This is the moment that Lewis has to make a go or no-go decision. All of a sudden, no-go doesn’t feel sensible. Controlling his breathing, his right hand fully outstretched, he weighs the Android device in his palm. His right index finger is carefully hooked around the corner of the device. Lewis knows he can do this. Like a spring-loaded leopard pouncing on its prey, he brings his right hand in a rapid movement across his body. The stored power is immense, the phone like a pebble about to be skimmed across water. Except that there is no water: only air, the space directly between Lewis’s body and Panich’s face, right towards the bridge on Panich’s nose. It’s another Lewis party trick, the projectile bang on target. The power is transmitted through Lewis’s right hand, his right index finger becoming the focal point of the energy release, the trigger that sends the phone skimming through the air on its planned trajectory.
The moment the phone is airborne, for the second time that morning Lewis snaps his legs forward. Simultaneously his left hand rises vertically so as to make contact with the bike’s left handlebar. With knees still bent, the other hand, having completed its horizontal manoeuvre from right to left, is now in position to be able to take hold of the right hand handlebar. Using the energy stored in muscles in his legs, he pushes upwards to release the bike from off its side-stand before jumping onto the seat in one fluid moment. It takes three seconds at most. Time enough for a confused Panich to dither about whether to pull the trigger or else catch the fast moving projectile heading in his direction: before it either crashes into his body or else hits the ground and is destroyed. As Lewis anticipates, Panich chooses to save the device. This is a mistake that gives Lewis opportunity to begin accelerating away whilst Panich fumbles with the phone. The Russian fails to catch it, watching as it falls to the ground. The screen smashes into tiny glass fragments. Belatedly, Panich fires a shot at Lewis. The Honda, however, is already weaving its way erratically through the archway at the end of the mews terrace. The shot misses. The sound is loud, resonating angrily around the enclosed mews space.
34
Hyde Park
Lewis is exhilarated. The adrenalin is surging through his body as he guns the bike in a south easterly direction towards Hyde Park. He just makes a green light at the corner of Sussex Gardens and heads west. The bike continues to accelerate as he weaves in and out of traffic, the morning rush hour building steadily.
His euphoria is short-lived. He quickly realises that he has not one but two bikes tailing him. It is time to put them through their paces. Lewis accelerates towards the roundabout by Lancaster Gate then heads westward on Bayswater, the road forming the northern boundary of Hyde Park. He jumps two red lights in the process and causes angry horns to blare. He looks in the mirror, disappointed to see that his pursuers are still on his tail. Putting on a burst of speed, Queensway tube station fast approaches on his right. He has an idea. Without any indication, he swerves the bike left, up a ramp and through cast iron gates into the pedestrian and bicycle-only area that is Hyde Park.
The huge acreage of green parkland is criss-crossed with pathways. A single road, the West Carriage Drive bisects the park from north to south and in the middle there is a large crescent-shape lake, the Serpentine. Lewis figures that he is likely to know the layout better than his pursuers. He accelerates towards a small circle of water called Round Pond immediately ahead of him. Early-morning joggers, dog walkers and commuting pedestrians scatter angrily as his bike roars towards them. At the pond, Lewis puts up several Canada geese as he corners the bike, heading eastwards towards the Serpentine. He is pleased to see the gap between him and his pursuers widening. Without warning, a police motorcyclist materialises from nowhere, however, approaching fast on an intersecting path to Lewis’s immediate right. Lewis instinctively steers left. He ignores the asphalt pathway and instead opens up the throttle, heading in a straight-line back towards Lancaster Gate directly across the grass parkland. He has to dodge the occasional tree and early morning dog walker as he speeds across the open parkland.
He sees rather than hears the huge explosion. A massive fireball erupts in his rear view mirror as one of the pursuing bikes careers out of control and hits a tree. The police motorcyclist peels off and heads to the crash scene. This allows Lewis to slow his speed, unable to fathom what has happened but finding that his pursuers have temporarily vanished. Up ahead is an exit back onto Bayswater at Lancaster Gate.
It is a lucky break. Somehow Lewis doesn’t think it will last long. He needs to regain the advantage. It is time to see whether he can use that idea of his to unlock Zamani’s phone.
35
Edgware Road
“No need for blues and two-tones, sergeant, but let’s make this snappy shall we?”
They were sat in the rear of the police BMW. Zeltinger had just leaned back in the comfortable leather rear seats and felt that he could be asleep in seconds. Meilin was sat next to him, the young police driver behind the wheel taking them across town to the Europa hotel on Edgware Road.
“What time does your shift finish this morning?” Zeltinger asked, his eyes closed as he spoke.
“In about an hour, sir. I can work later if you like, I’m only going home to sleep. I am so sorry about the safe, making you waste your time.”
“Let it be a lesson.” He tried his best to stifle a yawn, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I’m sorry,” he apologised.
“Are you thinking that there’ll be anything in the safe?”
“Who knows? I hope so. We could do with a few more substantive leads. Tell me what else you’ve managed to unearth on Lewis during the night.”
She rattled off various details. Most of them Zeltinger already knew but it was a good refresher to hear them over again.
“Something of a chess wizard, was he? That’s interesting. I’m not bad myself, although a bit rusty. Do you think the story about him being a skiing instructor and windsurfer was true or simply a spur of the moment fabrication? A clever story to distract us.”
“I think it could be true, but it’s hard to verify. He has no immediate family that I could trace and he’s not on any social networks either.”
“What a nomadic life. It doesn’t feel right for a former Marine. Have we checked his military record, spoken to his former CO, that sort of thing?”
“It’s all in progress. He was under the command then of a certain Colonel Anthony Fitzroy. Fitzroy is now a brigadier and attached to the Ministry of Defence here in London. I was hoping that you might be able to call him later today?”
Zeltinger, eyes still closed, nodded. “I’ll make a mental note to do that. Do we know why Lewis left the Service?”
“He had some kind of breakdown. His wife died on their honeymoon. Drowned on a beach in Cornwall. Apparently he blamed himself.”
Zeltinger thought about that and nodded. It fitted his emerging mental picture of a younger Lewis: a tough, successful young Marine who had not yet been programmed to cope with failure.
“What about his mobile phone records? They are always revealing. Have we got those yet?”
“They should be with us imminently.”
“Good.” He let out a sigh. The car had reached the end of Oxford Street and was turning right into Edgware Road.
“What happens when you pick up someone’s iPhone and try to use it?” Zeltinger said, changing the subject. “Wouldn’t you need a password to unlock it?”
“Most people have password protection on their phone, yes. It’s usually a four-digit number.”
“Precisely. However, even without the code, you can still receive a call if someone rings, isn’t that right?”
“Normally, yes, the software lets you do that. And receive text messages as well. So when you rang Ben Lewis a short while ago, he was able to take the call. Irrespective of whether he knew the dead woman’s password or not.”
; “Precisely.”
The police car had pulled into the forecourt of the Europa hotel. A porter was stepping forward to open the rear door. Zeltinger wasn’t yet finished with his current train of thought. He waved the approaching porter away with his hand.
“The question is, does our man Lewis know the code to Zamani’s phone or not? If not, how will he go about trying to find it? I have a hunch that we’ll find the answer in Zamani’s hotel room.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “I have a hunch. I’ll show you when we get there.”
He was about to get out of the car when the driver turned around, a frown on his face. His hand was touching an earpiece in his right ear, half listening to something as he spoke.
“There’s been a motorbike accident in Hyde Park, sir. Not far from here, close to Lancaster Gate. Two bikes were chasing a third at high speed across the park, apparently. One of our police bikers was also on the scene and saw the whole thing. A bike hit a tree at high speed and exploded. It was immediate death on impact. We think that the rider might have been shot before he crashed.”
“Shit. Okay, we’d better head there. It’s only around the corner. Let’s step on it Sergeant. We can come back and check the room safe another time. Damn, damn, damn.”
“Doesn’t Ben Lewis own a bike?” Meilin asked.
“Precisely,” said a grim-faced Zeltinger. “I am rather hoping that it isn’t him who is wrapped around that tree.”
36
Edgware Road
The Edgware Road is a part of London that is perpetually busy, a melting pot of different cultures. Adjacent to the Europa Hotel, sitting uncomfortably close to the elevated section of the West Way, the arterial road that allows traffic to crawl westwards towards the M40 motorway, are various retail outlets: betting shops; money-lenders; small supermarkets; pharmacies; clothing emporiums; and a handful of Asian and Middle Eastern restaurants, many open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. This pattern is repeated mile after mile heading northwards through Kilburn, right to the start of another motorway, the M1.
At eight-fifteen in the morning, the inside of the conference hotel is also busy with people. They are mostly delegates to the Nuclear Fusion Technology Symposium. Many are loitering in the foyer talking to friends old and new. Most have name badges pinned to their lapels or blouse tops. Several are carrying conference folders under an arm and have a cup of tea or coffee on the go. In one corner near to where the conference registration desk has been positioned, a television screen is showing news feeds from the BBC.
Lewis approaches the pretty young woman in a red dress in charge of registration formalities. Judging by the small number of name badges and conference folders remaining unclaimed on the table, there are only a handful of stragglers and no-shows. He gives her his best smile, trying his hardest to avoid wincing from where Panich’s gun has pistol-whipped him earlier. The woman beams at him, the badge pinned to her left shoulder strap announcing her name to be Tasha.
“Good morning. Welcome to the symposium, sir. Are you wanting to register?”
Lewis beams at her. “Good morning, Tasha. No thanks I already did that yesterday. I’d like to borrow a delegate list for a moment. I’ve left mine in my room. Do you have a spare I could look at?”
“Sure,” she says with a smile, leafing through one of the conference packs on the desk and extracting several sheets of paper stapled at one corner. “Take this one. I can easily print off another later.”
Lewis thanks her and stands peering at the list. On a television close-by a journalist is reporting live from a Geneva hotel where the latest round of Iranian nuclear arms talks are being held. The story being reported is that discussions appear to have reached an impasse overnight. Lewis looks up at Tasha who has also been listening to the same broadcast.
“Do we have any Iranians here today?”
“One or two. It’s not great timing is it?” she says with a helpless shrug.
Lewis scans the delegate list and sees that Leyla Zamani’s name and photograph is still included in the pack. Beside every delegate’s name there is a brief paragraph that has been included: hers is short but to the point. It describes her exactly as Mel had said: a freelance journalist specialising in nuclear issues. He studies the photograph. She had been an attractive woman. Is it only less than twenty-four hours since he held this dying woman in his arms? It hardly seems possible.
Lewis scours the rest of the list looking for a white male of similar age to him. On the second to last page he finds one, Dr. Simon Tucker, research scientist and fellow at Trinity College, Cambridge. At a push, he even looks a bit like Lewis. Giving Tasha a smile, he makes his way to the Concierge desk where a helpful Ghanaian provides him with some hotel writing paper and an envelope. He goes to a corner desk and scribbles something meaningless on the paper, placing it in the envelope, sealing it and writing Leyla Zamani’s name on the front. Next, he approaches the front reception desk. A young trainee, her blonde hair tied at the back into a neat bun, comes forward to help.
“Hello. My name’s Simon Tucker. I’m attending the symposium and I’d like to have this letter delivered to Leyla Zamani’s room please.”
The woman smiles at Lewis and begins typing Leyla’s name. “Certainly. How do you spell the lady’s last name?”
Lewis spelled it out for her. “Here we are. Room 432.” She takes the letter and is writing the room number on it when she pauses, reading more information from her computer screen. “Actually, sir, I made a mistake. Leyla Zamani is no longer available in this room.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It says here,” she said, her face reddening slightly, “that apparently she is no longer staying in the hotel. I am sorry.” She hands the letter back to Lewis and gives him a shrug of the shoulders, lips pursed, as if to say ‘nothing further I can do.’ Lewis picks up the letter and walks away.
He heads to the elevator lobby, standing and waiting for the lift along with several other conference delegates. He is not the only person heading for the fourth floor: when the doors eventually open, two other guests get out. They turn to the left and so Lewis immediately heads in the opposite direction.
He needs to find a housekeeping team, knowing that they usually operate in pairs. At this hour of the day, with the hotel full of newly arrived conference guests and thus few change overs, they would be keen to get started. That way they would be able to finish their shift early. He finds two of them outside room 416, taking to each other in French. Senegalese or Ivorian, by the look of them.
“Good morning Ladies,” Lewis says full of self-confidence. “Could one of you help me? I’ve left my key in my room.” One of the two, a tall woman in her forties, as best Lewis can judge, rolls her eyes to heaven and chuckles. She removes a master key card from her blue and white striped pinafore uniform pocket. It is attached to her waistband by a curly elastic cord.
“You’re the third this morning,” she says. “Come on, show me which room.”
37
Edgware Road
Lewis closes the door behind him and stands stock-still. All lights in the room are off. The room feels cold and uninviting. There is a rolling suitcase on the bed, the size and shape that fits into an overhead compartment on an airplane. The top has been unzipped and is lying open, various articles of clothing still packed inside. Other than that, there is nothing immediately obvious to indicate that the room has been occupied.
The bed is a large king-size. There is a writing desk and chair in one corner by a window. The view outside is of a central, square-shaped, internal courtyard. Other furniture in the room is basic and unremarkable: a tiny TV unit with inbuilt minibar; one over-sized easy chair; and a built-in wardrobe.
Lewis checks the bathroom. A small blue wa
sh bag lies empty on the counter with several incidental cosmetic items beside it. Lewis returns to the main door to the room, tries the light switch but nothing happens. The mechanism to turn on the electricity in the room requires a room key to be inserted in a card slot near the door. Lewis, still holding the envelope he had written on in the downstairs lobby, tears off a strip from one end which he folds and then stuffs into the empty slot. The lights come on instantly and the room is less uninviting.
Inside the wardrobe is what he is looking for. It is a standard hotel safe requiring a four-digit key code. It is currently closed and locked. On his way over to the hotel, Lewis has called an old Marine buddy, Ollie. Ollie is a special kind of person, one of those people who everyone gets on with but no one really understands. He remains the go-to guy who knows all sorts of weird shit that ordinary law-abiding human beings simply aren’t normally able to discover. The great thing about Ollie is his network. If he doesn’t know the answer, then pound to a penny he will know the right person to go to get it. This time, however, Ollie doesn’t even need to call anyone.
“If you want to break into a room safe and don’t know the code, try keying in ‘0000’ and press enter. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it does the trick. If it’s a six digit code, then try ‘000000’.”
“Ollie, you are amazing,” Lewis had said.
“Dumb fucks don’t know shit about security, do they?”
The Dossier (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 1) Page 10