Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

Kubat reported that Lady Helena and her daughter had arrived.

‘They’ve sat down at his table,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t seem surprised to see them.’

Nightingale asked if they’d ordered drinks.

‘Not yet,’ said Kubat.

‘Whatever happens, do not engage,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there’s a Falcon incident you may lose radio contact. Don’t panic, don’t engage the targets. Instead I want you to concentrate on evacuating the civilians.’

Kubat acknowledged and Nightingale contacted Seawoll, who was Gold Commander for the operation.

‘Alexander, can you get some men looking for Lady Helena’s car?’ he said, and rattled off the index from memory. ‘Once they have located it, can you disable it in some fashion?’

Seawoll said they could do better than that, and have Vehicle Recovery lift it onto one of their flatbeds and drive it away.

‘That should limit their options,’ said Nightingale.

Kubat reported that the older IC1 female and Reynard Fossman were having an argument, albeit conducted in angry whispers. The IC3 female, on the other hand, was looking bored and indifferent.

‘Well, if this continues,’ said Nightingale, ‘we might just scoop them all up when they find their car is missing.’

Three minutes later I got a call from an unlisted number – it was Special Agent Kimberley Reynolds.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ she asked.

‘Bad,’ I said, and put her on speaker.

‘One of our Virgins let slip some information while I was debriefing them,’ she said. ‘We think there’s a second team operating in London and we think they might have been tasked with the apprehension of Reynard Fossman.’

I would have sworn loudly, but Kimberley had some views about blasphemy and I like to be polite.

‘You’re cussing aren’t you?’ she said after a moment. ‘Well, stop it because you don’t have the time. We think they’re running an operation right now, in and around Mayfair.’

‘Damn,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s inconvenient.’

I wanted to know who ‘we’ were – I suspected Kimberley was drawing on support from both the FBI and the NSA, but it’s not like she would tell me if she was and I didn’t have time to ask.

‘And the good news?’ I asked.

‘We think it’s a small team,’ said Kimberley. ‘Four people tops.’

‘Agent Reynolds?’ said Nightingale.

‘Sir?’

‘Could you liaise with DCI Seawoll, who is Gold Commander on this op.’ Nightingale’s voice had got very precise and clipped. ‘I trust you’ve informed CTC?’

‘Kittredge was with me for the interview, sir,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said Nightingale. ‘That should speed things up. Is there anything further your people can contribute?’

‘I’m afraid not sir,’ said Kimberley. ‘Although there may be more intelligence forthcoming.’

‘Very good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Carry on, Agent Reynolds, and keep us apprised.’

‘American intelligence,’ said Guleed once the phone was safely off.

‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Nightingale.

I asked if it wouldn’t be better to cut our losses and grab Reynard, Lady Helena and Caroline before the situation got more complicated. As a rule, the more complex a situation gets the more likely the wheels are to come off. This is why the police strategy with large crowds is to pin them in place until everyone’s too desperate for the loo to cause trouble.

‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re going to adopt a flexible doctrine. If we spot the Americans we’ll see if CTC can’t round them up without disturbing our principals. If Reynard leads us to his hiding place and Martin Chorley makes an appearance, we shall deal with that mob while CTC fends off the Americans.’

‘Flexible.’ I said. ‘Meaning we’re making it up as we go along.’

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale.

There was a click on the Airwave – it was Kubat.

‘They’re heading for the door,’ he said.

‘Hand off to Banana Car,’ said Nightingale. ‘Banana Car, stay in position and tell me where they go.’

The answer was south – towards Piccadilly and Green Park.

Suddenly Nightingale was pulling out of our parking space and accelerating fast enough to push us back hard into our seats. He swung a sudden left into Half Moon Street while simultaneously ordering Banana Car to shift position to the Bomber Command memorial and await further instructions, Charlie Car was to drop two of its watchers off on the Knightsbridge side of Hyde Park Corner.

‘And drive carefully,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves.’

I hung on grimly to the door handle as he braked hard just short of the corner with Piccadilly and wished he’d take his own advice. We pulled into an insanely unlikely free parking spot and Nightingale looked over and told me to cross Piccadilly and take a position inside the park gate.

‘Get yourself twenty yards behind the targets and follow them,’ he said. ‘Guleed and I will follow ten yards behind you.’

‘The targets all know him,’ said Guleed.

‘They know Peter Grant the dashing constable about town,’ said Nightingale. ‘In his sweat top they’ll take him for an averagely delinquent youth.’ He stabbed a finger in the direction of the park. ‘Off you go – we’ll be right behind you.’

A low cloud had drawn in over London and with it an early twilight. There’d been rain earlier and the smell of wet leaves mingled with the car exhaust. The traffic on Piccadilly was slow and it was easy enough to nip across, vault the safety railings and slip in through the gates.

Green Park had been laid down by Charles II, who nicked the land off a local farmer, laid out the paths and installed an ice house so that he’d never be short of a cool drink after a hard day of amateur theatre. It stayed on the fringes of the city where it served as a convenient open space for midnight liaisons and the occasional spot of highway robbery. It takes pride these days in being the dullest park in London and is noticeably short of shrubs, bushes, kiosks, statues or anything else a dashing constable about town might hide behind.

I should have welcomed the thick mist that seeped in between the upright tree trunks, hazing the street lights and beading my shoulders and the edge of my hood with droplets of water. But I didn’t.

Because I recognised that mist. I’d seen it roll up the Thames when Father and Mama held their Spring Court on the South Bank. And the course of the Tyburn ran through Green Park on its way to Buckingham Palace.

I keyed my Airwave.

‘Tyburn’s about,’ I said, my voice dulled by the moisture in the air.

‘So I see,’ said Nightingale. ‘Our fox is certainly living up to his reputation. I doubt Martin Chorley will risk entering the park while she’s on the warpath. Reynard’s safe while he stays in there.’

‘I can’t see them,’ I said.

‘Southeast of your position,’ said Nightingale. ‘Thirty yards and heading south.’

I stuck my hands in my pockets and slouched off down the path while trying to think delinquent thoughts.

They were a distinctive bunch, so I spotted them walking briskly across the grass towards the centre of the park. I picked up my pace, lifting my knees as if I was doing running practice. I figured I’d look kosher if I stayed on the path. I was crossing their path at a tangent and as I reached the closest approach I forced myself to keep my eyes forward – with luck, even if they looked, my face would be hidden by my hoodie.

Where could they be heading?

South was Constitution Hill Road, notable for not being much of a hill, and just beyond that the walled gardens of Buckingham Palace. Once they hit the road they could go east towards Victoria Memorial and the Mall or west up the hill to Hyde Park Corner.