The fact that he pulled a Sig Sauer pistol from his overall pocket a second later was a different story altogether. A P226. It looked clean. Factory fresh, even. A nice weapon. I remember thinking it was a little extravagant for a low level burglar even as I kicked it out of his hand. It flew across the room and crashed against something metal - maybe the radiator - but I kept my eyes locked on the man. I was worried he’d pull out a knife or a backup piece. But that didn’t seem to cross his mind. There was no hesitation. He just dropped the briefcase and came at me with his fists, relentlessly combining flurries of sharp jabs and hooks.
I carried on moving and blocking, trying to frustrate him and wear him down, until he finally pulled away about eighteen inches. He dropped his head and let his shoulders slacken, but I also saw him shift his balance. It was a feint. I guessed he was looking to change tack and catch me with a kick so I stepped aside, then as he came forward I moved straight back in and swept his standing leg. He crashed down onto his back and immediately rolled to his left. But he wasn’t just trying to get away. He was trying to retrieve the Sig. He landed with his fingertips two inches from the grip and started to wriggle frantically forward so, short of options, I snatched up the chair he’d been sitting on and smashed it down across the back of his head.
The guy was left completely still. He was touching the gun with his right hand, and his upper body was surrounded with splintered fragments of the chair’s wooden frame. Only its seat remained intact, and that had come to rest upside down near the foot of the bed. Someone had drawn a frowning face on the underneath in white chalk. I knew how they felt. Because my chances of asking any questions had been pretty much destroyed, too, along with the furniture. There was no hope of the guy waking up before anyone raised the alarm, with the amount of noise that had been made. Lydia McCormick would try to bury me with her forms. And the police would have a field day, as soon as they heard about the firearm. My only hope was to find something that I could follow up on my own, like a name or address or phone number, then make myself scarce. I could see the guy’s wallet peeping out from one of his pockets. I figured that would be a good place to start, so I reached down and worked it free. And at exactly the same moment, I heard the door crash open, behind me.
I’d expected to see a hospital security guard standing there, or possibly a medic. But I was wrong. It was the woman in the wheelchair. She was on her own this time, with no sign of a real porter to push her.
“Evening,” I said. “Is this your room? Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand.”
“A little?” she said, looking at the guy’s prostrate body.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. We’ll soon get everything cleaned up.”
“I don’t think we’ll soon do anything. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I just was passing by and saw this chap trying to steal your briefcase. So I stopped him.”
“Really?” the woman said as she wheeled herself forward, coming fully into the room. “I don’t believe you. So let’s try this, instead. I want you face down, on the ground. Fingers laced behind your head. Legs spread. And I want you there right now.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“You heard.”
“You’re right. I did hear. Only I was expecting something more along the lines of a ‘thank you’ for stopping your stuff from being taken.”
“He wasn’t trying to take anything. And you’re the one holding somebody else’s wallet in your hand. So, get on the ground. Face down. Now.”
“OK. Maybe I should try a different question. Such as, why would I want to do a thing like that?”
“You took the wallet from the man on the floor?”
“I did. I was looking for some ID.”
“Then go ahead. Look inside.”
I was curious, so I looked. I found six credit cards. Two ten pound notes. An Oyster card, for the London Underground. And an official identity card.
“See that?” she said. “Read the name.”
“Timothy Jones,” I said.
“No. The name at the top. His employer.”
“The Security Service.”
“Correct. He’s an MI5 Intelligence Officer.”
I didn’t respond.
“Have you seen one of those cards before?” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“I have one just like it,” she said. “Do you want to see that, too?”
“Not especially,” I said.
“Are you surprised?”
“A little.”
“Do you like surprises?”
“Not really.”
“Well that’s a shame. Because I’ve got three more for you. Tell me when you’re ready.”
I said nothing.
“One,” she said anyway, and pulled a matching Sig from beneath the folds of her sweater. “Ready for the next one?”
I shrugged.
“Two,” she said, effortlessly standing up and stepping away from the wheelchair. “Don’t worry. It’s not a miracle. And the next?”
“Why not?” I said.
“Good sport,” she said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangling them off her left index finger. “Guess who these are for?”
Chapter Five
The MI5 agent was about five foot eight when she wasn’t sitting in the wheelchair. She was wearing dark skinny jeans with black ankle boots - flat enough to run in - and a long grey sweater that was sufficiently baggy to hide the holster for her sidearm. There was no sign of any jewellery. Curly blonde hair reached down beyond her shoulders. She wore no make-up, and her face looked like it could be quite pretty if she hadn’t been scowling so vigourously.
I let her cuff me - she was still holding a Sig, after all - and I didn’t interfere when she called a medevac team for her partner. It was a little ironic, given that we were in a hospital, but I knew she wouldn’t be ready to drop her cover just yet. I also knew what her next move would be. To summon a snatch squad to spirit me out of there, and without any ID it was the devil’s own job to convince her I was from Royal Navy Intelligence and that we were on the same side. The best I could do was persuade her to hold off calling the cavalry until she’d at least run my code words past her liaison duty.
“Wait by the wall,” she said, eventually, then prodded a number of keys on her phone before holding it to her ear.
Someone answered inside ten seconds, and it took her another minute to pass on her request. Then she raised the gun and held it steady, centred on my chest, while the person at the other end ran the necessary checks. She was silent for another three minutes, occasionally glancing down at the guy on floor. He was twitching slightly now, and moaning quietly to himself. She took a step towards him but stopped abruptly, concentrating on the phone again, then lowering the Sig to her side.
“You’re to go to your room,” she said, ending the call and retrieving the handcuff key from her pocket. “Don’t go anywhere, and don’t contact anyone. They’re going to talk about us, your people and mine. They don’t want anyone disappearing. And they don’t want anyone muddying the water.”