Cherry was collecting the kids to take them home, letting their nanny have the night off; they said noisy goodbyes to Victoria, embracing her while Cherry looked on, obviously keen to get the hell out of the house. I knew how she felt. Finally she led them away up the corridor, leaving just me and Victoria and the tall tanned minder. Now he reached into a side pocket and produced a DVD in a clear plastic sleeve, labeled with a marker scribble.
“I got the next few episodes,” he said to Victoria, as if I wasn’t there.
“Great,” she said, blushing sweetly. She didn’t bother introducing us, which was fine, because I really didn’t care who this guy was. She just said, “See you later, maybe, Finn,” and went off with him down the corridor to a bedroom opposite the one Gary had shown me, closing the door behind them. It didn’t look like they were going to spend their evening watching a pirated DVD: I hoped the walls had decent soundproofing.
Then I thought of Zoe, and felt a twinge of shame for leching after some girl I’d just met when I’d only left her that morning. But she was in a safe house, I knew, surrounded by cops, while I was banged up here—pretty much the exact opposite of a safe house—for what might be my last few hours on earth. And anyway, she’d never have found out….
I left the scattered dishes in the kitchen—Victoria was being paid to tidy up, I wasn’t—headed back down the hall to my cell, and unwrapped my toothbrush, then realized I’d forgotten to ask for toothpaste. I scrubbed my teeth with water, tossed the toothbrush in the sink, pulled my clothes off, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
—
I wasn’t aware of having slept, but when the knock came I suddenly realized my eyes were closed and I wasn’t fully dressed.
“Yeah?” I said.
Gary opened the door. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” he said. He waited till I nodded to demonstrate I’d understood, then shut the door again.
I swung myself out of bed and sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, trying to clear the sleep from my brain and figure out what I should do. Get to a phone somehow, obviously, and warn Amobi what was going down. But that had been impossible last night, and this morning would be no easier. What about doing a runner? If the Guvnor needed me around to make this meeting happen, maybe I could scuttle it, or at least delay it, by not being around. I glanced up again at the window. It was no wider than it had been the night before, and though I was pretty sure I could run faster than any of the Guvnor’s goons, I had nowhere to run. I could feel the adrenaline building up in my system; maybe it would be better just to duck through the ropes into the ring and get this confrontation over with.
Gary returned as I was polishing off a bowl of cornflakes. I left the bowl on the table and he walked me back through the house to the garage. I didn’t head for the boot of the car parked there—a sleek silver Jag with darkened windows—because I didn’t fancy being brought to this fight like a dog in a cage. But that didn’t seem to have been Gary’s intention. He merely grunted at me to hold still, pulled a black cloth bag from his pocket and dropped it over my head. I didn’t resist but I didn’t offer to help, either. The hood was of a soft, thick material that allowed me to breathe but made it impossible to see my surroundings or even tell day from night. I heard a rear passenger door open and felt Gary’s hand on the top of my head, pushing me downwards, and I went with it. I shuffled along and settled into the seat; he bent over me, pulled the seat belt round my body and clicked it home.
I sat there for five or ten minutes, wondering who the last person was to have worn this hood. It smelled of soap, mostly, but there was also a subtle hint of vomit that the soap had failed to wash away. That wasn’t a pleasant or useful train of thought, so I focused instead on the meeting about to happen. If it was out in the open, in public, that meant I too would be out in the open, in public. I might get a chance to grab a passerby’s phone, call Amobi and raise the alarm…except of course it would be too late to summon the NCA by then. I still had the Turk’s number in my head—maybe I could call him at the last minute and warn him he was walking into a trap. But why the hell would I do anything to help the Turk?
I heard the connecting door to the house open again, and soon the garage was filled with a bustle of bodies, but there was little talk—no last-minute recaps or changes of plan for me to overhear. Everybody knew the strategy and understood their role. The driver’s door and the other passenger doors opened, and someone got in beside me. I knew instantly it was the Guvnor himself, from that expensive-smelling aftershave he liked to splash on. I heard the whine of the garage door opening and felt the gentle shudder of the Jag as the engine fired up; then we rolled out into the glorious morning I’d glimpsed earlier through the windows of the kitchen. I presumed it was still glorious—I couldn’t see a thing through the hood.
“Sleep all right?” the Guvnor grunted.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
He snorted at my familiarity. “Like a baby,” he said. “When we hit the M25 you can lose the hood. Won’t be long.”
We rode together for a while in silence, the car weaving, stopping and starting as it followed the lanes out towards the main road. Then we picked up speed and soon I could hear the hiss and roar of other vehicles we passed. I was about to ask for the radio to be turned on, but it didn’t seem appropriate somehow; some cretinous DJ wibbling on about this hot and sticky weather was the last thing I wanted to hear. Especially as it might well be one of the last things I heard.
McGovern said nothing, but I wasn’t picking up any tension from him; on the contrary, the mood was relaxed and mellow, like were heading to a picnic in Hyde Park. I wondered why I had been given the honor of riding with the Guvnor himself, and it occurred to me I might as well make the most of it.
“Why are you doing this, Mr. McGovern?”
“You what?” His voice suggested he’d been lost in thought.
“It just seems so risky. I mean you’ve been in”—I was about to say “in hiding,” but I reconsidered at the last minute—“incognito since you came back. And now you’re meeting up with the Turk in public, in broad daylight, as if you don’t care who sees you. Especially when…” Especially when you’re planning an ambush. It seemed unnecessary to finish the sentence.
“It’s about face,” said the Guvnor. “This guy’s dissed me, and he’s made sure everybody’s seen him do it. This way everyone gets to see what happens to him. It’s like what the government says when they bung a quid on the price of a packet of cigs—it’s all about sending a message.”
Who to? I thought. Not the Turk—his death would be the message. The Guvnor’s London rivals, maybe? But this seemed way over the top for a local audience—surely they’d be more impressed by a discreet assassination than a messy public execution? Then it came to me: his guest Dimitri. The Russians were the ones the Guvnor wanted to impress—he must be going into business with them. I’d heard about the Russian mafia—how they owned Moscow, bought all the cops they needed, and weren’t afraid to settle their arguments face to face, in public. The Guvnor wanted them to see he had clout enough and balls enough to do the same in London, and screw the consequences.
“What about the CCTV?” I asked. “All those tourists with cameras?”
“Forget ’em,” said McGovern. “If they don’t know what to look for in advance, they don’t see shit. You can take that bag off now.”
I hooked a thumb under the hem and pulled the hood up over my head. Even through the tinted windows the midmorning sun was searingly bright, and I blinked, my eyes watering as they adjusted to the dazzle. We were just coming off the M25, I realized, heading for central London. Gary was riding in the front passenger seat; the driver I hadn’t seen before. Beside me McGovern was wearing big Ray-Bans with lenses so dark his eyes were invisible, and in his lap sat a cream-colored Panama hat with a wide brim, the sort old blokes wear to keep the sun off their balding scalps while they watch the cricket. Of course: even if surveillance cameras zoomed in o
n him, the footage would be useless as evidence—not enough of his face would be visible. I, on the other hand, had no way to conceal my face. By the time this was over I would be more deeply implicated than any of the Guvnor’s crew, unless I could get a message to Amobi in the next thirty minutes, and that didn’t seem likely.
I glanced over my shoulder. On the ramp behind and ahead of us were two more expensive, powerful cars, four-by-fours with tinted windows. The Guvnor was traveling in convoy, I realized, and he had probably sent some more people ahead to stake out the rendezvous well in advance. This was going down like a military operation, and I was the only one who hadn’t been given any orders.
“What exactly to you want me to do?” I said.
“Stick with me,” said McGovern. “And when you see him, and you’re sure it’s him, you give me the nod. We’ll do the rest.”
I took a deep breath and looked out the window, trying to keep my pulse steady and my mind calm, the way I used to do before a big fight. We were making good time: the schools had broken up by now and a lot of Londoners had abandoned the city to escape the muggy polluted air, so the traffic was light, and before long we were heading over Westminster Bridge, past the golden gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, and on up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. When the Jag pulled up on the southeast corner we all clambered out, and it drove on up St. Martin’s Lane.
—
I hadn’t walked through Trafalgar Square since I was a kid. Like most Londoners I took it for granted, and left gawking to the tourists, but today it felt as if I’d never seen it before. Its broad paved plain was ringed with granite bollards and overlooked by stately buildings of gray and golden stone; to the east and west, lines of plane trees sagged, unbothered by any breeze. For about a hundred years fat, flea-bitten pigeons had crowded this square, pecking at litter and crapping on everything and everyone, but now the stalls that had sold bags of bread crumbs had been banished, and with them had gone most of the pigeons. Instead of feeding the flying rats, the throngs of sightseers contented themselves with staring at the sculptures, taking grinning selfies on their smartphones, or merely lolling on the steps that led up to the National Gallery on the northern side of the square.
The sun was beating down on all our heads like a hammer, and I could feel the heat of the granite paving slabs through the soles of my shoes. The tourists didn’t seem to mind the heat; kids were clambering up onto the bronze lions at the foot of Nelson’s Column, and a good-looking couple in their twenties were splashing about fully dressed in one of the fountains to our right, hooting at each other in Italian. Two shirtsleeved cops were heading in their direction, determined to get them out of the water before everyone else decided to follow their example. Unlike the police I’d seen at King’s Cross, these two were unarmed, and that was probably a good thing—when the Guvnor made his move they wouldn’t be tempted to wade in spraying bullets everywhere like action heroes.
McGovern looked every inch a tourist himself, strolling along in his shades and his Panama hat and his lightweight summer blazer. At his elbow Gary was already starting to perspire. Mirror shades concealed his eyes, and he wore a leather bomber jacket, far too hot for this weather. He wasn’t going to take it off, I guessed, because it concealed a gun. I found myself irritated by how tense and conspicuous he appeared, and realized with some surprise that for my part I was totally calm. Maybe my mind had gone numb with fear, but somehow I found it no effort to relax and glance around, as if I was just another stupid tourist with nowhere specific to be and nothing specific to do. In fact, I was scanning the crowd for the rest of the Guvnor’s crew, but I couldn’t see any of them. Was that good or bad?
At the center of the square, in the narrow shade of Nelson’s Column, a temporary pavement café was doing a brisk trade. It was operating out of a classy dark-red pavilion, surrounded by heavy mosaic-topped tables and light aluminum chairs, the whole thing enclosed by the black railings that ringed the foot of the column. It was a very European scene somehow; all it lacked was umbrellas, which seemed a daft oversight in this heat, but maybe the café management wanted the customers to keep moving rather than hang around sipping coffee all day.
Ignoring the waiting queue, the Guvnor sauntered over to a table in the corner and plonked himself down, taking a seat that faced north across the fountains towards the National Gallery. A waitress glanced our way and frowned, pondering whether to tell us off for not waiting to be seated, but then seemed to change her mind. Maybe she was intimidated by the Guvnor’s presence, or maybe all of this had been arranged—the table, the seating and the view of the square. I sat myself down at McGovern’s left hand, and Gary took the chair to his right. Gary watched the bustling crowds, inscrutable behind his aviator shades; the Guvnor picked up the menu and studied it, as chilled as a British pensioner sitting in an English bar in Spain.
“Yes, please?” The waitress was at my elbow, pad and pencil in hand. She looked harassed and nervous, but then it couldn’t have been easy, scuttling about in this bustle and heat.
“Two Cokes, an espresso, and a bloody umbrella,” said the Guvnor.
The waitress scribbled quickly on her pad. “Sorry, we don’t have any umbrellas—they all got vandalized last night,” she said.
“You’re kidding,” said McGovern. He sounded disgusted at the casual drunken hooliganism of today’s youth. Gary ignored the whole exchange, I noted, scanning the crowds around us like a CCTV camera himself.
“Slashed them to ribbons,” explained the waitress. “Really stupid—people have been complaining all morning. Just the drinks, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said McGovern.
Thanks for asking what I wanted, I thought, although there was so much adrenaline pumping through my system I wasn’t sure I would even be able to swallow the Coke. I found myself scanning the crowds too, wondering when I’d see the Turk’s slight figure strolling towards us with his customary swagger. No—he wouldn’t swagger, I realized. The swagger had been Bruno’s, and Bruno had never existed. He was a fiction Pirbal had created, then discarded once it had served its purpose. I wondered if I would even recognize the Turk when I saw him again, or whether he’d be right on top of us before I’d even realized it.
But surely that was Pirbal on the western edge of the square: that dark, slight, self-possessed man in his midtwenties, graceful and dangerous as a leopard. I’d been right—there was no swagger; in fact, I might not have recognized him in his baseball cap and shades had it not been for the stumpy gait of the man trying to keep up—my old friend Dean. Dean’s Elvis quiff had gone and his hair was cut short, but I knew that ratlike face, even though I’d changed its shape during our last encounter, when I’d managed to break it and knock out two of his molars.
“That’s him,” I said. “In the red baseball cap and sunglasses.” I was surprised how steady and clear my voice sounded, when deep down I felt anything but.
The Guvnor turned to his left and tilted his head back to get a good look through his shades: Gary got up and stood back, vacating his seat for the Turk, his hands hanging loosely at his sides; but I noted the tiny tremble of tension in them, and guessed he was mentally rehearsing reaching under his jacket for his gun. At the same time an uneasy thought stabbed into my mind like a thorn in my sole.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Kemal’s not with him.”
McGovern glanced at me, expressionless.
“The Turk’s right-hand guy, his fixer, he’s not here,” I said. There was no way the Turk would come to a meet like this without Kemal…so where was he? But it was too late now to wonder.
Trafalgar Square was smaller than I’d remembered, but it seemed to be taking Pirbal and Dean a long time to cross it. I realized time had slowed down, like it used to in the boxing ring, when adrenaline would heighten all my senses. I could make out every face in the crowd around me, and even see the hi-viz jackets of the cops by the fountains behind us, somehow; I could smell lemon in the glass of the woman sittin
g at the next table and hear the jingle of her bangles as she rooted in her handbag.
And off to my right, skipping down the steps from the National Gallery, I could see pale, broad-nosed Martin, in short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, carrying a folded newspaper and strolling nonchalantly south, his path destined to pass behind the Turk and Dean just before they reached our table.
I didn’t turn my head towards him, but kept my eyes focused on the Turk, and noted the twitch of his lips as he saw me, seated there beside the Guvnor. He was smiling, apparently unaware of Martin, now twenty paces away, slipping his free hand into the folded newspaper. I guessed the paper concealed a pistol, and saw now what was about to happen: the Turk and Dean would each take a bullet to the back of the head before they’d even reached our table, and the Guvnor would walk away, unscathed and uninvolved.
Now Martin was eight paces away.
Seven.
Then the right side of his head exploded.
Blood and brains and bone sprayed over half a dozen tourists beside him, and under the roar of the traffic and the chatter of the crowds I heard a distant crack echoing faintly around the square and dying. Slowly Martin’s legs shuddered and folded, and his lifeless body fell forwards, and the stunned, gorespattered tourists looked at him and each other, and the screaming started.
The wave of panic was small at first, but it rippled outwards across the crowds like flames on petrol. Around me I saw people turn, and frown, and stare, and I felt their curiosity turn first to recognition, then to terror—but all that was on the fringe of my awareness, because I was scanning the skyline to the east, where the bullet had come from. I saw what I was looking for—a rounded shape on the hard edge of a rooftop, a hint of movement, and a tiny tinted flash as sun glinted off the glass of a scope. Sniper.
I don’t even know where the thought came from, unless it was playing too many console war games, but I dived for the floor. The quickest way down brought me piling straight into McGovern, still sitting there motionless until my body slammed into his, and we both went down in a rattling tangle of chair legs. A second crack snapped hard in my ear, and I swear I felt the cool draft of the bullet’s passing, and then the hot granite paving under my hands.
Shredder Page 6