Through the scratched glass of the phone box he looked around him. The sun had just gone down behind the black trees of the park, and the sky was a sprawling pink. It would be beautiful again tomorrow. “I miss you,” he said.
“I imagine you do.”
He sighed, moving the receiver from his mouth so that she wouldn’t hear him. How he wanted her to thaw. He would have given Rad’s phantom payoff ten times over to know that he would one day get his family back. But Elsa wasn’t the sort to give reassurance, and he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. And what he was about to say wouldn’t change that.
“Tomorrow…” He hesitated. Closed his eyes tight and opened them. “Tomorrow, I need you to move. Just for two days…”
“What do you mean, move?”
“Some friends of mine are going to come…”
“What the fuck do you mean? What have you done?”
“Nothing. It’s just… For a day or two things are going to be difficult. Then they won’t be. For two days, I need you to go somewhere else.”
Silence. He could see her shaking her head. “Christ. Christ, Ben. How can we not be safe here? I thought we weren’t safe in our own home. Because of you. I didn’t realize we were on the fucking run.”
“You’re not…”
“Wait. I’m talking. Do you mean to say that there are people who might come here and hurt us? Hurt our children? Is that it?” His silence told her that it was. “What the fuck have you done? To put them in danger. What the…” Her voice trailed off in anger and sorrow.
Webster rested his elbow on the phone and cradled his forehead in his free hand, scratching at his scalp so hard that he could feel the nails digging in. He had nothing to say. Just instructions to give.
“Listen to me,” he said at last. “Wait. Listen. I have fucked up. I know that. You know I know. But right now, I am making it better. I’ve dealt with the Italian thing. That’s over. And I’m making it so that in three days’ time, we won’t have to worry about anything. At all. Do you understand? But in the meantime I need you to be somewhere completely safe. Not probably safe. Completely safe. After that, there will be no risk to any of us. And definitely not to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that.”
“Sorry—are you planning some heroic gesture to save us all? Because I’m already wondering how to explain to the children that their father’s work is more important than they are. I don’t think I’m ready to tell them that he sacrificed himself in the line of duty, or whatever it is that drives you on.”
“I’m going to be fine. I’ll be fine.”
Elsa paused, challenging him to say more. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re doing?”
“No. I’m not. I can’t.”
“Right. OK. Obviously we can’t be trusted. So you know what? I don’t want to be part of your plan. We’re not going anywhere. If it makes you feel better, send in the troops. Surround the fucking house.”
The line went dead in Webster’s ear. Outside the phone booth Kensal Rise was still and quiet: no cars, no people in sight. On the other side of the little park Webster could see his house, a dark gap in the middle of its terrace, the windows either side shining warmly in the twilight. He took another handful of coins from his pocket and slotted them deliberately into the phone, waiting for each to drop, watching his credit rack up, his head full of noise. He closed his eyes and collected himself; reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of Camel. Fletcher first. Then George.
The phone rang six or seven times while he lit a cigarette, a long lazy tone, and then rang out. He dialed again, and on the fourth ring Constance’s voice, low and irritable, came on the line.
“Bit fucking late for a personal call.”
“I did say.”
“Yes, yes. You said. You said a lot. Although not why it couldn’t wait till morning.”
Webster blew out a lungful of smoke and opened the door of the phone box to let it out into the dusk. “Sorry. Thanks for the e-mails. That should do it.”
“I still think you’re crazy.” He paused. “How can you be sure they’ll see them?”
“I forwarded them to Qazai.”
“Oh good. So now the traitor of Tehran has my name as well.”
“Your name won’t be on them. You’re just my friend. Your friends are your friends, who have agreed to debrief me and Qazai in Dubai and see about some sort of protection.”
Constance grunted. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“It’ll be fine. All they’re going to see is e-mails from me to a Google account that if they check originated in Dubai. There’s no trace to you.”
Constance gave another grunt and Webster heard the click of his lighter. “I am too fucking old”—he drew on his cigarette—“to be fucking about in Internet cafes. Do you know how many bearded sixty-year-olds there are in those places? You call that tradecraft?”
“Fletcher, Christ. Since when were you so timid?”
There was silence on the line. After a full five seconds Constance spoke.
“How did you dream up this master plan, anyway? Was it Ike?”
“For once, no. Qazai gave me the idea, if you can believe that. In Marrakech. He showed me you can bribe a man against his will.”
“Is that what he calls it?” He paused. “If you say so. OK, Captain Marvel. What do you need me to do?”
“Find a good spot to pick me up.”
“Jesus, Ben. I don’t need a whole day to pick a fucking spot.” He paused to let his pique register. “We could use a parking lot. Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know that we are. There are rooms booked at the Burj.”
“He fucking loves it there, doesn’t he?”
“He seems to think it’s safe.”
“Oh it’s a regular fortress. He just feels safe because the place is made of money.”
“No doubt.”
“Let’s do it there. That’ll work. They’ll never come over the bridge. You drop your bags, then our favorite money-launderer leaves and I’ll be there to take you the back way to our little rendezvous. At that distance they’ll never see who’s getting in and out of cars.”
“That,” said Webster, “is quite neat.”
“Thank you. What time?”
“Be there by six forty-five.”
“In the morning?”
“In the evening.”
“Jesus. Why so late?”
“I need to give Rad time to get there. I don’t want him sending a stooge.”
Fletcher sighed, and Webster heard him drawing deeply on his cigarette.
“What if they haven’t been watching Qazai’s mail?” he said at last.
“Then it’s a long trip for nothing.”
BEFORE THE LONG TRIP, there was a long day’s wait. Webster sent his e-mail to Qazai a little after eight on Friday morning, and at much the same time the next day the two men climbed the steps to the Bombardier, glaringly white in the full sunshine of the morning, and set off for Dubai. In between, Qazai stayed in Mount Street, with double the guard, and Webster took an overnight bag to Hammer’s house, watching his back from time to time along the way.
Hammer was sure that there was enough in the message to have Rad leaving on the next plane—forwarding the brief correspondence with Constance, it had named the time and place of the proposed meeting in Dubai and, to make sure he took care of it personally, had mentioned Rad by name—but even he could see that for once caution was prudent. “If you’re going to Dubai there’s no way he’ll try anything in London,” he had said as he and Webster had drawn up the plan in the first place, “because the British have an irritating habit of investigating murders. Our friends in the Gulf are not similarly encumbered. But he is one unpredictable fucker and you’d better keep out of the way until we’re sure.” For the same reason Ava, who wasn’t speaking to her father and only reluctantly took a call from Webster, was eventually persuaded to have two guards outside her apartment, and a small army of former SAS men had been dispatched the previous night to Cornwall. Webster could picture them stationed at the beginning of the only lane that led to the house, with perhaps a man or two on the path from the woods and another, if they were being thorough, on the jetty by the sea. His mother would be making them tea, and Elsa would be doing her best to pretend they weren’t there.