The Sword of Moses (62 page)

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Chinatown

Soho

London WC1

England

The
United Kingdom

Striding briskly, Ava and Ferguson mingled with the crowds spilling out of Bloomsbury and onto the top of Charing Cross Road.

Whoever was after them would not be far behind.

She glanced over her shoulder anxiously.

Ferguson checked his watch. “What do you know? They should be serving food by now.”

“You know a safe house with a restaurant?” She crossed over onto the west side of the road, joining the international throng heading from Oxford Street down to Leicester Square.

“Something like that.” Ferguson ushered her off the busy road into a narrower side street.

It was quieter here. They were moving away from the main tourist areas, and in no time she could no longer hear the laughing and jostling of the crowds.

Spotting a man in a denim jacket turn into the road seventy-five yards behind them, she stopped and looked at a shop window until he had passed.

“Was he following us?” Ferguson asked.

Ava shook her head. “I don’t think so. But let’s make sure.”

Ferguson turned left into the next street, and after twenty yards ducked into a recessed doorway. Ava followed.

Shaded by the doorway, they were invisible to anyone turning the corner.

They waited for ten minutes, but there was no sign of anyone.

Carrying on down the street, they turned right, right, and then left, until they were walking quickly in their original direction, but one road parallel.

The atmosphere in the narrow streets was a world away from the busy West End thoroughfare they had left behind. The bustling coffee-shops, fast food chains, and ticket kiosks for London’s shows had evaporated, replaced by a variety of Chinese supermarkets, businesses, and restaurants.

“Very close now.” Ferguson announced, indicating for her to turn into a dark covered alleyway.

It smelled of rubbish bins and urine.

Ava was not aware that this part of Soho was off limits to surveillance teams, but she kept quiet—intrigued to see where Ferguson was taking her.

Emerging from the end of the alley, she noticed that the street signs had changed. In place of the traditional bold English lettering, the signs were now bilingual, with Chinese logograms occupying the lower half of the iconic white plaques.

Turning into an even quieter street, Ferguson led her quickly past a pet shop and what looked like a building contractor’s office, before stopping outside a narrow but inviting restaurant. He pushed the door open, and ushered Ava inside.

The ceiling was hung with tasselled red square lanterns, and delicate wooden screens of slim geometric batons adorned the walls. The furniture was lacquered a shiny black, and an invisible sound system played the faint but unmistakable strains of mellow oriental strings and flutes.

It was still relatively early, and there were only a few other diners. Ava suspected it was rarely full. It was not exactly well positioned for passing trade.

Ferguson closed the door behind them, and a solemn-looking waiter approached.

As he drew closer, Ava saw his expression change. There was a flicker of uncertainty, followed by a look of surprise. Then his mask of fixed professional courtesy crumpled into a smile of recognition.

He advanced on Ferguson warmly. “You came back.”

Ferguson smiled, dropping his voice. “I was wondering whether you could do me a small favour.”

Ava was surprised to see the waiter answer without hesitation. “Anything.” He had not batted an eyelid.

“I need two beds for the night.” Ferguson was speaking quietly.

The waiter glanced over at Ava, then back to Ferguson. “For you and your friend? Somewhere discrete?”

Ferguson shook his head. “Not like that. As I said—two beds. We need to disappear. And a laptop, too, if you can get me one.”

Ferguson pointed to a quiet table away from the windows with a view of all the doors. The waiter nodded, and seated them there. “Leave it with me.” He disappeared into the back of the restaurant.

Ava looked across the table at Ferguson. “Do you have that effect on all waiters?”

A waitress in a shimmering silk cheongsam quickly laid the table with an orange and red floating lily in a glass, and black chopsticks decorated with blue cranes. She placed a small bowl of pickled vegetables in front of each of them.

“I used to live near here,” Ferguson confided when the waitress had gone. “I came in a bit when I was home on leave.”

“That’s it?” Ava was unconvinced.

Ferguson looked down at his plate. “They once offered to do me a favour. Now seemed like a good time to ask, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “The waiter acted like nothing would’ve been too much trouble. You could’ve asked to marry his sister and he’d have said yes.”

Ferguson pincered a piece of pickled cucumber between his chopsticks and ate it thoughtfully.

Ava raised her hand slightly to call over the waitress. “If you don’t tell me,” she threatened, “I’ll ask one of the staff.”

“Okay,” Ferguson looked resigned. “Just put your hand down.”

Ava wanted to hear this. It was not often she saw Ferguson being reticent.

“About a year and a half ago, I was the last person here one night. I finished and went to wash my hands. When I came back, I heard a table being knocked over and crockery hitting the floor.”

“I edged open the door,” he pointed to the washroom door at the back of the room, “and could see there were three men in hoodies. One was going through the till. The other two were working on the waitress. The larger one was holding her, while the smaller one was opening her cheek with a Stanley knife. They were all laughing and jeering, egging him on. They were sky high on something, and the last thing they expected was a bloke running out of the washrooms at them.”

“You soldiers are all the same. It’s always about you.” Ava shook her head in mock disapproval.

“And you wonder why I didn’t want to tell you.” He paused. “The lad with his fingers in the till got introduced to the base unit of that old-fashioned telephone over there. The bloke with the knife found himself talking to a fire extinguisher at close range. And the one who had been holding the girl was still on the floor whimpering over his shattered kneecap when the kitchen staff and other waiters came through to see what the noise was.”

“What happened to the waitress?” Ava asked.

Ferguson paused. “Not good. She was badly shaken and needed stitches.”

“And our waiter?” Ava glanced in the direction of the swing doors he had departed through.

“The girl’s uncle—first on the scene from the kitchen, where he’d been cleaning up.”

“What happened to the attackers?”

Ferguson took a sip of the beer that had appeared. “A passer-by coming out of the restaurant opposite called the police. But when they arrived, no one here wanted to say anything. The police carted the men away. I guess they had a night in the cells and were then released.”

Ava was appalled. “So they got away with it?”

“I doubt it very much,” Ferguson lowered his voice. “Our friends here belong to a very private community. They don’t talk to the police, and they don’t go to court. But that doesn’t mean crimes go unpunished. They have a strong traditional code.”

He took another mouthful of pickled vegetables. “I never asked what happened to them. And I don’t want to know. But I doubt they’ll be thinking of causing trouble in Chinatown again any time soon.”

The waiter returned and spoke softly to Ferguson. “It’s arranged. But first, the food is on me.” He took Ferguson’s menu. “You won’t need this.”

Ava handed him her menu, too. “I should hang around you more often,” she confided once the waiter had gone. “I could get used to this.”

Ferguson sat back looking contented. “One thing’s for sure. We’re going to be undisturbed this evening. Our colleagues from Vauxhall Cross and Millbank may have this town sewn up with microphones, cameras, cars, watchers, and snitches in every conceivable place. But we just fell off the radar. We’re in London’s very own Bermuda Triangle.”

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Maze Hill

London SE10

London

The United Kingdom

Uri woke with a start.

But too late.

The men in balaclavas were already on top of him.

He slept with a sidelight on, so he could always see what was happening. But they had been quiet and quick. He had no time to reach for the handgun he always kept under his pillow.

His arms were yanked hard behind his back and rapidly secured tightly with what felt like rope. At the same time, a wide strip of masking tape was stuck roughly over his mouth, and a thick hood was pulled down over his head.

As the world went dark, he tried lashing out with his legs—but they did not move. Men were already sitting on his lower body, and he could feel his ankles being bound tightly.

There was nothing he could do except force himself to override the reflex to panic.

Most of all, he had to stay alert—to not miss any details. Any one of them could save his life.

The men were clearly professional. It was obviously not the first time they had done this. They moved swiftly and in silence, as a team.

He had already worked out they did not want to kill him—at any rate, not yet. If they had, he would be dead already.

He tried to slow his breathing, but his body was surging with adrenaline as he tried to protect himself from whatever assault was about to begin.

But it was all guesswork. He could see nothing, and would have no warning of an attack. One could come from any direction.

He felt himself being rolled roughly onto his side, then onto his back again, while something was wrapped around him. He could not work out what it was until he heard a long zip being done up from his feet to his head.

He knew what that sound was all too well.

He was being sealed inside a body bag.

He could feel the sweat pouring off him, as he braced for whatever was going to happen next.

There was the unmistakable sound of the slide on an automatic handgun being drawn back, cocking the weapon. Then he felt something hard being rammed into the base of his skull.

After a few seconds, the gun was withdrawn.

It was a warning.

The threat was severe. He knew that. He had seen four men in his room the moment before they hooded him, and he had to assume there would be more—at least one at the door, and perhaps one or more going through his possessions.

With no warning, he felt himself being lifted roughly off the bed.

He was totally at their mercy. He wanted to protect his head, but his hands were bound behind his back. If they planned to kick him about or throw him out of the window, there was nothing he would be able to do to protect himself.

But he was being held firmly, and could feel himself bumping against the men carrying him. He had no idea where they were taking him, but from the unmistakable foetid smell, he could tell they had left his flat and were now in the corridor.

As they reached the stairs and he sensed his body being angled downwards head first, he began to struggle. It was a reflex action, but he stopped when he felt a hard blow to his head, and the men’s grip on him tightened as they began descending.

It took all his willpower to stop himself from shouting out. His logical mind told him they were holding him firmly, and were not about to throw him down the concrete stairwell. But his natural instinct was to struggle and get as far away from the danger as possible.

Who were these people? What did they want?

If he was honest, the list of people who might like to take him on a little trip was not exactly short.

He and his colleagues from the Institute lived under the permanent threat of being uncovered by their country’s enemies—which they all knew included a long roll-call of hostile governments and paramilitary groups.

The fact he was in the
Metsada
department and carried out political assassinations for a living was probably not even the issue. It would be enough for most of their enemies to know he was active Mossad. He could work in the car pool for all the difference it would make.

If it was not one of his country’s enemies, it could just as easily be the British authorities. Nobody had kept the MI5 liaison at Thames House in the loop, and they would not take kindly to a covert operation being run on UK soil without their knowledge. If they found out what he was up to, he could expect an unfriendly reception and a seat on the next plane back to Tel Aviv.

Or maybe it was his own side? It was always a possibility. The local Mossad team had not been alerted to his presence, and there was no guarantee any of them knew his face. They could even be using outside contractors. Or perhaps they had been monitoring Malchus’s organization, and wanted to ask a few questions of the latest SS recruit?

Finally, there was always the chance he had been betrayed. Not by Moshe, he was sure of that. But something had definitely gone wrong. The secure SMS message he had received to clear the old KGB dead letter box at the Brompton Oratory had turned out to be a wild goose chase. There had been nothing there to recover, and he had no response from the contact’s phone number, which he had been texting at intervals ever since.

Maybe his contact had been captured and was singing like a canary?

It was all speculation. But he needed to work through the possibilities. Knowing who had him could save his life.

There were no doors at the bottom of the grimy stairwell, which opened directly onto the pavement. He could hear a car engine idling close by—but quickly realized there were two. There was no other traffic or street noise.

It must be the very small hours of the morning—between 2:30 and 4:00 a.m., he guessed.

A moment later, he registered multiple bolts of pain to his head, back, and knees, as he felt himself being stuffed into a car boot.

To confirm it, the lid slammed shut above him with an unmistakably ominous thud.

It was soon followed by the noise of car doors being pulled closed, before there was nothing but darkness and the sound of the rapidly accelerating engine.