Silence filled the other end of the line.
“You there, Brian?”
“Yes, Chris. You’re sure he said San Sebastian?”
“Of course I’m sure. Does it mean anything to you?”
“It might.”
Locke looked around, feeling uncomfortable at staying in one place for so long. His shoes kicked nervously against the sidewalk.
“What do we do from here, Brian? They’ll still be looking for me. I might be able to make it back to the hotel if—”
“No!” Charney instructed. “It’s the first place they’d expect you to go. They’ll have a man waiting. Stay clear of it, do you hear me? I’ll meet you someplace else.”
“Where? When?”
“It’ll be a while. I’ve got to make some calls, sort things out. Say five P.M.”
“That’s five hours from now!”
“Four and a half. Believe me, it’s necessary. I’ve dealt with these situations before.” Charney paused. “Do you know St. James’s Park?”
“I’ve been there.”
“The bridge that cuts across the Chinese-style lakes?”
“I know it.”
“Be in the center of it at five P.M. That’ll give me the time I need.”
“To do what?”
“Call in the cavalry.”
The tall man saw his target swing away from the call box and stand there frozen against it, either relieved or exhausted. They had missed him in the park, missed him again in the streets. Those failures were about to be corrected.
The tall man quickened his pace. His hand felt for the butt of the revolver hidden under his jacket.
He had killed before, often and mostly well. This kill would be simple, and especially satisfying since others had failed.
The target moved from the call box.
The tall man started to pull the gun out. He would brush up against him, fire one neat shot that would be muffled against the target’s body, then escape. As simple as that. The tall man drew closer.
A woman with long blond hair smacked into him from behind, spilling the contents of her shopping bag. Annoyed, the tall man had begun to shove her aside when he felt her fingers grasp his elbow, pinning his gun hand to his side.
Then he saw her knife. It whipped up and across so fast that the tall man thought, incredibly, she had missed. Until he felt the warm blood spilling from the tear in his throat where her knife had found its mark. He crumpled to the sidewalk, dead an instant after he struck it.
The woman with long blond hair left him there amid her spilled shopping and walked away.
Chapter 8
Locke hung up the phone still nervous, but not as frightened. Charney had gotten him into this mess and Charney would get him out. For now, though, he had time to kill.
He moved away from the call box and joined the sparse flow of pedestrian traffic, forcing himself to walk along. He was on Vauxhall Bridge near the Thames River. He wanted to get back to the commercial district where crowds abounded and he would stick out less. Walking was out of the question and he’d had his fill of taxis for the day. That left only one safe alternative by Locke’s count. He saw an entrance to the London Underground up ahead and moved toward it, taking the steps slowly.
It took him awhile to figure out the way the lines ran, but he was in no rush and the crowds comforted him. He grabbed the northern line and climbed to street level at the Soho Square station. The mist had given way to a raw drizzle and Chris found himself shivering. Killing four hours in the outdoors was unthinkable. The minutes were already taking forever to pass.
He walked past the collection of shops and restaurants, finding himself on Oxford Street with his head pounding, and saw a large marquee not far away that provided his solution. Just before Oxford gave way to New Oxford Street, there was a row of cinemas. Locke knew at once how he would spend the next four hours before his meeting with Charney: two movies would do the job nicely. He purchased tickets to the movies in advance to avoid having to stand in line again. The titles of the films were meaningless; he wouldn’t be paying much attention to them.
Sitting down in the darkened, nearly empty cinema, Chris felt his breathing return to normal. He stretched his legs and massaged them, then tried to do the same with his neck and shoulders. Finally he leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. Fatigue swept over him. He found himself dozing, snapping back awake occasionally with a jolt forward. Between shows he purchased a pair of Cokes for want of coffee, hoping the caffeine might recharge him. As he revived, he found himself ravenously hungry, so he left to buy three portions of prepackaged popcorn. A short time later, he checked the damage to his face in a men’s room mirror, afraid his injuries might make him too recognizable. Fortunately the swelling was minor and a cup of ice obtained from the refreshment stand took much of it down.
By four thirty he felt reasonably alive again. It was time to head for his meeting with Charney. Soon all this would be over. Chris had known from the start there was some risk involved, but never did he imagine his life might actually be threatened, that he would have to become a killer to survive. The possibility, even probability, of that had been dealt with in the training. They tried to desensitize you. Guilt was the real enemy, they had said, not bullets. Guilt made you slow, hesitant. But Locke hadn’t accepted the desensitizing process. In fact, it was around that time he had quit.
The memories were uncomfortable, so Locke turned his mind toward piecing together all that had happened. He found himself with only questions. If Alvaradejo had helped Lubeck, why had the Colombian tried to kill Locke when all he had done was raise his dead friend’s name? It didn’t make sense. And if Charney hadn’t provided the gun, who had? More madness.
And what of San Sebastian? What in hell was it and where did it fit in? Most of all, who were the men that were trying to kill him?
Locke would leave the questions for Charney. He rode the underground to the St. James’s Park station and arrived at four fifty, according to a clock in the terminal. He took his time departing from the station and found the bridge with little trouble. He strolled around briefly before moving to its center at precisely five o’clock.
Charney was nowhere in sight.
Locke’s heart started pounding again. Panic rose in him. The steady drizzle soaked his jacket and his hair. The mist had developed into a fog and St. James’s Park seemed totally deserted.
Then he heard the footsteps coming from the northern side. He turned swiftly, letting go of the wooden railing.
Brian Charney approached routinely, a man out for an afternoon stroll, no spark of recognition in his eyes. Locke was about to say something, then thought better of it. Contact was up to Charney. He would take no chances.
Charney leaned over to tie his shoe when he reached Locke.
“Start walking,” the man from State instructed. “Keep your pace steady. I’ll stay about six feet behind you.”
“What?”
“Just do as I say. Walk leisurely and don’t look back. You hear me, don’t look back! I’ve been made.”
Locke started walking, hand gliding across the wooden railing to convince anyone watching of the leisureliness of his pace. His fingers trembled.
“I lied to you, Chris,” Charney said softly, almost too soft, pulling to within six feet of him. “I lied to you from the beginning. You were meant to be a decoy, a sacrifice. We — I—never expected you to make it back.”
Fury flared in Locke’s cheeks. “How could—”