Part 25 (2/2)
”Call Josh,” said Suzanne.
In seconds, Josh was smiling at her in the phone. But there lines on either side of his mouth that reminded her of Mr Brezhinski.
”Hey,” he said.
She remembered that she'd been given this phone by the police, and someone might be monitoring. Perhaps she should not have called.
”I'm glad to see you, Josh. So what's up?”
”Mindreader.”
”If you like.””Maria called again. That's my... wife. Wants us to meet up.”
”And how do you feel about that?”
”Like I don't want to be psycho-interrogated, cheers.”
”Sorry. But I've just arranged to meet the Brezhinskis tonight. At their home.”
In the phone image, he looked at her, then his gaze flicked across to his right.
”Can I call you straight back?”
”OK, if you”
The display was dark.
Why am I doing this?
She looked around at her consulting room. Perhaps the ambience needed to be warmer. Maybe throw some kind of cheerful fabric over the magnetometer. Or perhaps what she needed was to let go of her feelings for a married man.
But his marriage is in trouble.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in through her mouth and out through her nose, a deliberate reversal. Her mind stilled. When the phone chimed, she was calm.
”Hey, Josh.”
”If you want a lift to Swindon, I can take you.”
”Why? I mean, great, but”
”I'm seeing her tonight. Maria. It's all arranged.”
She should not be doing this, not even contemplating it.
”All right,” she said. ”Pick me up here, in Victoria?”
”One hour.”
”See you then.”
His image was gone.
Josh c.u.mberland.
Just the way his face vanished from her phone made her feel bereft.
You're a dangerous man.
But she was smiling.
Sitting in his car, parked near Grosvenor Square if anyone detected him, they might think he was CIA, working out of the US emba.s.sy Josh worked the phone's illegal app, hacking the monitor system long enough to slip his querybot into place, then restoring the register. None of the intelligence officers interested in Broomhall senior would know that someone else was searching using parameters that concerned them. This was not the most illegal thing he had ever done; but it was close.
He would have liked the querybot to notify him straight away if it found something; but a direct callback was dangerous. Instead, it would post its reports to an anonymous website, and he would check in, via cutouts. Now, with everything set up, he put the phone away, and thought about his travel plans for tonight. If the bot found something straight away, he would have to cancel everything else. He should not have said anything to Maria, or Suzanne.
”So why am I doing this?”
At the arranged time, he was parked by the kerb outside Elliptical House. Suzanne tapped on the door, and he opened it from inside.
”You had it locked,” she said, sliding in. ”Is that habit?”
”In an urban environment, I don't want people ripping open the door while I'm stopped at a red light.”
”Oh.”
”And before I get in, I check the car's unoccupied, with no one in the back seat. From a distance, I can see that there's no one hiding underneath, or behind other obstructions, like concrete pillars. It's habit, not paranoia.”
”He said defensively.”
”s.h.i.+t.” Then he laughed. ”I give up.”
He put the car in drive, told the navsys he wanted to get onto the M4, and let it pick the route. It diverted him away from heavy traffic, then back along the Thames, past Olympia and onto the Hammersmith flyover. Were it not for the blue road surface, this would have looked the same fifty years ago. But there would have been no trains or trizeps in the sky.
During the drive west, Suzanne talked a little about growing up on the northern outskirts of Paris, and he related his experiences as a young soldier, drying up when he came to Maria and the problems of a military marriage, the spouse at home and the soldier anywhere and everywhere, abroad for months at a time. Finally, he dropped Suzanne off outside the Brezhinski house and arranged a pickup point a nearby pub, easy for her to walk to in case she finished before he did.
Then he drove on to the pub where Maria would be waiting. It was called the Silver Dagger, and if he had been there before, he did not remember. He parked the car, unclipped his sheathed knife and stowed it in the glove compartment. From the upscale look, it would be a check-in-your-weapons establishment, the kind of place where they politely refused to return the weapon on exit if the person was too drunk.
Inside, the counter was polished copper, the lighting golden. Some of the drinkers were in business clothes. Two games of pool were in progress, all very casual. And Maria was sitting beside a narrow-faced man who wore an Italian-cut suit. Boyfriend or lawyer?
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