The Lost Testament

52

Angela was waiting for Bronson in the open area of Charing Cross mainline station opposite platforms 5 and 6, from which trains down into the heart of Kent, to Orpington, Sevenoaks and Tunbridge Wells, normally departed.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ she demanded, as she walked up to him.

‘That,’ Bronson replied, making sure nobody else could hear what he was saying, ‘was the long arm of whoever organized the killings in Cairo reaching out to you. He grabbed hold of you and was going to push you under the train. I could see what he intended to do, and so I stopped him.’

Angela’s face changed, her complexion turning paler as she absorbed this unwelcome news.

‘I know he got hold of me, but I didn’t know why. At first I thought it was you, just messing about. Are you sure?’

Bronson nodded.

‘I had a chat with him after you’d gone. He told me he’d been offered five thousand pounds to make sure you didn’t see tomorrow.’

From somewhere, Angela summoned a weak smile.

‘Only five thousand? So I’m not exactly in the big league, then.’ She paused for a moment, then asked: ‘Do you think he was the only one after me?’

‘Probably. These people normally work alone. For the moment I think you’re quite safe. And in any case, tomorrow we’ll be in Spain.’

He pulled out the mobile phone he’d taken from the man at the station and checked the log. As he’d expected, neither received nor called numbers were listed, the mark of a man who’s either very careful or very paranoid. Or both. Bronson supposed that the techies might be able to find out more about where the phone had been and which numbers it had been in contact with, but they were all likely to be untraceable pay-as-you-go numbers — and in any case, they didn’t have the time to find out.

He dialled triple nine and, when the operator asked him which service he required, he said ‘ambulance’. When he was connected, he reported that he had seen a man collapse at the Tottenham Court Road Underground station. He thought he might be drunk.