“This is good,” Quinn told the cabbie, a block from Lloyd’s. As soon as they pulled to the curb, he paid the driver and got out.
This was the land of the briefcase and business suit, uniforms of daytime animals who, at near midnight, would be miles away, either tucked in bed or sitting at an after-hours bar. Any that did remain were the workaholics trying to impress a boss or the fearful trying not to lose their jobs. In both cases, they would be chained to their cubicles and offices.
Quinn found the Alexander Grant Building several streets away. He kept to the other side of the road and slowed his pace.
The information had claimed the Grant Building was due to be demolished. But one look at the place had Quinn wondering why it hadn’t happened sooner. It was sitting on a corner lot, so the land was worth a considerable amount of money. But the building?
The best words he could come up with to describe it were “unremarkable,” “rundown,” and “aging.” Eight floors of grimy stone. The kind of place a person could walk by every day for years and never notice. It was just there.
Scanning upward, he saw that most of the windows on the upper floors had been removed. So the demolition’s already under way, he thought. No wonder Wills’s client is anxious to get the body removal started.
But why did he need Quinn to do it? Any decent cleaner could handle the project with no problems. Didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. It was another question for Wills when they met up.
He was about to walk around the block when he saw a light flicker in the building. He stepped into a darkened doorway a few feet away and crouched down.
The main entrance to the Grant Building was at the midpoint of the ground floor. Two glass doors led into what had been a darkened lobby. Only now a flashlight beam was lighting up one of the walls. A moment later an overhead light came on, revealing a security guard at the far back of the room.
He walked up to the front door, unlocked it, then stepped through. Super cop he was not. Five foot eight, about twenty-five pounds overweight, and bored. He strolled along the front of the building to the three-foot gap between the Grant Building and its neighbor, then turned and walked back past the entrance and around the corner, disappearing from sight.
Quinn held his position, counting off the time in his head. It was just over four minutes before the guard reappeared. When he did, he was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Quinn couldn’t make out the guard’s words, but a tinny, overamplified voice responded through the receiver, “… second floor …” Quinn glanced up at the darkened windows, but saw nothing of interest.
The guard spoke again, then clipped the radio to his belt and finished his walk to the front door. A moment later he disappeared inside, turning the lobby light off as he passed. Quinn retrieved his phone, accessed the camera, and switched to night vision. He took several pictures, then used the zoom to check the street in both directions.
London was a city that lived under the camera’s eye. Thousands of closed-circuit television cameras, CCTVs, were installed throughout the metropolis, where they passively watched everyone and everything. When people like Quinn worked in London, they had to take this citywide surveillance into consideration — altering appearances, doing nothing to attract attention, and, whenever possible, keeping real business to those dead zones with no coverage.
Occasionally, some of the quieter streets fell through the city’s video net. Quinn was pleased to see the street the target building was on among them.
Minor good news, but good news nonetheless.
He settled in and waited for the guard to reappear so he could gauge the schedule of rounds. When the lobby light came back on, Quinn checked his watch. An hour and seven minutes.
Say an hour to an hour and a half between rounds. He watched as the door opened again and the man stepped outside. Interesting.
While the pattern was the same, the guard was not. This was a younger guy, probably early thirties, and in a bit better shape. So there are at least two of them, he thought. For an abandoned building this size, Quinn could see it go as high as three, but no more.
For the first time that evening, he could feel sleep hanging behind his eyes. As he had hoped, getting out and doing some work had helped him to relax. Now, maybe, he could get a few hours’ rest before he met up with Wills.
When the guard disappeared around the side of the building, Quinn slipped out of his hiding place and returned down the street the way he’d come. At the end of the block, he took a look back at the building.
Easy.
Too easy.
Chapter 24
Nate had assumed Liz would lose interest in him the moment Quinn was gone. And for a while she did disappear into the back of the apartment. When she finally came out, he was sure she was going to suggest it might actually be better if he did stay in a hostel, but instead, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. You up for some lunch?”
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble for me,” Nate said. He was still sitting on the couch.
“Who’s going to any trouble?” she asked as she walked over to the entryway, then opened a closet door. “We’ll pick up something on the way.”
Nate stood up slowly, confused. “On the way where?”
She pulled out a coat. “Nickel tour of Paris, of course. Unless you have something better to do.”
“Don’t you have to go to school or something?”
“Done for the day. So are you coming or not?”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
“God, are you always this difficult? Relax. Someone offers to show you Paris, you say yes.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “Yes.”
He shot Julien a text update from the bathroom before they left, then bundled up and followed Liz out into the city.
She helped him to buy a Métro pass, then they took the train to Saint-Michel. A half block away was the Seine, and just on the other side was the Île de la Cité and the Notre Dame Cathedral.
“You’ve come at a good time of year,” she said. “Hardly any tourists.”
Nate nodded, then took a step toward the cathedral.
But Liz grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Come on. Back on the Métro.”
“We’re not going to go take a look inside?” he asked.
“You’re here a week, right? I’m giving you the overview so you have an idea where things are and can come back when you want.”
Nate laughed. “Overview, it is. Lead on.”
As they walked back to the Saint-Michel Métro station, Nate caught a glimpse of Julien standing in line at a patisserie. When the big man glanced at him, Nate said to Liz, “Which way?”
“Over there.” She pointed at the Métro entrance. “Same one we used before.”
“Right. Sorry, wasn’t paying attention when we came out.”
He glanced quickly in Julien’s direction. The Frenchman had gotten the message and was headed toward the subway.
It was the tour most locals would give to friends from out of town. The Louvre Museum, Montmartre and the Basilique du Sacré-Cæur, the Eiffel Tower, and finally the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées. The only place they actually spent any time at was the Champs-Élysées. There they strolled down the famous street, looking at the shops and restaurants.
“How about a coffee or something?” Nate suggested. “My treat.”
“You’re on,” she said, smiling. She pulled him by the arm over to the nearest café.