She glanced at her companion, who’d agreed to accompany her mostly because he fancied her, and wondered if he knew she’d slept with Upshott’s newest resident the previous afternoon. It was possible he did. A village was porous when it came to private life. Either way, telling him would add to the frisson she already felt. Tomorrow, people would read about her in their newspapers. Read about her, picture her, and know she’d done something they were incapable of. Some, indeed, would remember watching her pass overhead.
Another frisson. Her companion turned to her, curious.
The ground was a memory, and Kelly Tropper was where she belonged: up in the brighter element, with a comrade in arms.
Just the two of them, and their inflammatory cargo.
As mid-morning bloomed, and only a few stray clouds, like the mildest twinges of conscience, ruffled central London’s skies, it became apparent that today would fulfil the forecasters’ promise, and be the warmest day of the year so far. A fact that few of the evening’s news reports would fail to mention.
The mob was heading east, mob being what others declared it. But it was moving, was mobilised, so that’s what it was, a mob, if for the most part a highly organised one; marshalled by policemen, but arranged according to its own lights, and eager to indicate to gathering camera crews that it represented a spontaneous outburst of public anger rather than a cynical manipulation of public concern. A vociferous and placard-wielding contingent headed it up, marching in time to a troupe of drummers; their stencilled placards read STOP THE CITY and SMASH THE BANKS and HALT THE CUTS, or showed cartoons of top-hatted fat cats lighting cigars with fifty-pound notes. Bobbing above head-height here and there were rag-and-plaster effigies, like out-of-season guys looking for bonfires; they wore bowler hats and pinstripes and expressions of unsatiated greed. Stewards with loudhailers chirped at random intervals, and flitting about on the flanks were diehards in donkey-jackets, peddling SOCIALIST WORKER. But for every dreadlocked, safety-pinned crusty in view there were half a dozen fresh-faced youths in summer casuals. It was a rainbow coalition of the pissed off, and their chanting grew in volume as the march progressed.
The middle group was more placid, their placards handcrafted, and replete with knowing cultural references—DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING, AND BANK BAIL-OUTS? NO THANKS! Dancing in and out among the throng were children who’d been facepainted in Hyde Park, and now were cats or witches, dogs or wizards, their pink and green faces alive with astonishment. They ran about in giggling bunches, begging the mounted policemen for rides, while their parents enjoyed the nostalgic frisson of public dissent, the occasional self-mocking call and response of Maggie! Maggie! Maggie!—Out! Out! Out! underlining the degree to which this was a rally down memory lane. There was even communal, if self-conscious, singing; Bob Marley songs mostly—“One World” and “Exodus” and even a ragged “Redemption Song.” When a helicopter hovered overhead, this section burst into cheers, though no one knew why.
And finally, dragging up the rear, came the seemingly less-committed, viewing the occasion not so much as an outlet for airing social outrage as an opportunity to stroll through a London cleared of traffic. They waved for the cameras, posed for tourists, chatted with police officers assigned to shepherding duties, and generally blew kisses to a watching world, but among this contingent—as among the others—marched some with masks in their pockets and larceny in their hearts, for banks are evil, and bankers self-serving bastards, and not a single soul-sucking money-magnet among them would mend their ways for the sake of a well-behaved procession. No: reformation required broken glass, and today would see plenty of it.
Though even the anarchists didn’t yet know how much.
The rally processed along Oxford Street, and up towards High Holborn.
“Mr. Pashkin.”
“Mr. Webb.”
“Jim, please. Welcome to the Needle.” Fatuous, on both counts; nobody called Spider Jim and Pashkin had been here before. But the moment had passed, Pashkin putting his case on the floor to take Webb’s right hand in both of his: not the bear-hug he’d been expecting, but a solid citizen’s grasp all the same. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A pastry?” The smell of both wafted from the kitchen.
“Nothing. Thank you.” Then, as if in retrospective validation of Webb’s comment, Pashkin looked round as if he’d never been here before. “Magnificent,” he said. “Truly.”
Webb glanced towards the rest of the party: Louisa Guy, Marcus Longridge, the two Russians. He gestured towards the kitchen. “If you want coffee or anything.”
Nobody did.
Downstairs, in the underground garage, Marcus and Louisa had frisked Kyril and Piotr for weapons, and allowed themselves to be patted down in return. Marcus had then examined Arkady Pashkin, after which he’d gestured at his case. “Do you mind?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Pashkin had said smoothly. “There are documents in there—well, I don’t need to spell it out.”
Marcus had glanced at Louisa.
“Call Webb,” she’d said.
Who’d told him, “Oh for Christ’s sake, he’s an honoured guest, not a security risk. Use your common sense.”
So now Pashkin was laying his unchecked case on the table. He snapped at his men in their shared language. Piotr and Kyril peeled away from the group, and Marcus instinctively grabbed the nearest by the arm: this was Kyril, who spun back, fist raised, and just like that the pair were a heartbeat off knocking seven bells out of each other until a shout from Pashkin froze them: “Please!”
Kyril dropped his fist. Marcus released Kyril’s arm.
Piotr laughed. “You, you’re fast.”
“Forgive me,” said Pashkin. “I simply asked them to check the cameras.”
“They’re off,” said Webb. “Aren’t they?”
Louisa looked at Pashkin. “They’re off. As I told you.”
He gave her a formal nod. “Of course. But all the same …”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, but Webb, seeing an opportunity to regain the initiative, said, “As you wish.”
They watched as Piotr and Kyril dealt with the cameras above the door and in the corner, twisting wires free of their casing in a way that didn’t look temporary.
Pashkin said, “You understand my position.”
Webb looked like he was trying to, while wondering whether this destruction of security equipment was going to come bouncing back at him. Pashkin, meanwhile, opened his case and removed what looked like a microphone. When he placed it on the table, it hummed into life.
Marcus Longridge said, “I thought everything had been made clear.” He was cradling one hand in the other, as if a blow had actually been landed. Nodding at the device, he said, “This isn’t being recorded.”
“No,” Pashkin agreed. “And now we can all be certain of that.”
The device pulsed gently; invisibly converting into white noise anything picked up by eavesdropping equipment.
Kyril stood with his big hands clasped in front of him, studying Marcus with what might have been amusement.
Louisa said, “Anything else in that case we should know about?”