spot him on the screens, we’ve a chance of seeing where he went.’
Rik looked sceptical. ‘She can do that? What about security?’
‘I didn’t like to ask.’
Rik groaned, his feelings clear. The prospect of spending several hours poring over flickering images was mind-numbing – even for an IT man. But it was clear that if they could spot Silverman and track him through the terminal, they might discover what direction he had taken next. It was all they had.
Harry was already redialling Sandra’s number. He put the suggestion to her, then thanked her again and switched off. ‘She says this evening, after hours. Tomorrow we’ll bounce Param.’
‘They haven’t moved from Ferris’s flat.’ Dog was in an estate car down the street, nursing a cup of cold coffee and trying to keep Jennings happy with regular reports. Mostly the reports were identical: nothing doing.
He was accustomed to sitting for long periods waiting for things to happen. His line of work had called for him to sleep in the back of the car on many occasions. It was merely another facet of his job and took patience, stamina and a subconscious alarm system for a change in circumstances. He had learned the craft the hard way, when blending in had been a life skill not to be taken lightly. Anything less got you killed.
‘They must make a move at some stage,’ replied Jennings, with a touch of impatience. ‘Sooner or later they’ll find something. There’s no back way out they could use, is there? If they find a lead to our man, you need to be right on top of them.’
‘I’ve got it covered, don’t worry. I just saw movement at the window. They’re still inside.’ He didn’t bother telling Jennings that the older of the two men, Tate, had come out twice earlier. He’d gone straight by without even looking, once with two coffees and the second time munching a bunch of grapes. He was probably becoming stir-crazy and needed the exercise. Dog knew the feeling well.
He cut the connection without saying goodbye.
A hundred yards behind Dog’s position, in the shadow of a market trader’s van on the other side of the street, another figure sat immobile in a small, dark saloon car.
The driver, named Carlisle, watched impassively as Dog’s outline shifted. So far he had seen him drink and use a mobile. Other than that, the target seemed to be made of stone, barely moving a muscle.
He stifled a yawn, dispelling any thoughts of refreshments. He’d been briefed on Dog’s reputation and knew it would be too dangerous to move. After a chance sighting of the man by another operative, which had resulted in Carlisle being assigned to this watch, he knew it would be the end of a promising career if he lost the target through carelessness.
Out of habit, he ran a check of his surroundings. The street was busy with shoppers and a regular flow of vehicles, and nobody was taking any notice of a single figure sitting in a car. He thought he’d been made at one point, though, when a man chomping grapes had hovered nearby. For a second he was sure the man was watching him. But after a while he’d moved on and disappeared.
He settled back with a sigh. It might have helped if they’d seen fit to tell him what the hell they thought Dog was doing here.
THIRTEEN
T he centre of operations for the enigmatically named Transit Support Services was a plain, single-storey building on the fringes of Cranford. The A4 leading out of London was a steady rumble of late evening traffic a couple of hundred yards away, and a faint tang of aviation fuel mixed with car fumes sat in the air like a thin soup, a reminder of the proximity of the capital’s busy airport.
An untidy car park at the front of the building added to its air of near invisibility, as did the plain front door and the heavily silvered windows throwing back a reflection of the road and surrounding scenery. Only the powerful security lights that gave the area a day-like clarity betrayed the fact
Rik looked sceptical. ‘She can do that? What about security?’
‘I didn’t like to ask.’
Rik groaned, his feelings clear. The prospect of spending several hours poring over flickering images was mind-numbing – even for an IT man. But it was clear that if they could spot Silverman and track him through the terminal, they might discover what direction he had taken next. It was all they had.
Harry was already redialling Sandra’s number. He put the suggestion to her, then thanked her again and switched off. ‘She says this evening, after hours. Tomorrow we’ll bounce Param.’
‘They haven’t moved from Ferris’s flat.’ Dog was in an estate car down the street, nursing a cup of cold coffee and trying to keep Jennings happy with regular reports. Mostly the reports were identical: nothing doing.
He was accustomed to sitting for long periods waiting for things to happen. His line of work had called for him to sleep in the back of the car on many occasions. It was merely another facet of his job and took patience, stamina and a subconscious alarm system for a change in circumstances. He had learned the craft the hard way, when blending in had been a life skill not to be taken lightly. Anything less got you killed.
‘They must make a move at some stage,’ replied Jennings, with a touch of impatience. ‘Sooner or later they’ll find something. There’s no back way out they could use, is there? If they find a lead to our man, you need to be right on top of them.’
‘I’ve got it covered, don’t worry. I just saw movement at the window. They’re still inside.’ He didn’t bother telling Jennings that the older of the two men, Tate, had come out twice earlier. He’d gone straight by without even looking, once with two coffees and the second time munching a bunch of grapes. He was probably becoming stir-crazy and needed the exercise. Dog knew the feeling well.
He cut the connection without saying goodbye.
A hundred yards behind Dog’s position, in the shadow of a market trader’s van on the other side of the street, another figure sat immobile in a small, dark saloon car.
The driver, named Carlisle, watched impassively as Dog’s outline shifted. So far he had seen him drink and use a mobile. Other than that, the target seemed to be made of stone, barely moving a muscle.
He stifled a yawn, dispelling any thoughts of refreshments. He’d been briefed on Dog’s reputation and knew it would be too dangerous to move. After a chance sighting of the man by another operative, which had resulted in Carlisle being assigned to this watch, he knew it would be the end of a promising career if he lost the target through carelessness.
Out of habit, he ran a check of his surroundings. The street was busy with shoppers and a regular flow of vehicles, and nobody was taking any notice of a single figure sitting in a car. He thought he’d been made at one point, though, when a man chomping grapes had hovered nearby. For a second he was sure the man was watching him. But after a while he’d moved on and disappeared.
He settled back with a sigh. It might have helped if they’d seen fit to tell him what the hell they thought Dog was doing here.
THIRTEEN
T he centre of operations for the enigmatically named Transit Support Services was a plain, single-storey building on the fringes of Cranford. The A4 leading out of London was a steady rumble of late evening traffic a couple of hundred yards away, and a faint tang of aviation fuel mixed with car fumes sat in the air like a thin soup, a reminder of the proximity of the capital’s busy airport.
An untidy car park at the front of the building added to its air of near invisibility, as did the plain front door and the heavily silvered windows throwing back a reflection of the road and surrounding scenery. Only the powerful security lights that gave the area a day-like clarity betrayed the fact
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