Low in spirit, smudged by fatigue, I rose at six in the morning. An hour later and, thanks to my new electric hair clippers, I had a brand new image. Along with the bruises and swelling around my left eye and torn ear, my freshly shaved head added several years to my appearance. Tag on a pair of outdated spectacles and scruffy jacket and I could pass for a recently released guest of Her Majesty.
Before leaving the hotel room, I wiped away fingerprints, paying particular attention to door handles, lavatory seats, anything that bore my personal insignia, then headed back to the streets and found a newsagents, part of a large chain, and rifled through the day’s newspapers. The identikit picture of me was particularly poor. Had McCallen protected me? I quickly dismissed the idea as wishful thinking.
Her meeting was scheduled for nine forty-five in a precise corner of Kensington Palace Gardens. (Reuben had all but given me the co-ordinates.) Arriving half an hour early, I walked up the road and entered the park through a wide set of gates that always reminded me of the elegant entrance to Pittville park in the Cotswold capital of Cheltenham, my home town.
Out of nowhere two black-clad police officers, carrying Heckler and Koch MP5’s, walked along the street towards me. Heart thudding in my chest, I curbed my natural instinct, which was to turn and leg it. Still they came, their gaze seemingly unfocused, the weapons held close to their barrel chests. At any moment I knew these guys could spring into action and empty a couple of magazines into me. The closer they walked, the more I sweated. My hearing went, my tongue stuck like bubblegum to the roof of my mouth. All I could see were the men and the guns, nothing else. Forcing my legs to move, I nodded good morning. They both nodded back, strolled past, oblivious of my real identity. I turned into the park and let out a painfully contained breath.
In spite of the Arctic weather, joggers ran, halting to perform the occasional squat thrust. Tourists milled about, snapping photographs. Footpaths were slippery and coated in frost. I meandered left, eyes raking my surroundings, and eventually walked past a bench that offered privacy without secrecy. If McCallen’s asset was as high-grade as Reuben led me to believe she would want him secure and in a place where nobody could slot him and get away with it.
Falling in with a bunch of Australians admiring the late Princess Diana’s old home, I waited when, eventually, a slightly built man in his mid-twenties rocked up. Hands thrust deep into a padded jacket, woollen Beanie hat close over his ears; he wore a desert scarf in a black and white chequered design, rebel republic style. A soft dark beard offset his pinch-faced features. Watchful and wary, he had standout eyes that made him look as if he wore eyeliner. He could easily pass for an Afghan, I thought.
He sat down with a bump, hunkered down into the seat in an effort to reduce his visibility, and clapped his hands together against the cold. His boots stamped the frosted ground. Swarthy complexion, tinged with blue, he looked frozen. With my freshly shaven head, I totally got where he was coming from. Slipping out the mobile phone for the Wilding job, I hastily took his picture and jammed the phone back into my pocket.
McCallen arrived a few minutes later. The latecomer’s way of asserting authority, of stating who’s in charge and calls the shots, McCallen was very much displaying her credentials. Giving her time to settle, to re-establish a rapport with her contact, I turned my back and wandered over towards a water fountain. Bending down, I helped myself to a drink. The bitter cold set my teeth on edge. At this level McCallen was directly in my eye line. I fixed my gaze on her full-lipped mouth.
Looking straight ahead, she engaged the youth with the standard openers of conversations recited all over the world. She called him Saj. Saj replied that he was well and that his family were just fine. Next she asked after a guy called Mustafa.
‘Zealous as ever.’ A faint smile played on the young man’s thin features.
‘And the group’s more recent activities?’
‘Lying low after the attack plan attracted too much heat and was aborted.’
‘And they had no idea you were responsible for the tip-off?’
‘None.’ Saj seemed like a polite and quiet individual. With McCallen at his side, he had lost some of the nervousness he displayed earlier.
Then she moved on to the heavy stuff.
‘You’ve heard of Dr Mary Wilding?’
Perplexed, he said, ‘The dead scientist.’
‘We believe she was the victim of blackmail.’
At this we both frowned. Me, because it was something Wes should have told me; Saj, because he was unable to fathom any possible connection to himself. He said as much to McCallen. ‘What sort of blackmail?’
‘She had access to pathogens with a variety of uses.’ My interest spiked. I wondered what form of blackmail would persuade Wilding to risk her job, her reputation, her life and indeed, as it now turned out, the lives of others. Against every instinct, I was reminded of the dying Koreans, the blood and ordure. Saj nodded, gravely assimilating the information. ‘Are you aware of anyone making overtures to Mustafa?’ McCallen pressed him.
‘Something like this would not be brought to my attention. Above my pay grade.’
‘With this particular type of material on the market we fear Mustafa will be approached.’
‘Who by?’
‘Our only lead is a British assassin. Around six feet, maybe a shade under, strong, with a slim to medium build. He’s dark haired, blue-eyed, striking with flat high cheekbones. We think he may attempt to trade.’
I tuned out after assassin. She was wrong. She didn’t believe me. And she wasn’t going to get anywhere if she concentrated her attention in a wasted direction. The idiocy of it made me flare with anger.
‘Anyone like that cross your radar?’ she concluded.
‘Never.’
McCallen flexed her shoulders, dissatisfied. She wasn’t alone. The tip of her nose glowed red from the cold. Her eyes scanned the human landscape. I turned away so that I missed her contact’s follow-up question. When I turned back McCallen was speaking once more.
‘The hit was professional and accomplished. The killer escaped with vital information concerning a certain bio-weapon.’ Too true, I thought, wondering about the exact nature of this type of material. ‘Do you think you could persuade Mustafa to test the market, to put out the word?’ she said.
‘Use him as bait to draw the killer out of the shadows?’
‘And lead us to those who have the information. Would Mustafa deal with a white guy?’
‘You mean would he bargain with an infidel?’ Saj flashed a rare grin, the question rhetorical. ‘The world has changed. For Mustafa, this is all the more reason to ramp up the violence. We do business with whoever will aid our cause.’
‘If you could persuade…’ She changed position so that I could no longer read her lips. Fuck.
Her contact blew out a breath, sending a plume of warm air into the chill atmosphere. ‘Can you be more specific about what exactly we’re touting for?’
She bent towards him then drew away. Irritatingly, she still had her back to me. Suddenly, her contact twisted round, facing her, his eyes bright like polished mahogany. I couldn’t hear but his bearing shrieked outrage. ‘The British government sanctioned this?’
She leant towards him for a second time. Frustrated beyond belief, my eyes locked onto the young man’s thin lips.
‘It should have been destroyed.’
She reached out, rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, squeezed it, said something