Dead Centre - Andy McNab [37]
The only thing I’d commented on so far this trip was the state of her hair. Apart from that, she looked perfect. I couldn’t wait to see her again. It was turning ugly out there. She’d been in Tunisia and Egypt earlier in the year, then moved to Libya. With the whole Middle East jumping up and down, she’d probably want to cover the fuck-up that was unfolding in Bahrain. Protesters had been shot and Saudi troops had moved into the country to back the government. Big drama ahead for all. Especially me, as she’d want to be in the thick of it.
The phone buzzed and crackled in my ear as it tried to get cell contact. Eventually it opened up. She sounded concerned. ‘Nicholas – is everything all right?’
There were screams and chants in the background as the rebels gave Gaddafi’s name a hard time.
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’
She laughed. ‘I got held up, that’s all.’
She must have found a quieter spot because the noise went down a couple of decibels.
‘Anna, I need a favour. Can you find out about a guy called Francis Timis? I think he’s Ukrainian. He says he changed his name to Francis so it sounds more Western. He’s loaded, but I can’t find anything about him on the Net. There’s a Romanian mining guy, but that’s definitely not him.’
‘Maybe he’s rich enough to buy anonymity. Spell it for me?’
I heard gunfire and some scuffling as she took cover.
‘How old is he?’
‘Mid-forties, maybe. No older than fifty. Anything you can get.’
There was more rustling. She had to shout to make herself heard. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’ll tell you another time. You sound a bit busy. Have you got your date yet?’
She was due to be replaced by a colleague. At first she’d been looking forward to some leave. But this past week she’d started to sound less keen. It didn’t make me worried, exactly, but I was concerned.
‘I’m going to have to go.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, usual time.’
‘Nicholas?’
‘Anna?’
‘Look after yourself.’
I started to laugh as the phone went dead.
My next call was to a London number. This time the line was a lot clearer.
23
I LEFT THE flat and crossed the street to the Metro. One change would get me to Paveletskaya, and from there the Aeroexpress to Domodedovo took just under an hour. That was the quick bit. Security at the airport had been a nightmare since the suicide bombing in January. The queues could snake around for miles inside the building. Passengers were missing their flights. It was going to mean I couldn’t just try and grab a seat on the next Heathrow plane. I’d have to factor in at least a couple of hours of downtime before I could get airside.
As I neared the entrance, something registered in my peripheral vision. I didn’t turn my head. I carried on until I was nearly inside, then stopped, checked my watch and looked around like I was weighing up my options.
About fifty metres down the road was a vehicle. I couldn’t see the driver, but it was either Ant and Dec’s Audi from outside the hotel or one that looked exactly like it, right down to the half-moons carved out of the grime on the windscreen and the two shapes filling the front seats inside.
PART FOUR
1
Eastcheap, London
Friday, 18 March
07.20 hrs
COFFEE SHOPS ARE like London buses. You don’t see one for ages, then three come along at once. I sat with my frothy cappuccino and stack of Danishes as more and more people lined up like lemmings for their pre-work caffeine fix. Nearly all of them had headphones or mobiles stuck to their ears.
This branch of Starbucks was on the north side of London Bridge, by Monument tube. Jules had decided he didn’t want me to come to the office. His syndicate dealt with kidnap and ransom. K&R was a private, secretive world. His bosses wouldn’t want him bringing somebody in to tread across their turf – especially when Jules knew that that somebody wouldn’t be wearing a suit.
I sipped at the froth. I’d gone to my flat in Docklands straight from Heathrow and got my head down for a couple of hours. I’d had a lukewarm shower when I got up because I’d forgotten