“Jim, please. Welcome to the Needle.” Fatuous, on both counts; nobody called Spider Jim and Pashkin had been here before. But the moment had passed, Pashkin putting his case on the floor to take Webb’s right hand in both of his: not the bear-hug he’d been expecting, but a solid citizen’s grasp all the same. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A pastry?” The smell of both wafted from the kitchen.
“Nothing. Thank you.” Then, as if in retrospective validation of Webb’s comment, Pashkin looked round as if he’d never been here before. “Magnificent,” he said. “Truly.”
Webb glanced towards the rest of the party: Louisa Guy, Marcus Longridge, the two Russians. He gestured towards the kitchen. “If you want coffee or anything.”
Nobody did.
Downstairs, in the underground garage, Marcus and Louisa had frisked Kyril and Piotr for weapons, and allowed themselves to be patted down in return. Marcus had then examined Arkady Pashkin, after which he’d gestured at his case. “Do you mind?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Pashkin had said smoothly. “There are documents in there—well, I don’t need to spell it out.”
Marcus had glanced at Louisa.
“Call Webb,” she’d said.
Who’d told him, “Oh for Christ’s sake, he’s an honoured guest, not a security risk. Use your common sense.”
So now Pashkin was laying his unchecked case on the table. He snapped at his men in their shared language. Piotr and Kyril peeled away from the group, and Marcus instinctively grabbed the nearest by the arm: this was Kyril, who spun back, fist raised, and just like that the pair were a heartbeat off knocking seven bells out of each other until a shout from Pashkin froze them: “
Kyril dropped his fist. Marcus released Kyril’s arm.
Piotr laughed. “You, you’re fast.”
“Forgive me,” said Pashkin. “I simply asked them to check the cameras.”
“They’re off,” said Webb. “Aren’t they?”
Louisa looked at Pashkin. “They’re off. As I told you.”
He gave her a formal nod. “Of course. But all the same …”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, but Webb, seeing an opportunity to regain the initiative, said, “As you wish.”
They watched as Piotr and Kyril dealt with the cameras above the door and in the corner, twisting wires free of their casing in a way that didn’t look temporary.
Pashkin said, “You understand my position.”
Webb looked like he was trying to, while wondering whether this destruction of security equipment was going to come bouncing back at him. Pashkin, meanwhile, opened his case and removed what looked like a microphone. When he placed it on the table, it hummed into life.
Marcus Longridge said, “I thought everything had been made clear.” He was cradling one hand in the other, as if a blow had actually been landed. Nodding at the device, he said, “This isn’t being recorded.”
“No,” Pashkin agreed. “And now we can all be certain of that.”
The device pulsed gently; invisibly converting into white noise anything picked up by eavesdropping equipment.
Kyril stood with his big hands clasped in front of him, studying Marcus with what might have been amusement.
Louisa said, “Anything else in that case we should know about?”
“Nothing to cause alarm,” Pashkin said. “But please.” He made a sudden expansive gesture, as if releasing a dove. “Let’s sit. Let’s start.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Do you know,” he added, “maybe I will have that coffee after all.”
River had the phone to his ear when the jeep reached them and a soldier jumped out: a young guy, fit-looking, wide across the shoulders.
“Catherine?”
“Would you put the phone down, sir?”
“Is there a problem?” This was Griff Yates. “We’re out walking, got a bit lost, like.”
“Call the Park. Possible Code September.”
“Sir? The phone?”
The soldier approached.
“Today. This morning.”
“The phone. Now.”
When the soldier laid hands on him, a night’s worth of stress and fear found brief release. River knocked his arms aside, opening the guy up; he kicked his knee, then jabbed him in the throat with his phone-free hand as the soldier slipped off-balance.
“Jesus, man!” Griff shouted, as the other soldier leaped from the jeep, drawing a sidearm.
“River.” Catherine’s voice was very calm. “I need to hear the protocols.”
“Phone down! Hands up! Now!” Screamed, not spoken; either this was the way they were taught, or Soldier Number Two was going off on one.
“Manda—”
The word was cut off by a gunshot.
“So,” Ho said, “You got a car?”
“Are you kidding?”
He hadn’t been. He looked up Aldersgate for a taxi; looked down it too; and when he turned back to Shirley Dander, she was on the other side of the road, moving fast.
Oh, shit.
He waited another second, hoping this was a joke, but when she disappeared round the corner, he accepted the dismal truth: they were heading for the Needle on foot.
Cursing Shirley Dander, cursing Catherine Standish, Roderick Ho began to run.
Mandarin was the first of River Cartwright’s protocols, the others being
