“It was nerve-racking, I tell you,” Fiona said. “I didn’t know what I was getting into.”
Once the story was published, quoting unnamed sources, Fiona had been hauled in by detectives and by the FBI, who wanted to know who those sources were.
“Thing was, up until then, they’d told nobody how the job had been done, and they thought one of their own officers had leaked the damn thing,” Fiona said.
She came under heavy pressure but refused to divulge anything, citing her constitutional rights as a journalist. The case had further fueled the ongoing battle between the media and the state, about reporters protecting their sources and whether the state had the right to force them to disclose sensitive information under certain circumstances.
“They locked me up for a day and a half in a cell in this Brooklyn police station, which of course triggered wall-to-wall media coverage,” Fiona said. “I told them nothing, and eventually they had to let me go when the ACLU turned up the heat. I spent the next two days doing interviews all over town—you know, Meet the Press, the New York Post, several radio stations. Got my fifteen minutes, if you know what I mean. I flew the flag for civil liberties and reporters’ rights and had a pretty good time with it.”
It had been the story that made her name as a tough reporter.
Afterward, Bomber Tim decamped back to his home city in the U.K., Liverpool, where he subsequently bought himself a nice ten-bedroom manor house in the countryside with about twenty acres of land, stables, and an indoor swimming pool.
Two years later, Fiona received a handwritten note, including a phone number, thanking her for her silence and telling her she should get in touch if she ever needed help in the future. She had scribbled the man’s phone number in her notebook.
Johnson nodded. “He sounds like a character, as well as a useful contact. The thing is, it isn’t just the safe in that warehouse. There’s also a couple of burglar alarms, you know, the type where you have to input a code on a keypad to disarm them.”
“I doubt that’ll be a problem for him,” Fiona said. “But let me ask him.”
She stood up and put her coat on. “Wait here, Joe. I’m going outside to give him a call. The bastard had better still be alive, though I wouldn’t put money on it. He drank like a trout and smoked like a Rastafarian at New Year.”
He watched as she walked slightly unsteadily toward the door.
Johnson sipped his wine and took in the restaurant. It wasn’t the best Italian place he’d ever been to. Near the window was a long table full of scruffy, drunken traders who were downing shots of tequila in turns.
On the other side of the room was a table of six Japanese tourists showing each other their cameras, all of them deep in discussion about the merits of each. Johnson had to smile.
The waiters all looked bored and disinterested, to the growing annoyance of a couple in the corner who seemed to be having trouble getting their attention.
Outside, Johnson could see Fiona sitting in a bus shelter next to the restaurant, phone to her ear, presumably trying to get the goods from a locksmith in Liverpool.
Twenty minutes later, she strolled back into the restaurant and pumped her fist in the air.
“He’s coming on the train in the morning. Great guy. He remembered me very well. Said he hasn’t done a job at all for the past four years, and he sounded quite excited. He said he still owes me one so doesn’t need to be paid a lot. We’re going to meet him off the train at Euston.”
Johnson gazed at Fiona. His mind flashed back to how she had looked back in 2003, when he had first worked with her on the California senator story. Absolutely stunning then and still pretty gorgeous now—especially when she was all lit up like this. However much he thought they weren’t suited, he still admitted an attraction.
Johnson had initially felt resentful that she had turned up out of the blue and effectively gate-crashed a job he had specifically told her he wanted to handle his way, with no interference. But she’d just saved his ass.
“I have to admit Fiona, you sometimes do have a few tricks up your sleeve,” he said.
“I’m always full of surprises. You should know that,” she replied, winking.
They ordered two Scotches on ice to celebrate and asked for the bill, which by then stood at more than £200. Johnson let her pay with her company American Express card.
“So, there’s still no progress on the Nathaniel Kudrow investigation, then?” Johnson asked.
“No, it’s strange. Police have gotten nowhere with it and neither have the FBI. They have some CCTV film of a dark-haired guy leaving the hotel about the time they think the stabbing took place, but the pictures weren’t great. They’ve also had appeals for witnesses running on national and local media. They seem to have a ton of people working on it, but no result so far. I’ve asked the crime guys at work to keep me updated if they pick up any developments.”
Fiona stood. “We’d better go. I’m at the Crowne Plaza hotel next to Blackfriars. I need to get some sleep. Got to write a piece in the morning before we go to meet Bomber. Are you going back to your friend’s place? What’s his name again?”
“Robinson,” Johnson replied, a little relieved she wasn’t suggesting a nightcap.
They walked to the door, said goodbye to the waiter, and moved outside. Johnson paused in the entrance long enough to check the road in both directions. There was nobody obviously watching or loitering.
The drizzle had started again, making the pavement slippery underfoot, and the temperature had dropped further. Back in Portland, he would have expected snow. Here he wasn’t so sure.
Feeling guilty, although he didn’t know why, Johnson told her that his friend Robinson had a first name—Jayne. He had expected some sort of reaction in return.
But Fiona just folded her arms in mock annoyance and cocked her right eyebrow. “Really? Okay, well, at least you’ll get your shorts washed after you’ve removed them, then.”
She headed toward the underground station with a wave.
Johnson watched her head down the stairs and out of sight, realizing two things: one, he’d had a fun evening after a stressful day; and two, Fiona didn’t seem to be holding a torch for him after all. He’d worried about it for no reason. It had been a little arrogant of him, really.
Johnson chuckled to himself and lit a cigarette as he walked to Jayne’s apartment.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday, November 25, 2011
London
Alejandro reversed the Ford carefully into a vacant spot in a side street about a quarter of a mile from the Minories parking garage.
He turned off the CD player, which had been blasting out Coldplay’s album Viva la Vida, a favorite since they had seen the band at River Plate Stadium in Buenos Aires the previous year.
Diego, sitting next to him, pulled on his wool hat. “I think the parking garage will be quiet enough now. Let’s get this job done.”
“Yeah. I’d rather be back home, though,” Alejandro said. “It’s not good—freezing our balls off here. Back home it’ll be baking hot. Nice evening beer, cool chick. Dinner to follow. Taxi home. That’s what we should be doing.”
Both men got out of the car, and Diego removed a large backpack from the trunk, in which he had stowed the antitank mine, the detonator, and the other equipment from Felipe. Then they set off on foot to the parking garage.
A careful survey of the garage over the previous two nights had told them there was always one security guard on duty, who sat in a small office on the ground floor.
Every hour on the half hour, the guard patrolled the building on foot, starting at the top and working downward, which took twenty minutes.
When he got back to his office, the guard very often spent ten minutes making a cup of tea or another drink in a small kitchen before resettling in his seat in front of a bank of ten black and white security video screens. Diego had noticed the guard paid scant attention to the screens and instead spent most of h
is time reading a paperback novel.
Although there were video cameras mounted on walls on each floor, the ones on the second floor were some distance away from Johnson’s car. There seemed little chance of their faces being discernible on video.
Diego’s plan was to wait until the guard was on his patrol and passed down from the second floor to the first. Then they could make their move. That should give them fifteen to twenty minutes before the guard was back in front of his video screens.
When they arrived at the parking garage, Diego checked his watch. It was now 11:35 p.m.
“The guard should be up on the third floor,” Diego said. “Let’s wait on the first until he comes to the second.”
The two men waited silently in the deserted stairwell until they heard footsteps echoing from above, as the guard made his way down the stairs and onto the second floor. The door clanged shut behind him.
Diego and Alejandro pulled their wool hats down over their foreheads, slipped on latex rubber gloves, and made their way up the stairwell to the third-floor landing. There they waited until they heard the guard move to the first floor, and then they quietly descended to the second.
Johnson’s black BMW was parked where he left it. The only other remaining cars on the floor were a gray Range Rover, an Aston Martin that Diego assumed must belong to some late-working banker, a battered old Vauxhall, and a Mercedes so dusty it must have been standing there for weeks.
If the security guard did return, Alejandro and Diego had agreed to say the BMW had battery problems and they were waiting for the Automobile Association to turn up with a replacement.
Diego approached the BMW, removed his backpack, opened the car door, and released the hood, which clicked open. He removed the mine and other equipment from his backpack, went to the front of the BMW, and lifted the hood fully. He had difficulty finding space for the antitank mine in the engine compartment, but eventually managed to wedge it in and secured it with duct tape before installing the detonator.
He then taped the remote control receiver next to it and met Alejandro’s eyes, seeking approval.
Alejandro assessed the arrangement with a doubtful expression, then whispered in Diego’s ear. “Is that secure enough? It doesn’t look like it’ll hold in place. You don’t want it to move around. It’s damn heavy.”
Diego nodded and cut off another strip of tape, which he fixed in place. “That should be fine,” he murmured. “It can’t move around too much in there.”
Diego pulled the hood down and clicked it shut, then checked his watch. It was now three minutes to midnight. He inclined his head to Alejandro, indicating that they should go. Alejandro nodded.
The two men made their way silently back down the stairwell and out of the entrance. As they left, Diego caught a glimpse of the security man sitting in his office, drinking a cup of tea and reading his book.
The two Argentinians made their way back to their car.
“Hopefully, Johnson doesn’t decide to check his oil and spot it—unlikely if it’s a hired car,” Diego said. “We’ll need to keep a check on his movements so we can set off the firework show at the right time. We might need some way of luring him into using the car.”
His phone beeped loudly twice in his pocket. He took it out and read the messages. He turned to Alejandro.
“They’re from Ignacio,” Diego said. “It’s not good. It looks like the guy we’ve had tied up tried to escape from that back bedroom. Worked his ropes loose and was halfway down the fire escape. Shit, I’m surprised he could walk in that state. Good job Ignacio managed to catch him—but he’s pissed. He wants us back there fast.”
The phone beeped again and then again. Diego looked again at the messages.
“He’s asking if we had checked the guy’s ropes. Did you? He’s obviously trying to blame us for it, as usual.”
Alejandro frowned. “Don’t think it’s going to matter much now. Wouldn’t like to see what Ignacio does to him.”
When Johnson got back to Jayne’s flat, it was almost half past eleven at night. She was lounging on her sofa sipping a glass of white wine, her back to him.
Standing behind the sofa, he said, “Glad to see somebody’s feeling relaxed.”
She turned around. “Hardly. I’ve been manic, actually. This Olympic security report is tough going. I only got home half an hour ago. You made any progress?”
Johnson realized his comment had been crass given the number of hours Jayne was spending at Vauxhall Cross. “Sorry, I know what it’s like. Yes, I’ve made some headway.” He recounted the day’s events and then told her about Fiona’s arrival.
“So, this Heppenstall woman. What’s the story? Are you two an item?”
I knew she was going to ask, he thought. She’s curious about everything. He liked that about her.
Johnson held her gaze. “No, definitely not, although I did make a mistake there, about five years ago. Thing is, work puts us on the same flight path sometimes. She tried to rekindle it once but seems content just to be friendly at the moment.”
Jayne pursed her lips. “Sounds like a slightly tricky situation. Yet she’s giving you work. I’d keep her onside but not too onside. There’s your challenge.”
She reclined in her chair. Was she looking relieved?
“So why do you need to work with her on this job?” Jayne asked. “If it’s that much of a problem, why not walk away and leave her to it?”
Johnson walked around and sat in the armchair next to the sofa, sinking into the black leather.
“Yes, that’s the trick, isn’t it? This is a big job for me, though. I need to do something more meaningful than what I’ve been doing, something worthwhile. And so it’s worth any lingering awkwardness, really. And she’s got her uses, good contacts and so on, although I still don’t actually know where this job is going. It could still turn out to be a dud.”
Jayne ran her hand through her hair. “I’d have joined up with you on this one if I had more time and if I wasn’t tied in at SIS . . . and if you didn’t have the journalist tagging along.”
He grimaced. “Yes, well, maybe we could another time. Anyway, what about you? Still single, still wedded to your work—what’s that all about?”
Jayne shrugged. “I like my independence too much. Relationships are good in small doses. Can’t even be bothered to flirt much these days. It’s either a yes or a no.” She glanced sideways at Johnson, in the same way he remembered.
“You’re as bad as she was,” he groaned.
“Bad? It’s yes or no. There’s no bad involved.”
Johnson got up and poured himself a glass of wine. “Yes feels bad. No feels bad. But changing the subject, I have a favor to ask. You said you couldn’t get me a gun, but I have a feeling that one might be useful. I just need something unobtrusive, but it should do the job if necessary. Any chance?”
Jayne pursed her lips. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Although that could be my exit route sorted out, given that they’d probably fire me.”
She sipped her wine and considered. “There might be a way, someone I’ve just thought of. A friend of mine has a well-connected boyfriend. Let me check with her.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saturday, November 26, 2011
London
Surely this must be an aging jockey or a bookie, not an international criminal, Johnson thought as the man walked toward him, limping slightly, on the platform at Euston Station the following afternoon.
Thin and wiry, appearing to be in his fifties, Bomber Tim was no more than five feet five inches tall and had a virtually bald head, apart from some wispy gray hair at the sides. A pair of thick black-rimmed spectacles completed the look.
He was carrying a battered old briefcase, although Johnson doubted very much there were any documents in it.
Fiona dwarfed Bomber, who was a good six inches shorter, but that didn’t stop him from giving her a lengthy hug. Johnson snorted.
Bomber disentangled h
imself and warily acknowledged Johnson, who offered his hand. “I’ve heard a bit about you from Fiona,” Bomber said in a broad Lancastrian accent as he shook.
“Likewise,” Johnson said. “Good to meet you. You’re probably ready for a coffee after traveling all this way. I saw you were limping a little.”
“I twisted my ankle a couple of weeks ago. It’s a little sore,” Bomber said. “Shall we go and find a place where we can have a chat?”
Johnson led the way down the platform and out of the busy station, which was full of Saturday shoppers carrying bags, students with backpacks, and families out on day trips.
They found a quiet pub around the corner, The Rocket, sat in a corner well away from other customers, and ordered coffees. Johnson’s first priority was to reassure Bomber of his credentials and that he wasn’t leading him into some kind of setup.
He briefly ran through his background and gave Bomber his card, and then Fiona outlined their mission in London, without going into too much unnecessary detail about the Nazi elements of the story.
“Okay,” Bomber said. “It’ll be a change to work with justice in mind, rather than escaping from it, so to speak.” He narrowed his eyes at Johnson, his forehead permanently creased.
After half an hour, they ordered another round of coffees, and Bomber finally seemed to relax. “Okay, we’d better talk business. Do you know what this safe is like? I might need to get some other tools, depending.”
Johnson showed him the photo he had taken on his phone. Bomber studied it closely.
“That should be easy enough. A very old one, probably from before the war, I think. Whitfields . . . you don’t see many of those anymore, apart from in old family-owned businesses or in rich people’s houses. That’s a combination lock safe. They used to advertise them as impenetrable. What a joke. It’s a bit different to that one we did over in Charlotte, you know, Fiona?”
Bomber smiled for the first time, the right corner of his mouth pulling to the side, creasing his right cheek and pulling his left taut. It made him look as though he had some sort of nervous tic. “It’s still going to take some time to pick that lock, though. We could need a couple of hours if we’re unlucky.”
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 17