He was approaching Hyde Park Corner now, and still nobody had made eye contact. Surely he would find someone before he got back to his hotel. Perhaps the usual crowd of tourists that milled around outside the Hard Rock Café? He didn’t want to end the evening with nothing.
Frowning, he walked on towards the grand old hotels that lined the end of the street. A short, middle-aged man stood between a pair of empty tables in a roped-off section at the front of one of them. The red ember of a small cigar glowed in one hand, and his head was bowed as he studied a phone held in the other. The man smiled to himself and straightened, raising the cigar towards his bearded mouth. Inclining his head slightly, he peered over the top of his glasses, his gaze resting on Naysmith for just a second before looking back to the phone.
He would be the one.
Naysmith allowed his pace to slow very slightly as he focused on the figure, just a few feet away from him now, taking in each detail. Late forties or early fifties. Five foot ten, average build, with wispy brown hair swept back from his face, and a bushy, salt-and-pepper goatee beard. Small eyes peered down through delicate, thin-framed spectacles perched on a pointed nose.
He had on a beautifully tailored jacket and expensive-looking shoes, but wore a dark woollen sweater vest over his shirt. A smart leather shoulder bag lay on the table at his side.
And then Naysmith was past him. Closing his eyes, he committed the man to memory – the shape of his ears, the slight double chin. Picking up his pace again, he walked on, casually glancing at his watch to make certain of the time. Exactly 8.16 p.m. He smiled to himself as he followed the pavement back round towards his own hotel.
34
Wednesday, 29 August
Naysmith walked across the old entrance lobby and passed through double doors into the beautiful art deco hall of the lounge. Beneath the high, arched ceiling, a central aisle of chequered marble stretched out from the street entrance to the sweeping curve of the bar at the far end of the room, where steps led up to the hotel reception area beyond. Comfortable sofas and padded wicker chairs surrounded the low, linen-shrouded tables, while Japanese murals filled the spaces between the columns on the walls and cream-shaded lamps nestled on tables beneath the large potted palms.
He took a table off to one side of the bar, his seat facing into the room so that he had a good view of the doors. The hushed murmur of conversation wafted across the room as he sank back into what was an extraordinarily comfortable chair. A raised eyebrow summoned the waiter, who approached with a measured step and nodded politely.
‘Sir?’
‘I’d like a gin and tonic, please.’
‘Certainly,’ the waiter nodded. ‘We have Caorunn, Plymouth, Bombay Sapphire, or London Number One.’
‘Excellent,’ Naysmith smiled, relishing the choice. ‘Caorunn, I think.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Naysmith watched him walk over to the bar, then relaxed back into the soft upholstery of his seat, gazing up to admire the beautiful stained-glass ceiling and noting the apparent absence of security cameras. There were worse places to wait for someone.
The bar filled up steadily as the evening progressed, the volume of conversation and laughter rising to overcome the meandering jazz that drifted down from somewhere overhead. At first, Naysmith read a newspaper to pass the time. Later, he amused himself by exchanging glances with an elegant brunette in her forties on the other side of the room. Toying with her drink, she artfully smiled at him while her husband stared at the waitresses, and offered a tiny, apologetic shrug when he finally led her away. Naysmith acknowledged her with a mischievous wink, then returned his attention to the doors.
It was a little after nine thirty when his target appeared.
At the far end of the room, the double doors swung open and two figures walked in, deep in conversation. Naysmith gazed across at them, his expression rigidly neutral but his eyes alert. Small glasses, goatee beard, and that curious sweater vest visible under the jacket. Definitely the same man.
As the pair approached, Naysmith calmly folded away his newspaper and placed a twenty-pound note under his half-empty glass. Easing back his chair, he stood up and yawned, allowing the two men time to make their way across the room. As they drew level with him, he took one last glance at the paper, then abandoned it and turned slowly towards the stairs, falling in just behind the two men as they passed.
‘. . . but you know what? Their stock’s gonna take a big hit if they don’t get out of that market soon.’ The target had a West Coast accent.
‘And did you tell him that?’ The other man was younger, taller, with short, dark hair. He spoke with a slight Scottish accent, and held the door open for Naysmith as they passed through into the brightly lit reception area and walked over to the lifts.
‘I called him like three times but he just wouldn’t accept it,’ the bearded man shrugged, pressing the button to go up. ‘It’s actually a shame because they had some stellar growth in the last few years.’
The three men waited as the doors slid open, then stepped into the lift. Naysmith went last, his eyes casually registering the single CCTV camera above his head. The younger man pressed the 5 button for himself before turning to the target.
‘It’s four, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Thanks,’ the bearded man nodded.
‘Four for me too,’ Naysmith murmured, moving to stand slightly behind and to the left of the target.
The young man pressed the polished metal 4 button and stood back as the doors slid together.
‘Still, I thought tonight was very positive,’ he observed as the lift started to move.
‘It sure was,’ the target chuckled. He was wearing the bag over his left shoulder. It was clearly expensive – soft black leather with reinforced gunmetal edges. A small plastic tag swung on a miniature leather loop, and Naysmith leaned back against the mirrored rear wall of the lift, his head inclined as he watched it.
An American Airlines executive-flyer logo, with what looked like a membership number embossed on it, along with a name: MR D. LENNOX.
‘Anyways,’ Lennox was saying, ‘it was useful to meet their people, and I think there may well be something we can do together.’
Naysmith straightened, studying the man’s clothes, his bag . . . and above all his bearing. Mr D. Lennox was clearly a wealthy man. The wristwatch, the executive-flyer tag – innocuous details that all spoke quietly of money. Naysmith recognised them but wasn’t impressed. Money was power, but only of a sort. What he did was more powerful, more absolute. And when the time came, and he stood face to face with this wealthy man, all the money in the world wouldn’t be enough to save him.
‘Well, I guess this is me.’ Lennox watched the lift doors slide open and turned to nod at his colleague. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘See you in the morning,’ the younger man replied.
Naysmith brushed past him, following Lennox out of the lift, his feet sinking noiselessly into the deep blue carpet as the doors slid shut behind them. The corridor curved away to the left and right, broad deco uplighters creating pools of soft illumination on the ceiling.
No cameras here. Good.
Naysmith slowed in the shadows between two of the lights, pretending to tap something into his phone. His head was inclined forward, but his eyes peered out beneath the brows, looking along the corridor. He had to let the target get ahead of him, so that he could see which room he was staying in. And he had to do it without appearing suspicious himself.
Lennox walked a little further, then paused, fumbling in his pocket for his key card. Naysmith began to move again, calmly sliding the phone back into his jacket and picking up his pace as he heard the click of the lock. They were only a few yards apart as the door opened and Lennox passed inside.
For a second, Naysmith felt the urge to run forward, to burst in through the slowly closing door and overpower his victim in a sudden explosion of violence. But he mastered the compulsion, maintai
ning his relaxed pace, his disinterested expression.
He drew level with the door just as it clicked shut, continuing past it with nothing more than a sidelong glance to confirm the room number.
408.
Walking on, he went to a door at the end of the corridor, feigned searching for a lost room key, then retraced his steps back towards the lift.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
The fact that his target was a business traveller meant he would need to act quickly. Lennox was probably visiting from the US, and would have to be eliminated before he could return home. But how long would that be?
And then there was the problem of access.
The lift was much too risky – a confined space with CCTV coverage, but also the unpredictable delay in waiting for it to arrive if he needed to leave in a hurry. He glanced over his shoulder, then nudged a side door open with his elbow and slipped into the stairwell. Moving slowly, calmly, his eyes swept the space above him, but there were no cameras to be seen. He trotted down the broad, shallow steps, the carpet deadening his footfalls. This was much better – a discrete way to and from the fourth floor.
He counted the flights down, emerging to one side of the reception area, close to the hotel’s rear entrance. Adopting the confident air of a paying guest, he walked over to the glass doors and slipped out into the cold night air. A claustrophobic little back street sloped down between the tall buildings, but he could see a four-way junction, just a few yards up to the left, that presented several different ways to leave the area.
Naysmith smiled. It was important to have options. He took one last look up at the hotel behind him, then turned, walked to the corner and disappeared.
35
Thursday, 30 August
Naysmith moved quietly, preserving the hushed tone of the room as he stepped around the bed, laying out the things he would need. A strange peace descended on him as he prepared – the calm before the storm. Everything was ready, but he checked each item once more to be sure. There would be no margin for error, no time for a second attempt.
Surveying the items laid out on the bed, he nodded with satisfaction. It had been quite a challenge, getting everything together so quickly, but he had done it.
Clothing had been the biggest issue – usually he had the luxury of time, with plenty of opportunities to source anonymous, untraceable garments from different supermarkets – but time was tight on this one. He’d briefly considered wearing his own clothes, or perhaps even stealing a bag from one of the other hotel guests, but that would have been a dangerous compromise; he had to act quickly without being careless. In the end, he’d remembered the big sporting retailer near Piccadilly Circus and reached it before it closed for the night. Under the glaring strip lights, hunting quickly through the crowded racks of discounted football shirts, he picked up a nondescript tracksuit, T-shirt and trainers – all suitably generic items, all paid for with cash.
As he’d approached the sleepy cashier, his gaze had rested briefly on some cellophane-wrapped baseball bats and a rack of substantial-looking golf clubs. He’d hesitated, weighing up the possibilities, but they were memorable items to travel with, and difficult to conceal. After some thought, and needing to find something that could serve, he’d picked up a long black umbrella with a steel-tipped spike.
Better.
Rubber gloves, a packet of wet wipes and a selection of plastic bags had come from a Metro supermarket on the way back through Mayfair, and everything would be stowed in a small fabric bag with ‘I London’ printed on it, purchased from a street vendor. Backpacks and holdalls attracted the wrong sort of attention on the capital’s streets these days, but obvious tourists were virtually invisible.
Walking thoughtfully back towards the hotel, he’d gone over his plan, testing and refining it, working out every eventuality. His hand gripped the umbrella, dragging the steel tip along the pavement beside him, scraping it, sharpening it. Everything was ready.
Now, he walked out onto the pavement and looked up at the steel grey sky of an overcast London morning, savouring the swell of pent-up anticipation. His thoughts flitted momentarily to Lennox, and he pictured the man lying in bed, resting as his final minutes bled quietly away, blissfully unaware of the abrupt end that was closing in on him.
A powerful man made powerless.
Naysmith smiled to himself and set off, melting into the early-morning pedestrians. Men and women cradling their coffee cups, insulated by their iPods, eyes downcast as they hurried along. Nobody would notice him; nobody would remember him, a single face in the crowd.
He took a roundabout route through Mayfair, winding his way around several back alleys so that he could approach the target’s hotel from the opposite direction. A black taxi rattled past him as he turned the corner onto the narrow tarmac of Brick Street. Ahead of him, he could see the rear entrance of the hotel and he slowed his pace, watching the single uniformed figure emerge to place a pedestal sign beside the carpeted steps before returning inside. The glass doors glinted as they swung shut.
Time to go.
Naysmith quickly covered the distance and walked briskly up the carpeted steps. Pushing it open with his forearm, he passed through the glass side door and crossed the lobby with his head slightly forward and away from the reception area he knew lay just to his left. He measured his steps carefully, deliberately. He absolutely must not hurry. Pace and body language were the secret to going unnoticed.
Casually, he made his way round the corner, moving as though towards the lift, but turned quickly, nudging through the door to the stairwell with his elbow.
And now he paused, allowing the door to swing shut behind him, allowing his racing pulse to slow a little, holding his breath as he listened. But there was nothing. No sound. Nobody was following him.
He was in.
Leaning on the central banister, he gazed up through the sharp angles of the flights of stairs above him, then began to climb, slowly and silently. Occasional bumps, muffled voices and the regular hum of the nearby lifts echoed through the stairwell, but he reached the fourth floor without encountering anyone.
Almost there.
He opened the bag and drew out the gloves first. He hadn’t worn them before, to avoid attracting attention to himself, but now he pulled them on carefully, forcing himself to take the extra seconds, making sure they were on straight, fitting snugly to his fingers. Only once they were on did he unwrap the clear plastic bag that had protected the handle of the umbrella from fingerprints, screwing it up tightly and jamming it into his pocket. Lastly, he drew out two more bags and slipped them over his shoes. The fit was inexact but it would do – he knew that he couldn’t afford to track blood through the hotel corridors and the bags could be discarded if required, leaving his soles clean. Stepping to one side, he studied the floor to ensure he hadn’t dropped anything, then folded the top of the fabric bag over on itself. Testing the feel of the umbrella in his now gloved hand, he took a deep breath and listened once more.
Ready.
Shouldering the door open, Naysmith stepped out onto the fourth-floor corridor and turned left. He walked quickly but calmly, counting the numbers on the doors, adrenalin building steadily until he stood outside room 408.
Bowing his head, he took a last breath, a heartbeat, forcing his shoulders to be loose, ready. He looked up at the door. Was there a chain? Maybe, but the chances were good that it wouldn’t be latched in place, and as long as Lennox didn’t suspect anything was wrong there was no reason for him to chain the door.
He took a step forward, measuring his position, then raised a gloved hand and knocked.
‘Housekeeping.’
His voice sounded very loud in the carpeted stillness of the hotel, but it was necessary to explain the knock. Leaning forward, he exhaled slowly onto the tiny spyhole in the door, misting the glass, then bowed his head in readiness.
He pictured Lennox, just a few feet away, hearing the knock, turning and moving towards the do
or. The rubber gloves squeaked as his fingers tightened their grip, holding the umbrella in a low, two-handed stance like a spear. His feet were planted in a well-braced position, ready to thrust forward, to burst open the door and knock his victim back into the room.
Any second now . . .
But there was no sound from inside, only the beat of his pulse.
Frowning, he knocked again, louder this time.
‘Housekeeping.’
And waited. Again, nothing.
A cold knot of doubt began to grow in his stomach.
He knocked once more, leaning forward to remist the spyhole, the gleaming metal tip of the umbrella hovering just below the handle of the door.
At last, he heard a sound – movement, indistinct – but it was coming from another doorway, further along the corridor.
Shit.
Stifling a snarl, Naysmith spun on his heel and strode quickly back towards the lift. Pushing through the door to the stairwell, he paused for a moment, leaning against the wall as he tore the bags from his shoes and peeled the rubber gloves from his hands. Dropping everything into the fabric bag, he jogged quickly down the broad steps, his movements hastened by frustration.
Where was Lennox?
On the ground floor, he walked swiftly out of the rear entrance and onto the street . . .
. . . but it didn’t matter if anyone saw him now. Nobody cared. As he stood in the morning light, he felt the crash of anticlimax, as though the whole world had been holding its breath, but had now lost interest in him. He had done nothing. Accomplished nothing.
Knuckles whitening around the handle of the umbrella, he strode angrily along the back street, turning the corner. Ahead of him stood a red telephone box, one of the traditional ones that tourists liked to photograph themselves beside, despite the windows being plastered with cards advertising call girls. Gripping the handle, Naysmith hauled open the door and stepped inside, insulating himself from the noise of the city.
Eye Contact Page 20
