Fang pushed a button on her headset. ‘North? Come in, moron-person?’
But the line was dead.
They had to have cut all comms into the place. Her fingers felt thick and unwieldy as she hit the number she had for Hone. He picked up on the first ring. ‘Do you have contact with him?’
‘No.’
‘Then there’s nothing I can do for him,’ he said, and hung up.
Fang shook her head. Of course Hone knew and didn’t care. He was a spook, and it was his business to know everything. Especially things like the fact there were gunmen at the biggest launch of the year in an iconic London landmark full of historic treasures. North was in the perfect place as far as Hone was concerned. He was where Esme was and he was probably Esme’s best chance of surviving whatever was going on in there.
Her heart was beating so hard, it threatened to batter its way out of her chest. She drew a breath. Calm. She had to stay calm and get him out of there. Because everybody else would be going insane. Armed police and special forces were doubtless pulling on body armour and getting ready to smash their way into the place and kill everyone who wasn’t wearing a posh frock.
She popped in another piece of gum and bit down on it, the taste of synthetic raspberries reminding her of the jam sandwiches she used to beg her mother for when she was a kid. The phrase ‘killed seven people’ repeated over and over in her brain, but she shut it down. Not the time to think about it. Not the time to wonder what had been going on in North’s head when he killed those people. Maybe he had been mad with grief. That’s what she wanted to think. Not that he was a cold-blooded killer. She would take out the facts as she knew them and think through them later, when she had the luxury of time – something North didn’t have at the moment.
She pulled the headset off, tossed it on to the floor and started typing and swiping, bringing up the floor plan of the museum.
What would North do when bad men started firing weapons?
She had told him to get out of there.
Would he do as she said and get to an exit?
She imagined it within his grasp. The door swinging. The cold air outside and blue flashing lights. His hand reaching to push it open. The noise of gunfire and screams behind him. Turning to take a last look at the carnage he was escaping.
Nah. No chance. Who was she kidding? The image in her brain went into rewind mode. North turning back. The noise of gunfire. His hand pulling away from the door. Blue flashing lights and the door swinging shut. Trapped.
North would be drawn towards danger because he had a bullet in his brain and thought he was going to die any second, so why not? He had a death wish and he was a bozo. A bozo without any weapon of his own. Which meant he probably was indeed going to die. And she wasn’t there to tell him what to do to stay alive.
On the off chance, she pressed the short key on her phone that should link through with North. Nothing.
She fired up the locator device she’d installed on his phone. He didn’t know it was there, but he didn’t have to know everything. Privacy was overrated and someone had to have North’s back. She watched as the little red dot appeared on the London map. It should be moving if he was moving, if he was still alive. The dot wasn’t moving.