Firewall (14 page)

I couldn't feel any sort of wiring, or anything more solid than what I hoped was the cash, but then again, that didn't mean a thing. A wafer-thin battery from a Polaroid film tucked between the bundles would kick out enough power to initiate a letter bomb. It might be Val's special little way of saying thank you.

I picked it up and put the fold to my nose. If it was a device, and they'd used any exotic or older-style explosives, I might be able to smell them. Sometimes it's marzipan, sometimes linseed oil. I was expecting something more sophisticated, but these things have to be tested for.

All I could smell was the urinals. The bar noise rose and fell as the outer door opened and closed. I carried on inspecting the envelope.

I decided to go ahead and open it. It felt like money, weighed like money. If I was wrong, the whole pub would know about it soon and a pissed off insurance company would be shelling out for a refit.

I opened the knife blade of my Leatherman and gently cut down the center of the envelope, checking inside every inch or so for wires. It was looking promising. I started to see green U.S. bank notes. Each bundle of used hundred-dollar bills that I carefully pulled out was banded and told me the bundle contained $10,000; there were ten of them. I was a very happy camper indeed. Val had put his money where his mouth was. I didn't just respect him now, I liked the man. Not enough to introduce him to my sister yet, but then again, I didn't have a sister.

Someone else entered and tried the toilet door. I grunted, making it sound like I was having a big-boy dump. He checked the next one, and I heard the sound of jeans coming down and him getting on with the business.

I smiled as I started to stuff the money into my leathers, feeling quite pleased with myself as my next-door neighbor farted for England.

Staying in the pub for another half-hour, drinking more orange juice and lemonade and reading the newspaper for the third time, I wondered if the team had been called off yet. Nine out of ten times it boils down to money. They were probably hoping to earn a little Christmas bonus out of me. E4 operators get treated as badly as nurses; they work their butts off and are expected to carry on regardless.

By now they'd know the address was a PO box arrangement, and that would have set their alarm bells ringing. They'd probably plan to go into the office tomorrow, open up my box and see what was in there. They'd even put me on their own special mailing list; as mail addressed to Suite 26 came through the Royal Mail's sorting system, it would be sidetracked for a while so that prying eyes could have a little look-see. All they would find was my Visa bill. Well, Davidson's bill. Perhaps they'd be nice enough to pay it. I certainly wouldn't bother anymore.

By tomorrow, if they decided to dig deeper, they'd also know that Mr.

Davidson had been to Norway recently, returning by the same route he'd traveled all those weeks ago. What would they make of that? I doubted that their conclusion would be a skiing trip after Davidson had been seen coming out of the targeted apartment block where one of the owners was a Russian who'd got hit just days ago, in a country a mere day trip away from where Davidson had disembarked. Fuck it, it was too late to worry about all that now. As long as they didn't have a photograph of me, I'd be okay.

I sat there with another Coke and a packet of peanuts. Thirty five minutes on, I finally decided to make a move. The rush-hour traffic on all sides of the triangle was moving at about three feet a minute, a confusion of headlights and exhaust fumes. Every fourth car had its indicator lights flashing, thinking the other lane was quicker. The pedestrian traffic, too, was much heavier, and moved quicker than the vehicles. Everybody was huddled over, fighting the cold and just wanting to get home.

Leaving the helmet under the table, I exited through a door that led out onto a different road. The motorbike helmet was a VDM. So were my leathers, but I could hardly discard them. All I could do was cut down on the things that would trigger me.

The priority was to get a hotel for the night, before I contacted Tom in the morning. I also needed clothing: Without a bike, there was no way I could walk around looking like Judge Dredd.

If you want late-night shops, it has to be the West End. I grabbed a taxi to Piccadilly Circus, and changed $1,000 at various currency exchanges, throwing in a couple of hundred at a time.

The shopping frenzy was another short cab ride away, in Selfridges, where I bought clothes, washing and shaving kit, and a nice little duffle bag for my new-found wealth.

Then I booked myself into the Selfridges Hotel using my Nick Stone credit card. To have used Davidson's would have invited a knock on the door within hours.

After a bath and a change of clothes all very predictable, jeans, Timberland boots, blue sweatshirt, and a dark-blue nylon down jacket I called room service for a club sandwich and coffee.

13

Saturday, December II, 1999 I woke up and looked at Baby G. It was just after eight, time for a quick couple of laps round the bath before getting dressed.

Looking like a kid in his shiny new Christmas Day clothes, I left the jacket with my leathers and went down to breakfast, taking the money bag with me. There was $25,000 left after a very grateful clinic had received not only what was owing to them, but also a huge stash on account. It's strange how finance directors will come in of an evening to collect a payment, even brew coffee and pour it.

The newspapers were full of doom and gloom, and as I downed my breakfast, listening to the Americans or Israelis talking about the shopping they were going to be doing before they went back home, I felt good about fulfilling my responsibilities to Kelly, even though I knew I should be doing a lot more than just paying out money.

Back in my room, I settled on the bed and called the number on the paper that Liv had given me.

A young woman answered. Her "hello" sounded as friendly as if I was the fourth wrong number in a row.

"Oh, hi. Is Tom there?"

"No, he's not," she snapped. "He'll be in Coins. Who are you?"

It sounded as if all was not well in the Mancini household.

"Just a friend. Coins, did you say?"

"Yes."

"What is that, a shop or-"

"It's the cafe, off Ledbury Road."

I was obviously stupid for not knowing. "Thanks a-"

The phone slammed down.

Information told me that Coins was on Talbot Road, Netting Hill. I put my squeakily clean blue down jacket on, picked up my bag and jumped into a taxi to join Tom for a coffee, borrowing the cabbie's map on the way to work out exactly where he lived. The sky might be full of dark clouds, but I was still feeling good.

I didn't know Notting Hill at all, just that it had a carnival each year and that there'd been a bit of a frenzy about Julia Roberts coming to stay. During the film's hype, I'd read all this stuff in the papers about the village atmosphere and how wonderful it was to live there. I didn't see much evidence of a village, just expensive clothes stores, the sort with one pair of shoes in the window surrounded by spotlights, and a few antique shops.

We turned corners and drove past stucco-fronted houses, mostly cut up into apartments and very run-down, with chunks of plaster falling off the brickwork.

The cab stopped at an intersection and the dividing window opened.

"It's a one way, mate. I'll drop you off here if that's all right.

It's just down there on the left."

I could see the large awning sticking out over the sidewalk, with plastic side panels keeping the elements off the brave ones who wanted to sip their cappuccinos outside.

I paid him and took a walk. Coins turned out to be double fronted, with a few empty tables outside. The large windows on each side of the door were steamed up from cooking and people. As I went in, it was obvious from the rough wooden floors and plain laminated plywood that the cafe was trying to look down to earth and no nonsense. The kitchen was open plan and the smells were very tempting, even with half a pound of bacon and eggs still weighing me down.

There was no sign of Tom, so I took a seat in the far corner. There were magazines lying around on the table tops designer pictures on the walls, and fliers for a shit load of artistic events. The menu was a sheet of legal paper in a plastic folder, offering everything from neat cholesterol to vegetarian sausages and salads. The prices certainly didn't match the decor; someone was making a down-to-earth, no-nonsense fortune.

The clientele seemed to average late twenties, early thirties, trying so hard to look individual that they all looked like clones. Everyone was in baggy cargo pants and sleeveless down vests, and must have taken ages to get their hair looking like they'd just got out of bed. Quite a few were wearing thick-framed rectangular glasses, more to be seen in than to see through.

"Hi, sweetie, what can I get you?" An American female voice floated down to me as I studied the menu.

Glancing up, I asked for a latte and toast.

"Sure, sweetie." She turned and presented the world's second most perfect rear, covered in tight black nylon flares. As she walked away I couldn't help staring at it, and was pleased to catch others doing the same. She must bring in a lot of custom; no wonder Tom came here.

There was nothing else to do but sit and listen to other people's conversations. It seemed that everybody was either just about to get a movie on just about to be in a play, but it just hadn't quite happened yet and everybody had a fantastic script that was being read by a marvelous man who used to share an apartment with Anthony Minghella.

The only time people stopped talking was when their cell phones rang, only to talk even louder than before. "Jambo, dude! How's it going, man?"

Rear of the Year came back. "Here you are, sweetie." She gave me my glass of latte, which burned my fingers as I watched her walk back to the kitchen.

I picked up a newspaper, which a girl sitting on the table next to mine handed over as she left. We smiled at each other, knowing we were both thinking the same thing about our American friend.

Looking down at the front page, I waited for my toast, and Tom.

Half an hour later the toast was finished and I was on my second latte.

Clones came and went, air-kissing as they met and being very important with each other. Then, at last, Tom entered. At least I thought he was Tom. His greasy hair was now ponytailed just past his shoulders, making him look like a member of a Los Angeles garage band. His cheeks were more hamster like than I remembered; maybe the extra pounds he'd put on had changed the contours of his face.

The clothes looked as if they'd come from the same store as everyone else's here-canvas daps, brown cargos, and a faded green sweatshirt with a T-shirt that had started off white, then gone a few rounds with something blue. He must have been freezing.

Settling his chubby ass on a tall stool along the breakfast bar facing the window, he pulled a magazine out from under his arm some kind of palm-top computer and games monthly. At least he looked the part.

A small Puerto Rican-looking woman took his order. I decided to wait until he'd finished eating, then do my, "Hello, Tom. Well well, fancy seeing you here" bit, but my plan got cut short as he suddenly stood up and turned toward the door. Along with a very pissed-off waitress, I watched him cross the road and run up a side street, losing him in the moisture on the windows and the shadow of the awning.

He must have seen me.

I got up and paid my money to Rear of the Year, getting an extra big and friendly, "Bye, sweetie," when she saw the size of the tip I'd left on my saucer.

Tom had run toward home, so I headed in the direction of All Saints Road, past reggae-music stores and plumbers' shops. His address was an apartment in a yellow-painted, stucco-fronted building just off All Saints. Going by the array of bell pushes at the front door, it looked like there were eight apartments in the building, which meant each one must have been the size of a broom closet. Most houses in the street had been converted into flats and were painted black, green, or yellow, with grimy windows covered by dirty old netting, which drooped in the middle. I bet this road wasn't in the movie.

I went to press the button for his apartment number four but the wiring hanging out of the intercom was rusted and frayed. Some names were slotted into the recesses on torn pieces of paper, but half of them, like apartment four, didn't even have that.

As I rang the bell, I could hear the slight buzz of an electric current. Chances were the thing did work. I waited, stamping my feet and digging my hands into my jacket, but there was no answer. I wasn't expecting one from the intercom, but thought there might have been a shout, or a face at a window. Eventually a curtain twitched on the third floor.

I rang again. Nothing.

It was turning out to be more amusing than frustrating. Tom just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. If you want to do a runner, you don't head straight home. E4 would have had no trouble pinning him down. I found myself smiling as I thought of him up there, hoping I'd just go away and that everything would be all right.

Looking up again at the dirty window, I made sure that whoever was watching would hear me clunking down the steps, really tearing the ass out of it so they'd know I'd given up.

Walking back the way I'd come, I hung around at the junction with All Saints, knowing that he'd leave sooner or later. It was the wrong thing to do, so he was bound to do it. He might have the skill to hack into and download whatever it was in this Finnish house, but when it came to common sense, he had trouble inserting the disk, let alone playing the game.

Loitering in the doorway of a run-down shop, I was facing a massive pop art mural that covered the whole gable end of a building. Reggae music blared from a shop as two teenagers came out and danced their way along the road, sharing a cigarette. My own breath was doing a good imitation of smoke in the cold air.

I wasn't too sure that I'd be able to see Tom if he tried to give me the slip over the back of the house, but he was on the third floor, so it would be quite difficult for him. From what I'd seen of him, even if he'd been on the first floor it would have been a bit of a challenge.