'Frank… Frank!'
Dillon looked up to see Susie's tousled head poking over the third-floor parapet. 'What?'
'Somebody called Taffy – said it's very important.'
'What?'
'On the telephone!'
'Tell him to call tonight,' Dillon shouted, striding off with Steve across the paved courtyard, not bothering to look back.
As they came round the corner into the street, Dillon nodded towards a royal-blue Mercedes idling at the kerb, a young black guy at the wheel. Done out in a chauffeur's garb of neat dark jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie, he exuded the same hard, clean energy as the other two, giving Dillon a broad cheery grin.
'He was only on transport,' Dillon told Steve in a muttered aside as they came up, 'but he's a good lad.'
They climbed in the back, Dillon doing the introductions. 'Cliff Morgan, Steve Harris…' Cliff stuck his hand out, but Steve seemed too busy settling himself on the contoured, brushed upholstery, taking in the walnut trim, the plush fixtures and fittings.
'Appreciate this, Cliff,' said Dillon, slapping his shoulder. 'We owe you one!'
Cliff gave a quick nod, shifted into Drive, and off they shot.
Avoiding the gridlock of Oxford Street, Cliff cut across Tottenham Court Road and jinked up the backstreets to Portland Street, the Merc surging smoothly into Regent's Park Crescent, the classical, elegant facade of white and pale cream stonework bathed in gentle sunshine. To Dillon, this part of town had the alien reek of wealth and power; he felt like a non-swimmer whose feet couldn't quite touch bottom, and a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach, making it hard to catch his breath. Embassies and trade missions – diplomats and bureaucrats – the nameless, faceless power-brokers of the globe inhabiting a rarefied stratosphere he knew nothing of and could barely imagine. Of course, blokes like him and Steve weren't meant to – that was the whole point. That was how these high-flying wankers kept their closed shop nice and cosy and exclusive.
Blokes like him and Steve were just expected to sort it all out when they'd made a balls of it. Shovel up the shit after it had hit the fan. It seemed to Dillon he'd been doing that all his life.
From the glove compartment Cliff took a glossy laminated folder, fancily embossed with the name Samson Security Company, and handed it to Dillon. Cliff seemed a bit on edge himself, Dillon thought, even though it was their picnic.
'Here – just do exactly as I've told you,' Cliff said, eyes steady and serious. 'You got all the legit stuff here, but any letters you got from HQ, show 'em.' Dillon patted his jacket to show he'd remembered to bring them. 'They particularly asked for guys with terrorist training – your Army records should clinch it.'
'Oh yeah?' drawled Steve sarcastically. 'Yours ga-get you – this – did it…'
'Shut it!' Dillon snapped from the side of his mouth.
'What did he say?' asked Cliff.
Dillon opened the door. 'Nothing, and look, thanks mate.'
'Don't foul up on me Frank, this is a good firm, a good job, I don't want to lose it.'
Dillon winked. He didn't intend to blow this one, with or without Steve's help. He shoved Steve out ahead of him and warned him to keep his mouth shut, but Steve brushed his hand aside.
'He ga – a ugh-pratt, only-Ever g-hone transport.'
Dillon straightened his tie, giving a warning look to Steve, who, for all his problems seemed incredibly relaxed. His hair was washed and combed, he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt that Susie had pressed for him and one of his suits from when he had been in the money. He looked more like the old Steve, handsome, his green eyes clear, and standing a good three inches taller than Dillon. Steve was back. This was the first time Frank realised how far he had come in so short a time.
'G-after'gu – Mate', Steve smiled, giving a mock bow, but he did follow Dillon, nervously touching his throat, aware that the tie was irritating his skin. He hated wearing collars, they restricted him, made him fearful he would not be able to get to his tube fast enough if he had an emergency… but then he knew Dillon was there, that made him feel safe. As if in confirmation he tapped Dillon's shoulder, and winked… 'We'll G-it gub job, – no problem.'
Dillon shrugged Steve's hand away. Bloody Steve was his problem and he knew it, even doubted if getting him back on his feet was all that good a thing as he was now bound to help him even further. It was like the blind leading the blind.
The house was a fortress. After the battery of security cameras covering the portico entrance, the white-barred windows of double-paned, shatter-resistant glass, the steel-lined bombproof front door, Dillon was expecting at least an X-ray scan and body frisk. But the letter of accreditation did the trick, that and their neat, respectable appearance – amazing what you could get away with wearing a suit and tie, Dillon always thought. Stroll into Buckingham Palace, have tea with the Queen, maybe even get to sit on her bed.
They were conducted across the marble-floored hallway, large black and white squares like a giant chessboard, and along a carpeted corridor into an ante-room with dark red walls and a gleaming parquet floor, and told to sit and wait on ornate gilt chairs outside a pair of huge double doors with curved handles in the shape of scimitars. They looked to be made of solid gold, and it wouldn't have surprised Dillon to learn that they were. A crystal chandelier tinkled faintly from some non-existent breeze.
Given the choice, Dillon would have opted for a ten-mile tab in Advanced Wales with full pack rather than endure this. He was glad he'd showered that morning and put on fresh underclothes, he didn't want to sully the opulent atmosphere.
'You okay?' Dillon asked in a whisper after Steve had cleared his throat six times in as many seconds. Steve nodded glumly, staring at the polished floor, wrapped in his own thoughts. He had to wear his tie loose and shirt collar undone, a strip of gauze and adhesive tape just visible below his Adam's apple.
Dillon started as one of the double doors silently opened and a slender dark-skinned man with oiled black hair and gold-rimmed spectacles glided into view. He wore an immaculate silk suit that changed colour as he moved, hand-stitched shirt and grey silk tie, the dull gleam of gold on his wrist, fingers and from the fob chain looped into the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat.
Salah Al-Gharib crooked his finger. Dillon wet his lips and obeyed, Steve trailing a couple of feet behind.
It was like being summoned into the sultan's palace. The large room had white-panelled walls edged with gold, a Persian carpet floating on the polished floor. Over by the window overlooking a walled garden, a six-seater sofa and three deep armchairs in white leather were grouped around a low table of beaten copper and mosaic tiles. Above the marble fireplace, a mirror with scrolled edges, and in front of this a huge desk, made to seem even bigger because all it contained were four telephones, each a different colour, and a leather blotter without a mark or blemish on it.
Behind it, reclining in a winged leather chair, Raoul Al-Mohammed gazed into the remote distance with heavy-lidded eyes, dark folds of skin beneath resting on swarthy bloated cheeks. Never once did he look at Dillon and Steve, nor acknowledge they were even breathing the same air. In their grey suits they were no more substantial than vague grey blurs, so it didn't matter that they shuffled uneasily like two schoolboy miscreants summoned to the headmaster's study, awaiting the clap of doom.
Raoul Al-Mohammed twitched a finger, and Salah Al-Gharib, his principal secretary, ghosted forward and placed Dillon's folder in front of him. He flipped it open, laced his dark-haired fingers across his stomach, and with heavy, sombre eyes began to read.
Dillon sneaked a glance at Steve. But Steve was still in some faraway place, not of this world at all.