No Kiss For The Devil

25

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.

Two men were standing outside the hotel. Varley passed almost between them, but they showed no interest in him other than a brief nod. Yet they were scrutinising everyone else very carefully.

To Palmer, it was an eerily familiar scene. Both men wore suits and were pretending to be deep in conversation, friends, perhaps, who had encountered each other by chance. But he knew a security detail when he saw one. The men looked fit and capable, and by their bearing were probably former military personnel. Blond hair and high cheekbones pointed towards origins in Scandinavia or somewhere further east.

As Palmer watched, another man came out of the hotel entrance and walked over to a gleaming black 4WD at the kerb. He tried the door, which was locked, and nodded in satisfaction. He was shorter than the other two, and heavier, but clearly of the same mould. As he stood there, three black youths walked past the front of the hotel, eyeing the 4WD. The newcomer ignored them. Seconds later, an older man in dreadlocks and a Rasta hat ambled past, carrying a white kitchen-style jacket slung across his arm. None of the security men gave him a glance.

After a few moments, the third man seemed to lose interest and walked away. He passed the other two and nodded briefly before disappearing round the corner.

Palmer continued walking, certain that brief instructions had just been passed between the men. Of one thing he was growing more convinced: whoever or whatever Richard Varley was, it was doubtful publishing was his first profession. Otherwise, why else would he require a security detail at the hotel where he was staying?

He decided to stay with him. So far, he had nothing definite to show for his labours, yet all his inner alarm bells were ringing. The problem was, Varley now knew what Palmer looked like. He needed to find someone else to take over and get close to him and his men. Someone anonymous.

He knew just the man for the job.