Larry looked up and down the parking level, anxious to see a sign of life or find some way to leave a clue. He was suddenly aware that Von Joel was watching him.
“Larry, don’t mess with me. If you don’t want in on this, you can opt out now.”
“What are you on about?” Larry gaped at him, all innocence. “I’m just looking out for us, okay?”
Von Joel strode to the Jaguar and opened the trunk. He took out a large canvas bag and looked inside. Gesturing again for Larry to follow him, he led the way toward the door that connected directly with the hotel. When they reached it Von Joel stopped, turned, and realarmed the car with the remote.
“Can’t trust anyone these days,” he muttered.
He led the way to the men’s lavatory in the hotel entrance, issuing instructions as he went.
It was an ornate area, spacious, with plenty of marble and polished brass. Stepping out of a cubicle five minutes after he went in, Larry looked like any of dozens of Connaught clients who would use the lavatory during the day. He wore a gray business suit and a white shirt; for the moment he was carrying the tie. His tracksuit was over his arm.
At the row of sinks Von Joel was shaving. He looked striking in a dark gray pinstriped suit, a blue shirt with a white starched collar, and an old Etonian tie. A leather briefcase was propped on the wall nearby, and beside it a black garbage bag.
“There’s only one pair of shoes,” he told Larry. “Still, we can’t have everything, can we?” He patted his face with a towel. “Okay, give me the case, and stuff the old gear in the trash can.”
Larry handed over the briefcase, bundled his own clothes on top of Von Joel’s things in the bag and took it to the trash can. He shoved the bag inside, but left part of it sticking out at the top. Von Joel did not miss that.
“Push it down, Larry.” He waited until the bag was completely out of sight inside the can. “Are you hungry? They do a good breakfast at the Connaught.”
Larry put on his tie. As he tightened the knot he looked at Von Joel, standing there in his pinstripes, clutching his briefcase. He turned and looked again at his own reflection in the mirror above the basins.
“I don’t believe this.”
“You’d better,” Von Joel told him, “because you’ll have to get used to the good life.” He tapped the briefcase. “Okay — there’s passports, plane tickets — I got three extra tickets, for your wife and kids.” They left the gents and headed toward the dining room. “The plane leaves from Stanstead,” Von Joel said. “This time tomorrow we’ll be in Canada.”
McKinnes, by this time, had reached the City and was sitting in his patrol car in an alley twenty yards from the Rotherhill Merchant Bank. From where he sat he had a clear view of the building. Concealed nearby were motorcycle officers and two unmarked cars. A surveillance team, on ladders, was cleaning windows on the building next to the bank. DI Shrapnel leaned in through the window of McKinnes’s car.
“Anything on the Granada yet, Frank?”
“Traced it to an NCP parking lot.” Shrapnel looked up and down the street. People were beginning to arrive for work. “Waiting for feedback. I thought you might want to see this.” He took a plastic bag from his pocket. Inside was a kitchen knife. “Myers used this. Blunt. It’s a potato peeler.” As he leaned into the car to hand over the bag he said, “Those window cleaners ours?”
“Yeah. And the road sweeper, and the motorbike courier. We’ve got every airport covered. If we lose him this time, Frank, I’ll find a way to cut my throat with that potato peeler.” McKinnes looked at his watch. “Well, they open in fifteen minutes.”
Shrapnel turned to go, then paused as McKinnes pressed his radio earpiece closer to his ear, his face screwed up with the effort of listening.
“They’ve got the Granada.” He listened some more.
“What?” He stared at Shrapnel. “No sign of them. They reckon they’re on foot.”
At a table in a red velvet-lined booth at the Connaught Grill, Von Joel sat with his face behind a menu. Larry, sitting opposite, watched the early customers come and go. A waiter arrived at the table and Von Joel lowered the menu.
“I’ll order for you,” he told Larry. “A little smoked salmon, scrambled eggs... unless you fancy kippers? Do you want a kipper, or do you just feel like one?” The waiter flipped open his pad. “Buon giorno,” Von Joel said. “Come sta?”
“Molto bene, grazie,” the waiter smiled.
Von Joel proceeded to order in flawless Italian.
“Un colazione omellete ala parmigiana.” He pointed to Larry. “Uovo strapazzate, e salmone, un’ aqua minerale, e due caffe. Grazie.”
The waiter went away. Larry continued to look around, feeling shut in by the booth. Now that there was time to think, he could take in the scale of this operation — and the depth of his involvement. He was sweating. Von Joel, by contrast, looked perfectly relaxed. He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a folded envelope. He opened it and removed a key.
“Voila!” He held it out on the palm of his hand, showing it to Larry. “One bank deposit key. Like I said, no guns, no violence, we just walk straight in.” He kissed the key. “One million.”
The sight of the key and the prospect of what it could unlock made Larry even more shaky. He clasped his hands tightly on the tablecloth. His leg was trembling violently, though he was too distracted to notice. “I reckon old Mac wanted me to go for the cash,” Von Joel said. “I wonder if that thirty grand Reward is still on offer. His retirement bonus, eh?” Leaning forward, he put his hand over Larry’s knee and squeezed. “Relax,” he said softly. Larry nodded, trying hard, his eyes watering with the pain of Von Joel’s grip. For one moment of stark, brutal clarity, he realized he could be hurtling down a road with no way back. He pictured his sons and felt a clutching panic in his chest. Across the table Von Joel went on smiling.
23
Cars were piling up at the parking lot exit barrier. Horns were being sounded impatiently and drivers were shouting. Police instructions, to begin with, were that no one should be allowed to leave; that order was quickly countered by DCI McKinnes via radio control, who pointed out that the persons being pursued were not to be detained under any circumstances. A new order was passed to the attendants at the barriers: note the registration numbers of any cars with two males inside, and be particularly watchful for men in tracksuits.
At nine twenty-five Von Joel backed the Jaguar out of its row and drove it to the exit ramps. As daylight hit the windshield he put on a pair of mirrored shades. He was carefully scrutinized as he paid the attendant. A uniformed policeman standing nearby turned and looked at the car, too, then carried on talking to a pedestrian. Apart from glances of incidental admiration, no one paid special attention to a stylish Jaguar sports car with one equally stylish occupant.
A few minutes later, as DCI McKinnes continued to watch the exterior of the Rotherhill Bank, a message was passed along by radio control. McKinnes listened, sighing, watching the buildup of traffic around the bank. He pressed the transmission switch and relayed the message.
“They’ve changed clothes,” he said. “They found their running gear. Say a few Hail Mary’s, will you?”
In a small side street in the West End, Von Joel stopped the Jaguar and got out. He waited for a vagrant to finish searching a trash can and move on, then he opened the door. Reaching over into the tiny rumble seat he pulled out a blanket and uncovered Larry Jackson, painfully doubled over and packed into a space scarcely big enough for a child. His head came up as if it were on a spring. He was red-faced and gulping air.