Dark Winter (17 page)

The lights changed and the bikes peeled away in different directions as we passed, then the Mondeo pulled a U-turn that brought the traffic to a standstill. The cabbie saw the commotion in his rear-view mirror. ‘Some people’ll do anything to avoid the congestion charge.’ He laughed at his own joke as Suzy nodded thoughtfully and settled back in her seat.

Within ten minutes we were confronted by a checkpoint, part of the ring of steel around the City. Armed police stood beside two cars with flashing lights. The taxi driver leant his head back. ‘Don’t worry, we’re turning off here. But it’s all go, innit? Wonder what’s happening?’

Suzy shook her head. ‘Not a clue, darling. Like this all the time, is it?’

‘Sometimes it is, sometimes it ain’t. Bit of a bleedin’ lottery these days. I blame that Bin Liner nutter myself, know what I mean?’

The driver chuckled as he made a turn into Cowcross Street, and I could see Farringdon tube station up ahead. Clerkenwell was the place to be, these days. Every old storage building had been turned into loft-living for City types, just a short walk from their offices in the Square Mile, and every other shopfront was a bar.

We paid off the cab outside the tube station. Starbucks was around here somewhere.

‘The source will be wearing a blue suit over a white shirt, and carrying a copy of the
Evening Standard
in his right hand,’ the Yes Man had told us. ‘He’ll also have a black overcoat on his left arm.’

Suzy was sponsoring the meet. She’d be sitting inside Starbucks having a coffee; on the table in front of her would be a folded copy of the
Independent
. The source was to approach her and ask if she knew the way to the Golden Lane estate. Suzy would reply that she didn’t, but she had an
A–Z
. Once she had made contact, she would get on the cell and tell me to come in.

Farringdon station was an old Victorian building with a little stall outside selling newspapers, porn mags,
Private Eye
, that sort of stuff. I waited while Suzy got herself an
Independent
. Cowcross went slightly uphill and was quite narrow, built for horses and carts. It was still busy, mostly with bond traders not wanting to go home. Among the fashionable façades there was a scattering of corner shops, Indian takeaways, sandwich joints and hairdressers, like bad teeth in an otherwise perfect set, all waiting for the landlords to put their rents up so high they’d no longer be able to stand their ground.

I spotted the Starbucks sign further up Cowcross on the left. The source was due to approach from the direction of the station and on the same side of the street. He would cross at the junction with Turnmill Street, about fifteen metres further uphill. There was a pub on the opposite corner called the Castle, which looked as if it had been there since Jack the Ripper was doing his thing, and would be still when all the chrome-and-smoked-glass pleasure palaces had fallen down. Our coffee shop was thirty metres beyond it.

Suzy put her arm through mine. ‘Do you see it?’

I nodded. There didn’t seem to be much up Turnmill Street apart from a long, high wall that followed the railway line.

We crossed. The pub was packed with briefcases, raincoats and laughing people. If we needed them, there were seats all the way along the window, with good exposure to the road.

The Starbucks looked brand new, and pretty much the same as the one in Georgetown, with its mix of leather and hardwood seats, sofas and low tables. It was about a quarter full. A set of stairs led down to what I assumed would be more seating and the toilets. Beyond the glass doors at the far end were a few sets of shiny alloy chairs and tables in what appeared to be a courtyard. More than one entrance and exit. Perfect. Either this was one of the Firm’s regular venues or the source knew his stuff.

We headed down an alleyway beyond it that opened into a large, recobbled square. There were a couple of balls-achingly trendy bars, with lots of stainless-steel shit outside, and to our left the Starbucks seating area.

Suzy looked up like she’d decided what she wanted for dinner and I was on the menu. ‘If this turns into a bad thing before you get here, I’ll be coming out this way. After that, who knows?’

I put my arms round her. ‘We’d better make sure the doors are open, then, hadn’t we?’

As we stood there, two couples came out almost immediately. Suzy was happy. ‘That’s it, then. Once I’m out of the area, I’ll call.’

21

We wandered back down to Farringdon station and got ourselves a brew from a soup and sandwich bar. As we leant against the wall outside and took the odd sip we did a casual scan of the general area. Suzy bit gently into the rim of the polystyrene cup, her teeth leaving a pattern much like the scar an Alsatian had once left on my arm. She kept her eyes on the road while turning the cup a little for a fresh site to chew. ‘Can’t see a thing to worry us. You? Seen anyone standing about with peepholes in their
Evening Standard
?’

She was right: no one was concentrating too hard on looking normal. Most people had their heads down, thinking of getting home.

‘Nope, but I hate source meets all the same. In fact, I hate sources, period. No matter what side you’re on, they’re betraying someone, and that gives me a prickly feeling between my shoulder-blades.’

She took another sip, her eyes never straying from the street. ‘We can’t do without them, though, can we? And it’s not as if we have to invite them back for dinner, is it?’ She glanced at her watch, and I checked mine. ‘Twenty to go. You’d better make a move, otherwise you’re not going to get that drink, are you?’

She turned and smiled at me while she put in her hands-free earpiece. I hit the moan-phone’s speed dial, pressed the hash key twice and put it to my ear. She answered before the end of the first ring. ‘We have comms.’

I listened and heard the reassuring bleeping in the background. ‘See you later, then. And don’t go making any improper suggestions to strange men.’ I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and walked away.

I threw the rest of my coffee into a bin, crossed the road and ambled towards the Castle, inserting my earpiece when I got to the door. Suzy overtook me on the opposite pavement, on her way to Starbucks.

Cigarette smoke curled towards the ceiling inside the pub, which was full of happy, raucous people unwinding after a week’s work. The men’s ties were undone and the women’s lipstick mostly on their glasses. I queued at the bar to order my Coke, then wormed my way through the crowd towards the windows overlooking the Turnmill junction. The music was loud, and the sounds of laughter and chat drowned the background noise in my earpiece, but I had a fantastic view down the road to the station, then all the way to Farringdon Road.

I heard the screech and squelch of espresso machines. ‘Hello, have you got me?’ I pressed my earpiece in deeper. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Oh, hi, yes, I’m in Starbucks.’ She spoke gently, as if talking to her boyfriend. ‘I’ll wait here for you if you want.’

‘Yeah, I have the trigger.’

I sipped my Coke and watched the world go by, eyes peeled for a man in a blue suit and white shirt, with a black raincoat over his left arm. A guy came down from the direction of Starbucks, on the opposite side of the road. He was early thirties, skin very dark brown, Indian, maybe Sri Lankan. His side-parted short-back-and-sides had a thick streak of grey at the temple. He was wearing a brown suede bomber jacket over a black pullover and jeans – not the kit I was looking for but he attracted my attention all the same. He was checking out the street, turning to look back the way he’d come before crossing as he checked down Turnmill. Once over the road he headed towards the station, and disappeared inside.

It wasn’t long before I got a possible coming out. He looked to be South East Asian, and had a blue suit and a black raincoat, but he was wearing it. He stepped over to the stand and bought himself a paper.

I lifted the mike on the hands-free to my mouth. ‘Hey, guess what – I have a possible, and he may have brought a mate.’

I watched as he turned back into the station entrance. ‘He’s disappeared.’

‘OK, fine.’ I pictured Suzy sitting in Starbucks with a nice big frothy cappuccino, holding up her own mike and smiling away like an idiot as we exchanged sweet-nothings. She left a few seconds’ pause. ‘Yes, I understand that. That’s good. I’ll talk to you soon, then.’

He reappeared. ‘Here we go, he’s got his coat over his left arm, and the paper folded in his right. Might just be three of us for coffee. No sign of his friend.’

He looked familiar. I let him pass the pub window. ‘It’s the
Standard
.’ I looked at his face and felt my pulse start to race. ‘It’s the fucking taxi driver from our holiday.’ I tried to keep sounding casual. ‘He’s on his way . . . he’s past me . . . towards you now. The taxi driver . . .’

‘Oh, lovely. It’ll be just like old times.’

I eyeballed the street, looking at everyone and everything who might be following our guy, and sure enough Grey Streak reappeared at the station entrance, and he wasn’t alone. ‘I reckon there are two others with him. Brown suede on blue, and navy on blue. Both Indian. Be careful.’

‘He’s here now. See you in a minute. ’Bye.’

They crossed Turnmill and passed my window, eyes peeled, concentrating too hard to talk. They both had very dark, smooth skin, and looked as though they shared a barber: their hair was cut square, and their neck shaves hadn’t grown back yet. I waited a bit longer, then left the pub and crossed the road to get a better view of the coffee shop.

I couldn’t see them, but heard an educated South East Asian voice in my earpiece. ‘Excuse me, do you know the way to the Golden Lane estate?’

Suzy came over loud and clear. ‘No, sorry, but I’ve got an
A–Z
if you want to have a look.’

I cut in. ‘You OK? Can’t see the other two.’

‘Yep.’

‘OK, that’s me now moving in.’

I walked up the road, listening to her establish his cover. My heart was pounding, but she sounded cool as a cucumber. ‘The reason you’re here is that you’ve just asked me the way to Golden Lane estate. I’m now going to get the
A–Z
out of my bag and put it on the table, and we’ve got talking because my boyfriend and I went on holiday to Malaysia over Easter. Do you understand?’

I could hear him agreeing.

Since Suzy was sponsoring the RV [rendezvous], she was responsible for the cover story. ‘OK, my boyfriend is going to join us any minute. We all know Penang and we’re going to meet up and have a little chat over a nice cup of coffee.’

Again, I heard him agree.

‘If anything happens, my boyfriend and I are going to go out the back door. You go out the front, the way you came in. Do you understand?’

As I entered the coffee shop I spotted the two of them sitting in the far left-hand corner. Suzy had the commanding position, with her back against the wall so she could see both exits. I waved to her, and he looked round. Her
A–Z
was sitting on the table.

I went over and kissed her. ‘Hang on, let me turn this thing off.’

She turned hers off too. ‘This gentleman is trying to find his way to Golden Lane estate. Can you believe it? He was in Penang the same time we were.’

Everyone else around us was doing their own little thing, and no one took the slightest notice. I gave him a nod and a smile. ‘We had the best holiday ever. I’d love to go back.’

We all sat down. Cover and escape routes were established: we could carry on with the meet.

There was silence as he sat and waited for us to start, which was strange because it should have been the other way round. I smiled at him – maybe he was nervous. ‘What have you got for us, then?’

He was in his late forties, slim, about the same height as Suzy. He wore a simple stainless-steel watch but no rings or other jewellery. He had lost the moustache and had a few dark brown freckles over his cheeks, and a lot of lines everywhere else. They complemented his bloodshot eyes, which made him look as if he’d been up all week, or was just fucked in general. What was most noticeable, though, were his hands – maybe even bigger than Sundance’s, with nails that were perfectly manicured yet knuckles so rough they were almost white. He must have been a Jap slapper, into martial arts and all that kit, doing press-ups on them and punching through lumps of wood. I was certainly glad not to be a lump of wood. ‘What do you people expect from me?’

Suzy and I exchanged a glance.

‘You people have to realize that finding this ASU will be extremely difficult.’

Suzy leant closer. ‘So, what’s the point of meeting if you haven’t got anything?’

‘But I told your people I have nothing yet, it was they who wanted this meeting. We are fighting people who want to be martyrs. These are serious people and their successes depend on concealment. They do not make mistakes. All you people keep saying is where are—’

I raised my hands. ‘Hey, listen, whatever you’re pissed off about doesn’t mean a thing at our level, all right?’

He stared at me for a few seconds, as if weighing me up. ‘It may take a little while. These are not your boy terrorists in Northern Ireland . . .’