“Hold it, hold it …” de Clerk stared at his monitor. “School trip incoming …”
A class of primary school children in red sweatshirts had appeared on the Euston Road side of the passage; two teachers herded the group in and at once the cut-through was full of bobbing heads. De Clerk watched Jake pause at the entrance, letting the children pass. But his warning had come too late to abort the swoop. First he saw Davis’s van enter the shot, then the sleeker form of his boss’s BMW. The car swept gaily past the school trip and was away down the street.
“Damn,” said Davis. “Damn, damn, fuck, damn.”
“Language please, Frank,” said Waits. “Circle around and let’s try again. Edwin, keep on them, would you?”
*
Jake glanced at the car as it shot by. He had been mistaken: it wasn’t a boy racer at all. It was a top-of-the-range BMW, going too fast for him to see the driver. A Korean boy glanced up at the journalist as he pushed past – toothy grin, the devil’s own eyebrows – and Jake chuckled, fighting the urge to ruffle the kid’s hair. He had always identified with the naughty ones. They squeezed through the passageway and out onto Euston Road, where the traffic was gridlocked, as always. King’s Cross Tube Station was on the other side of the street. And the flat where they were staying was a couple of miles away; it belonged to a university friend who was holidaying in France.
“Come on, let’s stroll,” said Jake. “I could do with the walk.”
*
De Clerk used a camera owned by Network Rail to track the pair past the station, but they went out of shot as they crossed from Camden into the neighbouring borough of Islington. De Clerk’s fingers were a blur as he brought up a camera used by local police to keep tabs on drunkards and prostitutes. Then he had them again. They were turning onto Caledonian Road, a residential street striking northwards through the borough.
“They’re heading up the Cally Road towards Regent’s Canal,” said de Clerk. “Just passed a Tesco Metro on the left. There aren’t many pedestrians about further up the street. Reckon you might have another chance if you get there asap.” He pronounced the abbreviation as a single word.
“On our way,” replied Waits. “Just tackling the one-way system. Blue lights on now I think, Frank …”
Jenny was deep in thought as they passed a row of neglected period properties. The frontages were caked in soot and the paint flaked away, as if the terrace was afflicted by some dreadful skin complaint.
“I don’t know how you’d feel about this,” she said. “But I do know a guy who could tackle MI6’s firewalls. A genius, as it happens – literally.”
“Oh?”
“There’s only one problem. He’s MI6 too.”
“Well, it’s a bit academic then, eh?”
“The thing is …” Jenny bit her lip. “I always got the impression he kind of – liked me, if you know what I mean.”
“What are you suggesting?” Jake laughed. “You seduce him into helping us?”
An elderly woman hobbled by pushing a pram full of shopping, a remnant of Cockney Islington. She was overtaken by a shaven-headed Hare Krisha devotee in orange robes, and Jenny waited for them to pass.
“I wouldn’t exactly ‘seduce’ him,” she said. “That’s not the right word. But if he’s susceptible to my charms – it might give us an ‘in’.”
“Well, you could try that I suppose …”
Jenny glanced at Jake. Was that a flush of jealousy she spied on his cheeks? She smiled to herself, and not unkindly.
*
Waits made it through the one-way system to emerge at the southern end of Caledonian Road. Jake and Jenny were half a mile away, ambling towards the canal bridge.
“Frank, my boy …” The spymaster’s voice was terse, like someone who knows vast erotic pleasure might be on the cards. “Where are you now, Frank?”
“Still circling round,” Davis replied through gritted teeth. “Heading north, running parallel to you. I should come out ahead of the targets in forty-five seconds.”
“Faster please, if you’d be so kind.”
The request was answered by the roar of Davis’s engine, a cacophony of horns.
*
Jenny’s suggestion was not a palatable one. Jake recalled Tages’s tomb, that picnic where for one short hour they’d been able to forget about everything going on around them. It had only been a look from her – and he was inept at interpreting the signals of the fairer sex. Yet he could have sworn something was there, something so unlike Florence’s avaricious advances.
Missed opportunities, always the missed opportunities.
“I’m not going to sleep with him, for God’s sake,” said Jenny. “But it might give me a persuasive edge. Make him hear me out at least. I don’t deny it’s a high risk strategy.”
Jake considered his time in Istanbul. Florence had led him on something chronic when she thought he was holding back Britton’s notes. And when the archaeologist’s wiles were at their height he’d have told her his innermost secrets and regrets.
“How would it work?” he said.
“First we’d need to arrange the bump.”
“What’s a ‘bump’?”
There was a lull in the traffic as they crossed the canal bridge. The flat was in sight.
A Ford Transit pulled into the road ahead.