“We’re meeting him later tonight,” Swain said defensively. “Midnight at a multi-story car park in Hammersmith.”
“And what if he cries off again?” Whitlock demanded. “It’s not as if it’s the first time this has happened. I thought you said you had his complete trust?”
“We do,” Geddis said quickly. “We’ve been on this case for the last three months, C.W. We aren’t about to let Farrell walk now. Not after all the work we’ve put into it. Our informer will come good, you mark my words.”
Whitlock sighed deeply. “I hope you’re right, Jason. UNACO’s got a lot riding on this one. Not least our reputation. We’re in a transitional period now that Colonel Philpott’s gone, and that means we’re being scrutinized by the other intelligence agencies around the world. They all want to see how we’ll perform with a new team at the helm. Let’s not give them any ammunition to use against us at some later stage.”
“Don’t worry, C.W., he’ll be there tonight,” Swain said. “And you’ll have your evidence by the morning.”
“Why did he put it off this morning?” Whitlock asked.
“He claims he thought he saw one of Farrell’s team watching his flat last night,” Swain told him. “But when he went outside the man was gone.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Geddis said. “He’s totally above suspicion as far as the IRA are concerned. He’s one of their top contacts here in London.”
Whitlock looked at his watch. “You’ve still got six hours to kill before you meet him. Have you eaten yet?”
“We were going to grab a bite later at McDonald’s,” Geddis said.
“The food here is terrible,” Mosser added, pulling a face. “We have been eating nothing but pizzas and hamburgers ever since we got here.”
“Come over and eat with me tonight,” Whitlock said, getting to his feet. “We’ll put it down to expenses.”
“You’re on,” Swain said with a grin. “Where are you staying?”
“The Churchill on Portman Square.”
“Very nice,” Swain said, whistling softly.
“Being on the management side does have its compensations,” Whitlock said, then paused as he reached the door. “What if your informer wants to get hold of you tonight?”
“I carry a beeper,” Swain said. “He can have me paged if I’m not here.”
“OK, let’s say seven-thirty in my room. We’ll order up from room service. That way we can talk freely.” Whitlock opened the door then looked back at them. “Oh, and gentlemen, tidy yourselves up before you come over tonight. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to blend in, do I?”
It was twelve forty-five by the time they reached the multi-story car park in Hammersmith. The rain had stopped earlier in the evening and as the clouds continued to drift northward, a brisk southeasterly wind had sprung up across the capital. Geddis brought the hired Ford to a halt in front of the boom gate. He paid for a ticket and the boom gate opened automatically. As arranged earlier with their informer, he drove to the underground level, pulled up in the space closest to the lift and switched off the engine. Swain, who was in the passenger seat, unbuckled his safety belt and got out of the car. He looked around slowly, surprised by how well lit it was compared to car parks in New York. There they stole the cars and the light fittings. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and lit one.
“Quiet, huh?” Mosser said behind him.
“That’s obviously why he chose the place,” Swain replied, proffering the cigarettes to Mosser, who took one and lit it.
“Better make sure though,” Mosser said.
The two men moved off in different directions to carry out a quick, but thorough, search of the basement area. Satisfied they were alone, they returned to where Geddis was now leaning against the side of the car.
Swain looked at his watch. Eleven fifty-six. “OK, time to take up your positions. Jason, I want you to keep the engine running in case we need to get out of here in a hurry.”
Geddis nodded then climbed back behind the wheel and started the car. All three men were armed. Unlike many of the other intelligence agencies, UNACO didn’t insist that their field operatives use one particular type of handgun. The choice of weapon was left entirely up to the individual. Swain carried a 10mm Colt Delta Elite, a variant of the old Colt M1911 that he had used in the Security Service; Mosser the French 9mm PA15 automatic and Geddis a Beretta 92, the most popular handgun amongst UNACO field operatives. Mosser took up a position beside a pillar where he could observe both the lift and the door which led onto the stairs. Swain crossed to the wall at the side of the door and took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping it onto the ground and crushing it underfoot. He could see Mosser and the car from where he stood but was out of sight of the door, the lift and the ramp leading up to the exit. He looked at his watch again. Eleven fifty-eight.
Mosser stubbed out his cigarette then loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He hated wearing suits but Swain had insisted they dress smartly to humor Whitlock. The meal had been delicious. Swain, as usual, had ordered a porterhouse steak. Mosser had realized within weeks of joining Strike Force Seven just how fanatical Swain was about his red meat. The two men had become firm friends from the start and, unlike most of the other Strike Force teams, they enjoyed socializing outside work, which usually meant barbecues at the Swains’ house on Long Island. Swain’s wife and two teenage daughters treated him like family. It had all helped to soften the blow of his bitter divorce only months before he had come to America. Joining UNACO had been the best move he had ever made and he couldn’t imagine life again outside the organization …
The door opened fractionally and Mosser instinctively touched his holstered automatic. For a moment nothing happened then a face peered cautiously around the edge of the door. Mosser exhaled deeply and let his hand drop to his side. The man who emerged from behind the door was in his early thirties with a thin, sallow face and long black hair that hung down untidily onto his shoulders. He was wearing a brown bomber jacket and faded jeans torn at the knees. Gerard McGuire had been Sean Farrell’s London contact for the past four years and a UNACO informer for half that time. When Swain recruited him McGuire had laid down one proviso – he would only deal with Swain. It had proved an awkward arrangement in the past when other teams had needed information on IRA activities on the British mainland but McGuire steadfastly refused to compromise his situation. He trusted Swain. Nobody else. It had often meant pulling Swain off an assignment and flying him to London to meet with McGuire. But his information had proved so invaluable in the past that both Philpott and Kolchinsky had been willing to play it by McGuire’s rules. It had been a small price to pay.
McGuire closed the door silently behind him and glanced furtively in the direction of the car. Geddis, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, raised a finger to acknowledge him. McGuire ignored him and looked questioningly at Mosser who led him over to where Swain was standing out of sight behind a wall. Mosser then left the two men to talk. He took up a position close to the lift and although he could still see the two men he could only hear snatches of the conversation.
Suddenly there was a roar of acceleration as a white Rover Montego screeched into view and sped toward them, its lights on full. Swain watched in horror as a silenced Uzi snaked out from the back window and cut Mosser down. Geddis immediately slammed the Ford into reverse.