Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [15]
29
‘You’ve got to admit they did have a point,’ Barrington continued as the pair found their suitcases standing alone, sorry and neglected at the far end of the airport carousel. ‘And you didn’t have to stick one on the poor lad doing your body search.’
Paynter gave Barrington a mean, corner-of-the-eye glance as he picked up his luggage. ‘Not another word about that incident. Ever,’ he ordered between gritted teeth.
‘You get road rage too. Like that time on the M3, I thought you were going to ram that guy in the Citroen. Gobsmacked, I was . . . ’
‘You’re pushing your luck, Lieutenant,’ said Paynter as they reached the exit to Terminal Two. ‘I’ve already chinned one annoying runt today, are you looking for an encore?’
In the concrete tunnel that separated the airport terminal from the street outside, they looked bedraggled standing by the glass frontage. For several minutes they waited, unsure of exactly what to do next, until a Taurus screamed up at high speed and a man with sunglasses and a charming smile threw open the passenger door.
‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘You must be Lennon and McCartney? Welcome to America!’
His name was Mel Tyrone, and he was the head of UNIT’s Los Angeles office.
They liked him instantly.
‘You’d think that in the fourth biggest city in the world they’d give me more than a secretary and a sergeant, but there you go. I hear London’s not what it was either. So, you guys had a few problems with the Feds?’
‘You could say that,’ said Paynter as the car pulled up at a junction. ‘Is it true that you can turn right through a red light over here?’
‘Yeah, in this county anyway,’ replied Tyrone, doing just that.
Paynter gave Barrington a wicked grin that seemed to say ‘I told you they were flash’. ‘So, where are you taking us?’
‘I thought I’d get you settled into the safe house first, let you get your bearings. Have you eaten yet?’
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ said Barrington eagerly. ‘You know what in-flight food is like? I’m starving.’
Tyrone seemed pleased. ‘Me too. There’s a decent Thai place in Sherman Oaks near the safe house.’
‘Thai has a few bad associations for me I’m afraid,’ replied Barrington quickly. ‘A burger joint’d be fine.’
Tyrone seemed agreeable. ‘I know a place in the valley that we often use.
The manager’s very discreet.’
∗ ∗ ∗
30
‘This is the first time I’ve eaten beef in five years,’ said Barrington as his knife sawed easily through a beautiful thick sirloin steak, medium rare and gar-nished with garlic butter. ‘It tastes great.’
‘We keep hearing about all of your mad cows over there. Any truth in it?’
They were both fascinated by Tyrone. A tall black man in his early forties with a studious, intelligent face that reminded both Barrington and Paynter of Denzel Washington’s portrayal of Malcolm X. Or of third singer from the right in the Temptations. These impressions of aloofness were shattered, however, by the man’s seemingly sincere interest in what they had to say. About everything. In London they had been briefed to expect a ‘nice guy’. Instead they had found a friend.
Barrington pointed his fork at Paynter. ‘He doesn’t think so,’ he said. ‘He’s always in that Burger King on Tottenham Court Road.’
‘Purely for the onion rings,’ interrupted Paynter defensively. ‘To die for,’ he told Tyrone, who nodded in agreement. The captain returned his attention to the menu, aware that Barrington was already into his main course whilst he was merely nibbling at an appetiser and trying to decide if he really wanted to order something called ‘Moons Over My Hammy’.
‘The wife of a mate of mine is a doctor,’ continued Barrington. ‘She told me that about six or seven years ago all the neurologists at her hospital quit eating English beef more or less simultaneously. Now, to my way of thinking, if a brain surgeon reckons some doodah’s bad for you, I’m prepared to accept their judgement!’
The restaurant was virtually empty and the three men had been given a corner booth at the far end of the room with a clear view of the door