'Are you sure they are following?' the secretary asked quietly, leaning forward.
'wE cAN maKe SUre iF yOU liKe
'What did he say?'
'We can drive around a bit,' Dillon explained, 'see if they are really following… Okay?' He glanced behind and got a single, firm nod.
Steve was too expert and experienced a driver to tip off those behind that they'd been rumbled. Besides, this wasn't ideal territory to lose a tail. Better to get them into a warren of back streets they possibly weren't too familiar with – but he was. So in no great hurry he turned into Tottenham Court Road and proceeded at a stately pace towards Euston Road, eyes doing a constant slow swivel from the road to the rearview mirror. Actually, he was starting to enjoy himself. The Merc was a joy to drive, he'd never got his mitts on such a large powerful, beautiful motor before. Plus – and it was a big plus – he felt the old tingling thrill of pitting himself against an adversary. Didn't matter who: it was the enemy, the bad guys, the ones who had to be beaten at all costs. That's what he'd been trained to do, and Civvy Street had no use for his talents and specialist skills. No use for him, period.
Slowing for the traffic lights at the junction with Euston Road, Dillon turned round in his seat. It was make-your-mind-up time, so he called for a decision. 'He's still with us, what do you want us to do?' He raised his eyebrows. 'We head back into Regent's Park and we'll play follow-my-leader all the way back to the house…'
Salah Al-Gharib moistened his lips. 'What is the alternative?' he asked, and now his voice had the suggestion of a tremor in it.
Steve sucked in air, burped, 'I can lose 'em, Frank. No problem.'
'You sure?'
At Steve's nod, Dillon turned back and said tersely, 'He thinks he can lose them, sir.'
The lights changed, and being in the left-hand lane Steve had no choice but to turn left into Euston Road. There was a confab going on in the back, the secretary doing most of the talking, his boss interjecting the odd comment or question now and then. Both men seemed distinctly uneasy, rather fearful in fact, Raoul Al-Mohammed clutching his alligator-skin briefcase to his chest, resting it on his heaving stomach.
At last the secretary leaned forward. Behind the thin gold rims, the whites of his eyes gleamed against his dark complexion. 'If it is possible, lose them. Do what you have to do.'
Dillon touched Steve's arm. He took off his cap and said to the men in the back, 'You want to put your seat-belts on?'
They did so, Dillon pulling his tight. Steve operated central locking, securing all four doors, took a long searching look in the mirror, and put his foot down.
CHAPTER 13
In the illuminated green dial the needle swept smoothly past fifty. Steve kept his foot down, the acceleration pressing them back in their seats… fifty-five – sixty – sixty-five in less than seven seconds, the needle hovering at seventy as they neared Regent's Park.
Through the wing-mirror Dillon had a clear view of the red Sierra, lagging behind but gradually picking up speed to match theirs; nothing in-between them now and very little traffic, so the two cars had virtually this entire stretch of road to themselves.
Dillon hadn't a clue what Steve intended doing. He hoped to God Steve had. But what Steve did, totally unexpectedly, as they raced towards the lights at the junction with Great Portland Street, was to flick on the left indicator. Crazy, Dillon thought, lost his marbles, Steve meant to turn into a one-way system, meeting the flow of traffic head-on! They were doing seventy, and Dillon braced himself for the turn, but what Steve did next was even crazier. Twenty yards from the lights he decelerated, and spinning the wheel hand-over-hand in a continuous, co-ordinated movement, he swung the Merc sharply to the right in a sliding 180-degree turn, tyres squealing and smoking, leaving burnt rubber on the tarmac as he completed a U-turn at the traffic lights and gunned back along Euston Road.
Rocking in his seat, Dillon glimpsed the flash of red in the mirror as the Sierra skidded into the turn, nearly losing its traction, then righted itself and came after them.
Whoever they were, these guys weren't amateurs, Dillon realised. And the Sierra had more soup under its bonnet than its un-extraordinary exterior might suggest. He ought to have known that playing nursemaid to a couple of Middle-Eastern arms-dealers wouldn't turn out to be a vicarage tea-party. What had that prat Cliff gotten them into, him and his favours?
Nudging seventy-five, Steve took the centre lane down into the underpass, the yellow lights inset in the concrete walls smearing like racing stripes along the aerodynamic silver body. The 300SE barrelled through the echoing tunnel and up again onto the main road, the glass and granite splendour of the mainline Euston terminal flashing by to their left. The traffic lights were changing to red, but Steve went through them anyway, and so did the Sierra, as a glance in Dillon's wing-mirror confirmed. After that hair-raising U-turn back there he was beyond offering Steve any advice. The lad might be crazy but he could handle the Merc all right, sitting back in his seat, head up, arms at full stretch, displaying the cool nerve and aplomb of a stunt driver, a faint grin on his face.
All four of them were flung against their seat-belts as Steve suddenly slammed on the brakes and veered left off the main road, taking to the labyrinth of dimly-lit streets backing onto King's Cross. To Dillon it was a dark maze of terraced houses and small blocks of flats, shops and pubs, the whole area shut down for the night. Every street a replica of the one before. Not to Steve, apparently, who seemed to know the district like the back of his hand, jinking left and right and judging gaps between cars parked either side as if he possessed a built-in slide rule.
But the red Sierra was a tough bastard to shake. It kept right with them, never more than fifty yards behind, headlights now on full-beam flaring in the mirrors.
Without warning, Steve hauled the car down a right-hand fork, the brick archway of a rail viaduct looming up ahead. He gave himself a quick nod, as if making up his mind, and half-turning his head but keeping his eyes front and centre, rapped out: 'Tell 'em I can double back on the Ford – there's dead-ends all along here.'
Dillon craned back. 'You want us to stop their car? We can double back, come out behind them…'
A quick gabble of Arabic, and the secretary gripped Dillon's shoulder, his usual fluent English jerking out disjointedly.
'… we have no diplomatic immunity… they could be armed… we cannot risk…'
'Hang on, Steve.' Dillon reckoned it was about time to view the situation realistically. One thing, letting Steve have his fun like a big kid on the dodgems, quite another to find themselves in the middle of a shooting war that was none of their business. He said quietly, 'They seem to think these guys'll have guns. Maybe just lose them.'
Steve pointed to the fuel gauge. 'Petrol… no petrol.'
Dillon stared at the needle, hard against Empty, and closed his eyes. That was that then. Hobson's Bleeding Choice. He glanced behind. 'Get down – keep your heads down.' He shot a look at Steve. 'Can you handle it?' Steve grinned. Bastard was loving every minute. Best time he'd had in three years, since leaving the Paras.
Dillon had another disquieting thought, concerning thirty grand's worth of Mercedes-Benz 300SE. He turned to the rear, raising one eyebrow. 'What about damage to the car, sir?' The secretary was huddled in the corner, his fingers digging in the padded arm-rests.
'Sir?'
'Please… get us out of here…'
Steve adjusted his grip, hands crossed on the wheel, face lit up like a Christmas tree. 'Here we go…!'