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Vasquez nodded his agreement. "You got it."

"Okay then." Viggiano slapped the table. "Let's move out. There's a shitload to do, and I want to hit this place after lunch."

CHAPTER EIGHT

BOROUGH MARKET, SOUTHWARK, LONDON
January 5 — 12:47 p.m.

Followed? You sure?" Archie asked. "Tracksuit, bomber jacket, and white sneakers. Noticed him glancing over at us five minutes ago. Just saw his reflection in that van's rear window about thirty yards back."

"We're nearly at the motor. We could make a run for it."

Tom followed Archie's gaze to his DB9 about thirty yards down the road. It was a recent purchase, and for Ar-chie — who had always said that the cardinal rule of being a criminal was not to attract undue attention by living beyond your means — an uncharacteristic indulgence. When he had handed over the check, twenty years of pent-up spending frustration had been released with one cathartic swish of his pen.

"Oh shit!" Archie swore. A wheel clamp glowed bright yellow against the gunmetal gray bodywork. "They've only gone and bloody clamped me."

He quickened his pace, but Tom laid a restraining hand on his arm. Something felt wrong. Behind them a man who had followed them from the market; ahead, a street sweeper whose shoes looked a little too new; parked next to Archie's car, a van with its windows blacked out; and the car itself conveniently immobilized. It was textbook. "This isn't right," he breathed.

"I see them too," hissed Archie. "What do you want to do?"

"Get out of here. Now!"

As Tom shouted, the rear doors of the van flew open and three men jumped to the ground. At the same time the street sweeper threw his broom away and swung a semi-automatic out from under his coat. Tom heard the heavy thud of fast-approaching feet from behind.

Before the sweeper could get a shot off, Archie peeled away to the left, while Tom darted right, down a small alleyway that emerged onto a narrow lane bordered by a wire fence. Grabbing the galvanized mesh, he hauled himself up its shuddering face, the metal clanging noisily. He was on the point of vaulting over to the other side when he felt a hand close around his left ankle.

The man who had followed them from the market had somehow managed to catch up with him and was now hanging off his leg, to drag him to the ground. Instead of trying to shake him off, Tom lowered himself slightly until his feet were level with the man's head and then kicked out, freeing his foot from the man's grasp and striking him across the chin. With a strangled gasp, the man fell to the ground.

Tom swung himself over the fence into a strip of wasteland that had been turned into a temporary parking lot for the market. He heard the clang of metal behind him and saw that two of the men from the van had arrived at the fence and were clambering up it.

At least they hadn't shot him, Tom thought as he sprinted out of the lot, narrowly avoiding a car that was turning in, and headed back toward the market. If they'd wanted him dead, whoever they were, they could have taken him right there, through the fence. Clearly they had other plans.

At that moment a forklift loaded with market produce swung out of a hidden turning ahead of him. Tom jinked around it, the driver slamming on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting him.

"Watch it, moron!" the driver yelled, leaning on the horn to emphasize his point.

Tom ignored him, leaping over the spilled vegetable crates and then plunging back into the market. As soon as he was inside, he slowed to a walk, snaking in and out of the lines of shoppers. He knew that he would be safer in a busy place and hoped that Archie had had the good sense to come to the same conclusion. When he judged he was far enough inside, he stopped next to a wine stall and glanced back over his shoulder. His pursuers had reached the market entrance and were scanning the crowd for him. Both had their right hands tucked inside their coats, where each was presumably concealing a gun.

Tom turned abruptly and slammed into a man carrying a case of red wine, knocking it out of his hands. The box landed with a crash, the bottles shattering noisily. Tom glanced back toward the entrance and saw that the men, alerted by the noise, were already fighting their way over to him.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, pushing past.

"Hey!" the man shouted after him. "Get back here!"

But Tom didn't stop. Dropping to his knees, he crawled under a stall, then ducked under two more until he was a couple of aisles away from the site of the collision. From the cover of a pyramid of olive oil drums, he checked the progress of the two men. They were standing by the box of shattered wine bottles, gesturing frantically. They'd lost him.

He cautiously made his way toward the north exit, attaching himself to a group of tourists who were chattering excitedly about the whole deer they'd seen strung up on one of the stalls. As they left the market, he broke away, heading for the main road and the river.

With a screech of brakes, a large black Range Rover pulled up alongside him. Tom turned on his heel but slipped, the road surface rendered treacherous by the wet cardboard boxes, lettuce leaves, and plastic bags generated by the morning's trading. Before he could scramble back to his feet, the rear passenger door flew open and he caught a glimpse of who was sitting in the backseat. Archie.

The front passenger window retracted a few inches, and a pale hand appeared in the crack clutching a government identity badge.

"Enough fun and games, Kirk. Get in."

CHAPTER NINE

January 5 — 12:56 p.m.

The driver's square, close-shaved head emerged from a thick gray woolen turtleneck. He flicked his eyes up to the mirror and then back to the road, a smile playing around the corner of his mouth as the car accelerated away.

The man in the passenger seat peered back over his shoulder and nodded at them both. "I'm William Turnbull."

He extended his hand back over his shoulder toward them as he spoke, but they both ignored it, staring at him in stony silence. From what he could see of Turnbull, Tom estimated that he must weigh about two hundred fifty pounds, little of it muscle. He appeared to be quite young, though, about thirty-five, give or take a few years, and was dressed in an urban camouflage of jeans and an open-necked shirt that barely contained the roll of fat around the base of his neck.

"Sorry about… that." He waved vaguely in the direction of the market. "I guessed that you probably wouldn't come if I just asked, so I brought some help. I didn't quite expect you to make us—"

"Let me guess," Tom interrupted angrily. "Somebody's got knocked off and you think we might know something about it? Am I right? How many times have I got to tell you people, we don't know anything and, even if we did, we wouldn't say."

"This has nothing to do with any job," was Turnbull's unsmiling response. "And I'm not the police."

"Special Branch, Interpol, Flying Squad, PC bloody Plod…" Archie shrugged. "Whatever you want to call yourselves, the answer's still the same. And this is harassment. We're clean and you know it."

"I work for the Foreign Office." Turnbull flashed his identity card at them again.