbow on the table. “Let me tell you something.”
“But…” Kirsty, get me out of here.
“Listen to me. My name is Paul Kane. I control a team in Langley. And you know very well where that is. Now, I don’t know what the hell you, or the people on the end of that earpiece are doing here, but this is my operation. What happened here today, who those people were and what your connection is, you will tell me right now. Because, I shit you not, what those people are involved in will make 9/11 look like a pool party at the Playboy mansion.”
What the hell is going on?
“So, let’s be very clear, you are going absolutely nowhere until you tell me exactly what you and your team are doing and why.” He held up a hand. “And don’t give me the ‘confidential, need to know, higher authority’ bullshit. There is no way on God’s sweet earth that you have higher authority than me. Now, you tell me and you tell me right now, or I will no longer consider you a friend. And then bad things will happen and they will happen very quickly.”
A phone rang. Kane reached inside his jacket and pulled out his cellphone and stared at the screen. He looked up at Montrose while he thumbed the button. “Yeah?”
I know who’s calling. That fingerprint scan would have set off alarm bells from here to Virginia. He watched Kane’s mouth drop open. I’m fucked. He glanced to the door. An armed policeman stood outside, half-turned in his direction, watching a ring of policeman battling the burning car. Even if I run, he’ll see me coming.
The fire alarm screamed into life and Montrose shot to his feet.
Kane stuck out an arm, shouting over the alarm. “Sit the fuck down!”
Thanks Kirsty, but that’s not gonna work. He watched Kane’s eyes narrow, but couldn’t hear what he said over the alarm, then saw him begin to unbutton his jacket.
Oh fuck, no.
Kane pushed back his chair, shouting into his phone. “You mean here? Right now?” His hand moved inside the jacket.
The fire alarm stopped.
Chapter 3
Water burst over their heads from the sprinklers, soaking the tables and floor. Kane instinctively
tried to cover his phone while reaching for his gun.
Montrose launched himself forward and smashed his fist into Kane’s face.
Kane toppled backwards. His phone slid across the floor towards the policeman at the door who made a grab for the handle.
Montrose spun around and shoulder-charged Campbell over a table, then ran for the kitchen, slipping on the parquet as he kicked open the swing doors. Water was gushing out from revolving jets above the stoves and chefs were shouting and running for the exit. An armed policeman stood in an open doorway to an alley. He locked eyes with Montrose and leveled his machine pistol, but the barrel was forced into the air as several chefs tried to force their way out the door at the same time.
Montrose saw steps to his left and ran up a winding staircase, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the wall. At the top was a door which he shoved open into a small toilet. He slid to a halt before he hit the edge of a sink and a window, three feet in front of him. Fire extinguisher against a gun. Yeah, that’ll work. He launched the extinguisher through the window then ducked behind the door and kicked it shut. He heard boots on the stairs. Do it. Make the same mistake I did. The door flew open and the barrel of a gun came first, followed by a policeman who stuck out a hand before he hit the sink.
Use his weight. Montrose stepped behind and shoved him hard towards the window.
Montrose grasped the policeman’s utility belt and hauled him up over the window ledge then leapt to the side as the copper’s boots flew past his nose.
He looked down to see boots sticking out of a dumpster. Okay, not that way. To his right he could see a low roof. He stood on the sink and kicked away the shards of glass, then levered himself out of the window frame, trying to find his balance on the crumbling brick ledge. Don’t dick around. Jump! Throwing out his arms, he launched himself sideways, hoping the flat roof would take his weight. He landed and rolled, his hands scraping the rough stone and grit of the tar-covered roof, then ran to the edge and saw the gap. I can make it. Six feet.
The gap widened as he got closer. Ten feet? Oh, man, just go for it. He glanced down to a filthy alley twenty feet below as he launched into the air. Leg breaker. He landed heavily and ducked behind an air-conditioning unit. Shouts came from the alley. Looking back, he saw a policeman’s head stuck out of the toilet window, wrestling his rifle clear of the frame. They’re not following. They’re not that crazy, they’ll take the streets. He got to his feet and headed for a stone gable, but slipped on the grit and rolled towards the wall. Bricks shattered above his head and hot fragments of metal stung his cheek.
He scrambled behind the corner of the gable end. Sniper. And a silencer. Not a cop’s gun. This isn’t an arrest. They’ve worked it out. They know who I am. The connecting roofs were a jumble of old, steep, moss-covered slates and flat areas with minimum cover. Pick a route and stay low. He got up to run then heard the whump-whump of rotor blades. Chopper. Get off the roof.
Keeping low, he weaved between rattling air-conditioning units. To his right there was a long line of windows: an attic conversion. A round table of suited executives stared out at him. The window was open. He reached up and tugged it aside then pulled himself in. He stood for a moment, ignoring the open mouths, then brushed off his damp suit. “Police. Don’t mind me, I’m just passing through.”
He skirted around the table before anyone could say a word, opened the door and then stopped. “Listen, close that window. There’s a bad guy on the roof.”
He raced down the stairs. At the bottom was a busy open plan office. Several people looked up from their computers. He grabbed an overcoat from a stand and slipped off his jacket, throwing it into the stairwell. A plain wooden door stood in front of him with an alarmed fire exit sign. Like I give a shit.
He pushed the handle and a weak, whining siren coughed into life. Don’t run. Yet. He stepped out into an alley and turned north towards the main drag. Where the hell am I? He pulled the earpiece from his pocket and shoved it into his ear.
“…in because I can’t do this through fucking osmosis!”
“Kirsty, it’s me. Listen, I’m…”
“I know exactly where you are. I’ve got four CCTV cameras on you. And don’t talk into your Apple watch when you’re running, you’ll look like a movie extra. And a complete tit. Cross over Long Acre, that’s the main road at the end. Take the street at your eleven o’clock. Keep going.”
He saw traffic at the end of the road. An unmarked van with flashing blue lights shot past. He stopped in a shop doorway. “Kirsty, any moment now there are going to be police everywhere. I need to get out of London fast.” He ran for Long Acre, searching for a gap in the traffic.
“You’ll never make it.”
He dodged the cars then slid to a halt on the sidewalk. “Jeez, thanks. Should I just kill myself right now? Or wait for them to do it?”
“Keep your knickers on, Yankee boy, you’ll never make it because the cops in London have got containment down to a fine art. They’ll have your section locked tight in minutes. Vans, dogs, helicopters, the whole nine yards. What you need to do is to get out of the sector. Check the end of the road. See that pillar at the end?”
Montrose looked along the line of shop fronts and yellow brick buildings. “Yeah, I see it. So what?”
“That’s the Seven Dials. It’s the border of the Covent Garden containment sector. They’ve been perfecting this ever since the IRA came to town, even if it’s now a different enemy. Get there fast. Then you can hide. Otherwise they’ll lock you in and keep squeezing every street until they find you.”
“I hear sirens.”
“You’ll have a lot more to worry about if you don’t move your arse.”
He stepped off the narrow sidewalk and ran down the street, weaving between the slow-moving traffic. Just get to that pillar? Is she crazy? “Kirsty, there are no exits, all the turnings are dead ends. They’ll spot me a mile off.”
“Probably. Everything will be focused on your sector.”
“Got any good news?”
“We’ll see. Don’t stop. Get to the Seven Dials before the meat wagons.”
He glanced behind. Red buses blocked the end of the street.
“Slow down.”
He stopped and ducked into a doorway, looking out to the ornately carved pillar in the center of the road. “What is it?”
“It’s cool. Only a traffic warden. Thought it was a copper. The bastards all dress the same. Now, walk across the road, take the exit where the traffic warden is standing. See it?”
He could see why the cops would want to control the area. Seven narrow roads converged into a circular junction. Blue lights appeared between the cars at the end of the street. “I see the exit.”
“Go for it. Get to the bike rack.”
The traffic slowed and he strode straight over the junction then stood in a doorway beside the rack. “I’m there. What now?”
“Get on a bike.”
He looked along at the rows of city bikes. “You’re joking.”
“It’s the fastest way across London. Move it.”
The sirens were getting closer. He tried to haul a bike from the stand, but it was locked. “Kirsty?”
“You were given a credit card in the name of Mr. Fox. Use that, hold it up to the machine in front.”
He fumbled in his pants for his wallet then flattened the credit card against the screen. A slip of paper with a code popped out and he punched in the number to the bike. The lock popped open and he grabbed it from the stand.
“Lose the overcoat.”
He tugged it from his shoulders and stuffed it between the bikes.
“Go to the end of the street, turn right then first left. I’m going to keep you off the main drag, so expect a few detours.”
He pointed the bike away from the Seven Dials and jumped on. The wind chilled on his legs and h
is feet slipped inside his shoes. Trucks and cars lined the street as he flashed past shops and boutiques. The traffic came to a halt at the end of the street. He slowed for the junction and stuck his foot down, sliding along the ground to stop before he ploughed into a bus. He stepped on the pedal again, but his shoe slipped and the pedal spun around and cracked his shin. Pain shot through his leg and he leapt off the bike, pushing it between the bumpers of the stationary cars to the other side of the street.
“Bet that hurt. Take the next left.”
“Got it.” She knows what she’s doing. If it wasn’t for the traffic, the police would have me by now. Or worse, Kane and his goons. He pounded the pedals, standing up in the seat. “Kirsty, where the hell am I going?”
“Soho.”
“Safe house?”
“Soho’s never been safe, but as safe as you can get in London right now.”
He hauled the bike up onto the sidewalk to avoid a delivery van in the road. “Where in Soho?”
“You’ll see. If you knew the address, I’d be worried about you.”
“Tell me exactly where, in case I lose comms.”
“You won’t lose me. I’ve got five cameras on you. Go to the end of the street, ditch the bike, then walk down the alley in front.”
He dumped the bike in a doorway. At the end of the alley, through a brickwork arch, he could see a busy street. “Wait, we need to check that I’m not being followed.”
“Connor, I’m having enough trouble finding you a clear path, so you’ll have to take care of what’s behind you. You’ll be on me in five.”
What the f..? He flattened himself against the wall, the sharp, dirty brick pressing through his shirt into the skin of his back. “Kirsty, that’s really not a good idea. You don’t want to...”
“I’ve got no idea who you are or what you’ve done, but I’m here to do a job, so do what I say, you thick-headed Yank, or I’ll drop you like a sack of hot shit. This is my territory. Get to the end of the alley.”
The stone was cold against his skin as he pressed harder into the wall. I can’t put her at risk. She’s just a tech. Yeah, you know what that feels like. “Kirsty, I can’t lead them back to you. Give me a direction and let me go.”