E. Seymour - A Deadly Trade - A gripping espionage thriller

Hiding me in the rear footwell of his Volvo Estate, Reuben drove me into town, dropped me off and I returned as quickly as I dared to my lock-up near King’s Cross. My only official claim to property it housed the tools of my trade and, aside from weapons, included bikes, wigs, uniforms, props like walking sticks, and hair dyes; anything that could aid a metamorphosis in my appearance. There, I had a quick shave, changed into a smart cashmere coat over tailored trousers and brogues, and popped contact lenses into my eyes, transforming them from blue to brown. It was a detail. It would only count if someone got up close and personal but as detail had tripped me up I wasn’t keen to repeat the error. To complete the disguise, I chose a pair of glasses with plain lenses in black rectangular frames. I took a briefcase containing a pair of high-spec binoculars and a Cannon PowerShot digital camera, a false passport and false credit cards linked to the passport. It’s commonly assumed that these are difficult to acquire. They are, but fifteen or so years ago, when I was starting out, and the Identity and Passport Service was lax, they were a doddle.

Confident that I could not be recognised, I felt more at ease and made my way to the hotel to hook up with Wes. Despite his outward show, I’d always had the impression that he was a nearly man; nearly made it into the higher echelons of organised crime; nearly made it into accountancy. Never had enough bottle for the former and lacked application for the latter. Now I had my doubts. Now I believed he was more involved in the Wilding job than I’d given him credit. Why else would Wes lie about the boy and the reason for the scientist’s murder?

Stepping into the large foyer with its L-shaped reception area, I veered to the right into a wide corridor with booths down one side, lifts on the other. It was cathedral quiet. At that time the place was virtually empty. Wes was sitting three slots down. His eyes flickered with lust as a handsome-looking forty-something woman wearing a power suit and heels clicked by. He never could resist the call of the wild. As I approached he glanced up, no recognition in his eyes. I strode past as though making for the grand staircase. Like a guy who has forgotten something, I checked my pace, turned, strode back and slipped into a seat opposite. Wes blinked wide, sharply retreated into the leather, his olive skin two shades lighter. I met his startled gaze with a level expression.

‘Fuck, and holy fuck.’ His body braced. His dark eyebrows assumed two angry points in his forehead. For a moment I thought he was going to lean forward and punch me hard in the face. Fortunately his survival instinct kicked in.

‘Hello, Wes.’

Wes jerked towards me. ‘Have you seen the news? It’s on every television channel, every radio station. And the boy was there. He saw you, man. Your identikit picture is gonna be in every mother-fucking newspaper. You fucked up, Hex. You screwed me over.’

I glanced away, let out a long slow breath, a technique to control my urgent desire to smash his jaw into five pieces. ‘ I screwed you over?’ My voice sounded ugly.

Wes looked me straight in the eye and leant in close. Fat beads of sweat dotted his brow. I realised then that he feared his employer more than he feared me. ‘The British security service is all over this one,’ he hissed.

‘And the Russians and Israelis. Now why would that be?’

‘Russians?’ He had the desperate look of a man crashing through a rain forest trying to evade a Cassowary.

‘You didn’t know what Wilding was up to her pretty white neck in?’ I said, a do me a favour expression on my face. ‘And you’ve got the fucking cheek to get me here to deliver a lecture.’

His shoulders dropped and he glanced away. ‘The employer is getting mighty jumpy.’

‘Then he needs to get a grip.’

Wes ran his fingers through his dark hair, his expression flashed from anger to anxiety to beseeching. ‘You have to find the material.’

‘I don’t have to do anything.’

He held my gaze for a moment then looked down. ‘You have three days,’ he mumbled.

Wes wasn’t making a lot of sense to me. What he said, his body language, everything about him was off. ‘Three days until what?’

He hiked one shoulder then he seemed to collapse into himself. He did not look up.

I let out a laugh to cover my nerves. I was thinking about the snuff movie with the biological twist. ‘Is this a threat?’

‘They hire you for slotting,’ he said, looking me in the eye again, this time urgent. ‘They have their own for torture.’

Oh do they? I thought. ‘Who is this bastard?’ I said.

His face was a stone. ‘We had a deal.’

‘We did, but the deal is off and the rules just changed. You can have the money back.’ Which was a fair offer and, in any case, I didn’t want it any more.

‘No way, man. I’m risking my skin already.’

I am an infinitely patient individual, but Wes was pissing me off and I was getting nowhere. I struck hard and fast, grabbed his throat with one hand and dragged him half way across the table.

‘I’m going to run through possible candidates and you’re going to agree or disagree.’

This was bluff on my part. I wasn’t going to disclose my personal list of clients to some creep like Wes.

‘Break my neck, if you like,’ he managed to croak.

I increased the pressure. Wes’s spaniel eyes popped. His lips clamped shut. ‘I suspect our dead scientist was engaged in a little more than finding the cure for the common cold. Right?’ I didn’t get a nod. I got a double-blink. Good enough. ‘She was working in strategic defence against bio-weapons.’ I didn’t know this, but it would do. I said nothing about my source, nothing about secret departments. Wes tried to swallow, difficult under the circumstances. ‘In an enterprise like this I’m guessing we’re talking dirty bombs, chemical warfare, terrorism. Nod if I’m on the right trail.’ He didn’t nod. I released my grasp. Wes coughed, cleared his throat, and shook himself like a wet dog after a walk in the rain.

‘I have to go to the men’s room,’ he rasped, standing up.

I stood up opposite him. ‘I’m coming with you.’ It would be easier to work him over in the tiled confines of a public lavatory.

He gazed up at me with defeated eyes, saw I wasn’t screwing with him and, with the same raised hands that had undressed dozens of women, showed me his palms in surrender. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, slumping into the leather, ‘but you didn’t hear it from me.’

I sat back down. Right, now we were getting somewhere.

‘Wilding was working on a blueprint.’

‘A blueprint for what?’

Wes looked round, furtive. ‘Some new kind of drug, works in a different way. I don’t know. I’m not a chemist.’

I stared at him and read deceit in his eyes. Again I cursed my own stupidity, lack of professionalism and downright criminality for embroiling me in something unspeakable. Without doubt, I was treading on unhallowed ground.