"I first noticed the movement of money, through an account at CBJs. Large sums are being laundered from the trade of Aztec grave goods. Someone has access to unknown burial grounds in Mexico."
"And the money is being used for?" asked Jameson.
"No idea," said Farley. "It's just accumulating at the moment. We traced the movements to a banker and put a watcher team on him."
"What makes you think we have a Code Z?" asked Jameson.
"The people who bought the grave goods. Some just had breakdowns but others. . . ." Farley shrugged and pushed a London Evening Standard clipping over to Jameson. It read "Islington dad slaughters baby twins and partner before cutting his own throat."
"There was something else," said Farley. "One of the watchers disappeared, a young woman. She turned up in the Thames, drained of blood."
"The banker?" said Jameson.
"He's taken to working at home during the day and only comes into the office after dark," said Farley.
"So he's been possessed by a sucker. The best time to take him would be at midday, when he's torpid, at his home. Why are you briefing us? Karla is also . . . not at her best in daylight." Jameson smiled at her."
"Oh, I agree with your analysis, Major Jameson. But we don't know where he currently lives."
"The dead watcher," said Jameson.
"Must have followed him to his new lair, yes. We do not want to risk any more watchers so you will have to take him at night when he leaves the office. He uses a laptop; we want the hard drive."
Farley produced a picture. "We also want him destroyed." He looked at Karla. "Will that present you with a conflict? You are of a type."
"He is not of me," said Karla.
Farley looked at Jameson, who shrugged. He was not exactly sure what Karla meant but there would be little point in asking her. If she wanted to tell them then she would, cross questioning her would be unproductive.
"This laptop has software synched to CBJ's communications. It will tell you when the banker goes online.I suggest you pick him up when he leaves the office."
"Someone will have to shut down the flow of artefacts at source," said Jameson.
"That is in hand and none of your concern," said Farley, pompously. "The Texas office is sending in a team."
"Oh really, rather them than me. Aztec blood magic is nasty." Jameson shuddered. "Who are the poor saps assigned to that piece of fun?"
"I believe Pitts has taken the job on," said Farley.
Jameson had met Pitts, a tough, slow talking Texan, who he remembered as a first rate shot. "Best of British luck, mate." He whispered a quiet blessing.
"If there's nothing more?" Farley snapped the lid of the laptop down when no one answered. "I'll see myself out," he said, with what could only be described as relief.
****
The sun was setting as the Jag headed north up the South Circular. The Pagoda at Kew Gardens stood out against the setting sun. The sky was a streak of red as the light filtered through the pollution of twenty million people. Jameson switched on the car player as they crossed the river. Spookily it selected When the sun goes down, the Arctic Monkeys hit. The player had been selecting eerily appropriate music lately when he drove with Karla on board. He suspected he had a "a god in the machine,"—or at least a small demon in the chip.
"They said it changes when the sun goes down, over the river going out of town."
The song was about Sheffield but it could be London or any British city. The Monkeys sang how the streets change when the sun goes down and the day people hurry home to their TV dinners and suburban warmth of their double-glazed, centrally heated lives. The night people come out. The girls with pinched faces shivering in skirts that are too short and blouses that are too thin. Housewives that need a bit extra to pay the lekky bill, addicts who owe their dealer or just students whose loans have run out. And then there are the punters, the middle aged, middle management, middle class, middle of the road men slowing down their company Ford Mondeos and Vauxhall Vectras to walking pace, kerb-crawling so that they could assess the talent and hire a friend for an hour. Jameson reflected that he and Karla were in no position to cast stones. They too were of the dark, people as black as night.
Over the river he connected with the A4, to follow it into The City. The player seemed to favour the Monkeys tonight.
"All you people are vampires, all your stories are stale."
Jameson killed the autoselector and manually restricted the machine to old sixties numbers. It retaliated with Waterloo Sunset. He sighed and let it run. The damn machine was trying to tell him something.
Relying on his diplomatic plates, Jameson parked on the double yellow lines opposite CBJs. He plugged his iPAQ in to the car's power supply and jiggled with the software that he had downloaded from the laptop.
"Yeah, our target is definitely in there, doing whatever merchant bankers do to earn their million quid bonuses."
"A million pounds sounds such a great deal of money," said Karla. "They used to run the whole country on less than that."
"Yah, well. Some day let me explain inflation to you. I'm going to get some sleep. Watch that display and tell me if anything changes."
Jameson pushed the seat back and propped himself against the door. He couldn't get comfortable but must have dozed because Karla was shaking him awake. "He's coming outside."
"What? Why didn't you wake me earlier when he logged off? Oh, I see. Bloody computers." According to his iPAQ the banker was still online. Karla gestured to a shadowy figure getting into a BMW. He carried a computer case. "Are you sure that's him, Karla?" She did not answer. "Yes, of course you're sure. You can feel him, can't you?"
The Beamer pulled out of the bay and Jameson followed. The banker drove steadily through the streets east and north, turning into smaller and smaller side streets. Soon they were driving through dimly lit narrow alleys. Jameson hung back as far as he could to avoid detection. Every so often, he changed the pattern of the light array on the front of the Jag, to make it look like a different vehicle in the banker's rear view mirror.
The BMW stopped outside a run down warehouse. "That's odd," said Jameson, pulling in. "I thought all these old buildings had been pulled down years ago."
The banker locked the Beamer and vanished down the side of the warehouse. "Come on Karla, we are losing him."
"No," she said. "I know where he is going. Follow close to me."
She followed after the banker. There was a narrow footpath between two buildings. Jameson could hear footsteps in the distance but the lighting was terrible. Karla pushed on. The pavement gave way to cobblestones. Jameson just hated walking on cobblestones. They turned your ankles with every step. As they went deeper into the alley, the buildings closed in on both sides.
"I don't know why they have bothered to put up lights disguised as Victorian gas lamps," said Jameson. "It's not as if this was a prime tourist site. Mind, you could make a great theme park here. See the Whitechapel ripper murders re-enacted," he said theatrically.
Curls of fog drifted along the alley. "Fog, in London?" said Jameson, in astonishment. "I don't remember that being forecast." London was a dry city. Fog was as rare as snow.
Jameson felt that he was on a film set. "Those imitation Victorian gas lights, Karla," he said. "They aren't really imitation, are they?"
"No," she said. "This is a special place for my kind. You must stay close to me, Jameson or I will lose you."
Jameson heard piano music up ahead through the mist. They entered a small square with a dirt floor. An old pub lined one side. A door opened spilling lamplight out. A man in a top hat pulled a giggling woman in a Victorian dress after him. They kissed and made their way unsteadily out of the square.
"This way," said Karla, pulling Jameson after her.
As they left, Jameson heard a woman scream behind him. He turned to look.
"No!" She warned, pulling him back. "Here things are seldom what they seem." She walked on to a cul de sac wi
th another Old London pub at the end. Jameson went to push the door open but Karla stopped him, one hand on his chest. "We have to blend in. In there, you belong to me. You walk directly behind me. You obey me without question. I won't be able to protect you if you don't." There was a pleading element to her voice that he had not heard before.
He touched her face lightly with his fingers. "You're the boss. I'll follow your lead."
They entered.
Inside was a twenty-first-century nightclub, with neon lights, chrome fittings and giant fish tanks. Modern rock hammered from hidden speakers so loud that you could feel it in your chest. Jameson couldn't understand why the sound did not penetrate outside. She walked down a corridor and out onto an open warehouse-sized area. In the centre was a dance floor
Karla found them a table just off the dance floor. She held out her hand to him and clicked her fingers. Her lips made a small gesture. Taking the hint he pulled out the Dunhills. She leaned forward and he put one in her mouth and then one in his own. Jameson had an old battered steel lighter that he had used in the Guards. It ran on petrol so could be recharged from the nearest Land Rover wherever he happened to be based.
Karla leaned forward so could light her. "The target is sitting at a table on your left."
Jameson lit his own cigarette before glancing casually around the room. The banker was sitting with two men, well, two man-sized things. He had the case open and was trading something.
"Yeah?" A waitress in a 1950s usherette costume appeared at their table and chewed gum.
"Malt whiskey, two large ones," said Karla, without consulting him.
"That'll be eighteen quid," the waitress said, shifting the gum around.
"Pay her twenty," said Karla.
Jameson handed over a twenty-pound note.
"Gee thanks," said the waitress, with total contempt, before flouncing off.
Karla shrugged. "They can't get the staff these days."
A blonde in an exquisite evening gown sleazed up to their table. She drew deep on a cigarette holder and blew the smoke to the ceiling. "'Lo. Karla. I'd heard you were losing your mind, darling."
"I wonder who starts these rumours," said Karla. "You look well, Rosanna, considering your age."
The two women planted false smiles on their faces and air kissed at least two feet apart. Rosanna stood right in front of Jameson and stared at him. She took him by the chin and moved his head from side to side. "You have a new pet, I see. You do collect waifs and strays, don't you? Mind you, this one's rather cute. I wouldn't mind trying him myself." She parted her lips to show elongated canines.
Jameson let his jacket fall open far enough to show his bolt pistol and grinned back, showing his teeth. They locked eyes.
"He has spirit, Karla. I think he could be dangerous." Rosanna touched his face again. "He has strong bonds to you. I don't understand, magic is involved."
Karla seized her hard by the wrist and pulled her hand away. "I don't share my possessions. You know that, Rosanna. They're too fragile and you like to play rough."
The blonde smiled enigmatically, blew more smoke and slinked off without another word. Jameson checked out the banker. He was locked in some interminable negotiation. His briefcase was open and the laptop was inside. The waitress brought the drinks. Jameson took a sip. It was good stuff but he couldn't quite place it.
The music poured around them again. The Kaiser Chiefs opened with Every day I love you less and less. "Come on," said Karla. "I want to dance."
"I can't believe once you and me did sex."
She strutted to the dance floor in a walk that made Jerry Hall seem introverted. Jameson was a pretty good dancer. He would not win many marks for elegance but he was fit and strong. But Karla was just incredible and she exploited the driving beat of the band with great skill. Her body seemed to bend in ways unknown to man. She danced as if she had not signed up to the law of gravity.
"It makes me sick to think of you undressed."
In the end, Jameson gave up trying to match her and let her use him the way a pole dancer uses the pole. When the song ended, she draped herself on him, wrapping one leg around his.
"I thought you said that we had to be inconspicuous," said Jameson.
"No, I said that we had to blend in," said Karla. "We are blending beautifully, my pet."
Then Katie Melua sang how the man with the power who was a charmer with a snake took her half way up the Hindu Kush to show her things she had never seen.
Karla held her arms out straight, palm up, and rested them on his shoulders. Then she undulated against him. Jameson kept his mind on the job and watched the banker. He leaned forward and whispered in Karla's ear. "Matey is leaving, so we need to follow. After your performance, what could be more natural than we should leave? But I warn you that I will definitely shoot you if you try to carry me out over your shoulder."
She laughed. The first time he had heard her laugh. She was recovering fast.
They exited, looking unhurried but covering ground quickly. "Okay, Karla, he's on his own. Pick a place to take him."
They followed the banker through the archaic streets, the fog allowing them to keep close. After some minutes, Karla accelerated up to the man and kicked his legs away. Before he hit the ground, she punched him twice more. Once he was down, she put the boot in. It was quick, clinical, and he never laid a finger on her. When Jameson reached the scene, he kicked the briefcase away. Taking the rail pistol from under his arm, he fired one wooden bolt into the banker's heart. The gun thumped, but the slow acceleration of the bolt compared to a bullet made the kick manageable. The banker collapsed in upon himself and his body flowed into dust.
Karla's eyes flashed metallic green and her lips parted to show long canines. She shook with excitement. She pushed Jameson up against a wall and moved her mouth towards him. He jerked back, shocked. She hissed and her eyes flashed. "So I'm good enough to fight for you but not good enough to kiss."
He had the rail pistol between them, muzzle jammed into her heart. She looked down at it. "If you're going to shoot then shoot," she said, calling his bluff. Then she kissed him savagely on the mouth. A tooth cut his lip and she watched the trickle of blood with fascination. She put out her tongue and licked it, shuddering at the sensation. He still did not fire.
"Karla, it's not that you're not attractive," he said. "But we put a love geas on you. I can't take advantage. It wouldn't be right. . . ."
"I know what you did," she said. She let him go and walked away from him. He picked up the briefcase and hurried after her. It seemed to him that her hips swayed far more than was strictly necessary.
The way back seemed much shorter. The streets quickly normalised. They had barely started when Jameson saw the Jaguar on the other side of the road. Somehow they seemed to have come round in a circle. He turned to look back, to see from where they had come, but behind was a high brick wall. He went to check but the wall was real. Karla had reached the car. Jameson took out his electronic card, but before he could trigger it she put her hand on the Jag's roof. It made a friendly chirrup and flashed its amber lights, the doors unlocking with a clunk. How the hell had she done that? That damned car had taken a shine to her.
When he reached the Jag she was already inside. She had dropped the back of her seat down and was curled up on it like a kitten. She flashed metallic green eyes at him when he got in and stretched her legs out. His mouth was suddenly very dry.
****
Farley stood at the front of the small lecture theatre operating the PowerPoint display. "The information on the lap top was most helpful," said Farley. "We have an address. The distribution centre for the Aztec grave goods is a storage unit in Hackney. You go in, see what you can find, and bug the place."
"Why aren't we doing this in daylight?" said Gaston. "Where there's one sucker there could be more."
"The place is full of workman during the day. The streets are awash with people. It isn't viable, Gaston, it has to be at night. Yo
u do have back up in the event of a Code Z incident." Farley waved vaguely in Karla's direction. "You know her capabilities."
"Oh yes," said Gaston, softly. "We know what she can do."
They all rode in a Commission battered transit van with the logo of a plumber on the side. These motors looked rough but were mechanically sound. Karla amused herself by playing with the combat team. She yawned and showed her teeth. The troops grasped their rail guns in sweaty hands. She enjoyed feeling their anxiety. Gaston nudged Jameson.
He whispered in her ear. "Behave yourself. Leave the men alone."
"I'm bored." She pouted and closed her eyes.
The wait went on. "Hurry up and wait," said Gaston. "You remember, Major."
Jameson sucked on a Dunhill. Yes, he remembered. Waiting on the Falls Road in support of the police in a Pig, a light armoured personal carrier that rode on six wheels. The politicians would not let the army use heavy tracked armour for political reasons. After all, it might look like a real war if they used "tanks." The car bomb went off in front of them, incinerating the drivers instantly. Jameson was right at the back to be first out of the rear troop deployment doors, in the time-honoured way of a British officer. This time the tradition saved him. Half his section was killed, most of the rest horribly burnt. He got away without a scratch.
He inhaled deeply from the Dunhill and blew the smoke up into the van. "Yes, I remember," he said, unemotionally. Karla looked at him, uncertainly; she was sensitive to his moods.
Gaston's phone uttered a soft bleep. He checked the message. "Okay, move out."
He pulled open the door and they jumped out. The team walked quickly to a side door of the building. In the dark, their combat gear might not be noticed but running was the surest way to attract unwelcome attention. The technician knelt down at the lock and inserted the electronic key. Gaston and the technician went in first. Inside was a corridor with an alarm system on the wall. The technician inserted a probe and ran diagnostics. He turned the alarms off within a few seconds.
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