After clearing customs, Zane made his way to the waiting area just beyond baggage claim. The room was crushed full of people waiting for the new arrivals — smiling families looking for relatives and friends, and bored drivers holding up signs. Zane hated those first moments after disembarking, walking around in a crowded room full of staring faces. It was always the time he felt most vulnerable. He kept his head down and walked in a way that was not normal for him, using a subtle limp.
Eventually he passed the line of people and stood in the open area just beyond. It only took him a few seconds to find the driver he was looking for. He was a young man, perhaps in his early thirties, standing just in front of the newsstand. The young man’s eyes passed over the crowd, and he held up a simple sign that read: MICHEL BERGERON — PATTERSON TOURS. As Zane limped toward the newsstand, the young driver’s eyes finally settled on him. At first there was confusion, and then recognition. They knew each other well, but the hair and the limp were serving their purpose.
The young man nodded at Zane as he approached. “Welcome to London, Monsieur Bergeron,” he announced in a British accent.
Zane smiled and nodded but remained silent. The man took Zane’s luggage then gestured toward the sliding doors, and they exited the building. The driver led Zane past the line of taxis and into the multi-level parking deck on the other side of the street, where they took the lift to the third level.
“Well, here we are,” the driver said as they approached a row of cars to the right. The hatch of a bright red Vauxhall Meriva lifted into the air. The driver stowed the luggage, and the men climbed into the car, with Zane taking a seat in the back.
Once they had settled in, Zane finally spoke. “A bright red Vauxhall, eh? I’d forgotten what a subtle man you were, Nigel.”
“I believe you Americans call it reverse psychology, don’t you? I’ve always operated on a certain theory, that if there are bad guys around, then inevitably it’s the subtle they’re going to look for.” He winked at the operative in the rear-view mirror.
Nigel Clarke was Delphi’s London-based liaison, handling all logistics and administrative functions for the region. The organization had eight such liaisons around the globe. Clarke’s territory was the entirety of the United Kingdom, as well as a number of other countries in northwestern Europe.
Zane had initially opposed the decision to hire Clarke three years ago. He was a former administrator for MI5, which was problematic in itself, but was also a native-born Brit. But over time, Clarke had won the confidence not only of Zane but of the entire Delphi organization. He was meticulous, thorough, and a quick thinker. He had bailed operatives out on a number of occasions and had earned the respect of those he worked with.
“I suppose you’re right. In that case, have you considered a magnetic sign for the side… perhaps one that reads ‘Covert Operations’? ”
Nigel laughed. “As a matter of fact, Kristine has put one on order. And speaking of subtlety, do I dare ask about the hair? Not a wig, I presume?”
“No, not a wig, so please don’t pull. Let’s just say I wasn’t given much time to clean up, and since I’m coming out a bit early I figure a little change can’t be all bad.”
Zane cringed as Clarke jerked the car quickly to the left to merge onto the highway, prying in between two large trucks. The one behind laid on the horn for two or three seconds, and Nigel waved at him in the mirror with his left hand.
“More subtlety?”
Nigel smiled and then accelerated, deftly shifting the gears as the car gained speed. They were entering London on the A4, which was lined on both sides by council housing.
As they pulled up to the first light, Zane glanced around the intersection, his work mode kicking in despite his exhaustion. To his right was a group of mustachioed Indian men in heavy coats, waiting for the bus. One took a final draw on his unfiltered cigarette and tossed it to the sidewalk, mashing it into the concrete with his shoe.
“You haven’t been to see us in a while. The last time was the affair at the British Museum, wasn’t it?”
Zane snapped out of his thoughts and made eye contact with Nigel in the rear-view mirror. “It was. That’s one I don’t think any of us will soon forget. Speaking of visits, has Ross brought you up to date on mine?”
“He has,” replied Nigel, keeping his eyes on the road. “I was a bit disappointed you’re not going to stay in our flat, but I think I follow your reasoning.”
“In addition to the security concerns, I just have a funny feeling about this one. I also don’t anticipate being here long, and the Millennium puts me near where I need to be.”
“I understand completely. The flat is indeed in good shape, though, no thanks to Fleming.”
“Fleming?”
“Yes, he stayed there for two nights on his way back from Morocco," said Nigel. "I’ve never seen the place in such a mess. Rubbish everywhere.”
“Let’s write that one off to stress.” Zane looked out of the window as they pulled up to another light. They were entering London proper, with commercial buildings closing in on both sides. A group of young professionals scampered across the street as soon as the vehicles came to a stop. The men were dressed in suits and black trench coats, and most of the women in stylish skirts with winter stockings. When the light turned green, a man on a motor scooter shot between the two lines of traffic and across the intersection.
“As you can see, scooters and bikes have their own set of rules here in London,” Nigel said, shaking his head.
It was the morning rush, so the drive into the city took longer than expected. Just after nine, Nigel finally turned onto Upper Brook Street. Up ahead and to the right was Grosvenor Square, with its neatly trimmed hedges and concrete block pathways. The snow was all but gone. A few splashes of white in the shade were the only reminder of the storm that had blown through the week before.
Just through the trees and on the other side of the park was the Millennium, with its stately columns and familiar red brick.
“Let’s do a once-around,” Zane said.
“Something told me you’d want that.” Nigel directed the car around the square. A moment later, they rolled past the grand entrance to the Millennium. Several groups of tourists waited on the sidewalk to board buses. One of them, a Japanese tourist carrying a camera with a large telescopic lens, had wandered out into traffic, intent on photographing the statue in the center of the park across the street. Nigel swerved to miss him, uttering an oath toward the closed window.
In the meantime, Zane continued to take in the surroundings, but other than a few heavily bundled locals walking briskly to work, the plaza was mostly empty. Nigel continued on past the United States Embassy and then circled back to the square on Upper Brook Street. He pulled over to the left and parked the car.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Nigel as he set the parking brake.
“Seems to be all clear. I had actually hoped it would be a little more crowded.”
Nigel turned and faced Zane. “Did I tell you I have a gift for you?”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Compliments of Dr. Ross.”
Zane glanced to his right, taking one last look across the park. “Let me guess, a toothbrush and razor?”
“No, I’m afraid you’ll have to get those yourself, Watson. Shall I wait whilst you check in?”