Personal

Which is what we did. We wound down our windows, and we got our shoulders out, and we aimed behind us, and we fired four spaced shots, crashingly loud, through four separate windshields, and before the last echo came back off the bricks we started rolling, slow and sedate, completely ordinary, just a local minicab, properly booked by phone.

We found the main road in from the west, and we headed for the centre of town. Less than a mile into it, we were passed on the opposite side by a fast little convoy, led by a big black Bentley coupé, which was followed by four black Jaguar sedans, and bringing up the rear was a small black panel van.

THIRTY-FIVE

WE PARKED IN a no-parking zone in a side street near the Paddington railroad station. The plan was to lock the car and walk away. It was a very busy area. There were plenty of onward transportation options. There were buses, and black cabs, and two subway stations nearby, and the regular trains. On foot we could head south to Hyde Park, or north through Maida Vale to St John’s Wood. We would be caught on camera, for sure, no doubt many times, but it would take hundreds of hours of patient viewing to figure out who we were, and where we had come from, and where we had gone, and why.

I checked my appearance, to make sure I was fit for public consumption. My jacket was made of thin, stretchy material, no doubt good for all kinds of freedom of movement on the golf course, but it clung to the shape of whatever I had in my pockets. Which might have been OK with golf balls, but which wasn’t OK with the Glock. I wanted it on the right, and it barely fit. Mostly because there was something else in there already.

It was the main man’s cell phone. It was a drugstore burner, pretty much the same as the pair we had found in the Romford Boys’ glove compartment. I passed it to Casey Nice and said, ‘See if you can find the call log.’

She did something with arrows and a menu, and she scrolled up and down, and she said, ‘He made a thirty-second call to what looks like a local cellular number, and three minutes later the same number called him back, for one minute. That’s the last of the activity.’

I nodded. ‘Probably the APB on us went out in the middle of the night, and all the bad guys in London got briefed first thing this morning, so the Serbian guy called Romford and said, hey, those people you’re looking for? I’ve got them locked in a room. But maybe he was only talking to a lieutenant at that point, who said we’ll call you back, and who then went to tell Charlie White the news, and Charlie White called back himself, and made the arrangements.’

‘Would a minute be long enough for arrangements?’

‘All they needed was an address. I’m sure Bentleys have satellite navigation. Even our pick-up truck in Arkansas had satellite navigation.’

‘OK.’

‘Although I didn’t hear the phone ring.’

She used the menu again, and the arrows.

She said, ‘It’s set on silent.’

I nodded again. ‘So that’s what happened.’

‘I should give this Romford number to General O’Day. Don’t you think? MI5 could trace it.’

‘To a cash payment in Boots the Chemist. Doesn’t help.’

‘What’s Boots the Chemist?’

‘Their pharmacy chain. Like CVS. John Boot set it up, in the middle of the nineteenth century. He probably looked just like the guy who built the wall around Wallace Court. It started out as a herbal medicine store, in a place called Nottingham, which is way north of here.’

‘MI5 could track the phone to a physical location.’

‘Only if it’s switched on. Which it won’t be much longer. They’ll trash it as soon as they hear the news from Wormwood Scrubs. They’ll know their number was captured.’

‘They probably already heard.’

I took the phone back from her.

I said, ‘Let’s find out.’

I peered at the buttons and found one marked redial. I pressed it with my thumbnail, and I watched the number spool across the screen, and I pressed the green call button, and I raised the phone to my ear.

I got a ring tone. The classic British two-beat purr. More urgent than the languorous American sound. I waited. Three rings, four, five, six.

Then the call was answered. By someone who had spent the six-ring delay checking his own screen and identifying the incoming number, clearly, because he had his first question all set and ready to go. A deep London voice asked, ‘What the hell is going on there? About a hundred filth have come past us already.’

Filth meant cops. London slang. I said, ‘Where?’

The voice said, ‘We’re parked three streets away.’

I said, ‘Little Joey?’

He said, ‘Who is this?’

‘I’m the guy who offed your guy. Last night, in the van. I saw your little tantrum.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Right behind you.’

I heard him move.

‘Kidding,’ I said.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’d call myself a challenger, Joey, but I’d be selling myself short.’

‘No, you’re a dead man.’

‘Not so far. You’re confusing me with your boys. Or the Serbians. They took some casualties. That’s for damn sure.’

‘They told me they had you locked up.’

‘Nothing lasts for ever.’

‘What do you want?’