As the plane leveled out and the fasten seat belts signs pinged off, she glanced around the cabin, taking in the usual assortment of diplomats, journalists, and lobbyists that formed the bulk of the daily D.C.-to-London business-class traffic.
She closed her eyes again and her mind circled back to the one thing that had been troubling her and that no one, to her surprise, had thought to ask. If this robbery had been so meticulously planned and executed, if Kirk really was so good, how had one coin ended up in a corpse on the other side of the Atlantic two weeks later?
Clearly something had gone very wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Normally Jermyn Street, perched between the hustle of Pall Mall and the bustle of Piccadilly, peddled its own unique sepia-colored version of a long-vanished England. It spoke of country house picnics, of interminable games of cricket played out on village greens by players dressed in whites, of blazers and bowlers and tweeds, of a dry sense of humor and wet summers, of warm beer supped around a blazing pub fire. Of a green and pleasant land.
On this hot and dusty afternoon, however, it had been transformed into a sweaty bazaar of tourists and lunchtime shoppers that shouted and haggled and cursed and spat as convincingly as in any Middle Eastern souk. Shop windows beckoned the passing crowds like pushy merchants, proclaiming their wares with mosaics of outrageously colored and patterned shirts. Carefully arranged fountains of ties shot up into the air only to fall into still pools of silk handkerchiefs.
On the right, a beggar, slumped in the doorway to a personal shopping agency, sung and swore, his upturned hat outstretched. Most chose not to see him. On the left, the chauffeur of a large black Jaguar waiting patiently outside Wilton’s was bartering with an unsmiling traffic warden, the ticket already half written.
Walking through this evocative pageant, his jacket slung over his shoulder, Tom turned, almost without thinking, into the Piccadilly arcade, a marbled oasis of delicately curved windows crammed with shoes, vests and ties, until he found himself outside his favorite shop, on the right, about halfway up.
Tom loved watches. They had always been a passion of his. Most often, like today, he wore the 1957 Jaeger Le Coultre Memovox that his mother had left him. It was not the most valuable watch he owned, but to Tom it was certainly the most precious. That was where his fascination had started, he now knew.
He leaned forward, looking through first the left-hand, then the right-hand window, his eyes running jealously over their carefully arranged contents, laid out on green velvet like precious jewels. No prices, of course. He stood, oblivious to the people swarming past behind him, until the sudden musky smell of a woman’s perfume shook him out of his reverie.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.” Her voice was soft, the American accent unmistakable, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her motioning with her head toward the Rolex “Paul Newman” Daytona that he was looking at.
“But if you want a Rolex, you’re much better going with one of the Princes. Smoother movement and far less… obvious.” She again made a small movement with her head, pointing out the sleek lines of the Prince’s 1930s oblong stainless-steel case.
Tom stood up straight and turned to face the woman. She was beautiful. Slender with a delicate brown face and full lips, lustrous hazel eyes framed by a close-cut mass of black curly hair. The woman smiled back. He wondered for a second whether she was a pro trying to pick him up. But her shoes seemed too new, her skirt too formal. No. She was something else altogether.
“Are you a collector?” he asked warily.
“No.” She smiled. “I worked on a case once where I had to learn a bit about them.”
“A case? You’re a lawyer, then?”
“Not exactly. I work for the government. The U.S. government.”
“Right.” In a way, Tom had been preparing himself for this very moment for the last ten years — for when they finally found him. Occasionally during that time he had almost managed to convince himself that they might just never come. He realized now that he should have known better. “I take it then, that this isn’t a chance meeting, Miss…?”
“Browne. Jennifer Browne. And no, it isn’t.” She held out her hand to shake his but Tom ignored it. “Perhaps we could go somewhere and talk? I need to ask you some questions.”
“What about?”
“Not here.”
The initial shock past, Tom’s mind was racing as he considered what to do. Run perhaps, although the two bulky figures pretending to window-shop at either end of the arcade and blocking his escape route would complicate that option. Or maybe, if he really was going to move on, try and settle this once and for all. He couldn’t keep running forever.
“I know a place,” he muttered eventually. “It’s not far.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tom and Jennifer walked down Piccadilly in silence, allowing themselves to be carried along by the smooth muscle of the masses, red buses trundling cheerfully past. Here and there, black umbrellas, incongruous in the summer sun, were held above the crowds by tour reps, makeshift buoys for their youthful charges to navigate to their next “must-see” destination.
Tom had a much more willowy and delicate build up close than the photos Jennifer had seen had suggested. He walked with careful steps, his movements precise and controlled like those of a cat negotiating a narrow ledge, expending the exact amount of energy and control to get where he wanted. He was also, she had to admit, a handsome man, his high cheekbones and square jaw giving his face a slightly sculpted look, his eyes alert and an incredibly deep blue.
Reaching the Criterion restaurant at Piccadilly Circus, hamburger wrappers and Spanish schoolkids swirling around their feet, they cut themselves adrift from the crowds and plunged inside. Here, the noise of the traffic gave way to an animated babble that bounced gaily off the restaurant’s gaudy mosaic walls and ceilings in five different languages. A harassed-looking Italian waiter showed them to a table and took their order — a vodka tonic for Tom, a mineral water for Jennifer.
There was a silence until Tom spoke.
“So, Agent Browne? It is Agent Browne, isn’t it?” The waiter reappeared with their drinks.
“Special Agent Browne, actually. FBI.” Tom tilted his head as if he hadn’t quite heard right.
“FBI?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sipped his drink, looking pensive. The ice settled, caressed by the soft fizz of the bubbles.
“Aren’t you a bit out of your jurisdiction here, Special Agent Browne?”
“Oh, when it comes to the big fish we stretch the net pretty wide these days.”
“Is that right?”
“You see, I’m here to help you,” she said firmly.
Tom sat back and pushed his glass away from him.
“I didn’t realize I needed helping.”
“Most people don’t until it’s too late. You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Kirk.”
“That’s news to me.”
“There are some old friends of yours back at Langley who are just dying to catch up with you.”
Tom shrugged.
“Langley? Sorry, that’s not ringing any bells.”
“And I’m sure the NYPD would love to discuss how one of your hairs ended up on the floor of that apartment you dropped in on ten days ago.”