by Tom Marcus
In layman’s terms, a face that rang a bell.
It was basically rinse and repeat, until the carriage was clean. Or not, of course. What you were supposed to do if that was the case, when there was no backup team to call on, he wasn’t entirely sure.
He got up and followed the signs to the southbound Northern Line platform. At least there were no stairs involved this time. Forget to plan in advance and you could find yourself doing the equivalent of walking halfway up the Shard before you’d reached home. Not that that would be a bad thing, necessarily. He was aware he spent too much time sitting in front of a screen and that was not what the human body had evolved for. He wasn’t really a gym person (running or cycling in place, in a recreation of the office environment where you’d just spent eight hours, defeated the whole point of exercise as far as he was concerned), so clocking up a few miles getting on and off tube trains was probably as good a way of improving his fitness as any.
Particularly if you factored in the increased heart rate due to the awareness that somebody might well be trying to kill you.
He looked up at the train indicator. Three minutes. Leaning back against the wall, half watching the passengers pass along the platform, he felt the wave of new faces wash over him, letting two million years of evolution quietly do its work.
The train arrived and he found a seat at the end of the carriage. He went back to thinking about randomness, and coincidences, and pictures that could tell two different stories. The first thing to do was to make a list of all the things that connected the three of them. Blindeye was the obvious one, but it didn’t seem feasible that someone connected to the terror threat they’d eliminated, or to the intelligence organization they used to work for, had either the capability or the motivation for targeting them.
Of course, he knew his Sherlock Holmes: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So he’d park the twin possibility of terrorists or their own former employers being the bad guys for the moment without definitively dismissing it.
The train rattled on down the Northern Line as he thought. Claire, Craig and Logan: what possible connection could there be between three strangers who’d never met before they were recruited to Blindeye? And what if he enlarged the data set to include himself, Alex and Alan? Maybe even Mrs Allenby too, for good measure?
From a purely analytical point of view, of course, another death would certainly help to clarify things.
The train pulled in. Time to get off again. Clock up a few more metres on the Fitbit. He waited for the exiting passengers to disappear. Soon he was alone on the platform with his thoughts. He looked at his watch. How did it get so late?
A man wearing a tan raincoat and holding a briefcase entered the platform, quickly looked both ways, then made his way towards Ryan. As he approached, Ryan looked up. The raincoat and the briefcase didn’t raise any flags, but something about the face made the hairs instantly prickle on the back of his neck.
13
I stood back and took a look at my handiwork. ‘What do you reckon, Daisy?’
Considering the effort of getting the bloody thing here, not to mention fitting it all together, I was hoping for a more positive response. I’d brought her fresh flowers – nothing fancy, just some little yellow things I found at the edge of the golf course – but she seemed to be in a bit of a sulk.
That was the trouble with dead people: sometimes you just couldn’t tell what was going on in their heads.
Or maybe it was just teenage girls.
I shrugged and went back to tinkering with the equipment. The problem was, you had to have a reasonable space between the unit that fired off the infrared beam and the receiver, which was then connected to an equalizer and an audio unit. We were a bit cramped for space, so the margins were tight. More worryingly, I’d had to open the window; otherwise all the microphone would pick up would be mine and Daisy’s conversation, and that was hardly going to make riveting listening. There was an overhanging tree, which helped, but across the way, anyone really paying attention in daylight would be able to see the window was open. Which meant my own window of opportunity was pretty narrow.
Maybe Daisy was right, and it was all a waste of time.
I couldn’t really set the camera up at the same time, so I watched the house and made notes of the timings. Not that there was much to see. All the signs were that this was going to be a quiet night. Mrs S had been out on a major shopping trip and experience told me that she wouldn’t have the energy for another out of doors expedition for a while. I’d always found any kind of clothes shopping a pain in the arse, so I knew how she felt.
I hadn’t seen any sign of Shlovsky himself. I was just hoping he hadn’t slipped out while I’d been away. If I’d seen Titov or the English guy, I’d have been reassured; I couldn’t imagine Shlovsky going very far without those two. But I hadn’t seen them either.
Fuck. This was not looking good.
I paced up and down a bit, wanting to kick something, then told myself to fucking calm down. I could tell by the coolness in the room that Daisy wasn’t impressed.
At 10.27 p.m. a car stopped abruptly opposite the house and a couple started having a row. One of the guys in suits came out to have a peek through the gates, making sure it was all kosher, took the opportunity to have a quick fag, then went back in.
At 11.05 the light in one of the bedrooms went on. Five minutes later the light went on in the office.
Showtime.
I switched everything on, the infrared beam arrowing invisibly towards the window opposite, then picked up the headphones and sat down with my back against the wall.
For the first couple of minutes, nothing. I got up, tugged on all the connections and checked the indicator lights. Everything seemed to be in order. I sat back down again and waited.
The first sound didn’t really sound like anything. Maybe the equalizer wasn’t properly equalizing or something. Alan told me it would all be crystal, but I was beginning to have my doubts.
Then my ears got used to it or something and it started to make sense. It was liquid being poured into a glass. Someone was making themselves a drink.
I felt better. Shlovsky was having a stiff one before he started making calls.
I still didn’t hear any voices. Maybe he was having a bit of a think. Figuring out what he was going to say. Or maybe he just wasn’t looking forward to talking to whoever it was.
That’s fine, Viktor. Take your time. Just make sure you speak loudly and clearly. And in English, if you wouldn’t mind.
A sound like a cupboard opening or a door sliding or something. Then a sort of metal scraping sound.
Then singing. I couldn’t pick out the words, but it was a woman’s voice. Little snatches of song, followed by humming, more of the scraping noise, then a soft thump.
What the fuck was going on? Maybe it was the maid doing some dusting, and helping herself to a glass of the boss’s premium vodka while she was at it?
No, that didn’t seem right.
I looked over at Daisy and I could swear she was grinning.
Then I twigged.
I listened some more: la la la, scrape, thump; la la la, scrape, thump. The sounds assembled themselves in my mind and became attached to a memory. I was listening to a woman picking dresses out of a wardrobe and tossing them on the bed (This one? Hmm. This one? No. This one? Maybe.), singing along to herself while she took sips from a glass of wine.
This definitely wasn’t Viktor Shlovsky’s office. This was his wife’s dressing room. Even on the off-chance of Shlovsky making an appearance, the best we were likely to get was, ‘Yes, the red one. No, of course you look good in the blue. If you want to wear the blue, wear the blue.’ That sort of bollocks. And I doubted we’d even get that. For hubby the dressing room was probably off limits.
I pulled the earphones off and tossed them on the floor.
‘You knew, Daisy, didn’t you? You knew all along.�
�
I waited until I’d calmed down a bit, then closed the window and started disassembling the laser mic. There wasn’t much point in hanging around. We’d got all we were going to get from this OP. But I didn’t want to leave right away, not while there was still a bit of tension between me and Daisy.
I tidied up, or rather, did the opposite, sweeping all the crap back over my little patch of floorboards, so at least it wasn’t so obvious I’d been here. I looked across the road. The dressing room was in darkness. Mrs S must have called it a night. I pulled the shutter closed.
I swept the torch around the room to make sure I hadn’t left anything. My little bunch of flowers was already starting to look a bit sad.
‘Look, I’d better be going now. I’ve probably been lucky so far. Stay much longer and they’d be bound to spot me.’ I knelt down. ‘Sorry if I’ve been a bit on edge. I really thought we were going to get lucky tonight. You know, get Shlovsky on tape.’
It felt like the temperature instantly dropped a couple of degrees.
I decided to change the subject.
‘Sorry the flowers are a bit crap. I couldn’t really see what I was doing. Actually, I’ve always been crap at getting flowers. Sarah will tell you that.’
I reached out a hand towards the flowers. I really should have taken them. But I didn’t.
I wanted to tell her to take care of herself, but the words died in my throat.
I picked up the torch, hoisted my bag and left.
14
Mrs Allenby looked as if she was about to spit. She was leaning on the table while me, Alex and Alan sat sullenly on the other side.
‘I had tea with the Director General yesterday afternoon. He told me the chatter from Moscow is that things are being ramped up. The timetable is accelerating.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ Alex asked.
‘It could be any number of things, but my guess is that they want to strike before the election, to cause maximum political damage.’
‘Putin wants the PM out?’
‘Not necessarily. Simply creating chaos in the democratic process would probably serve his ends just as well. We don’t know what they have planned –’ she paused to give us a withering look – ‘so we can’t yet judge the aim, but whatever it is, if it’s devastating enough, it might even mean postponing the election.’
‘We need to hear what’s going on in there,’ Alex said, looking at Alan.
Alan held his hands out, palms up. ‘I can give you a dozen different kinds of transmitter. Small, medium, large – just tell me what you want.’
‘But we’ve still got to get it through the front door somehow,’ I said. ‘Any bright ideas?’
Alex shrugged.
‘Where the hell’s Ryan?’ Mrs Allenby snapped. Alex and I exchanged a look. We’d never heard her swear before. The DG must have really put the screws on over the cucumber sandwiches at Fortnum’s. Alan looked as if he desperately wanted to go and tinker with some equipment.
I tried to think through our options. There weren’t too bloody many, and none of them sounded good.
Alex was chewing on a pen thoughtfully. ‘When she goes shopping, she always has lunch after, right?’
It took me a moment to work out what she was talking about. ‘I don’t know. She’s usually a bit wobbly on her pins, like she’s had a couple of Martinis.’
‘Let’s look at those photos again.’ Alex fired up her laptop and started scrolling through, then started making notes on a pad.
Mrs Allenby looked intrigued. ‘Miss Short? Do you have a suggestion?’
Alex scribbled down a couple more notes. ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She closed her laptop. ‘OK, so Mrs S likes her retail therapy, and as you’d expect, her idea of fun isn’t standing in line for the one-pound tank tops in Primark. She doesn’t go for the big department stores, either. She likes the little boutiques, the exclusive ones where you don’t have to rub shoulders with any of the hoi polloi. This one seems to be her favourite – Dulcima Drew, off South Molton Street.’
Mrs Allenby frowned. ‘This is all very interesting, but how exactly does it help us?’
Alex tapped her pen against her teeth and gave us all a big grin. ‘I think I’ve figured out a way of getting our bug into the house.’
An hour later I was standing in the men’s department in Selfridges wearing a fashionably uncomfortable midnight-blue suit and feeling like a twat.
‘Give us a twirl. Let me see the back,’ Alex said, making a circular motion with her hand.
I turned round slowly.
‘You’re a funny shape, Logan. Has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Nobody who kept their front teeth after, no.’
Alex grinned. She was enjoying this about as much as I wasn’t.
‘I’m just trying to make you look the part.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘All right, this’ll have to do. We haven’t got time to go to Jermyn Street and get you something made to measure. We’ll just have to do something about your walk. Now, what about a shirt to go with it? I’m beginning to think lavender is your colour.’
I gave her a look.
‘That’s it, Logan. The mean look, like you want to give me a slap. Perfect.’
We bought the shirt, along with some fancy-looking loafers. Alex wanted me to wear a tie as well, but in the end she agreed that the open-necked look would be more in character. All I needed to complete the effect was a nice heavy Rolex and she trusted me enough not to fuck that up while she went to sort out her own gear.
Forty minutes later we walked out onto Oxford Street and I gave her the once-over. Even I could see the loose-fitting pale-green trouser suit was classy. With the chunky gold necklace and the shades, she looked a million dollars, which was more or less the idea.
‘Nice,’ I said simply.
‘Thank you. Now, we just need hair and make-up and we’re all set. And I mean you, too, Logan. The stubble’s fine, but the hair’s a disaster. You need to look as if you at least give a tiny fuck about your appearance.’
By 11.45 we were sat in the car on a double yellow, breathing in the heady mix of Chanel No. 5 and some nasty aftershave I’d been doused with, while keeping an eye out for parking attendants.
‘Now we cross our fingers and wait,’ Alex said.
‘Let’s just hope she didn’t wake up this morning and decide the fashion industry’s killing the planet,’ I said.
Alex wagged a finger. ‘Don’t be negative, Logan.’
We got the call from a car parked up on the Avenue at 12.03. Mrs S was on her way. We reckoned it would take her thirty-five minutes, tops. That’s if she was actually planning on throwing away a few grand at Dulcima Drew’s this afternoon and not going somewhere else.
By 12.30 we were strolling down South Molton Street in the sunshine, trying to blend in with the other mega-rich couples out looking for an opportunity to burn through some cash. We’d done one side of the street and were walking back the other way when we spotted her. The chauffeur had obviously dropped her off on Brook Street, at the south end of Great Molton Street, so she could do a bit of window shopping before the main event.
‘Bloody hell,’ I murmured. ‘You can see it from Viktor’s point of view. She’s a sitting fucking duck. I’m surprised she hasn’t been lifted before now.’
‘Well, let’s just hope no one’s planning to do it today,’ Alex said. ‘That would properly fuck things up.’
Ekaterina Shlovsky was walking towards us as we loitered in front of a jeweller’s shop. Alex nudged me. ‘Buy us a fucking diamond, Logan. Go on – one of those big ones.’
I turned my head as Mrs Shlovsky passed. She was wearing a camel-hair coat and humming to herself with a dreamy expression behind her shades. I thought I recognized the tune. Even through a telephoto lens, the camera hadn’t been able to do justice to her sculpted cheekbones, her wide, thin mouth and slightly turned-up nose.
‘Give it a couple of minutes,’ Alex said. ‘Pretend you’re rea
lly thinking about buying me that diamond.’
‘If this works, I’ll seriously consider it,’ I said.
Alex nudged me and we turned, arm in arm, and followed Mrs Shlovsky down a little side street.
Dulcima Drew was the sort of place where you had to ring a bell and get buzzed in once they’d looked you up and down and decided you might be rich enough to actually buy some of their overpriced wares. Same as whenever your cover’s first tested, I felt my heart rate go up a notch. If they didn’t let us in, apart from anything else it was a couple of grand down the drain, because I wasn’t planning to wear the suit twice.
The door buzzed and I held it open as Alex stepped inside. A model-thin assistant in a black trouser suit sashayed over with a hundred-watt smile, as if we were just the people she’d been waiting for.
‘Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’
I scowled, trying to get in character.
Alex returned her smile with interest. ‘That would be lovely.’
I looked around. For a clothes shop, there didn’t seem to be many actual clothes. No racks of dresses or piles of T-shirts, just the odd shapeless scrap of fabric hanging from a fancy stand. It felt more like a museum or an art gallery than a shop and for a moment I wondered if we’d come to the wrong place.
Alex, however, was like a pig in shit, instantly swigging champagne and yukking it up with the assistant as if she’d been born to it.
I scowled again in her direction and looked at my watch. Mrs Shlovsky was down the other end, nodding at another young woman in black, who held a curtain open for her. Presumably the changing rooms: where the real action was.
I paced up and down for a bit, not having to work too hard at being pissed off. After a few minutes I could hear Alex’s voice.
‘Oh my goodness, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look so lovely in that. I’m so jealous! I couldn’t wear it – with my hips it would look like a paper bag on me, but oh my goodness on you . . . really, soooo lovely.’
I couldn’t make out what Mrs Shlovsky said in reply, but she laughed, which was good, and soon they seemed to be chatting away like long-lost mates.