Fleet Street, London, EC4
Kevin pulled the Ford into the side of the road, turned off the wipers and then switched on the hazard lights.
‘Wait here,’ said Toni. ‘I shouldn’t be long. And make sure you keep that cap pulled down and your collar up.’
‘Yes, boss. Or should I say yes, blondie? That wig suits you by the way.’
‘Perhaps we should swap? It itches like the blazes. And remember what I said about eye contact. Avoid it, completely. The eyes are your biggest give away.’
Toni opened the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement. Parking in the City of London was a nightmare. With virtually every street now controlled by double-yellow lines or parking meters she gambled that the awful weather would buy them enough time to avoid the attentions of a traffic warden. ‘If someone moves you on, just drive around the block and meet me here,’ she called through the open door. Kevin raised a hand to show he understood.
Across the road, a small alleyway led to the pub where her contact had agreed to wait. A large, illuminated glass sign told her she was in the right place: Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.
It looked like the entrance was down the alleyway. On the main road, the three pub windows resembled giant noughts-and-crosses boards, each with nine panes of heavy, opaque glass. Inside, the lighting appeared warm and welcoming. Even though it was late, the pub still seemed to be packed.
Every so often, a customer would either disappear down the alley or emerge to face the rain that was now beating down outside. All the patrons, men and women alike, seemed to be wearing suits. They all looked as she imagined they would – like journalists, winding down at the end of a busy day.
Max Tranter was finishing a pint of beer as she approached. From the look of him, it wasn’t his first.
‘Mr Tranter,’ said Toni, as he drained the glass. Max wiped the sleeve of his sports jacket across his mouth and looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His eyebrows flicked up as he studied her for a moment. Then he nodded, approvingly.
‘Mrs Smith, I presume,’ Max emphasised the name, his scepticism clear.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked, ignoring his inference.
‘Nearly. My sub-editor on the news desk just called to say that a translator is on her way to meet us.’
‘The paper has Arabic translators?’
‘No, this lady is freelance, on a daily rate. Expensive but, if what you are offering is genuine, the cost of a translator will be incidental.’ He checked his watch. ‘She’s late. The rain, I guess? Ah … here she is.’
Toni turned around. A woman of Iranian or Persian appearance was letting down her umbrella and shaking the water droplets in the doorway. She was well dressed, elegant even. The coat, the hair, the carefully applied make-up, all suggested someone wealthy.
The woman approached and, appearing to recognise Max, she said hello to him and then introduced herself to Toni. Background voices in the pub meant that Toni didn’t quite catch the name but she didn’t ask her to repeat it. It probably wouldn’t matter. All they needed was her language skills.
Max led the way to the door and out into Wine Office Court. A few yards away was Fleet Street, once home to almost all the national newspapers. Now, thanks to budget cuts and relocations to Wapping and Southwark, it was only a muted reflection of its past history. The only remaining name on the street was Reuters, and it was widely rumoured that they would be on the move before long.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘There’s a Ford parked across the road on the yellow lines. You climb in the front next to my driver. We’ll get in the back. A section of the document is in a folder on the rear seat.’
Breathing in the cool, night air. Max touched his left hand on a polished plate mounted near the door. Toni looked at him quizzically.
‘The Sovereigns’ Plate,’ he explained. ‘It bears the names of every King and Queen of England since James the Second in 1685, together with their period of reign. If you look carefully, it may amuse you to note that the most recent entry, that for Queen Elizabeth II, has been inscribed in such a way as to not leave space to record an end to her reign.’
Toni did as suggested, and saw that Max’s claim was correct. The translator concentrated on positioning her umbrella to ensure as good a protection from the rain as it might allow.
‘I’m something of a royalist,’ Max continued. ‘It’s become my habit to touch the plaque for luck. Shall we go?’
As they reached the main street, Kevin was waiting.
Rain flicked across the seats as they got into the car. Max remembered his instructions and used the front seat. Toni climbed in behind Kevin and sat alongside the translator. Almost immediately, the windows began to mist over.
Kevin started the engine, flicked on the windscreen wipers and started the ventilation blowers. A black taxi flew past, spraying water from the road surface.
‘You have the document?’ Max asked.
‘Like I said in the pub, just some excerpts for now … a taster. The original is well over an inch thick.’
‘Can we see what you have?’
Toni handed the folder to the translator. ‘I suggest we get moving. I wouldn’t want to attract the interest of a passing police car due to us being on yellow lines.’ Max nodded his agreement as Kevin eased the car out into the traffic.
In the back of the car, the translator quickly got to work. On Max’s instructions, she read out loud in English. She made slow progress – some of the language was unfamiliar to her – but she was able to explain most of it. She commented that it was as if it had been written in sections, by different people from varying countries. In the driver’s mirror, Toni saw Kevin smile knowingly as she said it.
They headed east, into the City and then towards the Docklands, Kevin keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, in case they were followed.
They listened in as the translator continued to read. With every section, Max appeared to focus harder on what was revealed.
Finally, as they passed one of the new Dockland Light Railway stations, Max asked Kevin to stop the car. Politely, he asked the translator to step out of the car and wait in the cover of the station foyer. She did as she was asked without replying.
‘We never allow them to hear us talk money,’ said Max.
‘So, you’re interested?’
‘How much more of this is there?’ he asked.
‘Like I said, the full thing is over an inch thick.’
Max paused for a moment. ‘So how much are we talking … Mrs Smith, or whatever your name is?’
Toni ignored the comment. ‘Two hundred and fifty K was your bid, so that’s the price,’ she said, tersely. ‘I imagine your newspaper can afford it or you wouldn’t have gone that high.’
‘How would you like payment? Cash, I assume?’
‘Half in cash, half into this account.’ Toni passed Max a slip of paper across his shoulder.
He read it. ‘A trustee account in the names of Paul and John Beattie?’
‘Once the money appears in that account I will be in touch to arrange to collect the cash and deliver the full document.’
‘I know the name Beattie, don’t I?’ Max asked. ‘These names, they’re the sons of the woman who was killed by her cop lover, I believe? The one who escaped from court and was killed in a drug war shooting in Wales a couple of days later?’
‘A tragedy that should be compensated for, don’t you think?’
Max sat for a moment. It was clear he sensed a follow-up to the stories he had been pursuing, but it seemed he had taken the warning. ‘OK,’ he said, finally. ‘Let’s get back to the document. From what our translator read out, it reminds me very much of “The Project”, the report that the Muslim Brotherhood supposedly produced.’
‘It should. “The Project” is small beer compared to what I will be handing over to you.’
‘Very well,’ said Max as he went to open the car door. ‘I’m satisfied it’s genuine. I’ll speak to my editor but the final decision will come from our owner. I don’t expect there’ll be a problem, though.’
‘We have an agreement then?’
‘Yes. So, who are you? MI6, perhaps?’
Toni ignored the question. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Tranter.’ Then, as the two figures huddled together beneath the translator’s umbrella and trotted through the rain and up the stairs towards the station concourse area, she climbed over into the front seat.
‘Happy?’ she asked Kevin.
‘Very,’ he answered. ‘You asked for two or three times what I would have … and he didn’t bat an eyelid. McNeil will think all his Christmases have come at once.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’m good, but that bastard journalist smelled a story, I could tell. He was watching you for a reaction when he said MI6.’
‘I thought the same. What about the amount?’
‘The money was never a big issue to me, to be honest. I just wanted Sandi’s boys to be ok.’
‘Good. Now … let’s get back to Camden. We have an appointment with an old friend of yours.’