One club said it was in the homeland of Admiral Nelson, and I remembered he'd mentioned a pub called the Hero. I Googled it. It was in a place called Burnham Overy Staithe, about halfway along the top edge of Norfolk.
I started to punch in the pub's number then thought better of it. Lynn would be expecting me – why else would he have sent the message? But what if I was wrong and the Firm wasn't after me? Charging around the village asking questions could be a mistake – this was backwoods country, where blood was thicker than water and neighbours were actually neighbourly.
No matter; if the pub landlord couldn't tell me where he lived, Google Earth might be able to.
I went back and zoomed in on the area. The whole north coast was a patchwork of farmland. And what did a mushroom farm look like when it was at home? I didn't have a clue, but Mr Google did. He told me: 'A mushroom farm would consist of a number of environmentally controlled growing sheds and because the conditions are fully controlled, high temperatures are not a problem. A pack-house and cold store are also required along with offices and staff facilities. An area of concrete and a pasteurization room would be required for the production of compost.'
I went back to Google Earth and the overview of Burnham Overy Staithe. I moved the cursor left and right, up and down from the centre of the village, and finally found what I was looking for: a line of three large, low-level outbuildings, with a large farmhouse, some smaller sheds and a couple of cars. The farm sat in a triangle of land, bordered on all three sides by B roads. I noted the lat and long, and the road names.
I got back in the car and headed northeast towards Manchester. From there, I'd drive cross-country, southeast to King's Lynn. I'd then hit the North Sea, and turn right.
33
One question bugged me all the way to Manchester. If the Leptis message was from Lynn, how could he be sure I'd find him? Maybe he had faith in my tradecraft skills. It had only taken me half an hour in the internet café and I was on my way. So would he be expecting me? Maybe he was lulling me into a false sense of security, making me think I was making the running, when all the time he was channelling me into the killing ground.
What if the detonator battery had been dead because it was meant to be? I wasn't sure where that thought got me, but it didn't matter. Lynn would soon be telling all I needed to know.
It took me five hours of driving at, or under, the speed limit so I didn't get pulled over, but eventually I was in amongst the flat, endlessly boring fields of Cambridgeshire. Rain fell in a constant shower. The road was elevated in places and there were dykes either side, waterways draining the fenland, and miles and miles of jet black earth growing spuds or carrots or whatever.
A mile or two from King's Lynn, I stopped at a garage and bought sandwiches and a bottle of Coke, and fold-out road maps of the coast. I also filled up with fuel. You always start an op with a full tank.
As I walked back across the forecourt I could already feel the breeze off the North Sea. King's Lynn was at the bottom corner of the Wash. The Great Ouse ran through it, which was presumably how the ships made it into the docks.
Back behind the wheel, I crossed a ring road lined with burger franchises and furniture, electrical and DIY superstores. I pulled into the car park. I needed kit to protect myself, and to get into that house of his and lift him.
As I moved down the aisles I found myself doing something I always did, no matter where I was in the world. Even in Tesco, I'd check out the cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner, and work out which would go with which to make chaos. Mix this and that, then boil it up and I'd have an incendiary device. Or boil all that down and scrape off the scum from around the edge of the pot, then add some of the stuff from the bake-a-cake counter and boil it up some more until I just had sediment, and I'd have low explosive. Twenty minutes in any supermarket would be enough to buy all the ingredients for a bomb powerful enough to blow a car in half, and you'd still have change from a tenner. It's even easier in a DIY store.
But I didn't need any of that today. I came out of various stores the proud owner of a glass-cutter and parcel tape, a day sack and a twenty-one-piece screwdriver and tool set. At £4.99 it was an absolute rip-off. They'd last about five minutes, but that was all I'd need. The most important item of all was a Stanley knife, a box-cutter. These things strike fear into people, even though it takes quite a frenzied attack to do any lasting damage. The major organs are out of reach of the inch-long blade, and there are only a few places on a body where an artery is that close to the skin.
Next stop was Norfolk Country Pursuits. It looked more like an army surplus store than the hunting, shooting, fishing establishment I'd been expecting. The window displays were piled high with everything from targets and rubber ducks to tents and camouflage gear.
The counter was a long glass showcase. The old guy behind it studied my face for signs I was about to pull a sawn-off shotgun from under my jacket and demand the contents of the till.
'Morning. Got a bit of a squirrel problem I need some help with.'
He looked blank. 'Squirrel problem?'
'Yeah, the problem is, my wife loves them and I don't. I just want something to scare the little buggers away with. One of these, maybe?' I tapped the glass over an air pistol that looked like a Colt 45.
His face lit up. I was a respectable married man, and more likely to have a wallet in my coat than a sawn-off.
'Weihrauch HW45. Best spring-powered on the market.'
'Sounds perfect. Eighty pounds? Will you throw in some pellets?'
His smile widened. I hadn't even haggled much.
'And do you sell Maglites? I need the smallest one.'
Something else had caught my eye. Lynn might have sent me a message to come to him, but I wanted it to be on my terms.
Norfolk Country Pursuits also did a fine line in night-vision aids: weapon sights, monoculars, binoculars.
'My wife's mad about foxes and badgers. She'd love one of these for watching the buggers dig up my garden. Which one's the best, without breaking the bank?'
'Don't like the scopes and monoculars myself, if I'm honest with you. Too much strain on the closed eye, and you end up with no night vision in the other. Big fan of the binos version though. Nothing could be easier. They give you depth perception too. When you view a scene through binoculars, each eye is viewing things from a slightly different angle.
'These ones look good. She'll like the yellow trim.'
The old guy looked like he was going to hyperventilate with joy. I'd just parted company with the best part of another eight hundred quid for the National Geographic Explorers.
'There's a lovely range of ladies' waxed jackets in my sale, if you—'
I pulled out my wallet and handed him my card. 'I think that's enough spoiling for one day.'
He sighed as he handed me the bag. 'Now – new legislation, sir. I'm obliged to remind you that it is an offence for any person, regardless of age, to be in possession of an air weapon in a public place without a reasonable excuse. A reasonable excuse might be carrying a gun to and from a target shooting club or to and from land on which you have permission to shoot. It would also include taking a gun to and from a gunsmith for repair or service or taking a new gun home from the dealer. So please, do keep the pistol in its packaging until you get home.'