Northbound.
Reeve hurried up to the platform’s north end. One train had gone, but a new crowd was already swelling. He found a position where he could observe the other stairs. A display board informed him the next train was three minutes away.
Blake appeared from the main stairs. The dark-haired man moved away from Reeve. That meant Flynn would come towards him. Maxwell would then emerge between them, Locke guarding his rear. The others were wildcards; they could come from anywhere . . .
Two minutes. Flynn was next to show herself. He only glimpsed her for a moment before she was lost amongst taller passengers. He would have to watch out for her in case she got too close—
Thoughts of Flynn vanished as he saw his target. Maxwell reached the platform. He moved clear of the stairs. Locke appeared behind, lurking at the stairwell’s top. One minute. Where were the others?
He looked back – and saw Stone.
The Londoner had used the same staircase as him. He moved along the platform, eyes sweeping over everyone.
He would reach Reeve before the train arrived.
CHAPTER 28
Reeve’s first thought was to move away from Stone. But that would bring him towards Flynn, even right to her.
A group of Huddersfield fans stood close by. Dejected by defeat, annoyed by the home fans’ jubilation. Reeve moved closer. Stone neared from the other direction.
Movement at the crowd’s front; the train was in sight. Thirty seconds until it arrived—
Reeve spoke. ‘Stone.’
The sound of his name instantly caught Stone’s attention. Reeve slipped behind the Huddersfield fans. Stone pushed towards them . . .
Reeve shoved one of the men shielding him. ‘Oi! Don’t push, you fucking losers!’
The group turned. ‘Fuck off, we weren’t pushing!’ one man replied.
‘You fuck off!’ Reeve thrust a hand against his chest, knocking him back. At the same moment, he elbowed a Fulham fan hard in the side.
The result was predictable.
The Fulham supporters rounded on their rivals – and a scuffle broke out. Stone was caught on the periphery, a man stumbling into him.
The train swept past, brakes shrilling. Reeve had already retreated behind the angered Fulham fans. Bystanders scrambled clear of the fight. People yelled in warning, afraid of being knocked against the train.
Stone angrily shoved aside the man who had collided with him. That started a new chain reaction of impacting bodies. He barged after Reeve – only for an equally large man to grab him. ‘You’ll get someone killed, you fucking idiot!’ his interceptor roared.
‘Fuck off!’ was Stone’s reply – followed by a punch to the other man’s stomach.
The train stopped, doors hissing open. Reeve quickly moved to the nearest entrance. A glance down the train’s length. Maxwell was about to enter, looking in his direction. He would have heard Stone’s encounter through his earpiece. Flynn and Locke weren’t in sight. He looked left. Stone pulled clear of the brawl—
A flare of hi-vis yellow through the crowd. A police officer pushed towards Stone. ‘You! Stop there!’
Reeve didn’t have time to see Stone’s response. He boarded. Standing room only, supporters flooding in with him. It was a modern train, the interconnected carriages open at each end. He could see all the way to the front and the rear.
He peered forward as everyone jostled for space. If Stone had boarded, he couldn’t see him. More people squeezed in. Shouldn’t the doors have closed by now? Shit. Had the fight delayed the train? He waited, anxiety growing . . .
A warning trill – and the doors slid shut.
The train set off. Reeve looked through the window. A fleeting glimpse of Stone arguing with the policeman. Then the station became a blur.
One threat removed – but he still had to deal with the others.
Maxwell listened impatiently to the voices in his earpiece. Stone was angrily telling the cop he was a Metropolitan Police detective. He had the credentials to ‘prove’ it – as long as they weren’t challenged. If the officer called in to check, Stone was in deep shit. Not just from the Met, either. Maxwell had always considered the ex-copper a borderline asset for SC9. Sometimes a truly blunt instrument was the right tool for the job, but here . . .
Luck was on Stone’s side, though. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the officer. ‘Didn’t realise.’
‘Yeah, and now I’ve lost my suspect,’ Stone snapped. ‘Nice one. Thanks.’ He added something, but the words were lost behind distortion. The team’s radios had only limited range, and the train had carried Maxwell past it.
He soon got a phone call. ‘I fucking lost him,’ Stone growled.
Maxwell looked towards the train’s front. If Reeve was there, he was keeping out of sight. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No, but I heard him. I’m certain of it. The next train’s in five minutes – I’ll catch up.’
‘Okay. We’ll stay on the planned route.’ He disconnected. ‘Everyone hear that?’ he muttered into his mic.
‘Should we search the train?’ Locke asked.
‘Not enough time,’ Maxwell replied. ‘We’ll be at Earl’s Court in seven minutes. If Alex wants to follow me, he’ll have to use the escalators. We’ll spot him there.’
He stared along the train again. Hundreds of swaying people filled it. Somewhere amongst them was Reeve.
Closer to him. The game was becoming more tense.
Reeve moved gradually rearwards at each stop. He halted when he finally glimpsed Locke. The blond man was using his injury to lay claim to a disabled seat.
With Stone removed, Reeve now technically led the chase. He was farthest forward in the train; then Locke, Flynn, Maxwell, and Blake. Parker, he still hadn’t seen. That was a factor he didn’t like.
Nothing he could do about it. A recorded announcement said the next stop was Earl’s Court. Locke shifted, about to get up. Earl’s Court was an interchange; was Maxwell changing trains?
Other passengers also prepared to disembark. Reeve moved forward, away from Locke. The station swept into view. The District Line platforms were above ground. If Maxwell was changing trains, he would go underground to the Piccadilly Line.
If he wasn’t, he was heading out of the station. Potentially to anywhere in London. He would become much harder for one man to track . . .
And that one man would become easier for his quarry’s guardians to find.
The train squealed to a standstill. The doors slid open. Reeve went to them – but didn’t exit, instead peering out down the train’s length. People jostled him as they squeezed past, but he held his place. Earl’s Court was another station he had checked out with Connie. Which way was Maxwell going? If he came towards him, the main ticket hall – and the street exits. Away from him meant descending via an underground concourse to the Piccadilly Line.
He glimpsed Flynn, two carriages behind. Then she was lost in the crowd. Which way had she turned? He couldn’t tell—
Locke appeared, much closer. But he didn’t step out. He was doing the same as Reeve, watching the platform from inside the doors. Reeve withdrew, looking down the train’s interior. He glimpsed the sling between the departing passengers. Then Locke pulled back himself. Reeve glanced out again.
There was Maxwell – turning away from him.
He was going to the lower platforms. Flynn shadowed him – as did Blake.
Locke reappeared at the door. Reeve immediately retreated into the carriage – and marched back through it.
Most of those leaving the train were now out. He swept through the stragglers towards Locke. The door alarm sounded. Locke straightened. Satisfied Reeve hadn’t left the train ahead of him, he started to step out—
Reeve came up behind him and tore his mic from his collar with one hand. His other thumb drove deep into Locke
’s shoulder wound.
Locke convulsed, jerking backwards with a strained cry. Reeve clawed harder, twisting his hand. Even through Locke’s shirt he felt flesh tear, stitches pop. The doors started to close. He jumped through as they slammed behind him. Locke staggered, then recovered—
The train moved off. He locked eyes with Reeve for a brief, livid moment before being whisked away.
Reeve wiped blood from his thumb, then searched for the other Operatives. He saw Maxwell, back to him as he headed for the concourse stairs. He knew from his recce it would be too dangerous to follow. The Piccadilly Line was reached by escalator. He would be exposed on the descent.
But there was another way down.
He hurried to the stairs leading up at the platform’s eastern end. There were lifts to the Piccadilly Line in the ticket hall above. Using them was too much of a risk, though. He might have to wait too long and miss Maxwell’s train. But there was an alternative route.
Rather than ascend, he continued along the platform. A barrier warned that he was entering a restricted area, but he squeezed around it. Beneath the stairs was a metal concertina gate. The entrance to an emergency stairwell. He had seen it the previous day, noting it was padlocked.
No problem.
That morning he had bought a box of paper clips. Only a couple were needed. He straightened one and snapped it into two halves. He raised the padlock and slipped one wire into the keyhole. That was his torsion wrench. He pushed it in as far as it would go, then bent it back. It would hold the padlock’s barrel in place while he worked.
Next came the other half; the pick itself. He had undergone many, many hours of training at Mordencroft. He found the locking pins by feel. A gentle jiggle until they clicked – then a twist.
The padlock popped open.
Reeve quickly removed it. He would already have been seen rounding the barrier on CCTV. Station staff would be here in a minute, less. He opened the gate and darted through.
He clattered down a tight spiral staircase. Another gate at the bottom, also locked. Opening the padlock from the other side of the bars was more tricky. His forearms wedged between the metal slats; he could only just reach. Hold up the padlock, makeshift torsion wrench in place. Now get the pick into position . . .
The paperclip rasped against the pins. Barely any feel from this angle. He heard people walking past each end of the short access passage. Staff could arrive at any moment. Work the pins, come on, come on—
Click.
Relief as the barrel turned. He wrestled the padlock clear and opened the gate. Two platforms: eastbound to his right, westbound the left. Which would Maxwell take?
He went right out of pure instinct. The platform was crowded, a train due shortly. He had to see if Maxwell and his shadows were here – or not. But another task took priority. A CCTV camera covered the emergency exit. He kept his head down to mask his face as much as possible. The Fulham hat was easy to spot, though.
So he discarded it – along with the wig beneath.
Reeve ducked low into the crowd and snatched off both items. The hair revealed under them was now bleached blond. He weaved between passengers, then resurfaced. The CCTV would – he hoped – have lost track of him.
That hope was about to be tested. A man in Transport for London uniform and hi-vis vest pushed closer. ‘Excuse me, excuse me sir,’ he said as he reached Reeve—
And passed.
Reeve quickly moved down the platform. The underground tunnel was hot and cramped. It was hard to see through the crush. A board told him the train would arrive in one minute.
He wouldn’t have time to check the whole platform.
If Maxwell was here, he would come from the far end where the escalators descended. Reeve pushed through the crowd, peering over and around people’s heads. Flynn was short enough to be obscured, but he should spot the others—
Blake’s smooth, dark hairstyle rose above the impatient mass. Was Maxwell with him? A rising wind as the train approached, wheels clamouring. The clock was running down.
Blake looked back towards the escalator, concerned. He had realised Locke had lost contact. Two watchers down. Would Maxwell bail out? If he did, that ended Reeve’s chances of getting answers—
There. Maxwell hadn’t run – yet. He was on the platform, like Blake looking towards the entrance. Waiting for a shadow who wouldn’t appear.
The train roared into the station. Older stock than the District Line; individual carriages, not interlinked. Reeve kept his eyes on Maxwell. Would he board – or turn back?
‘Harrison, are you there?’ said Maxwell. He was no longer concerned if anyone noticed he was talking to himself. ‘Locke!’ No reply. Either Locke was down, or his radio was offline. Neither would have happened by accident.
The train swept noisily past. ‘What do we do?’ Flynn said in his earpiece. ‘On or off?’
Maxwell thought for a moment. Then: ‘On. Stay with the plan.’
‘Are you sure?’ Blake asked. ‘Two men are down already. If he gets to you—’
‘If I abort, he’ll run. We’ll lose him. This is our only chance to bring him in close.’ The train stopped, the crowd sweeping towards the doors.
‘He might get a bit too close,’ Flynn commented acerbically.
‘I’ll take it as it comes.’ The doors opened, disgorging passengers. Those on the platform replaced them. He followed the flow through a carriage’s single rear door. ‘Deirdre, soon as you have a connection, phone Harrison and Mark. Tell them to follow the planned route. We’ll dawdle at the next change to let them catch up.’
A warbling alarm, then the doors slammed. Maxwell took hold of an overhead rail as the train set off. He surveyed his fellow passengers. Reeve wasn’t amongst them – at least, not within sight. Blake was at his carriage’s forward end. Flynn would be in the coach behind. A look back, but he couldn’t see her through the connecting doors.
A flash of worry. She should be in the carriage behind . . .
‘Deirdre?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just checking.’ Brief amusement, which quickly faded. Where are you, Alex?
Reeve was one carriage ahead, watching through the connecting door. He could see Blake, back to him at the first set of double sliding doors. Maxwell had boarded the same carriage, but so far Reeve hadn’t spotted him. Anyone else with him was also out of sight.
The train slowed for the next station. Reeve glanced at the map above the exit. Gloucester Road. Blake didn’t seem about to leave. Where was Maxwell going? South Kensington and Knightsbridge were the upcoming stops. Reeve doubted either was his destination. SC9 provided Operatives with cover-appropriate homes, but not in the million-plus range. So Maxwell would stay aboard for a few more minutes, at least . . .
The train stopped – and Reeve got off.
He moved to the back of the platform, hiding behind the crowd. Then he went down the train’s length. Head lowered, past the entrance where Blake was waiting. Merge into the boarding passengers, and back aboard via the second double doors.
Had Blake seen him pass? No; he was still in the same place.
So where was Maxwell?
Reeve slowly turned. He could see the carriage’s end bulkhead, so he couldn’t be far . . .
A chill as he saw Maxwell three metres away.
The last time they were this close, his mentor had tried to kill him. He instinctively shrank into the crowd’s cover. Maxwell held a ceiling rail, seemingly staring blankly at the route map. Reeve knew that was not the case. Even at his most apparently placid, Tony Maxwell’s mind was always working. He could guess what he was thinking. Where is Reeve? How do I get to him before he gets to me?
Reeve’s own thoughts were a perfect mirror. His target was right in front of him. But how to catch him? He risked rising higher for a better look. Something was visible
inside Maxwell’s collar. A small mic, just like Locke’s. He was in constant two-way contact with his minders. A word, a sound, an innocuous code phrase, and they would be alerted. Would the Operatives risk shooting him on a crowded Tube train?
Yes.
Get in close, wait for the moment of maximum confusion and cover. A silenced round into the back of the heart as passengers move for the doors. Sidestep as the body falls, gun away, keep moving as the screams start. Five seconds to get off the train, then as panic spreads go with the flow. Out of the station by the time the police arrive.
That was what he would do. So the others would do it too. He had to separate them from Maxwell.
But how?
Through more stations. He was well beyond the area he had reconnoitred with Connie. The only names he knew now were from a Monopoly board. If he followed Maxwell off the train, every action would be reactive, improvised. High risk.
So he would have to keep Maxwell on the train.
Holborn. Russell Square. King’s Cross next—
Maxwell straightened. He was about to get off. Reeve slid into cover as the older man quietly spoke into the mic. He glanced back. Blake was also getting ready to leave.
Reeve’s gaze returned to Maxwell. He had one chance. Fail, and he would either never get any answers – or be killed.
One hand on the gun, he pushed towards the doors. Maxwell hadn’t yet moved, letting the knot of people ahead of him leave first. Ignored annoyed tuts from other passengers, Reeve squirmed to the exit. Both Maxwell and Blake were now blocked from his sight. The train slowed, everyone swaying.
Station lights flashed past outside, blurs resolving into individuals. The train stopped. A moment, then the doors opened—
Reeve was first out. He immediately turned and hurried along the platform. People squeezed from the smaller doorway ahead. He shoved into the waiting crowd. No time for politeness. His index finger found the Walther’s trigger guard and poised over it. A glimpse of Maxwell through the windows. He pushed forward, drawing the gun as the other man reached the exit—
Operative 66 : A Novel Page 17