Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book One - Lawrence Miles [7]
‘See?’ the greasy man went on, nodding at something outside the bar area. ‘Ghana. You can tell.’
Llewis grunted, and turned. Sheer bloody‐minded Englishness, that. Not twenty yards away, people were selling sniper rifles to Turkish secret policemen, and Llewis was embarrassed about telling this idiot to get lost.
The bar area was set to one side of the exhibition hall, raised above the rest of the floor, so you could get a good overview of the stalls while you were having your vodka and coke. The fair was as busy as it got, the strip lighting beating down on the sweaty foreheads of the reps as they shuffled from stand to stand, swapping jokes and collecting sales literature. Llewis didn’t see anyone he recognised. Of course, Peter bloody Morgan at the office would have been able to identify every single one of them like a shot. Blindfold, probably.
The greasy man was still nodding. Llewis peered across the floor. About fifteen yards from the bar, a gaggle of fat black men were hovering around the Hiatt’s stall, inspecting the quality of the handcuffs.
‘You’d think the Ghanaians would have enough of ’em by now, wouldn’t you?’ the greasy man chirped in a voice that reminded Llewis of George Formby, for some reason. ‘Iranians.’
‘What?’ said Llewis.
‘Iranians. There.’ Llewis realised the man was nodding in a completely different direction now. ‘Look at ’em. They’re after surveillance tech. Can’t get enough of it, the Iranians. Makes you wonder who they need to spy on, eh?’
‘Nnn,’ Llewis told him.
‘British.’
Now the man was nodding at a couple of anxious‐looking men in suits who were drifting between the stalls, apparently more interested in the customers than the merchandise. They both looked like Iraqis to Llewis.
‘British?’ Llewis asked, then wished he hadn’t.
The greasy man gave him a greasy grin, and tapped the side of his head with a greasy finger. ‘British intelligence. Got to keep an eye on things, the old MI boys.’
‘They don’t look British,’ Llewis murmured.
‘Don’t want to draw attention to themselves. Always use wogs when they come to COPEX. Same as last year.’ The man kept nodding, but Llewis got the feeling it was supposed to be a wise and all‐knowing kind of nod now. ‘Been coming here since ’92. You get to know the layout, after a bit.’
‘Nnn,’ said Llewis again.
‘This your first time, is it?’
‘No,’ Llewis snapped, but even his voice sounded like it was swearing. It wasn’t entirely a lie, mind you. His company had been here before. Except that it was usually Peter bloody Morgan who got to come to COPEX every year. Except that Llewis wouldn’t have been here now, if Morgan hadn’t come down with that case of food poisoning, and I hope he dies, I really hope he dies, I hope it hurts him like hell and he throws up his guts and then the big smug idiot dies like a bloody dog –
‘Tricky one,’ said the greasy man.
Llewis stopped hyperventilating. The man was squinting out across the hall again, with a confused look on his stupid, greasy, self‐assured face. Once again, Llewis found himself turning to see what the rep was looking at.
Halfway across the floor, there was a group of people Llewis hadn’t spotted before. There were three of them in all, and they were pretty hard to miss. For a start, two of them were about seven feet tall. Security, thought Llewis. Hired muscle. The security men were black, both wearing suits that didn’t quite fit them properly even though they’d obviously been specially made for the occasion. Both had pairs of dark glasses resting on their piggy noses, the lenses much too small for their huge faces. They were looking around aimlessly, clearly not understanding anything that was going on. Probably didn’t even speak English, Llewis guessed.
The third figure, flanked by the bodyguards, was shorter. Much shorter. He was young and white,