Hot Ice

29

Jason had been waiting for more than two hours for the excitement to settle down at the St. Pancras/King’s Cross station just a few blocks away. From a fish-and-chip takeaway across the street, he had watched a procession of armored bomb-disposal vehicles, helmeted bomb-disposal personnel with body armor thick enough to make them resemble turtles, and sniffer dogs with no armor at all.

The British took his threat seriously, as well they should. But now there was no way to know what lines were still operating and the only train to Durham might well be delayed.

Worse, the uniformed beat cop had peered into the fish-and-chip shop with increasing frequency. Perhaps it was the bag that had aroused suspicion. Jason had wiped his face and fingers and left the tasteless and half-eaten meal still oozing grease into the newspaper on which it had been served. He ducked into the Underground, gratified to notice the police were no longer blocking the entrance. Perhaps he could get on his way after all.

It was a young woman in uniform who caught his attention just as he reached the bottom of the escalator. And not because she was young, rosy-cheeked, and rather pretty in that wholesome English way. She was studying a photograph Jason instantly recognized as himself, taken in the King’s Cross station only hours before. Involuntarily, he raised his eyes to meet the glassy stare of a camera surveying the platform and those upon it.

The realization his picture might well be all over London made him think he was about to lose the fish and chips right here.

Carefully keeping his back to the young woman, he relaxed slightly as the next train whooshed into the station from his left. He stepped into the first door that wheezed open, shouldering aside a disembarking elderly gent complete with bowler on head and umbrella under one arm.

In response to the justifiable glare, Jason muttered an apology without slowing down. Instead, he reached the end of the car and stepped onto the small platform between it and the next. He continued at as a brisk pace as possible until he reached the fifth and final carriage, where the end was unlike the American subways to which he had become accustomed. The last car did not end in an opening simply barred by a spring gate. He was facing a locked steel door. Had it been that long since he had been in London?

A glance out of the window brought home another unpleasant unfamiliarity: there was no room between tracks even had he been able to leave the car. The London trains passed within inches, not feet, of each other, unlike their cousins across the pond.

A sound behind him made him turn around. A plump grandmotherly type was settling into her seat, eyeing him suspiciously over a large shopping bag that testified to a recent trip to the greengrocer’s.

This was not going to work: if he were spotted on the train, police would be waiting at the next station. Bumping shoulders with several more passengers, he exited the train back onto the platform, his bag grasped tightly as the wheels bumped over uneven spots. Keeping his face to the ground, he forced himself to shuffle, not rush, to the stairs to the National Rail station above. He paused twice, both times to rub a hand along the stairs, accumulating a palmful of grime.

This time, his memory served him well. On the concourse to platforms 1–3 was the paper-doll-cutout sign for toilets. Besides the row of urinals, half a dozen stalls waited behind closed doors. The operation was not one run by the London Underground but private enterprise, as indicated by the man in the white mess jacket seated by the door who caught and misinterpreted Jason’s urgency.

“That’ll be fifty p, sah,” he said pushing open the door to a vacant stall.

Jason handed the man a full pound, slamming the door behind him as he entered. First, he applied gritty palms to his face. Seated on the toilet, he rummaged through his bag until he found the wrinkled polo shirt and jeans. His clean shirt and khakis replaced them in the bag.

As he exited, the attendant made no effort to divert his stare or surprise. A quick glance in the mirror above the washbasins revealed the reason: Jason’s face was streaked with dirt, his clothes looking very much like he had slept in them, quite likely on the street.

The attention of the people on the platform was focused on the arrival of half a dozen more uniformed officers. No one noticed the man at the end, the one who looked like he had slept in the tube as some of the city’s homeless, scorning council housing, were wont to do. He was filthy: dark smears of soot across his face and hands that looked like they had handled coal dust. Bag tucked under one arm, he shuffled along with the gait of one who simply has nothing left in life to lose.

In London as in most American cities, street people are near invisible. The existence of the phenomenon has in recent memory become an embarrassment. The hobos and tramps of another era who survived on odd jobs and individual charity are today mere beggars, likely the victims of mental illness, addiction, or something else rendering them offensive if not potentially dangerous to the public. Collective charities have unwittingly soothed the common conscience by minimizing the sight of such people like the one dragging his feet along the platform now with soup kitchens, shelters, and counseling. None of those has removed the homeless from the streets but instead simply centralized them at such places as the Salvation Army’s Faith House on nearby Argyle Street, no doubt this man’s destination.

Consequently, no one paid the slightest attention to the rumpled, filthy wretch as he got onto the Up escalator and disappeared from sight.

Outside, Jason stepped off the curb and attempted to flag down a cab. The black Morris missed him by inches. A second effort with another taxi yielded the same result.

Of course. What hack driver was going to take a dirty — and very likely smelly — street person as a fare?

The third time, Jason moved as the taxi stopped for a light. Opening the door, he climbed into the backseat.

“Now, see here,” the cabbie began angrily, turning in his seat.

Jason proffered a twenty-pound note. “Twenty-four Grosvenor Square.”

London cabbies are famous for their encyclopedic knowledge of the city, so Jason should not have been surprised when the man asked. “US embassy? Are you daft, man?”

Apparently street people did not frequent embassies.

Jason sat back in the seat. “You have your fare. Drive.”

Other than audible muttering, not another word was spoken during the trip.

The United Sates embassy to the Court of Saint James is in London’s posh Mayfair section. Specifically, it takes up the western side of Grosvenor Square (which is actually circular), the street being closed to vehicular traffic since 2001. Statues of General Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt stand in the gardenlike green space at the center of the square. Nine stories (three underground) of white postmodernist architecture is capped by a huge gilt eagle. The style and statuary clash somewhat with the eighteenth-century Georgian town houses for which the square is known. One of them housed John Adams as the first American ambassador to England. It is likely the local residents will not be sad to see the embassy move to its proposed location in the Nine Elms section of Wandsworth. With one possible exception: the ground upon which the embassy presently stands is leased from the duke of Westminster because he would sell the site only upon the United States’ return of Virginia — land seized from his family by the rebels during the Revolution.

Jason watched as the cab drove along Hyde Park and turned into Park Lane. Two blocks ahead was Grosvenor Square. Already Jason could see a line of people waiting for admission in hopes of obtaining visas. For some reason, the London embassy receives more than twice as many such applications than any other in Western Europe.

“This will do,” he said, opening the taxi’s door and reaching for his roll-aboard.

The cabbie mumbled what might have been a thank-you before driving off.

Bag trailing behind, Jason walked beside the increasing line. Asians, Middle Easterners, some of undeterminable origins, but none conspicuously British. For some reason, it must be easier to enter the United States from the UK than from other countries. A few glared at him resentfully as he made his way to the guard shack at the front gate, where a US Marine sergeant in blue pants, khaki blouse, field scarf, and white cap stared straight ahead to where two corporals herded people through a metal detector before admitting them to a second, much shorter, line.

“Sir,” the sergeant said, barely moving his lips and his head not at all, “you will need to go to the back of the line to fill out a visa application.”

Jason wasn’t aware he had been in the man’s line of sight. He took out his passport and held it up. “Don’t need a visa, but I do need to see someone in the trade attaché’s section.”

This time the Marine swiveled his head slightly, taking in Jason’s disheveled and filthy appearance. “And just who in the trade section might that be?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“Anyone above the rank of clerical help will do, for starters.”

A smile broke across the man’s face. “And just like that you expect me to call for some unknown person in this embassy to do exactly what?”

“Above your pay grade, Sergeant …” Jason made a show of reading the man’s name tag pinned over the left pocket of his blouse. “Sergeant Kiwoski. You put me in touch with someone in the trade section on the double or I promise you you’ve seen your last days in this cushy Marine Security Guard deployment. Fuck with me, Sergeant, and you’ll be on your way to the head shed at Eighth and I for reassignment to the sandbox before you have time to pack your sea bag. Understood?”

Perhaps it was Jason’s familiarity with Marine jargon (Eighth and I Streets being the location of US Marine headquarters) or maybe it was his tone, which had all the softness of one or more of Kiwoski’s former drill instructors. Possibly it was the man in the shabby outfit’s eyes, hard and cold as glacial ice. For whatever reason, Kiwoski picked up the phone at his elbow, spoke no more than half a dozen words, and said, “Someone will be here in the next three minutes.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

Sure enough, barely ninety seconds had passed before a young man appeared. With emphasis on young. Despite the dark suit, club tie, and starched white shirt, the kid didn’t look old enough to have graduated from high school.

He extended his right hand. “Wandsworth, George Wandsworth.”

When he saw how grubby Jason’s hand was he looked as though he might withdraw his own.

“Jason Peters.”

“Follow me, Mr. Peters.”

With brief stops at a metal detector and to examine Jason’s bag, Wandsworth led Jason to a bank of elevators. As a door silently slid open, he motioned Jason in, followed him, and punched an unnumbered button. The car began a steady descent. They exited into what could have been a corridor in any office building, except there were no windows to the outside.

At the third door on the left, Wandsworth stopped, indicating Jason should enter. He did. The room was small, furnished with a government-issue metal table and four uncomfortable-looking chairs. The place reminded Jason of the interrogation rooms he had seen on TV cop shows.

Wandsworth indicated the closest chair and slid into the one across the table. “OK, Mr. Peters, what can your government do for you today?”

It had taken Jason less than fifteen seconds to spot the two cameras partially concealed in the ceiling. “That, Mr. Wandsworth, depends on your duties here.”

Wandsworth put his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers. Somehow the gesture seemed feminine. “I’m not sure what you mean. As trade attaché, this office acts as a sort of chamber of commerce for the United States. If an English manufacturer, for example, is considering perhaps opening a plant in, say, Alabama, we do whatever we can to expedite the operation. That sort of thing.”

Jason was shaking his head. “Then, the answer to your question as to what you can do is to let me speak to the head of section.”

Wandsworth’s eyes narrowed. “You’re some kind of spook, aren’t you?”

“Second time since I got here someone’s asked me a question that’s none of their business. You got a pen and paper?”

The young man patted his jacket pockets, producing a small spiral notebook and a pen.

Jason tore out a blank page, briefly wrote on it, folded the page, and handed it across the table. “I suggest you give this to your chief of station without delay.”

Wandsworth was skeptical. “And then what?”

“Trust me, you’ll receive appropriate instructions.”

It took a full twenty minutes before the door to the little room opened. A man in his mid-forties stood with Jason’s note in his hand. He was average height and weight with hair seriously thinning on top. He was, in other words, totally unremarkable.

He carefully shut the door behind him before stepping next to Jason. “Mr. Peters, I’m Howard Cassidy.”

Jason rose and shook his hand. “Don’t tell me, let me guess: your friends call you Hopalong.”

A grin flickered and died. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“And stimulating trade is not your mission here.”

“Right again. Just like half the people in embassy trade attaché offices around the world. That’s why I’m familiar with Narcom. And that’s why it took me so long to verify your employment and check with Langley. They told me to give you whatever you wanted as long as it didn’t involve killing somebody.”

Jason wasn’t sure the restriction was a joke. “Nothing that serious. I just need to borrow a car for a couple of days.”

Hoppy was clearly relieved. “I think I can arrange that.” Then he frowned. “Our bean counters are going to want to know why you can’t use public transportation.”

“Just tell them security requires it.”

Not entirely untrue, since Jason’s picture by now had probably been circulated to every cop at every rail station and airport in the United Kingdom.

“Any particular flavor?”

“Mid-range or lower. British-made, preferably.”

“The ambassador’s private secretary just bought a nice used Vauxhall VX220.”

The mid-engine, targa-topped two-seater was tempting but Jason said, “Something a little less eye-catching.”

Besides, his experience with British sports cars — from the MG, Austin Healy, and Triumph to the last of the pre-Ford Jaguars — had been one of dependable undependability. The parts that regularly fell off of them were, at least, of the highest British quality.

“We, the embassy, own an old Morris Minor. Been around so long no one wants to part with it.”

“Perfect.”