Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [139]
“Where are you?”
Jack stopped to catch his breath. He could smell the River Thames. “Tower of England,” he said, parroting that numbskull at the DLR Station. The lack of sleep was catching up with him, and he knew that chasing a moving vehicle on foot just wasn’t going to work.
“I’ll grab a cab,” he said. “I want you to call the police and tell them exactly where that GPS signal is headed.”
“Will do,” said Chuck.
Jack spotted a taxi approaching from the opposite direction. He jumped out into the street, and the cab screeched to a halt to avoid hitting him. The driver rolled down the window, primed to give Jack a good tongue-lashing, but Jack’s mouth was already running as he opened the rear door on the driver’s side.
“I need to follow that cab about fifty meters ahead of—”
Jack stopped himself, having gotten a better look at the driver. It was the same cabbie from the Tower Hotel who just yesterday—it seemed much longer—had helped Jack tail Vince’s cab to the Carpenter’s Arms.
“You gotta be kidding me,” said Jack, still holding the door open.
“Again? This is getting a bit strange, mate,” the driver said, and the rear door slammed shut with the force of the taxi pulling away.
“Damn it!”
Up ahead, the traffic light changed, and Jack saw the girl’s taxi pull away. Hopefully Chuck was tracking it, but GPS wasn’t exactly golden in one of the most tunneled cities in the world. Jack had to keep up. Several cars flew by, ignoring Jack’s attempts to flag one down. Jack dug a handful of bills from his wallet and waved them at a boy on a bicycle.
“I’ll give you two hundred pounds for your bike!”
The kid stopped. “Are you joking?”
“No joke. Here, take it.”
The boy got off his bike, smiling as he grabbed the money. “Ta very much.”
Jack pedaled off in pursuit of the taxi, hoping like hell for a major traffic jam ahead.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Behind the gray blanket of winter clouds, the sun was starting to rise over London. The Dark removed his nighttime sunglasses and put on a darker pair. Then he reached for his cell phone. It was the middle of the night in Washington, but he dialed the number anyway, knowing that Littleton would be awake and take his call.
“This is your final update,” said the Dark.
“Tell me,” said Littleton.
He was standing across the street from the exit to the Aldgate East Tube Station. Morning rush hour was at full throttle, and he had to move around to keep from being jostled by commuters.
“For what it’s worth, I spoke with Shada. She admitted that she copied files from my computer. But she swears she didn’t give them to anyone.”
“Do you believe her?”
“In two hours, I’m out of the country with just enough money to make sure no one ever finds me. Which means there’s only one question that matters: Do you believe her?”
“Damn it, Habib! Don’t play games with me! More than just my company is on the line here. The shit that went on at that black site is nothing short of blasphemy to some Muslims. I’ll be al-Qaeda’s poster child for ‘Death to Infidels.’ Do you hear what I’m saying? Some extremist group out there will be pissed off enough to make its own video and cut my head off—literally! So tell me straight: Do you believe her, or don’t you?”
The Dark kept an eye on the tube station exit. Just then, he spotted Shada in the crowd. She was carrying the backpack like a baby in her arms. A smile creased his lips.
“I wish you luck, Mr. Littleton.”
The Dark put the phone away and started across the street.
Chapter Seventy-nine
Jack pedaled furiously, crouched like an Olympic cyclist, his elbows on the handlebars and the cell phone pressed to his ear.
“I can’t see her!” he shouted into the phone. “Which way, Chuck?”
It was an old bicycle, but the boy had maintained it with speed in mind, having stripped away the fenders, chain guard, kickstand, and all other unnecessary weight. A light rain was falling, and the spinning tires gave Jack his morning shower.
“Go left at the fork in the road,” said Chuck. “She’s headed up Mansell.