by Mark Dawson
“Take the cuffs off when we get close.”
Hicks indicated that Florin should shuffle across to the other side and got into the back with him. Milton closed the door and went around to the trunk. He shrugged off Florin’s heavy leather jacket and took the flick knife and stapler from his pocket. He spread the jacket out so that he could get to the lining and, working carefully, inserted the blade of the knife between it and the leather. He sliced open a small incision, just big enough for him to slide three fingers inside, took his phone from his pocket and slid it inside. He took the stapler, fed both sides of the sliced-open liner into its mouth, and stapled them together. He repeated the procedure two more times. He was happy with his handiwork when he was done.
He got back into the car and continued into the centre of the city.
#
MILTON PARKED the BMW on Embankment Place. It was an arcade of shops beneath the mass of the Hungerford railway bridge. Embankment underground station was behind them, with a Costa Coffee on the corner. The car was alongside Action Bikes and opposite a business that specialised in commercial scuba gear. The area was lit by harsh artificial lights that were fitted to the underside of the bridge. There was a stream of pedestrians disappearing into the underground station and emerging from it. A man and a woman staggered by the car, both of them obviously drunk, arm in arm to lend each other support.
“Ready?” Milton said.
“You sure about this?”
“I am.”
Milton stepped out of the car and went back to the door next to Florin. He took the knife from his pocket, held it to the window so that Florin could see it, and then opened the door. The Albanian slid out.
“Take it easy,” Milton said.
He reached into the car, collected Florin’s heavy leather jacket, and handed it to him. The big man put it on. Milton put his hand on Florin’s shoulder and guided him to the front of the car. Hicks stepped out, the small gun hidden within the folds of his open jacket.
“This way,” Milton said, nudging Florin in the back.
They set off to the south, between the pillars that supported the bridge. Florin was in the front with Milton within touching distance and Hicks just behind him and to the side. Milton didn’t expect trouble from Florin. He had seen a demonstration of what Milton was capable of, and he knew that Hicks was armed and had very good reason to bear a grudge. And he knew that he was about to be handed over to his father. The trouble—and there would be trouble—would come later.
They emerged onto the pavement at Northumberland Avenue. There was a green cabmen’s shelter on the corner, and Milton thought of the similar shelter in Russell Square where he had worked until recently. They passed the shelter and reached the double flight of steps that led up to the bridge. Milton guided Florin to the steps.
“Up.”
They ascended. There were two pedestrian bridges across the river, one each side of the old Hungerford railway bridge that ferried trains between Charing Cross and Waterloo. The bridges were both deceptively light, contrasting with the bulk of the old concrete and iron railway bridge that they enclosed. There were more people on the bridge, men and women crossing to and from the South Bank. It was busy; that was good. There were CCTV cameras, too; that was also good. The potential witnesses and the fact that everything was recorded increased the odds that the exchange would go down without incident.
They continued out across the dark waters of the Thames, looking down as a squat tug muscled three garbage-filled barges to the north, running against the tide. The Houses of Parliament were to the right and, opposite them on the other side of the river, was the floodlit wheel of the London Eye and the vast hulk of the old city hall.
Milton was alert. Florin walked with a slouch, an arm’s breadth away from him. Hicks stayed just behind.
They were a quarter of the way across when Milton saw Pasko. He was approaching them from the South Bank. His right hand was in his pocket. There was a woman ahead of him.
Nadia.
Florin straightened up and walked a little faster.
Milton reached out and took his shoulder. “Nice and easy,” he said.
They met in the middle, between two of the seven pylons that suspended the bridge.
Milton took Florin’s shoulder again. “Stop.”
Florin did as he was told. A train rumbled out of the station and headed out across the river, the lights from the carriage flickering between the metal struts of the railway bridge.
Milton looked at Nadia. She looked frightened, staring at him with a mixture of confusion and trepidation. The first time she had laid eyes on him, he had been naked, yet he had killed one man and blinded another. She knew nothing about him beyond that he was capable of moments of extreme brutality; it was reasonable that he made her anxious.
Pasko grabbed Nadia by the elbow and told her to stop. He kept his right hand in his pocket. Milton knew that he was hiding his own weapon there.
There were six feet between the two groups.
“Nadia,” Milton said, “are you okay?”
The young woman nodded.
Milton looked over at Pasko. “Let’s make this quick. And no drama. Hicks has a weapon. You have a weapon. We’re surrounded by witnesses, and there’s a camera above you.”
Pasko smiled coldly. “There will be no drama.”
“Simultaneous, then.”
“Fine.”
Pasko released Nadia.
Milton released Florin.
He stepped across the space until he was next to his father, and then he turned back and glared at Milton.
Nadia took a step and then froze, caught between Milton and Pasko.
“It’s all right,” Milton said. “You’re safe now.”
Another train thundered into the station, its brakes screeching. Milton looked back, beyond Nadia, to Pasko and Florin. He wanted this to be done. The longer they all stood here, the better the chance that something might go wrong.
“Please, Nadia. Trust me.”
She swallowed and, after another moment, she stepped toward him.
Milton reached out and gently took Nadia’s hand.
“We are not finished,” Pasko said. “This is not over.”
Milton fished into his pocket and took out Florin’s phone. “Here,” he said, holding it up so that they could see it and then tossing it over at them. Florin caught it.
“Give it to me,” Pasko said.
His son did as he was told. Pasko stepped over to the rail and dropped the phone over the side.
“Father—”
Pasko turned back to Milton. “Do you think I am a fool?” he said, his face twisted with scorn. “What was it? A tracking app?”
Milton didn’t answer.
“You do not find us. We find you.”
Pasko started to back away. Florin followed and, when the distance between them and Milton was sufficient, they turned and walked away.
“Come on,” Milton said to Nadia. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THEY MADE their way back to Florin’s BMW.
“You drive,” he said to Hicks.
He opened the door for Nadia, waited for her to get in, then went around to the other side. He lowered himself into the back so that he was next to her. She was quiet, sitting with her legs pressed together and her hands folded in her lap.
“Are you okay?” Milton asked as Hicks turned the car around and pulled away.
“Yes,” she said in a soft, careful voice. “You mentioned my brother. Is he here?”
“He’s in the country. He came to find you.”
“He said Dover. Is that right?”
Milton explained. He told her everything: about how Samir had tried to get into the country, how he had been caught and detained, and how Milton had promised to help. There was no need to mention Libya or the crossing or the drive through France to Calais. All that was important was that he was helping Samir, and that, now he had her, he wo
uld do everything he could to get them back together.
“I want to see him,” she said. “Is it possible?”
“We need to think about that,” Milton said. “You’re here illegally. I’m not sure going to an immigration centre is the best thing to do right now.”
“So what do I do?”
“You need to claim asylum.”
“How can I do that?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s helping your brother. She’ll be able to help you, too.”
The light at the junction of Villiers Street and the Strand went to red. Hicks stopped and immediately stretched across to the glove compartment and started to empty it out onto the passenger seat. There were papers, a folder with the RAC logo stamped on it, a bottle of Diet Coke. Hicks emptied everything out and then cursed under his breath.
“What is it?” Milton asked.
“Pasko. We can’t leave him out there.”
“We’re not going to.”
“And he’s not going to forget what you did.”
“I know.”
“You…” He didn’t finish the sentence, remembering that Nadia was in the back. “What you did to his son, Milton.”
“I don’t want him to forget.”
“But we don’t know where they are.” He gestured to the mess of papers and other debris on the passenger seat. “There must be something. Registration documents. Insurance. Something. Have you looked?”
“I don’t need to.”
“Why not? What do you mean?”
“Give me your phone.”
“What—”
“Give it to me.”
Hicks reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and passed it back. Milton opened up the browser and navigated to the page for iCloud. He logged into his account and opened the Find My Phone app. A map appeared. It showed the grid of roads to the south of the South Bank Centre. After a moment, a red dot was placed in the middle of the map. The dot jerked along Belvedere Road toward Waterloo Bridge.
Milton handed the phone back to Hicks.
He looked at the screen. “You’re kidding?”
The car behind them tooted its horn. The light was green.
“Best I could do on short notice. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
MILTON SAT in the front seat of the car he had stolen and looked across the road at the pub.
It was a large building on the corner of Maida Vale and Kilburn Park Road. It was detached, with a decent amount of space between it and the nearest buildings on either side. The building was set across two storeys and was deep, running back a fair distance from the street. There was a small beer garden behind railings at the front and a larger space for cars and the wheeled industrial bins to the rear. Tables were pushed up against the building along Kilburn Park Road with an A-frame that promised food and live Albanian music. Banners for BT and Sky Sports had been lashed to the railings at the Maida Vale side of the building, and a line of cars separated the wide pavement from the street. The pub had been whitewashed and the awnings painted black in an effort, perhaps, to evoke Tudor design and make it look a little older than it was; in reality, Milton guessed the building had been put up forty years ago at the longest.
Milton had parked opposite the twenty-four-hour Milad Supermarket, partially obscured by a white van that had been double-parked on the yellow lines. He had followed the GPS signal here and, as he checked his phone again, he saw that the signal was still registering from the inside of the building.
The pub was busy. Milton watched the comings and goings for an hour. There was a small group of men in the space at the front of the garden, using a fixed brick oven to barbecue meat that they ate with their beers. It wasn’t warm, yet they were outside wearing T-shirts and laughing raucously as they ate and drank and smoked.
Hicks had given Milton his phone to use, and now it rang. It was Hicks.
“It’s me,” Milton said. “How is she?”
“She’s fine.”
“Where are you?”
“On the road. There’s a place up ahead. You?”
“I’m here. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Good luck, John.”
“And you. I’ll speak to you afterwards.”
He ended the call and scrolled across to the Find My Phone app again. The red dot was where it had been before, pulsing in and out at the junction of Kilburn High Road and Maida Vale. He put the phone down on the dash and maintained his vigil, watching as the men extinguished the flame in the oven, covered the grille with a metal cloche, and then went inside.
He checked the time.
Eleven.
Last orders.
#
PASKO AND FLORIN climbed the stairs to the room at the back of the pub. The window was open, and they could hear the conversation of the drinkers at the tables along the side of the building and the sound of the traffic as it turned off and onto Maida Vale. Pasko went across to the window and glanced outside; he could see the edge of the large satellite dish that they used to get the TV channels from Eastern Europe, the back of the apartment block that faced the pub and, overhead, the blinking lights of a passenger jet as it passed below the plump moon.
Pasko hated frustration. He had lived his life with the aim of always moving forward, never stopping, like a shark. And this man—Milton—had stymied him. That could not be allowed to go uncorrected.
He clenched his fists and rested them on the sill as he looked outside, allowing the breeze to play over his face.
“Are you all right?” Florin said.
Pasko didn’t answer.
“How are we going to find him?” Florin said. “He is not an amateur, Father. You saw what he did. He blinded Hashim. He killed Llazar. He could’ve killed me.”
“It doesn’t matter. There are two of them. Only two. We have men everywhere. Someone knows who they are. And we still have leverage. The brother—they are holding him at Dover. I have a friend there. Very corrupt. We can pay to have him released into our care. If Milton cares for the girl so much, he will care that we have the brother. We will use him to flush him out.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I will drive there tomorrow.” Pasko turned back from the window. “We were lazy. We underestimated him. We will not do that again. He is my priority now. I will find him, and I will make him suffer for what he has done.”
Chapter Sixty
MIDNIGHT.
Milton checked the app one more time. The signal was where it had been for the last two hours, at the junction of Maida Vale and the Kilburn High Road.
His cellphone was still inside the pub.
The pub had emptied out over the course of the last forty minutes. Milton wondered whether it might be the sort of place where a drinker would stay after hours, but it was on a main road, and unlicensed drinking would be easy to spot by anyone who happened to be passing by.
Twenty and then thirty men, together with the occasional woman, came outside and dispersed in taxis and on foot.
The lights inside the building were switched off and the doors were closed.
Milton decided to take a closer look.
He got out of the car and stopped in the supermarket. He bought a roll of duct tape for a pound, walked down Maida Vale and turned left onto Kilburn High Road. The building to his immediate left was a five-storey Victorian block, since turned into office space. There was a line of cars parked next to the pavement, and Milton stayed behind them as he continued down the road and observed the pub from this new angle. The empty glasses had been removed from the picnic tables, the rubbish removed and the ashtrays taken inside to be emptied. The pub’s name was stencilled on the wall between two large bay windows; shutters had been pulled across the windows, with just a sliver of light visible down the point where they came together.
He walked until he was at the end of the property. The pub was next to a modern three-storey apartment block. There were cars parked in the p
arking space, next to the bins. There was a window above the bins, next to a large satellite dish. The window was open, and the room inside was lit.
Milton stood next to a Nissan SUV and watched the window for a moment. He saw movement, a man passing across it, then nothing, then a man looking up into the sky.
Pasko.
He was unmistakeable.
Milton was level with the window, and Pasko would only have been able to see him if he looked sharply to his left. He didn’t, and Milton didn’t wait long enough for him to get a second chance. He turned back until he was shielded by the edge of the building and then crossed the road between a Jaguar and a Mercedes. He paused at each of the bay windows, but the blinds were drawn too closely together and it was too dark inside for him to see anything. But it was quiet, and he was satisfied from what he had observed that the room was empty.
As far as he was able to tell, the only room that was occupied was the one on the first floor where he had seen Pasko.
The front door was substantial and almost certainly locked. It was also plainly visible from the road, and there would be innumerable witnesses if he tried to force it to get inside.
He would try the back, instead.
#
HICKS GLANCED over at Nadia.
“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, for at least the fourth time since they had started off.
“I am.” She nodded.
“You hungry?”
“Yes.”
“There are services up ahead. We’ll get something to eat and a couple of rooms for the night.”
She didn’t respond, and, as Hicks saw the signage for Medway Services up ahead, he flicked the indicator and pulled into the slow lane, then onto the slip road.
He thought about Milton. He should have been there with him. He was still sore from the beatings that he had taken from the Albanians, but every time he felt the tender bruises on his legs and buttocks or the weals across his back, it reminded him of the liberties that Pasko had taken. He would have liked to have been able to pay that back himself. More than that, and his selfish reasons aside, he didn’t like the idea that Milton was going after the Albanians alone. He knew that Milton was more than able to take care of himself, but the odds would have been better with the two of them.
