Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

Eventually, Varley stepped back from the window and joined a thickset man in a jumper and slacks at the rear of the shop. Palmer assumed he was the owner. They were looking down at something, and Palmer realised that they were discussing a large brown cardboard box by the counter. By the amount of gesticulating going on, Varley didn’t look happy. He bent and tore at the cardboard, and took out what looked like a magazine. He checked the cover before flicking through it in an animated fashion.

After a while, the owner turned to the back and shouted something. A woman appeared and both men left the shop. They walked thirty yards along the pavement and disappeared inside a small restaurant. Varley was carrying the magazine he’d taken from the box. The two men sat down and a waitress approached with a pad.

Palmer paid up and left the cafe, turning left and walking a hundred yards before crossing to the other side. This would bring him back to MailBox Services without having to pass the restaurant where the two men were sitting.

As he stepped inside, he heard the sound of a buzzer at the back. The shop was empty. He looked around and spotted a security camera high on the back wall. It would have a clear view of the shop and all of the mail boxes. That’s if anyone was looking.

The woman appeared, feet scuffing heavily on the tiled floor. She bellied up to the counter and eyed him with a tired look.

Palmer was trying not to look at the box on the floor, but from the corner of his eye, he caught a splash of colour inside the tear Varley had made.

‘I need to rent a box,’ he explained. ‘Do you have a price list?’

The woman stared at him with a blank expression. He repeated the question, and when she still didn’t seem to get it, he pointed to the boxes on either side and waved some money in front of her. ‘How much?’ he said.

The penny finally dropped and she began to look. As she ducked her head below the counter, Palmer surreptitiously nudged the large box with his knee. It felt heavy. He nudged it again and something shifted inside. More magazines, at a guess. Lots more.

‘Moment,’ the woman murmured, and disappeared through the door at the rear.

Palmer leaned down and slid a magazine from the box, coughing loudly to cover the scrape of cardboard. It was a copy of East European Trade, but with a different cover image to the one Riley had shown him. There was also a stapled pack of labels on A4 sheets just inside the lid. He slid it out. The first dozen sheets bore names and addresses spread right around Europe. Most of them seemed to be in capital cities, many with PO Box numbers. The majority of the addresses on the remaining sheets were in the Middle East and Asia, and Palmer spotted Egypt, Dubai, Jordan, Iran, Syria, Pakistan and a whole host of others. The names of the recipients meant nothing, although he spotted the word Minister among many of the titles.

He weighed the magazine in his hand, recalling what Natalya Fisher had said about the circulation run. ‘Two hundred copies — maybe three. But not more.’

Yet this box and the list with it contained easily twice that number. Was there a reason for increasing the print run? An increase in business, perhaps? Unlikely.

Someone had scribbled in heavy print across the top of the list: Issue 1572 amp; 1573. The magazines in the box were issue № 1572. Palmer replaced the list and slid the magazine inside his jacket just as the front door opened and the buzzer sounded.

It was the shop owner and Richard Varley. They were standing in the doorway, staring at him.

As soon as Riley got home, she checked the phone directory and got through to Al-Bashir’s office. It was a risky venture she was about to undertake, but without it, she would always be one step back from finding out some important facts about the man. And sometimes, the full-frontal approach worked where guile didn’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ the receptionist purred, as soon as she heard Riley’s request. ‘But Mr Al-Bashir is very busy and requires advance notice of interviews. I’ll put you through to our media office — I’m sure they’ll accommodate you.’

‘Please don’t,’ Riley purred back. ‘Tell him it’s about his bid for the Batnev network licences in Eastern Europe. I have information which I think means his bid will fail. I’ll call back in fifteen minutes.’

She called in ten. The woman coolly told her that Mr Al-Bashir would see her the following morning at nine o’clock. She made a note of Riley’s name but asked for no other details.

‘What you want?’ The owner of MailBox Services seemed surprised to find anyone in the shop. He was unshaven and overweight, and in stark contrast to the impeccably dressed man by his side, his clothes were uncared-for and worn.

‘A bit of service would be a start,’ Palmer replied. If they’d seen him take the magazine, they weren’t saying anything. Which was odd. ‘Are you the manager of this place?’

‘Yes. Koutsatos.’ The man looked wary, as if he’d suddenly realised that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusion and could be facing someone in an official capacity. Palmer was tempted to play it that way, but there was a risk the man might ask for some proof of identity.

‘Well, Mr Koutsatos, I’m interested in renting multiple boxes. I came in looking for some prices. But your assistant doesn’t seem to have the details. Maybe I’ll get more satisfaction somewhere else.’ He moved away from the counter. As he did so, he came face to face with Richard Varley. The man was taller than Palmer and broader, and up close exuded a strong aura of vitality and power. His eyes made a brief assessment of Palmer’s face, then he stepped aside without a word.

‘Wait.’ Koutsatos reached over to the pile of leaflets and snatched one up. He handed it to Palmer. ‘I am sorry. She not my usual girl. You come back soon.’

Palmer nodded at him and walked over to the doorway. ‘If you say so.’ He stepped outside and walked away. As he looked back, he saw Koutsatos frantically manhandling the box of magazines through to the rear of the shop, watched by a grim-faced Richard Varley.

Palmer waited a hundred yards down the road, having snagged another cab. It was fifteen minutes before Varley emerged. But instead of hailing another cab, he began walking south.

It left Palmer in a familiar dilemma: either stay in his cab and risk the vehicle being spotted, or hit the pavement himself and hope Varley hadn’t played clever and had a vehicle waiting to pick him up a hundred yards down the street.

He chose the latter and paid off the driver. There was still a risk he could be spotted, but Palmer had confidence in his own abilities to stay out of sight.

Fifteen minutes later, during which Varley took a couple of elementary detours but made no obvious signs of having spotted him, Palmer knew with absolute certainty where he was going. Sure enough, Varley turned off a narrow street and walked across the car park and through the front entrance of Pantile House.

Whatever business Varley had in the office block was soon over. After five minutes, he emerged again and made his way out to Eversholt Street, where he hailed a cab.

Palmer followed, the procession turning west towards Marylebone, before cutting off south and eventually stopping outside a smart hotel close to Lancaster Gate, across from Hyde Park. Palmer watched as Varley paid off his driver.

But something about the scene wasn’t right.

Palmer paid off his cab and walked towards the park, pretending to be on his mobile. As he turned to allow a couple of nannies and their charges to pass him on a narrow section of pavement, he glanced back to check Varley’s progress.

What he saw gave him an instinctive jolt of unease.