Pedro made an exaggerated gesture of putting a finger to his lips. “We are not to discuss the various locations.”
Anatoly wouldn’t quit. “I’m not discussing any specific location. I’m just saying this one is peculiar. Some of the men in my team may question if they are being given a fair chance at the bounty you have offered.”
Rather than quarrel, Pedro got clumsily to his feet to peer over the other man’s shoulder. “This is the location of the organization that sent the little man to Iceland in the first place. Had they not done so, the Americans would never have sent our friend Peters there. If the target knows who first was in touch with Karloff, he will go there.”
Anatoly drained his glass of the clear liquid at a gulp. “‘If’ is a word we do not like in our business.”
Pedro collapsed into his chair. “You are not being paid to like it, but to act on it.”
27
He had confirmed the tail at the St. Pancras tube station as soon as he had stepped off the last of a series of trains he had taken from Gatwick. He had chosen a randomly circuitous route with the sole purpose of identifying anyone shadowing him. It had only been at St. Pancras he had been certain. There he had recognized a man of indeterminate age he had seen on a leg of the trip away from the station on the light-blue Victoria Line. The scar across his face was as unique as a fingerprint.
He had not seen the man on the Piccadilly Line but he had reappeared right here where the London Tube shared a station with the UK East Coast Mainline, rail service north. His absence on part of the meandering route told Jason the job was being conducted by two or more people, people experienced in observation techniques. He recalled the procedure from Delta Force’s covert surveillance training: one person to keep the subject in view while using some means to communicate with one or more confederates to pick the trail when the present one dropped off. The point was to reduce the chances of the subject recognizing a single tail.
Exactly where these people had picked him up initially was uncertain. Most likely, it had been at the airport. Passenger manifests of airlines were insecure enough to almost be in the public domain and the carriers cared about as much about their passengers’ privacy as they did about their comfort. If not Gatwick, keeping an eye on rental-car companies or one of several tube stations would work as well. No matter. The time of the horse’s departure from the barn really didn’t make much difference. The object of the exercise now was to terminate the unwanted attention.
As if to confirm what he already knew, Jason watched the man speak into a cell phone, no doubt alerting one or more that he, Jason, was headed for the GNER, the high-speed rail service.
Jason sighed heavily. So far this had been less than a pleasant trip and Scar Face and his as-yet-unseen pals weren’t likely to improve things.
It had started the day before yesterday when he arrived at Dulles International. Even in first class, the days of luxurious and pleasant air travel had gone the way of age and weight restrictions on female cabin crew.
First class could not shield the passenger from the precooked cuisine microwaved out of the possibility of flavor, glop that hardly appealed to the taste. Why the airline didn’t simply have McDonald’s or some other fast food operator cater meals and thereby reach at least the bottom rung of mediocrity, Jason could not understand.
At least he had not had to wait to use the tiny restroom minutes before landing. A quick shave with the safety razor included in his first-class packet made him feel much better, as if it scraped away the grime of travel. A crisp white shirt replaced the rumpled knit polo. Neatly rolled khakis replaced jeans that looked as though he had slept in them, as indeed he had tried unsuccessfully to do.
Generally, he felt much better.
Until he had to contend with Scar Face & Co.
Pausing to lean on his wheeled board bag, Jason looked around the modernistic station. It was well lit by banks of lights over the track, giving the illusion of a skylight. Perhaps thirty or forty passengers milled about along the single platform before climbing aboard cars behind the slant-nosed GNER Voyager that would make the 254 miles to Durham in slightly over three hours before continuing on to Edinburgh and Glasgow. To Jason’s left, a young man in jeans coaxed the haunting sounds of the erhu, the Chinese violin, from his odd-looking, two-stringed instrument. An occasional passerby dropped a coin into the musician’s cup. To Jason’s right, passengers were entering onto the platform from the stairs from above, many carrying plastic bags bearing the logo of the station’s eight restaurants and food servers. Some had packages from the several shops.
Jason’s attention centered on one of them, a man who could have been Scar Face’s twin in size and bearing. He wore a pair of sunglasses although the light was far from harsh. The slight turns of the man’s shaved head allowed Jason to size up the scene in front of him. An almost imperceptible nod directed Jason’s gaze to where Scar Face himself rested a foot against a bench as he pretended to tie a shoe.
Jason was between the two men, and the new arrival was between him and the exit. He regretted he had not taken the time to use a contact in the City to acquire the weapon he could not have carried aboard the airline.
Jason’s first impulse was to board the train and barricade himself into his first-class compartment. An instant’s thought revealed the impracticality of the idea: in the narrow confines of a British rail car there would be little room to maneuver, particularly if he had to face two or more opponents.
Scar Face, finished with his shoe, was moving toward Jason, his gait idle as he pretended to study the adverts posted on the station’s walls: shows opening off Piccadilly Circus, English taught in ten days, the newest chain of fish-and-chips shops. Without moving his head, Jason darted his eyes in the other direction. He was not surprised to see Skin Head moving in his direction too.
Both men held their right arms rigidly at their sides. Jason had little doubt each man had a knife up his long sleeve that would drop into a hand with a swing of the arm.
The move was familiar enough. Jason had seen it in a dozen training films somehow stolen from the Russian Spetsnaz Vympel, those übercommandos whose specialty was silent death behind enemy lines. Their trademark was proficiency with the combat knife, eight inches of balanced steel bearing a slight similarity to the American Bowie knife in that not only was the cutting edge razor sharp, but the first two inches behind the point were also honed to perfection, giving the weapon the ability to stab or slash in either direction. The Soviet-equipped groups also carried a clasp knife and a “fling” knife, a blade balanced for throwing.
The memory was less than comforting.
Jason searched the platform. Ah, yeah. There, in the middle, helping an elderly lady with her bags, a uniformed policeman.
The automatic weapon slung across his chest indicated he was with the Transportation Division of the Metropolitan Police, one of the few British police who routinely carried firearms, commonly seen in tube and rail stations since the bomb attacks of July 7, 2005. Now he stood, one hand behind his back, as he watched passengers move back and forth; the other held what looked like the oversized 1980s version of a cellular phone.
OK, now what?
Assuming Jason could get to the cop, what was he going to do, point out the two men as possible assailants?