A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [121]
Inside the car, buckling up, I realize there are things I have forgotten to do. I should have filled up with petrol, checked the tyres and oil, and turned the engine over at least once in the last few days to free it of winter cold. When I put the key in the ignition the starter motor turns over asthmatically, sounding disconnected and worn, and I switch off for fear of flooding the engine. At the second attempt, there appears to be less seizure within the system: the starter moans briefly, flicks over twice, but then catches and the engine fires. I whisper a grateful ‘shit’ to myself, switch on the headlights and pull away from the kerb.
There are still plenty of vehicles on the roads: lorry drivers making up time before stopping for a night’s rest, cabs shipping people across the city. I drive down Uxbridge Road, join the one-way system at Shepherd’s Bush Green and glide in the wet under the mocked-up Inter City walkway. Cars are waiting in queues of five or six, preparing to go on to the roundabout; faced with the sheer volume of traffic, making a full circuit with surveillance check may prove difficult. I sit in the outside lane with my indicator out and wait for the lights to go green.
As I go round, I check my mirror every half-second for any sign of sudden movement behind me - a last-minute indication, a swerve-out or burst of acceleration. After passing the second exit a cab-driver blasts his horn at me when I cut across his lane, and another beeps as I pass through the traffic lights leading back towards the Green. All the time I am watching as vehicles build up behind me, trying to gauge where they have come from. As far as I can tell, all appear to have entered the roundabout from either Holland Park Avenue, Holland Road or the Westway. It looks as if no one followed me completely around.
So I head for Chelsea Harbour. Katharine suggested going via Fulham Palace Road, but I take a different route with which I am more familiar - via Brook Green, Talgarth Road and Fulham Broadway. The journey takes no time at all: only once - my eyes distracted by a girl on the North End Road - do I brake fractionally late and almost rear-end a designer Jeep with a skiing rhino painted on its spare tyre. Otherwise, the drive is incident free: no tail, no motorcycle outrider, nothing to report at all.
By half past eleven I have arrived, a full thirty minutes before the scheduled meeting. I look up at the Wharf tower, London’s puny skyscraper, and consider my options. There is no need to go into the harbour complex to flush out a tail because I have experienced no surveillance problems en route. And my presence there will only serve to alert the Americans to my whereabouts. There can also be no reason why I cannot meet Atwater before the pre-arranged time: if he’s not there, I will simply wait outside on the street until he arrives. There is no advantage in following Katharine’s instructions to the letter. Better to put myself in a position of control, rather than play into their hands and be dictated to by others.
So I do not turn into Lots Road. Instead I continue down King’s Road until I come to Edith Grove, driving with the one-way system as far as Cheyne Walk. After a brief block in traffic I cross the Battersea Bridge lights and park in the first available space on the left, just a few feet away from the statue of Sir Thomas More. From here it’s just a short walk to Atwater’s office.
There are three white stone steps rising to number 77. I climb them, the file and Sunday Times clutched in my right hand, and press a small plastic buzzer marked ‘Donald G. Atwater, Corporate Attorney’. A wild wind is gusting off the Thames;