I followed at a distance. She walked quickly, soft shoes pumping, frequently changing direction. I felt out of sorts, possibly because I hadn’t eaten for hours, probably because I was a marked man and I could be arrested at any moment, mostly because McCallen had shone a fiery light on a dirty corner. I thought about Reuben and how McCallen’s revelation chimed with what I’d witnessed in his basement. I thought about Wes and the pack of lies he’d told me. I thought about my own presumption of Wilding’s greed and guilt.
In no time we were in the heart of trendy affluence and bowling along Notting Hill, finally looping round towards Holland Park tube station. As we neared the underground her pace changed and she cast a long slow look behind her. Thinking she was on to me, I had no option but to take my chances and keep moving. If I darted out of view she’d definitely make me.
The closer I came the more her eyes seemed unfocused. She was looking but not seeing then two things happened in fast succession. McCallen drew out her phone and answered it, her voice drowned out by an ambulance followed by a fire engine, both with sirens blaring, racing down the avenue. Meanwhile her eyes did all the talking. She was clearly in receipt of important news. I just didn’t know what it was.
Riveted, I followed her into the underground and stood well back as she waited to board a tube train on the Piccadilly line. Her profile was neat and symmetrical. I liked the way her black roll-top sweater contrasted with and maximised the copper in her hair. I liked the way she stood: relaxed, confident, striking. I admired everything about her.
Two minutes later, the thunderous noise of a train’s approach. People surged forward, including McCallen. I stayed rooted, immobile, like a relic frozen in time.
Gasp of hot air, blinding lights, driver’s eyes, heat running through my veins, hammering in my chest, giddy sensation. Get close but not too close. Anxious I might be sucked off the platform onto the live rails and crushed and chewed into oblivion. Then the man next to me toppling, falling, plunging…
I blinked. McCallen had boarded. My abrupt lapse in concentration cost me and I took a hurried step forward. The doors squeezed closed, shutting me out, then suddenly snapped apart, ejecting McCallen. For the second time I thought she’d catch me in her visual crosshairs. Maybe she did, but she didn’t react.
I retreated into a crowd of students, recent shambling additions to the platform. My eyes followed as McCallen walked a short distance away, waited for and stepped onto the next tube. This time she stayed on board. I knew because I was in the next-door compartment. Together we rode as far as Oxford Circus where she changed onto the Northern line and got off at Embankment.
Outside the Thames looked choppy, white spume cresting khaki, the sky overhead milk-white as though it might snow. There were too many people. Hot-dog vendors and roast chestnut sellers plied their wares. Jugglers tossed flaming batons. A black guy break-danced to an admiring crowd of onlookers and a steel band thumped out reggae. The carnival atmosphere was intoxicating but I was too shaken by Saj’s violent reaction to whatever McCallen had said to get high.
She mooched towards an underpass where a number of skateboarders showcased their skills. One guy, older than the rest, gathered speed and careered off the edge of a ramp, taking a death-defying leap, soaring through the air and coming down with a tremendous clatter. Others zoomed in and out of pillars, pirouetting and contorting, agile and speedy. McCallen stopped, ostensibly to watch. I could tell it was a blind from the way she inclined her head. She wasn’t there to take in the show. She was there because she was waiting for someone. I slipped behind a pillar and waited with her.
Fifteen minutes elapsed.
A woman approached. She had shoulder-length raven hair, eyes the colour of double espresso. Her black wool coat fell from her shoulders in two vertical lines, the dress beneath a vivid blue, the neckline plunging. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was stacked. It was easy to imagine her naked. To my surprise, she walked straight over to McCallen and greeted her. Then my heart sank. I know enough Russian to translate privyet, which means hi. After that I was lost although, frankly, fascinated by McCallen’s obvious linguistic talent. I glibly wondered why she worked for MI5 when her skills would find a more appropriate home with the Secret Intelligence Service.
The rapid-fire discussion between the two women lasted roughly ten minutes. This time, my lip-reading skills wasted, I could only rely on body language.
McCallen started by flaring the fingers of one hand, as if about to reach out, reinforcing her desire to project her ideas and thinking. In return, the Russian sliced the icy air with the flat of her hand, eager to cut to the chase, the gesture eventually reciprocated by McCallen cupping her palms, begging for agreement. At one point the Russian tapped her nose in a classic conspiratorial gesture. McCallen nodded grimly and, finally, clenched her fist, a symbol of her determination. The display gave the impression that they were nothing other than two people on opposite sides of a fence, exchanging and pooling information, each having something that would benefit the other. There was no overt animosity. No power play. To the casual observer, they seemed like equals. Seemed.
Practiced in the art of deception, they could not quite contain their facial expressions. The way the Russian inclined her head, pressed her lips together into a smile, touched her mouth lightly to conceal a lie, revealed she was less than an honest broker in the negotiations. By contrast, McCallen, outwardly calm, touched the tip of her nose and subtly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, almost rocking. Yeah, she was definitely anxious. Was it possible that Yakovlevich’s mystery contact was the subject of the discussion?
They parted without a backward glance. I watched, waited, and moved away. There were people I needed to talk to and I had a ride to catch.
I headed back to the lock-up, exchanged my scruffy jacket and jeans for a navy Italian single-breasted suit and camel-coloured overcoat and, to hide my battered features, wrapped a fine Morino woollen scarf around my neck and chin, and topped it off with a trilby. I resembled a character from a romantic wartime novel, fine for the environment I was about to inhabit. Next, I selected a worn leather briefcase, one of my favourites, containing another set of I.D. plus a change of underwear and enough euros to bribe the most reluctant customs officer. I wanted to take the Colt accessory and spoil of war. Out of the question. Yakovlevich would never sanction it. I’d have to travel clean and pick up a weapon, as usual, at the other end.
My thoughts centred on blackmail, close country cousin to bribery and extortion, and blood relatives within the great family of organised crime. How and who had blackmailed Wilding? These were questions I wanted to pose to Wes, preferably with my hands around his neck. Flakier by the hour, Wes was starting to look less like a loosely involved link man and more like an integral player. Time I found out what Wes was really up to.
There’s a gentlemen’s club in Pall Mall populated by arms dealers, spooks, criminals and oddballs. Eclectic best describes it, and exceptionally discreet. It opened its doors at lunchtime and, in spite of my wanted status, I paid it a visit.
I was hoping an American called Ron Tilelli would be at the club. Tilelli had taken British citizenship a decade or more before. A driver for various watering holes, ironically one with a drink and gambling habit, he was a happy combination for me because it made him highly corruptible. Word on the wire said that several intelligence agencies had him in their pockets – another reason for having a chat. I wasn’t sure how true this was. Filled with enough sour-mash whisky, Tilelli could make some fairly extraordinary claims. I’d learnt over the years, however, that even the most unlikely stories contain grains of truth.
The club was decked out like an old country hotel with wood-panelled walls, tartan-patterned upholstery, and distressed-looking leather sofas the colour of old cognac. An overweight golden