by Steve Berry
She stared at him through her tears. “I realize I messed up, Gary. It’s my fault. I take the blame.”
He wasn’t interested in blame. Only in ending the uncertainty that seemed to grow inside him by the day. He didn’t want to resent her — he loved her, she was his mother — but she wasn’t making this easy.
“Spend some time with your dad,” she said, swiping away the tears. “Enjoy yourself.”
That he would.
He was tired of fighting.
His parents divorced over a year ago, right before his dad quit the Justice Department and moved overseas. Since then his mother had dated some, but not much. He’d always wondered why not more. But that was not a subject he was comfortable talking about with her.
Seemed her business, not his.
They lived in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He attended an excellent school. His grades were not extraordinary but above average. He played baseball and basketball. He hadn’t tried a cigarette or any drugs, though opportunities for both had come his way. He’d tasted beer, wine, and some hard liquor but wasn’t sure he liked any of them.
He was a good kid.
At least he thought so.
So why was he so mad?
He was now lying on a sofa, hands tied behind his back, head sheathed in the wool cap, only his mouth exposed. The drive in the Mercedes had taken about thirty minutes. He’d been warned that if he made a sound they would gag him.
So he stayed still.
Which helped his nerves.
He heard movement, but no voices, only the faint sound of chimes in the distance. Then someone came close and sat nearby. He heard a crackle, like plastic being torn, then the sound of chewing.
He was a little hungry himself.
A smell caught his nostrils. Licorice. One of his favorites.
“You got any more of that?” he asked.
“Shut up, kid. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”
Seven
Malone awoke with a pounding headache. What was supposed to have been a simple favor had evolved into a major problem.
He blinked his eyes and focused.
His fingers found dried blood and a nasty knot to his forehead. His neck was sore from Devene’s attack. His and Gary’s travel bags were opened, their clothes strewn across the mews, the plastic bag containing Ian’s personal items still there, its contents scattered about.
He pushed himself up, his legs stiff and tired.
Where was Gary?
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure they found Ian Dunne. Even more troubling was the reach of the information network possessed by whoever they were. Somebody in an official position had given Customs clearance to allow Ian into the country. Granted, Norse and his pal were imposters, but the person or persons who’d managed to bypass Britain’s passport laws were the genuine article.
Norse had demanded a flash drive from Ian.
He had to find Gary. He’d told the boys to run. Hopefully, they were nearby, waiting until all was clear to return.
But where were they?
He checked his watch. Best he could tell he’d been down about twenty minutes. He spotted his cell phone among his clothes. Should he call the police? Or maybe Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet? No. This was his problem. One call he would not be making was to Pam. The last thing he needed was for his ex-wife to know about this. Bad enough that he once risked his own ass on a daily basis.
But to involve Gary?
That would be unforgivable.
He surveyed the mews, noting yard equipment, a couple of gas cans, and a tool bench. Rain fell beyond the open doorway. He stared out to the wet drive that led to the tree-lined side street, expecting to see both boys appear.
He should gather his clothes.
The Metropolitan Police would have to be involved.
That was the smart play.
A noise caught his attention, at the hedges separating the mews from the property next door.
Somebody was pushing through.
The boys?
To be cautious, he decided to lie back down.
He pressed his cheek to the cool cobbles and closed his eyes, cracking his lids open just enough to see.
* * *
Ian had hugged the side streets and used the storm, trees, and the fences that fronted the stylish neighborhoods for cover. It took only a few minutes for him to find the courtyard where the Mercedes had first been parked. The mews door remained open, but the car was gone.
He glanced around.
No one seemed to be in any of the surrounding houses.
He stepped into the open garage and saw the contents of both Malones’ travel bags scattered across the pavement. In the dim interior Malone lay sprawled near one wall. Ian crept over, knelt beside him, and heard labored breaths. He wanted to shake Malone awake and see if he was all right, but he hadn’t asked this man to get involved, and there was no need to involve him any further.
He searched for what he came for and found the plastic bag beneath a balled-up shirt. Apparently it had not been considered important. Why would it? Those men were looking for a computer drive. Not some books, a pocketknife, and a few other insignificant items.
He stuffed everything back into the bag and again stared at Cotton Malone. The American seemed like a decent fellow. Maybe his own father had been like him. But thanks to a worthless mother, he would never know who his father had been. He’d seen genuine concern in Malone’s eyes when he learned that Norse was not with Scotland Yard. Fear for both boys. He’d even felt a little better knowing Malone was there in the car. Not many people had ever cared about him, nor had he cared for anyone.
And this wasn’t the time to start.
Life was tough, and Cotton Malone would understand.
Or at least that’s what he told himself as he fled the mews.
* * *
Malone rose up and yelled, “Where’s Gary?”
Ian whirled and the shock on the boy’s face quickly changed to relief. “Bloody hell. I thought you were out.”
“I could see your concern. You only came back for your stuff.”
Defiance returned to the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t ask you here. I didn’t involve you. You’re not my problem.”
But a hint of resignation laced the declaration, the expression half defensive, half angry. So he asked again, “Where’s Gary?”
“Those coppers have him.”
He rose to his feet, head spinning. “They’re not police and you know that. How did they get him and not you? You’re the one they wanted.”
“I got away. He didn’t.”
He lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the shoulders. “You left him?”
“I told him to jump with me, but he wouldn’t.”
Jump?
He listened to what had happened in Little Venice, how Ian had leaped from the bridge.
“Those men have Gary,” Ian said.
He yanked the plastic bag away. “Where’s the flash drive they want?”
Ian did not reply. But what did he expect? He was just a street kid who’d learned to survive by keeping his mouth shut.
“I tell you what,” Malone said. “I’m going to let the police deal with you. Then I can find Gary.” He locked his right hand onto Ian’s left arm. “You so much as twitch and I’ll knock the living daylights out of you.”
And he meant it.
He was more than mad. He was furious. At this delinquent and at himself, his anger a crippling mixture of frustration and fear. He’d almost been shot thanks to this kid, and his son was now in danger.
He told himself to calm down.
“What do you plan to do with me?” Ian asked.
“You’re in my custody.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Good thing. Because, if you were, me and you would be having a much more physical chat.”
He saw the boy understood.
“One last chance,” he said. “Why are
those men after you?”
“I was there, in Oxford Circus, that day, a month ago, when the man died.”
Eight
Ian stood at the end of the walkway, beneath a lighted WAY OUT sign, and surveyed the crowded train platform.
Who would be next?
His first choice was an older woman in a gray tweed coat who hobbled forward like a dog with a crippled leg. She lugged her purse in the crook of her arm, its gold catch loose, the flap snapping open with each labored step. The invitation was irresistible, and for a moment he thought she might be a decoy. Police sometimes baited the station. But after a few moments of careful observation he concluded she was genuine, so he worked his way through the rush-hour commuters to where she stood.
Oxford Circus was his favorite locale. The Bakerloo, Central, and Victoria Underground lines all converged there. Every morning and evening tens of thousands of people streamed in and out, most headed to the trendy shops and stores that lined Oxford and Bond streets a hundred feet above. Many, like the dowager he now spied, were weighed down with shopping bags — easy marks for someone with the skills he’d spent five of his fifteen years of life perfecting.
It helped that few considered him a threat. He was barely five feet tall with thick blond hair that he kept trimmed with a pair of scissors stolen last year from Harrods. He was actually a fairly proficient barber and considered hairstyling as a possible career — one day, after his street time was behind him. For now, the skill allowed him to maintain an image strangers found inviting. Thankfully, the city’s charity shops offered him a varied choice in dress at little or no cost. He liked corduroy pants and buttondown shirts, a carefree look reminiscent of one of his favorite stories, Oliver Twist. An ideal image for an enterprising pickpocket.
His Scottish mother named him Ian, the only thing she gave him besides life. She disappeared when he was three months old and an English aunt took her place and bestowed him with the last name of Dunne. He’d not seen that aunt in three years, ever since he escaped out a second-story window and dissolved into the streets of London where he’d survived through a combination of charity and criminality.
The police knew him. They’d arrested him several times in other stations and once at Trafalgar Square. But never had he stayed in custody. There’d been three foster homes, attempts to stabilize him, but he’d run away from them all. His age worked in his favor, as did his plight. Pity was an easy emotion to manipulate.
He approached the old woman using the crowd for cover. His methodology was the result of much practice, a simple matter to lightly bump into her.
“Sorry,” he said, adding a quick smile.
She instantly warmed to him and returned the friendly gesture. “That’s okay, young man.”
The three seconds it took for the bump to register and for her to respond were all he needed to slip his hand into her purse and palm what he could. He immediately shielded his withdrawn hand under the flap of his jacket and slipped deeper into the crowd. A quick look back confirmed that the woman was unaware of his invasion. He threaded his way out of the gathering throng and stole a glance at what he held.
A small maroon cylinder with a black plastic cap.
He’d hoped it was a cigarette lighter, or something else he could pawn or sell. Instead, it was a canister of pepper spray. He’d managed to lift one or two in the past. He shook his head in disgust and pocketed the object.
His gaze found a second opportunity.
The man was maybe fifty, dressed in a wool jacket. The flap on the right-hand coat pocket, folded inward, offered an opportunity. He’d obtained some of his choicest loot from the pockets of smartly dressed men. This particular target was tall and gangly with a beak-like nose. He was facing away, toward the tracks, and repeatedly studied his watch, his attention alternating between that and an electronic billboard that announced the train was less than a minute away.
A billow of air puffed from the blackened cavern, followed by a rumble that steadily intensified. People massed forward toward the edge, prepared to rush into the cars once the doors opened and the electronic voice warned them to mind the gap.
His second opportunity joined the crowd and managed to place himself where he would be one of the first to enter. This was the time of maximum distraction. Everyone was tired and eager to get home. Their guard was down.
His first opportunity had garnered nothing.
He was hoping for better this time.
He made it to the smartly dressed man and, without delay, slipped his right hand into the jacket pocket. A jostle of bodies provided the perfect camouflage. His fingers wrapped around a rectangular piece of plastic and he withdrew his arm at the precise instant the train rattled into view.
Then two hands shoved the smartly dressed man from the platform into the path of the oncoming train.
Screams echoed through the chamber.
A dry screech of brakes grew to a roaring thunder.
Hydraulics hissed.
Voices rose in disbelief.
Ian suddenly realized he was standing on the platform with whatever he’d slipped from the dead man’s pocket still in his hand, exposed for all to see. Yet no one was paying him any attention — except a tall bloke, with frizzy, ash-gray hair and a matching mustache.
Then he realized.
The hands that had pushed the man off the platform might have belonged to this demon.
Their gazes locked.
Frizzy reached for what Ian held and for some reason he did not want him to have it.
He yanked his hand back and turned to flee.
Two arms instantly wrapped around him from behind. He slammed the sole of his foot onto toes, his heel crushing into thin leather.
Frizzy cried out and released his grip.
Ian raced forward, shoving people aside, heading for the way out.
No one stopped him. The crowd’s attention was on the train and the man who’d fallen onto the tracks. Doors to the cars were opening and people began to stream out onto the platform.
Ian kept edging his way forward. He couldn’t tell if Frizzy was following. This foray into Oxford Circus had turned crazy and all he wanted was to leave.
He found the exit and started up the tiled passage.
Few people were there, most still lingering on the platform. He heard whistles ahead and quickly stepped aside as two coppers raced by him on the way down. He didn’t yet know what he’d managed to snare from the pocket before the man flew off the platform, so he took a moment to study the object.
A computer flash drive.
He shook his head. Worthless. Dinner would have to be found in one of the free missions tonight. And he’d so been looking forward to pizza.
He stuffed the drive into his pocket and rushed for the escalator. At the top he passed through the turnstile using a travel card he’d pilfered earlier from a man in Chelsea. He pushed through dingy glass doors and emerged on the sidewalk into a steady drizzle. Chilly air forced him to zip his jacket and plunge both hands into his pockets. He’d lost his gloves two days ago somewhere on the East End. He hustled down the crowded sidewalk and turned the corner, passing newspaper vendors and cigarette booths, his eyes on the uneven pavement.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a friendly voice said.
He glanced up as Frizzy casually wrapped an arm around his shoulders and diverted him toward a car beside the curb. The tip of a knife blade came beneath his jacket and pressed sharp against the soft flesh of his thigh.
“Nice and quiet,” the man whispered, “or we’ll see how you bleed.”
Three steps and they reached the open rear door of a dark-colored Bentley. He was shoved inside and Frizzy climbed in, sitting across from him in a facing rear seat.
The door shut and the car wheeled from the curb.
Ian kept his hands inside his jacket pockets and sat rigid.
His attention focused on the other man sitting beside Frizzy. Older, wearing a charcoal-gray sui
t with a waistcoat. He sat straight and stared at Ian through a pair of green eyes flecked with specks of brown that seemed to say that he was not somebody accustomed to disagreement. A thick fleece of white hair covered his head and spilled down onto a creased brow.
“You have something I want,” the older man said in a low, throaty voice, the words perfectly formed.
“I don’t do business with people I don’t know.”
The aloof stare of an aristocrat dissolved into a mirthful grin. “I don’t do business with street urchins. Give me the drive.”
“What’s so important about it?”
“I don’t explain myself, either.”
A cold bead of sweat slid down his back. Something about the two men who faced him signaled desperation.
And that he didn’t like.
So he lied. “I threw it away.”
“Petty thieves, like you, throw nothing away.”
“I don’t keep junk.”
“Kill him,” the older man said.
Frizzy lunged forward, the knife drawn back, ready to thrust.
“Okay. Okay,” Ian said. “I have it.”
The older man’s right hand halted Frizzy’s attack.
The Bentley started to brake in traffic.
Other vehicles could be seen outside the moisture-laden windows slowing for a road signal apparently ahead. Rush hour in London, and nobody moved fast. He quickly reviewed his options and determined they were limited. Frizzy still held the knife and kept a close watch. The other man was equally attentive, and the confines of the car did not allow much room to maneuver.
He withdrew his left hand and displayed the drive. “This what you want?”
“There’s a good boy,” the older man said.
Then Ian’s right hand telegraphed the next move, and he almost smiled.
His fingers curled around the pepper spray. He’d thought it useless. Now it was priceless.
The older man reached for the drive.
Ian whipped out his right hand and sprayed.
Both men howled, pawing their eyes in a vain attempt to relieve the pain.
“Kill him, now,” the older man ordered.
Frizzy, eyes closed, dropped the knife and reached beneath his coat.
