Shredder (7 page)

“It's about face,” said the Guvnor. “This guy's dissed me, and he's made sure everybody's seen him do it. This way everyone gets to see what happens to him. It's like what the government says when they bung a quid on the price of a packet of cigs—it's all about sending a message.”

Who to?
I thought. Not the Turk—his death would be the message. The Guvnor's London rivals, maybe? But this seemed way over the top for a local audience—surely they'd be more impressed by a discreet assassination than a messy public execution? Then it came to me: his guest Dimitri. The Russians were the ones the Guvnor wanted to impress—he must be going into business with them. I'd heard about the Russian mafia—how they owned Moscow, bought all the cops they needed, and weren't afraid to settle their arguments face to face, in public. The Guvnor wanted them to see he had clout enough and balls enough to do the same in London, and screw the consequences.

“What about the CCTV?” I asked. “All those tourists with cameras?”

“Forget 'em,” said McGovern. “If they don't know what to look for in advance, they don't see shit. You can take that bag off now.”

I hooked a thumb under the hem and pulled the hood up over my head. Even through the tinted windows the midmorning sun was searingly bright, and I blinked, my eyes watering as they adjusted to the dazzle. We were just coming off the M25, I realized, heading for central London. Gary was riding in the front passenger seat; the driver I hadn't seen before. Beside me McGovern was wearing big Ray-Bans with lenses so dark his eyes were invisible, and in his lap sat a cream-colored Panama hat with a wide brim, the sort old blokes wear to keep the sun off their balding scalps while they watch the cricket. Of course: even if surveillance cameras zoomed in on him, the footage would be useless as evidence—not enough of his face would be visible. I, on the other hand, had no way to conceal my face. By the time this was over I would be more deeply implicated than any of the Guvnor's crew, unless I could get a message to Amobi in the next thirty minutes, and that didn't seem likely.

I glanced over my shoulder. On the ramp behind and ahead of us were two more expensive, powerful cars, four-by-fours with tinted windows. The Guvnor was traveling in convoy, I realized, and he had probably sent some more people ahead to stake out the rendezvous well in advance. This was going down like a military operation, and I was the only one who hadn't been given any orders.

“What exactly to you want me to do?” I said.

“Stick with me,” said McGovern. “And when you see him, and you're sure it's him, you give me the nod. We'll do the rest.”

I took a deep breath and looked out the window, trying to keep my pulse steady and my mind calm, the way I used to do before a big fight. We were making good time: the schools had broken up by now and a lot of Londoners had abandoned the city to escape the muggy polluted air, so the traffic was light, and before long we were heading over Westminster Bridge, past the golden gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, and on up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. When the Jag pulled up on the southeast corner we all clambered out, and it drove on up St. Martin's Lane.

I hadn't walked through Trafalgar Square since I was a kid. Like most Londoners I took it for granted, and left gawking to the tourists, but today it felt as if I'd never seen it before. Its broad paved plain was ringed with granite bollards and overlooked by stately buildings of gray and golden stone; to the east and west, lines of plane trees sagged, unbothered by any breeze. For about a hundred years fat, flea-bitten pigeons had crowded this square, pecking at litter and crapping on everything and everyone, but now the stalls that had sold bags of bread crumbs had been banished, and with them had gone most of the pigeons. Instead of feeding the flying rats, the throngs of sightseers contented themselves with staring at the sculptures, taking grinning selfies on their smartphones, or merely lolling on the steps that led up to the National Gallery on the northern side of the square.

The sun was beating down on all our heads like a hammer, and I could feel the heat of the granite paving slabs through the soles of my shoes. The tourists didn't seem to mind the heat; kids were clambering up onto the bronze lions at the foot of Nelson's Column, and a good-looking couple in their twenties were splashing about fully dressed
in one of the fountains to our right, hooting at each other in Italian. Two shirtsleeved cops were heading in their direction, determined to get them out of the water before everyone else decided to follow their example. Unlike the police I'd seen at King's Cross, these two were unarmed, and that was probably a good thing—when the Guvnor made his move they wouldn't be tempted to wade in spraying bullets everywhere like action heroes.

McGovern looked every inch a tourist himself, strolling along in his shades and his Panama hat and his lightweight summer blazer. At his elbow Gary was already starting to perspire. Mirror shades concealed his eyes, and he wore a leather bomber jacket, far too hot for this weather. He wasn't going to take it off, I guessed, because it concealed a gun. I found myself irritated by how tense and conspicuous he appeared, and realized with some surprise that for my part I was totally calm. Maybe my mind had gone numb with fear, but somehow I found it no effort to relax and glance around, as if I was just another stupid tourist with nowhere specific to be and nothing specific to do. In fact, I was scanning the crowd for the rest of the Guvnor's crew, but I couldn't see any of them. Was that good or bad?

At the center of the square, in the narrow shade of Nelson's Column, a temporary pavement café was doing a brisk trade. It was operating out of a classy dark-red pavilion, surrounded by heavy mosaic-topped tables and light aluminum chairs, the whole thing enclosed by the black railings that ringed the foot of the column. It was a very European scene somehow; all it lacked was umbrellas, which seemed a daft oversight in this heat, but maybe the café management wanted the customers to keep moving rather than hang around sipping coffee all day.

Ignoring the waiting queue, the Guvnor sauntered over to a table in the corner and plonked himself down, taking a seat that faced north across the fountains towards the National Gallery. A waitress glanced our way and frowned, pondering whether to tell us off for not waiting to be seated, but then seemed to change her mind. Maybe she was intimidated by the Guvnor's presence, or maybe all of this had been arranged—the table, the seating and the view of the square. I sat myself down at McGovern's left hand, and Gary took the chair to his right. Gary watched the bustling crowds, inscrutable behind his aviator shades; the Guvnor picked up the menu and studied it, as chilled as a British pensioner sitting in an English bar in Spain.

“Yes, please?” The waitress was at my elbow, pad and pencil in hand. She looked harassed and nervous, but then it couldn't have been easy, scuttling about in this bustle and heat.

“Two Cokes, an espresso, and a bloody umbrella,” said the Guvnor.

The waitress scribbled quickly on her pad. “Sorry, we don't have any umbrellas—they all got vandalized last night,” she said.

“You're kidding,” said McGovern. He sounded disgusted at the casual drunken hooliganism of today's youth. Gary ignored the whole exchange, I noted, scanning the crowds around us like a CCTV camera himself.

“Slashed them to ribbons,” explained the waitress. “Really stupid—people have been complaining all morning. Just the drinks, yeah?”

“Yeah,” said McGovern.

Thanks for asking what I wanted, I thought, although there was so much adrenaline pumping through my system I wasn't sure I would even be able to swallow the Coke. I found myself scanning the crowds too, wondering when I'd see the Turk's slight figure strolling towards us with his customary swagger. No—he wouldn't swagger, I realized. The swagger had been Bruno's, and Bruno had never
existed. He was a fiction Pirbal had created, then discarded once it had served its purpose. I wondered if I would even recognize the Turk when I saw him again, or whether he'd be right on top of us before I'd even realized it.

But surely that was Pirbal on the western edge of the square: that dark, slight, self-possessed man in his midtwenties, graceful and dangerous as a leopard. I'd been right—there was no swagger; in fact, I might not have recognized him in his baseball cap and shades had it not been for the stumpy gait of the man trying to keep up—my old friend Dean. Dean's Elvis quiff had gone and his hair was cut short, but I knew that ratlike face, even though I'd changed its shape during our last encounter, when I'd managed to break it and knock out two of his molars.

“That's him,” I said. “In the red baseball cap and sunglasses.” I was surprised how steady and clear my voice sounded, when deep down I felt anything but.

The Guvnor turned to his left and tilted his head back to get a good look through his shades: Gary got up and stood back, vacating his seat for the Turk, his hands hanging loosely at his sides; but I noted the tiny tremble of tension in them, and guessed he was
mentally rehearsing reaching under his jacket for his gun. At the same time an uneasy thought stabbed into my mind like a thorn in my sole.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Kemal's not with him.”

McGovern glanced at me, expressionless.

“The Turk's right-hand guy, his fixer, he's not here,” I said. There was no way the Turk would come to a meet like this without Kemal…so where was he? But it was too late now to wonder.

Trafalgar Square was smaller than I'd remembered, but it seemed to be taking Pirbal and Dean a long time to cross it. I realized time had slowed down, like it used to in the boxing ring, when adrenaline would heighten all my senses. I could make out every face in the crowd around me, and even see the hi-viz jackets of the cops by the fountains behind us, somehow; I could smell lemon in the glass of the woman sitting at the next table and hear the jingle of her bangles as she rooted in her handbag.

And off to my right, skipping down the steps from the National Gallery, I could see pale, broad-nosed Martin, in short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, carrying a folded newspaper and strolling nonchalantly south, his path destined to pass behind the Turk and Dean just before they reached our table.

I didn't turn my head towards him, but kept my eyes focused on the Turk, and noted the twitch of his lips as he saw me, seated there beside the Guvnor. He was smiling, apparently unaware of Martin, now twenty paces away, slipping his free hand into the folded newspaper. I guessed the paper concealed a pistol, and saw now what was about to happen: the Turk and Dean would each take a bullet to the back of the head before they'd even reached our table, and the Guvnor would walk away, unscathed and uninvolved.

Now Martin was eight paces away.

Seven.

Then the right side of his head exploded.

Blood and brains and bone sprayed over half a dozen tourists beside him, and under the roar of the traffic and the chatter of the crowds I heard a distant
crack
echoing faintly around the square and dying. Slowly Martin's legs shuddered and folded, and his lifeless body fell forwards, and the stunned, gorespattered tourists looked at him and each other, and the screaming started.

The wave of panic was small at first, but it rippled outwards across the crowds like flames on petrol. Around me I saw people turn, and frown, and stare,
and I felt their curiosity turn first to recognition, then to terror—but all that was on the fringe of my awareness, because I was scanning the skyline to the east, where the bullet had come from. I saw what I was looking for—a rounded shape on the hard edge of a rooftop, a hint of movement, and a tiny tinted flash as sun glinted off the glass of a scope.
Sniper
.

I don't even know where the thought came from, unless it was playing too many console war games, but I dived for the floor. The quickest way down brought me piling straight into McGovern, still sitting there motionless until my body slammed into his, and we both went down in a rattling tangle of chair legs. A second
crack
snapped hard in my ear, and I swear I felt the cool draft of the bullet's passing, and then the hot granite paving under my hands.

Behind us Gary had ducked, his fist already under his jacket, and then he was up again and there was a gun in his hand. The Guvnor grunted and gasped as I squirmed around on top of him, braced my foot underneath a table and heaved. It toppled slowly, like a falling tree, the solid slab of its mosaic top slamming against the pavement, its metal legs resounding like a bell, glasses and saucers smashing and a steel serving tray ringing and rattling as it settled on
the stone. McGovern scrambled for cover behind it, just in time—a third shot smashed into the tabletop with a bang so loud it rattled my teeth in my head. But we still weren't safe, I realized; the Turk and Dean were behind us, and I scuttled round, expecting any second to feel bullets rip into my belly.

But the Turk had vanished. Only Dean remained, squatting with a revolver held in two hands, blasting shots at Gary, who blasted shots back, while pandemonium broke out all around them—some tourists trembling facedown on the ground, screaming and weeping, others running in all directions, carrying or dragging hysterically shrieking children, dashing out into the traffic that was somehow still moving round the square. Gary and Dean were only a few meters apart, and I was wondering how the hell they were managing to miss each other when a bullet caught Gary in the chest and spun him to the floor, yelling and cursing. Which left Dean, striding towards us, his revolver outstretched, hoping to take McGovern and me at point-blank range.

I felt the rim of the toppled serving tray under my hand, and without thinking I picked it up and flung it hard as I could straight at Dean's face, Frisbee style. And just like a Frisbee, it went veering wide,
but it was still enough to make Dean flinch for a split second, and in that split second I managed to cover the distance, slap his gun hand with my left so his shot went wild and grab his face with my right. I kicked his legs from under him so hard he was practically horizontal before he dropped, and I kept my hand on his face to make sure he took plenty of the impact on the back of his head. Grabbing his gun, I flung it away.