Lungs bursting, heart racing, I’d hammered along for the best part of two miles in pouring rain when the spook’s phone in my pocket went off. I stopped, doubled over, sucked up enough air from my diaphragm to speak and answered.
‘Yep.’
‘All quiet?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good, Flynn wants to sweat him for the next twenty-four hours.’
‘’kay.’ Flynn (Casper in my book) wasn’t wrong in that regard. Perspiration was dripping off my nose.
The caller checked out. I checked out. That was it.
My car was exactly as I’d left it and I jumped inside, glad for shelter, and floored the accelerator. I didn’t go straight home, but left it in a car slot in a bay of spaces in front of a short parade of shops minutes from my door.
The watchmaker usually closed up around seven in the evening and we had a prearranged signal that acted as an early warning system. If someone had been at mine, he would leave a teddy bear alone in the window. To sound the all clear, a pocket watch was planted in the teddy’s lap. Sure enough, the pocket watch was in place. Pushing eight, it left an hour unaccounted for. In theory, someone could be waiting, or on stakeout.
I went around the back first, the ‘tell’ I’d left still there. It was the same around the street side, the crisp on the step, close to the front door, unbroken. I burst into my own home a shade after eight.
Peeling off my leather jacket and slinging it across the banister, I rushed upstairs to the bathroom. Redressing my wounds took longer than expected. I now had badly lacerated hands to add to the gouges on my arms. Everything hurt. I felt sick. Adrenalin dump made my legs feel like concrete and my heart rate soar and had given me a nasty dose of the shakes. My only consolation was the loaded pistol. I couldn’t have chosen better. Extremely accurate and, with minimum recoil, there was no bullet drift on repeat shots. I only hoped my injured hands would be steady enough to fire and hit a target with accuracy.
With no word from China, I packed a torch, rope, bolt cutters and bandages into a holdall and dashed back to the car, dumping the tools on the passenger seat. Driving the Z4 around the rear and into the carport, I reversed it in, prepared for a fast getaway. Back inside, I made myself a brew of strong tea with little milk and plenty of sugar, and washed it down with a cocktail of painkillers and B vitamins recommended by the gym. Once I felt stable enough, I beat up four raw eggs and downed them. I had no idea if it would work, but I began to feel better.
When my phone rang I didn’t snatch it up. I waited, breathed deep, took my time, ice cool.
It was Jat. Excited, he rattled off a load of techno-stuff concerning web-based email accounts, usernames, passwords and draft folders.
‘I get it. What did you find?’ I said.
‘It’s cryptic but it appears to be a list of times and jobs that stretch back eighteen months, including six shipments that never made their destinations.’ Drugs deals gone bad. ‘Airports are mentioned in three countries, including Heathrow.’
‘Let me guess, Berlin and Paris.’
‘Got it. There’s also a list of names.’
‘Read them out, Jat.’
He did. They included Chester Phipps, Faustino Testa, Daragh Dwyer and Simone Fabron. ‘There’s an asterisk after Fabron’s name with a note that says “pending”.’
‘Any Germans mentioned?’
‘Erm …’
‘Mathilde Brommer, Lars Pallenberg, Dieter Benz?’
‘Benz is mentioned.’
‘On the list with the others?’
‘No.’
‘Where does he figure?’
‘In contacts.’
I scratched my head. ‘And where do I figure?’
‘You don’t.’
‘What? Not at all?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Is Joe Nathan included?’
‘No.’
‘Joshua Thane.’
‘Who?’
I repeated the name.
‘Nope.’
‘Any mention of locations as we discussed?’
‘Nada.’
‘Keep looking.’
I cut the call, stretched, flexing the muscles in my calves. Why wasn’t I on the list? What was China’s connection to Benz? I had no time to think about it because, for a second time that evening, my phone rang. But it wasn’t the call I expected.
‘Hey.’
‘Simone, I’m sorry, I can’t talk.’ I needed this like I needed root canal work without anaesthetic.
‘No?’
‘I’m on my way out.’
‘But I’m afraid.’
‘Why?’ I sparked. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No.’ She sounded plaintive and lost.
‘Are the boys treating you all right?’
‘Sure. They are very sweet.’
‘Good. Stick with them.’
‘You really cannot talk?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t. Now I really must go.’
‘We will speak tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Au revoir.’
By midnight, I’d heard nothing, the silent phone at my side goading me. Every time I checked, I was reminded that McCallen’s life lay on a knife-edge – if she wasn’t dead already.
Flynn’s question about our relationship whistled through my head. He had unwittingly probed my heart and it had deeply unsettled me. McCallen was a force of nature. The first time I’d clapped eyes on her I knew in a flash that our paths were inextricably linked, and sensed that she’d be important to me, although not in the way I first thought. The fact is, anything unattainable – whether things or people – I’d conditioned myself not to want. I could never envisage a relationship with her because it wasn’t possible. She was way out of my league. She’d pretty much said so herself. If I were brutally honest, it was why I’d gone for Simone. Lust is a good substitute for love.
And yet …
I must have fallen asleep in the chair. I woke with a start. Three in the morning, I was muddy-eyed with fatigue and my phone was blaring.
It could only mean one thing. Time to roll.