Shadow Box (29 page)

The cab took the same route as I had the evening before, following the limo to 51st. I asked the driver to stop some way further down the street.

“Shit, man, that wasn’t very exciting,” he said.

“Yeah, spying’s not quite as dramatic as you’d think.” I gave him a twenty for a fifteen fare. “It’s mostly hanging around, getting shafted and waiting to get paid.”

“Just like driving a New York cab,” he said. “Hope you crack the case, Columbo.” He wrote a receipt and put out his hand for me to shake in a homeboy grasp. “Name’s André.”

“You haven’t seen me, right, André?” I tapped my nose, gave him another ten.

“Thanks. I ain’t seen no one, man.” He laughed again and drove away.

Sharp had gone into Le Bernardin.

It was obviously a favourite; discreet and expensive. I would leave it twenty minutes for him to settle in. I walked back and had a beer in the Belgian bar, then, stomach churning and nervously belching hops, I headed back across the road to the restaurant.

The same French girl was on the door. She smiled.

“Welcome back, Monsieur. I hope you meet your date tonight.”

“I got the day wrong,” I said. I rolled my eyes in mock-stupidity. “I’m joining some friends over there.” I gestured vaguely into the room. She ushered me through and I crossed the floor amid the clink of cutlery and restrained chatter.

As I approached the table, Cheryl Kelly looked up first, glanced at me, then did a cartoon double-take that would have made Walt Disney proud.

She blanched as if she had seen a ghost.

She had.

I decided to make her the focus of my approach.

“Cheryl?” I said. “Hi. How amazing!”

She recovered herself quickly and went into a fixed grin, but nothing could disguise the confusion in her eyes. I leant down and kissed her on both cheeks, giving it the international playboy treatment. She was flustered. Bashmakov looked at me curiously.

“Have you met Alexei?” Cheryl said, in an attempt to sound social and unruffled.

“We met once before,” I said. “In Croatia, on your yacht.”

He looked blank. There had been plenty of liggers on his yacht.

“With Tommy,” I said. He gave a flicker of recognition.

“Your son?” he asked Cheryl.

“No, an old friend,” she said. I turned to Simon Sharp. He also looked as if he had seen a ghost. “And Peter Pasternak,” Cheryl said, introducing Sharpie.

“Hi,” I said. “Eddie Savage.” I shook his limp hand. He looked furious but said nothing.

“Have a glass of champagne,” Bashmakov offered, not unfriendly. He gestured to the empty chair next to Cheryl.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the seat. “I won’t stay long, though, I’m meeting someone.”

“So what are you doing in New York?” Cheryl asked, still keeping composure and a fixed smile.

“A bit of picture research at MoMA,” I said. “I’m flying back tomorrow. How’s Sophie?”

While Cheryl looked nervously at Bashmakov and searched for an answer, a waiter stepped between us to fill our glasses. I slipped my hand into the handbag that dangled from the back of her chair and palmed her mobile phone, dropping it into my pocket as my hand returned to the table and champagne glass.

“She’s fine,” Cheryl said.

“She here?” I asked casually.

“No,” Cheryl replied quickly. “She’s in Spain.” She tucked a strand of stray highlighted blonde hair behind her ear. “Peter here designed the interior of her apartment,” she added, deepening the lie.

Sharpie, looking defeated, nodded.

I smiled at him and nodded back.

I looked up as Paul Dolan, shaven and sharp-suited, walked across the restaurant towards the table. He looked hard; impassive and unsmiling. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me sitting there.

“Our other guest has arrived,” Cheryl said, relieved.

“I must get going,” I said. “Lovely to bump into you. Give my love to Sophie when you see her.” I nodded to Bashmakov, thanked him for the drink. “Good to meet you, Peter,” I said to Sharp. I stood up and offered my seat to Dolan. “Kept it warm for you,” I said, and he winked at me.

I turned on my heel and walked straight out of Le Bernardin. It was only once I was outside that I felt my legs shaking and the sweat cold on my back. I had put on a good show, but now I was a jibbering bag of frayed nerves.

I scrolled through the numbers on Cheryl’s phone, texting them to mine, then picked up my own phone and speed dialled.

“Anna? You still in the office?”

“No,” she said wearily. “I’m in bed. Sharpie arrive OK? Is he with you?”

“No,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling. He came here a day earlier than he told you. When you thought he was in Beaconsfield he was already here.”

“What?”

I took a deep breath.

“Having dinner with Alexei Bashmakov … and Cheryl Kelly.”

She was silent for a minute.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I saw them last night – I’ll text you a picture. I’ve just come back from having a glass of champagne with them.”

“Now I’m really confused.”

“He said he was meeting a CIA contact. I followed him, and he was with Bashmakov and Cheryl. I crashed the party.”

“Oh, fuck,” I heard Anna curse under her breath.

“Have I done the wrong thing?”

“Yes … no. I’m not sure.”

“What?”

“It’s just that … I really don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Come on, Anna, something’s going on here.”

“OK. It’s just I think I’ve found out that Sharpie planted some evidence that stitched Tony up.”

“Does the name Peter Pasternak mean anything to you?” I asked her.

“No,” she said.

I finished the call. I decided I wasn’t going to do as I was told and leave tonight.

“Be very careful,” Anna had said when she rang off.

A text came in minutes later.

Be there when I get back 11.45. Meet my room. Urgent. SS

I went down to the bar and sat in a dark corner with a drink, awaiting Sharpie’s return. He came in at 11.45 on the dot, rushed straight past, not seeing me, and got into the lift.

I gave him a minute, then took the elevator to the fourth. I knocked lightly on the door, ready to face the music.

The door opened and I was greeted by a punch on the nose. I reeled and he pulled me into the room, kicking me in the back towards an armchair. I didn’t defend myself.

“You stupid fucking idiot,” he hissed. “You complete and utter twat.” He examined his hand and shook his knuckles out. He’d hurt himself on my nose. I could feel it, too. “What do you think you were doing? You were under strict instructions. You were to leave tonight. You have disobeyed every single order I have given you. What’s your game? I will have you drummed right out – you’ll never work again.”

“Like you did to Tony?” I snuffled, holding my nose. This angered him and he aimed another kick, catching me hard on the shin.

“What do you mean, you…” More violent expletives followed. “Tony’s over. He fucked up. I have been working on this for two years,” he hissed. “I have tiptoed around, grooming Cheryl and Sophie in Spain, softly, softly, creating a cover as an interior designer, half-Russian. I’ve even managed to get the contract to refurbish Bashmakov’s yacht, getting right into the belly of the beast. I can fly anywhere in the world and be put up by Bashmakov in hotels, dachas, boats. I have inside access to the way he works and the way he has levered Cheryl away from Kelly. She likes the high life, she wasn’t ever going to be a villain’s ex in bloody Kent. She follows the money.”

“What about the arms deal?” I sniffed.

“Of
course
there’s an arms deal, a big one, and plenty more, and where I’m positioned I can keep tabs on all of it. I am on the verge of bringing down one of the world’s biggest crime syndicates and then Eddie effing Size Tens comes in like he thinks he’s James Bond, and puts us on the spot.”

“What about the other guy?”

“Who? Bashmakov?”

“No, the IRA man.”

“Lynch?”

“He might have been called that once,” I said. “But that was Paul Dolan.”

The anger drained from Sharpie. And the colour from his face.

“Paul Dolan? How d’you know?”

“He was on the Kelly firm, remember?”

“So Cheryl would know him?”

“He was an outsider, but possibly, yes.”

“Fuck,” Sharpie said. He thought for a moment. “Does he know who I am?”

“Not sure,” I said. “Don’t think so.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Maybe,” I lied. “If he did, he didn’t show it.”

Sharp was mollified. He sat down. He chewed a nail, eyes darting around the room.

“Sorry I hit you,” he said. “That’s a useful bit of information, really useful, but I just have to keep a watertight grip on all of this. I can’t afford a slip-up. I still want you to go, but you’ve missed your flight now. We’ll book another and get you gone in the morning. I’m coming too, we’ve sat still for too long.”

I thought that was rich coming from Sharpie – he always wanted to keep me in one place where he could keep an eye on me. Now he looked edgy, thinking things over.

“What about Sophie?” I asked. He turned on me.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Sophie doesn’t matter. Sophie was only ever Tommy-bait. She is no longer important to us.”

“She’s important to me,” I said.

“And that’s where you’ve always fucked up, you idiot. You get involved, you let your emotions rule you. Why do you think so many poofs have made the best spies? I’ll tell you – because we
don’t
get involved. We keep our eye on the bigger game, keep relationships light and don’t get bogged down in personal details. You, boy, are led by your dick.”

“Bit harsh,” I said. “Of course I get involved with people. I have emotions, I
do
get involved; these are lives we are dealing with.”

“Harsh, maybe, but true. You’re a slave to your feelings. You’re too young. Immature. You’re over. I think you should turn in. I’ll book the 10 a.m. Check out of here early, at six.”

“OK,” I said, slapped down. “Sorry if I put my foot in it tonight. I won’t be in your hair much longer.”

He looked at me, about to say something, stopped himself, but then couldn’t resist. He was scared.

“You
sure
that was Dolan?”

“Sure as I can be,” I said.

I left Sharpie thinking in his room and went up to the sixth. I had no intention of sleeping in my bed that night.

I was right to be suspicious.

I went to my room and padded the bed with pillows and blankets as if I was asleep in there. Then I packed a light bag with the essentials and found myself a large broom cupboard on the corridor, where, propped up by a cushion from a corridor sofa, I sat and waited. I kept a chink of the door open. It was past midnight and the lift was no longer busy. Nearer 1 a.m. I must have dozed a little, then I woke up as I heard the rumble of the lift coming up to the sixth floor. I shook myself awake and watched as the door chimed open and clanked shut.

A man stepped out, suited, someone who would look perfectly in place walking across reception. He checked numbers, then knocked lightly on my door. Waited. I held my breath. Through the gap by the hinges I could see a sliver of him and my room door as he pulled a balaclava from his pocket. He put it on, then gently worked the passkey on my locked door. I saw the silenced pistol at his side as he entered my darkened room. I stayed still and waited, keeping my breathing light and even as I heard the dull report of four silenced shots going in, I imagined, to my dummy body.

I watched him leave and close the door silently.

I was “dead” again.

Twice I had been approached by an assassin in a hotel room in which Simon Sharp had told me to stay put.

I decided to wait it out till six o’clock to test my theory. To see how surprised Sharpie would be that I was still alive at breakfast.

I was in reception by 5 a.m., dozing on a sofa as the new day’s staff arrived. At 5.40 a.m. I was able to get some coffee, the weak American stuff that only gets you going after five cups. I was wary, having been “assassinated” during the night, but people were still thin on the ground and I was safer in a public place.