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CHAPTER 17

B OOTH W ATSON HAD LEARNT OVER the years that whenever Miles used the word urgent , he meant yesterday, which was the reason he turned up outside 57 Cadogan Square within an hour of Miles summoning him, despite it being a Sunday. If there was anything else he’d learnt about his client, it was that it was a pointless exercise to try and second guess why he wanted to see him and it was wise to never appear surprised, whatever he came up with.

The reliable Collins answered the door. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said before accompanying Booth Watson through to his master’s study, when it became clear from the look on Miles’s face that he was in a foul mood. He quickly found out why.

‘I’ve had the Hartley’s Constable valued by Christie’s,’ said Miles before Booth Watson could open his Gladstone bag and take out a yellow pad and fountain pen.

‘How much did they estimate it would fetch?’ asked Booth Watson as he sat down.

‘Ten thousand pounds at most,’ said Miles.

After recovering from the initial shock, Booth Watson said, ‘So it clearly isn’t a Constable.’

‘School of,’ said Miles. ‘The Christie’s expert is fairly certain it was painted by a Breck LaFave, one of Constable’s more accomplished pupils, but a pupil nonetheless.’

‘I wonder if Lady Hartley was aware of that when she sold you the picture,’ said Booth Watson.

‘A question I’ve asked myself several times, but I still can’t make up my mind.’

‘If she was,’ suggested Booth Watson, ‘she might also have known about the sixth letter, the one that—’

‘You don’t have to remind me,’ said Miles. ‘But even if she did, she’s unlikely to be shouting it from the rooftops.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Booth Watson, pen moving briskly across the paper.

‘Because if she knew about the letter, she also knew she had no right to sell the Declaration, but just needed the money quickly.’

‘That doesn’t apply to her son,’ Booth Watson reminded him.

‘But while he’s holed up in a Saudi jail, he’s unlikely to cause me any trouble.’

‘For now, possibly,’ said Booth Watson. ‘However, The Times are suggesting that the Saudi delegation visit went well and are hinting that once the arms deal has been signed by either side, it won’t be too long before Hartley is released. And if he sees his mother before the Declaration comes up for sale …’

‘I can assure you, BW, that problem is being taken care of. So the sale will go ahead. In fact, I’m off to Newark, New Jersey, this evening,’ said Miles, ‘from where I will be driven to Princeton University to seek the advice of Dr Saul Rosenberg, the emeritus professor of American history, who’s considered by his fellow academics to be the pre-eminent authority on the constitution.’

‘That won’t come cheap,’ suggested Booth Watson.

‘Wrong again, BW. Retired professors will happily supply you with all the information you require in exchange for a free lunch and a half-decent bottle of burgundy. Mind you, I did tell him I was crossing the earth in the hope he would sign my first edition of Monticello , his Pulitzer Prize-winning biography of Thomas Jefferson. And after I’ve seen him, I’ll be going on to Christie’s in New York.’

‘And when will you be back?’ asked Booth Watson.

‘Not before a particular story hits the front pages,’ replied Miles. ‘Call me as soon as the news becomes public.’

‘It would help if I knew what I was looking for,’ said Booth Watson.

‘You’ll know when you see it.’

Booth Watson stopped writing. He had no idea what Miles was referring to, but he did know it would be pointless to ask him.

···

Ross was parked about a hundred yards from Faulkner’s house in Cadogan Square – out of sight, but with a perfect view of his front door. He’d seen Booth Watson come and go, but since then, no one had left the mews house.

Rebecca was seated in a Pret A Manger, toying with a cold coffee while she looked out of the window. She couldn’t see Faulkner’s front door, but she couldn’t miss anyone coming down the street towards her.

Paul was sitting on a motorbike on the corner of Sloane Street, ready to move the moment Faulkner’s driver turned right or left. He could weave in and out of traffic and didn’t need to break the speed limit – useful when cars in London only managed an average of eight miles per hour.

Jackie was sitting behind the wheel of a taxi at the other end of Cadogan Square, the For Hire sign never alight, as it was part of the Met’s private pool.

William was seated behind his desk back at the Yard, a row of phones and a large map of London spread out in front of him. A winding river stretched from the top corner of the map to the bottom. One of the phones went straight through to the headquarters of the Marine Unit, who had every available boat out on patrol that afternoon, all looking for one man – a needle in a haystack, and this particular haystack was the Thames.

···

‘Faulkner has just left his house,’ said Paul over the radio. ‘He’s wearing a blue tracksuit and trainers and looks as if he’s put on a few pounds, unless …’

‘He’s getting into the back of his car and they’re heading towards you,’ said Ross. ‘Stay out of sight, Rebecca, because he’s about to pass you.’

Rebecca turned her back on him as the Rolls swept by.

‘Jackie?’

‘Contact with the target,’ she responded. ‘I have eyeball – three for cover – waiting to see which way he turns when he reaches Sloane Street.’

Collins turned left, which took them all by surprise; the only water that way was the Serpentine. Jackie kept her distance, but never let them out of her sight. She could see Paul ahead of her, while a glance in her rear-view mirror showed that Ross was another couple of cars behind.

···

‘We are being followed,’ said Collins as he glanced in his wing mirror.

‘Now there’s a surprise,’ said Miles, without looking back.

‘A taxi that was parked at the other end of the street isn’t far behind,’ said Collins, ‘and a man on a motorbike ahead of us has looked back once too often.’

‘Not taking any chances, are they?’ said Miles as Collins came to a halt at the lights at the top of Sloane Street.

When the lights turned green, Collins took his time before turning left onto the Brompton Road. Paul and Jackie remained in touch, but Ross got stuck behind a bus and didn’t cross the lights in time.

‘They are down to two – the taxi and the motorbike,’ said Collins as he drew up outside the front door of Harrods.

A liveried doorman stepped forward and opened the back door of the Rolls. Faulkner got out and strolled into the store, while Collins drove off.

‘Faulkner’s disappeared into Harrods,’ said Paul over the radio, ‘which has at least half a dozen exits.’

‘Don’t lose him,’ said Ross, who had just turned the corner, ‘and I’ll follow the Rolls in case he’s picking him back up. Jackie, you cover the back entrance, as I don’t think he plans on buying anything.’

Paul dumped his motorbike, ran into the store and saw Faulkner leaving luxury goods and entering the food hall. By the time he’d caught up with him, Faulkner was heading for a side door that led on to Hans Crescent.

‘He’ll be coming out of the east entrance of the building at any moment,’ said Paul over the radio.

Jackie immediately took off and turned left into Hans Crescent, just as Faulkner stepped out onto the pavement.

She slipped into a residents’ only spot and watched as Faulkner crossed the road and climbed onto the back of a motorbike. They sped off, the wrong way down a one-way street, leaving Jackie unable to turn around and follow him.

Paul watched as the motorbike turned left and disappeared out of sight. ‘We’ve lost him,’ he said in an exasperated voice.

‘I got the number plate,’ said Jackie, which William passed on to the Met’s main control room.

The motorbike had covered less than a mile before it came to a halt at a bus stop. Miles got off and climbed onto the first approaching bus. He jumped aboard, not interested in where it was going. He got off at the next stop, crossed the road, hailed a taxi and told the cabbie ‘County Hall’.

‘All of you head for the Thames,’ said William. ‘Ross and Paul cover the South Bank side, Jackie and Rebecca the Westminster embankment. I know it’s a long shot, but he hasn’t left us with a lot of choice.’

···

The cab crossed Westminster Bridge and came to a halt outside County Hall. Miles got out and checked both ways before he handed the cabbie a five-pound note. He didn’t wait for any change. He began to jog through the members’ car park until he reached the South Bank, where he joined several other joggers out on their Sunday afternoon run.

When Miles saw the long queue waiting to board the ‘London Eye’, he slowed down and made his way to the front.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the ticket collector, ‘but you’ll have to join the queue.’

Miles handed over his ‘priority’ ticket to the young man, who said, ‘Sorry, sir.’

Faulkner looked around and, confident he had shaken off any pursuers, placed his hands in his pockets.

‘Are you on your own, sir?’ asked the attendant as an empty capsule appeared.

‘No,’ said a voice from behind him.

Miles looked around to see a man of average height, wearing an unmarked baseball cap, dark glasses, grey T-shirt, grey sweater, faded jeans and black trainers. You would have walked straight past him without giving him a second look, which was exactly what he would have wanted. He jumped into the empty capsule ahead of Miles.

···

‘I’m driving along the Albert Embankment,’ said Ross, ‘and almost every building I pass is overlooking the Thames.’

‘I’m on the other side,’ came in Jackie, ‘heading towards the City. No offices, but no shortage of people enjoying an afternoon by the river.’

‘And you, Paul?’ asked William.

‘Someone stole my motorbike,’ he said, causing Ross to stifle a laugh. ‘I’m currently walking past the Saatchi Gallery. Crammed with tourists. But no sign of Faulkner.’

‘Which is exactly why he chose a Sunday afternoon,’ said William. ‘How about you, Rebecca?’

‘I’m just coming out of Westminster tube station,’ she said, ‘and will head towards the river.’

‘All of you, keep looking,’ said William, trying not to sound desperate.

···

‘I like your office overlooking the river,’ said the stranger, not introducing himself.

‘It takes the wheel about thirty minutes to complete a full circle,’ said Miles as he sat down beside him, ‘so we can’t afford to waste any time.’

‘How did you manage to get an empty capsule all to yourself?’ asked the stranger.

‘I had to buy all twenty-five tickets to make sure no one else could join us,’ Miles explained as they set off on their upward journey.

The stranger looked out over the skyline. ‘So, who’s the mark?’

‘A common prostitute called Avril Dubois,’ said Miles. ‘She works at the Down and Out Club, so shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’

‘But she’ll have a dozen protection officers watching her every move,’ said the stranger, taking Miles by surprise.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr Faulkner,’ said the stranger. ‘When Tulip told me the mark would be a prostitute, I realized the last thing she would be was common. You only have to read the tabloids to discover Ms Dubois will be the principal witness for the defence in the Simon Hartley trial – so the one thing you can be sure of is she’ll be well protected,’ he paused, ‘night and day.’

‘Does that mean you’re no longer willing to do the job?’ Miles asked, as the wheel reached its peak of 135 metres above the Thames.

‘No,’ said the stranger, ‘but it’s going to cost you double.’

‘But we agreed on twenty thousand,’ said Miles.

‘That was before I realized the mark was Avril Dubois.’

‘I only have twenty thousand on me,’ said Miles, tapping his waist.

‘Then I’ll have to take your watch,’ said the stranger, as he glanced across the river to see a traffic jam building up on the far side of the Thames.

‘But it’s a Rolex Daytona,’ protested Miles, ‘and cost me over forty thousand.’

‘I’ll be lucky to get twenty thousand for it on the second-hand market,’ said the stranger. ‘Take it or leave it.’

Miles considered the alternative as the capsule began its descent. Finding someone else to take his place at such short notice had to be weighed against how much he had to gain if he could keep Hartley out of the way long enough for Christie’s to auction Jefferson’s Declaration. He took off the Rolex and reluctantly handed it to the stranger.

‘And the other twenty thousand,’ said the stranger as he strapped on his new watch, ‘in cash.’

Miles lifted his tracksuit top, unfastened a thick money belt and placed it on the seat beside the stranger, who slipped it around his waist and fastened the strap without bothering to check the contents. They were both well aware that if his client had short-changed him, the job wouldn’t get done.

‘When will you carry out your side of the bargain?’ asked Miles, as the capsule continued on its downward journey.

‘It won’t be for at least a week,’ said the stranger casually. ‘I’ll need to visit the Down and Out Club several times to become familiar with her routine and see just how many protection officers are involved before I can make a move.’

‘How will you let me know when the job is done?’

‘You’ll know,’ said the stranger.

···

After Ross had crossed Tower Bridge, he swung left and slowed down when he reached the Tower of London. He wondered if the meeting could be taking place in the Jewel Room – but surely even Faulkner wouldn’t have the gall to risk that a second time. He accelerated as he headed on towards Upper Thames Street and the Victoria Embankment, hoping the others were enjoying more success.

Paul was walking beside the river, ignoring the buskers, conjurers and street entertainers that littered the South Bank on a sunny afternoon, while his eyes never stopped roaming. But not once did he see anyone resembling Faulkner.

Jackie was driving so slowly on the other side of the river that impatient motorists held up behind her were beginning to make their presence felt, with more than the occasional blast on their horns. She ignored them as she continued her search for Faulkner, but to no avail.

Rebecca was leaning over Westminster Bridge, double checking the boats passing below her. But it was when she looked up that her eyes settled on the London Eye. She shouted, ‘In my office overlooking the river.’

She immediately contacted Chief Superintendent Warwick on her radio and told him what had been staring them in the face. William ordered the rest of the team to head for the Eye, sharpish, hoping it wouldn’t be too late.

···

‘Just remember one thing, Mr Faulkner,’ said the stranger as the wheel completed its circle. ‘I don’t work for the same client twice, so don’t bother to contact me again.’

Before Miles could reply, the man had jumped off the moving wheel and disappeared into the crowd, lost within moments.

Miles stepped off more cautiously and began walking in the opposite direction. When he reached Westminster Bridge, he waited for the light to turn red before he crossed the road.

‘Clocked him,’ said Rebecca over the radio, just as Faulkner reached the other side.

‘Where is he?’ asked William.

‘Outside St Thomas’s Hospital, getting into the back of his car. But he can’t be going home, because he’s travelling in the opposite direction.’

‘I can see the Rolls,’ said Jackie, coming on the line. ‘They’re driving across Westminster Bridge and are heading west.’

‘Don’t lose him,’ said William, ‘and keep your line open while I call the Commander.’

···

William picked up the phone.

‘Did you find out who the contract killer is?’ was the Hawk’s first question.

‘No, sir,’ replied William. ‘We think Faulkner’s office overlooking the river was the London Eye, but we didn’t spot him until after he’d got off.’

‘So the killer could be on the other side of the world by now,’ said the Hawk.

‘I don’t think it’s the killer who’s heading for the other side of the world,’ said William.

‘Evidence.’

‘Faulkner’s car is heading west down the Cromwell Road, so my bet is that he’s on his way to the airport.’

‘So he’ll be out of the country when the killer strikes,’ said the Hawk.

‘Establishing an alibi,’ said William, ‘which must all be part of his plan.’

‘Then the deal must have been struck,’ said the Hawk, ‘so we’ll have to double our surveillance team. And tell Ross, while Faulkner’s away, to make sure he doesn’t let Ms Dubois out of his sight.’

···

‘The woman in the taxi is following us once again,’ said Collins as he emerged from the underpass.

‘Good,’ said Miles. ‘Then she’ll see me getting onto the plane.’

‘When should I expect you back, sir?’ asked Collins.

‘That’s not being decided by me,’ said Miles. ‘But I’ll let you know.’

Faulkner got out of the car and joined a slipstream of passengers making their way into the airport.

He only stopped to look up at the departure board: Newark New Jersey flashed up on the screen, Gate 23. Estimated take-off time 17.12.

Miles checked his watch. It wasn’t there.

···

‘Faulkner’s boarding a British Airways plane for Newark New Jersey,’ said Jackie as she watched him disappear up the steps and inside the aircraft.

‘Don’t leave until you’ve seen it take off,’ said William, ‘and even then, double-check the passenger list.’

Jackie’s eyes never left the aircraft.

···

Miles took his seat in first class, pleased that everything, so far, had gone to plan, even if he would have to buy a new watch. He took a copy of Rosenberg’s Monticello out of his briefcase, turned to the index and checked the letter D. Sixteen references for him to consider.

He switched on the reading light above his head, settled back and began to turn the pages, confident that by the time they landed in the States, he would know the right questions to ask Professor Rosenberg.

During the flight, his mind occasionally returned to his meeting with the stranger on the London Eye. Miles felt confident he would keep his side of the bargain, and more importantly, that Simon Hartley wouldn’t be around for much longer to cause him any trouble.

He fell asleep with the book in his lap.

···

When Jackie reported that the plane had taken off with Faulkner on board, William only had one question: why was he flying to Newark and not New York?

He didn’t come up with an answer. However, he knew someone who just might have one. He placed a call through to an old friend in Washington.