Honour Among Thieves (7 page)

The
two porters were chatting as she shot across the lobby. The red ticket and
another pound were already in her hand before she reached the porters’ desk.
Hannah slammed the coin down on the counter, which immediately attracted the
older man’s attention. When he spotted the pound, he quickly took the ticket,
retrieved Hannah’s little case and returned it to her just as her pursuer was
coming through the revolving doors. She headed in the direction of the
staircase at the end of the corridor, clutching the little case close to her
stomach so the man following her would be unaware that she was carrying
anything. When she reached the second step of the staircase she did run, as
there was no one else in sight. Once down the staircase she bolted across the
corridor and into the comparative safety of the ladies’ room.

This
time she was not alone. A middle-aged woman was leaning over a washbasin to
check her lipstick. She didn’t give Hannah so much as a glance when she
disappeared into one of the cubicles. Hannah sat on the top of the lavatory,
her knees tucked under her chin as she waited for the woman to finish her
handiwork. It was two or three minutes before she finally left. Once Hannah
heard the door close, she lowered her feet onto the cold marble floor, opened
the battered suitcase to check everything was there and, satisfied that it was,
changed back into her T-shirt, baggy sweater and jeans as quickly as she could.

She’d
just managed to get her sneakers on when the door opened again, and she watched
the lower part of two stockinged legs cross the floor and enter the cubicle
next to hers. Hannah shot out, and buttoned up her jeans, before checking
herself quickly in the mirror. She ruffled her hair a little and then began
checking round the room. There was a large receptacle in the corner for
depositing dirty towels. Hannah removed the plastic lid, took out all the
towels that were there and forced her little case to the bottom, then quickly
covered it with the towels and put the lid back in place. She tried to forget she
had carried the bag from Leningrad to Tel Aviv to London – halfway across the
world. She cursed in her native tongue before checking her hair in the mirror
again. Then she strolled out of the ladies’ room, attempting to appear calm,
even casual.

The
first thing Hannah saw when she stepped into the corridor was the young man
sitting at the far end reading the Daily Mail. With luck, he wouldn’t even give
her a second thought. She had reached the bottom of the stairs when he glanced
up. Rather good-looking, she thought, staring back at him for a second too
long. She turned and began to climb the staircase. She was away; she’d made it.

‘Excuse
me, miss,’ said a voice from behind her. Don’t panic, don’t run, act normally.
She turned and smiled. He smiled back, almost flirting with her, and then
blushed.

‘Did
you by any chance see an Arab lady when you were in the rest room?’

‘Yes,
I did,’ replied Hannah. ‘But why do you ask?’ she demanded. Always put the
enemy on the defensive whenever possible was the standard rule.

‘Oh,
it’s not important. Sorry to have bothered you,’ he said, and disappeared back
around the corner.

Hannah
climbed the stairs, returned to the lobby and headed straight for the revolving
doors.

Pity,
she thought once she was back on the pavement. He looked rather sexy. She
wondered how long he would sit there, who he was working for, and to whom he
would eventually be reporting.

Hannah
began to retrace her steps home, regretting that she couldn’t drop into Dino’s
for a quick spaghetti bolognese and then take in Frank Marshall’s latest film,
which was showing at the Cannon. There were still times when she yearned to be
just a young woman in London. And then she thought of her mother, her brother,
her sister, and once again told herself all of that would have to wait.

She
sat alone for the first part of the tube journey, and was beginning to believe
that if they sent her to Baghdad – as long as no one wanted to go to bed with
her – she could surely now pass herself off as an Iraqi.

When
the train pulled in to Green Park two youths hopped on. Hannah ignored them.
But as the doors clamped shut she became aware that there was no one else in
the carriage.

After
a few moments, one of them sauntered over towards her and grinned vacantly. He
was dressed in a black bomber jacket with the collar covered in studs, and his
jeans were so tight they made him look like a ballet dancer. His spiky black
hair stood up so straight that it looked as if he had just received convulsive
shock therapy. Hannah thought he was probably in his early twenties. She
glanced down at his feet to see that he was wearing heavy-duty army boots.
Although he was a little overweight, she suspected from his movements that he
was quite fit. His friend stood a few paces away, leaning against the railing
by the door.

‘So
what do you say to my mate’s suggestion of a quick strip?’ he asked, removing a
flick-knife from his pocket.

‘Get
lost,’ Hannah replied evenly.

‘Oh,
a member of the upper classes, eh?’ he said, offering the same vacant grin. ‘Fancy
a gang bang, do we?’

‘Fancy
a thick lip, do you?’ she countered.

‘Don’t
get clever with me, lady,’ he said as the train pulled in to Piccadilly Circus.

His
friend stood in the doorway so that anyone who might have considered entering
the end carriage thought better of it.

Never
seek attention, never cause a scene: the accepted rule if you work for any
branch of the secret service, especially when you’re stationed abroad. Only
break the rules in extreme circumstances.

‘My
friend Marv fancies you. Did you know that, Sloane?’

Hannah
smiled at him as she began planning the route she would have to take out of the
carriage once the train pulled in to the next station.

‘Quite
like you myself,’ he said. ‘But I prefer black birds. It’s their big bums, you
know. They turn me on.’

‘Then
you’ll like your friend,’ said Hannah, regretting her words the moment she had
said them. Never provoke.

She
heard the click as a long thin blade shot out and flashed in the brightly lit
carriage.

‘Now
there are two ways we can go about this, Sloane – quietly or noisily. It’s your
choice. But if you don’t feel like co-operating, I might have to make a few
etchings in that pretty face of yours.’ The youth by the door began laughing.
Hannah rose and faced her tormentor. She paused before slowly undoing the top
button of her jeans.

‘She’s
all yours, Marv,’ said the young man as he turned to face his friend. He never
saw the foot fly through the air as Hannah swivelled 180 degrees. The knife
went flying out of his hand and shot across the floor to the far end of the
carriage. A flat arm came down across his neck and he slumped to the ground in
a heap, looking like a sack of potatoes. She stepped over his body and headed
towards Marv.

‘No,
no, miss. Not me. Owen’s always been the troublemaker.
I
wouldn’t have done nothin’, not me, nothin’.’

‘Take
off your jeans, Marvin.’

‘What?’

She
straightened the fingers of her right hand.

‘Anything
you say, miss.’ Marvin quickly undid his zip and pulled off his jeans to reveal
a grubby pair of navy Y-fronts and a tattoo on his thigh that read ‘Mum’.

‘I
do hope your mother doesn’t have to see you like that too often, Marvin,’
Hannah said as she picked up his jeans. ‘Now the pants.’

‘What?’

‘You
heard me, Marvin.’

Marvin
slowly pulled off his Y-fronts.

‘How
disappointing,’ said Hannah as the train pulled in to Leicester Square.

As
the doors squelched closed behind her Hannah thought she heard, ‘You filthy
bitch, I’ll...’

As
she walked down the passage to the Northern line, Hannah couldn’t find a litter
bin in which to dispose of Marvin’s grubby clothing. They had all been removed
some time before after a sudden outbreak of IRA bombs in the London
Underground. She had to carry the jeans and pants all the way to Chalk Farm,
where she finally deposited them in a skip on the corner of Adelaide Road, then
strolled quietly back home.

As
she opened the front door, a cheery voice called from the kitchen, ‘Lunch is on
the table, my dear.’ Mrs Rubin walked through to join Hannah and declared,
‘I’ve had the most fascinating morning. You wouldn’t believe what happened to
me at Sainsbury’s.’

‘What
will it be, honey?’ asked a waitress who wore a red skirt and a black apron and
held a pad in her hand.

‘Just
black coffee, please,’ said T. Hamilton McKenzie.

‘Coming
right up,’ she said cheerfully.

He
was about to check the time when he was reminded once again that his watch was
on the wrist of a young man who was now probably miles away. McKenzie looked up
at the clock above the counter. Eight fifty-six. He began to check everyone as
they came through the door.

A
tall, well-dressed man was the first to walk in, and as he scanned the room
McKenzie became quite hopeful and willed him to look in his direction. But the
man walked towards the counter and took a seat on a stool, with his back to the
restaurant. The waitress returned and poured the nervous doctor a steaming
black coffee.

Next
to enter the room was a young woman, carrying a shopping bag with a long rope
handle. She was followed a moment later by another smartly-dressed man who also
searched the room with his eyes. Once again, T. Hamilton McKenzie’s hopes were
raised, only to be dashed when a smile of recognition flickered across the
man’s face. He too headed for the counter and took the stool next to the man
who had come in a few moments earlier.

The
girl with the shopping bag slipped into the place opposite him. ‘That seat’s
taken,’ said T. Hamilton McKenzie, his voice rising with every word.

‘I
know, Dr McKenzie,’ said the girl. ‘It’s been taken by me.’

T.
Hamilton McKenzie began to perspire.

‘Coffee,
honey?’ asked the waitress who appeared by their side.

‘Yes,
black,’ was all she said, not glancing up.

McKenzie
looked at the young woman more carefully. She must have been around thirty –
still at an age when she didn’t require his professional services. From her
accent, she was undoubtedly a native of New York, though with her dark hair,
dark eyes and olive skin her family must surely have emigrated from southern
Europe. She was slight, almost frail, and her neatly-patterned Laura Ashley
dress of autumn browns, which could have been purchased in any one of a
thousand stores across the country, made certain she would be forgettable in
any crowd. She didn’t touch the coffee that was placed in front of her.

McKenzie
decided to go on the attack. ‘I want to know how Sally is.’

‘She’s
fine, just fine,’ said the woman calmly. She reached down and with a gloved
hand removed a single sheet of paper from her bag. She passed it over to him.
He unfolded the anonymous-looking sheet:

It
was her writing, no question of that, but she would never have signed herself
‘Sal’. The coded message only made him more anxious.

The
woman leaned across and snatched the letter back.

‘You
bastards. You won’t get away with it,’ he said, staring across at her.

‘Calm
down, Dr McKenzie. No amount of threats or rhetoric is going to influence us.
It’s not the first time we’ve carried out this sort of operation. So, if you
hope to see your daughter again. ..’

‘What
do you expect me to do?’

The
waitress returned to the table with a fresh pot of coffee, but when she saw
that neither party had taken a sip she said, ‘Coffee’s getting cold, folks,’
and moved on.

‘I’ve
only got about $200,000 to my name. You must have made some mistake.’

‘It’s
not your money we’re after, Dr McKenzie.’

‘Then
what do you want? I’ll do anything to get my daughter back safely.’

‘The
company I represent specialises in gathering skills, and one of our clients is
in need of your particular expertise.’

‘But
you could have called and made an appointment like anyone else,’ he said in
disbelief.

‘Not
for what we have in mind, I suspect. And, in any case, we have a time problem,
and we felt Sally might help us get to the front of the queue.’

‘I
don’t understand.’

‘That’s
why I’m here,’ said the woman. Twenty minutes later, when both cups of coffee
were stone cold, T. Hamilton McKenzie understood exactly what was expected of
him. He was silent for some time before he said, ‘I’m not sure if I can do it.
To begin with, it’s professionally unethical. And do you realise just how
hard...’

The
woman leaned down and removed something else from her bag. She tossed a small
gold earring over to his side of the table. ‘Perhaps this will make it a little
easier for you.’ T. Hamilton McKenzie picked up his daughter’s earring.
‘Tomorrow you get the other earring,’ the woman continued. ‘On Friday the first
ear. On Saturday the other ear. If you keep on worrying about your ethics, Dr
McKenzie, there won’t be much of your daughter left by this time next week.’