Opening his beechwood closet, Ed shuddered at his weary image in the mirror. Thankfully, he sighed, his appearance on Meet the Press was last week, otherwise what would Fabio or Jason—whatever that fag TV make-up artist’s name was—say now? Before the show, the little squirt had tut-tutted how Ed’s dark gun-slits for eyes made him look cheerless, offering a dab of lightener to lift them. But Ed’s aloof self-confidence was as much a part of him as his Medal of Honour, and no pillow-biter was going to fiddle with that. No sir, no way. Ed had said nothing, just clenched his square, jutting jaw. It was a subtle, practised move that made even the toughest adversary worry his face might get smashed in. Fabio got the message, dropping his cotton puff back onto his tray and backing out of the room, claiming he suddenly had an urgent make-up call elsewhere.
Ed’s fingers prodded the bags slung under his eyes… As bad as his worst passport photo from his years in military intelligence. Not the American passport, nor the British. More the tattered old crimson Soviet one… Yuri Something-opov. What was that Ruski name? Instinctively, he scratched his scalp where the fur astrakhan had warmed it that long ago winter. To Ed, his long-standing buzz cut was a salute to his military career. He kept it so short that people could only guess his hair was grey, though his moustache gave a better hint of that. It was pencilled over a mouth pursed so tight they joked, if they dared, that Ed didn’t eat his food, he sucked it. People trod warily round him. You didn’t even need to talk to him to know: his jaw or, if he was simulating warmth, the crush of his hand, said it all.
He grabbed a tissue to wipe the annoying drip from his nose as he twisted his head, squinting out of the corner of his eye to remind himself where his left ear had been sewn back on, after Operation Urgent Fury in ’83. His men had joked he’d had a lobe-otomy. In just twenty horrific seconds, three birds had gone down. Debris and rotor blades flew through the air, one fragment slicing off Ed’s left ear and another his left pinkie as he raised his hand to stem the blood flow. He’d been lucky. If his hand…
It was mayhem. Others were wounded far worse. Three killed. For these men, the tropical island of Grenada was no paradise.
Ed tugged at his ear, marvelling yet again at the cosmetic surgeon’s work. Hardly a blemish.
On three separate occasions, he had delicately tried to press Isabel into getting the same doctor’s magic to fix the scar that carved across her throat, but she always put up a brick wall.
“It’s my memory,” she’d say simply, then change the subject.
6
THE WESTERLY WIND hurled fragments of London’s distant Big Ben’s chimes up to the 14th floor. Lucky snapped off his cell phone and looking outside said, “Hey, I can see MI6 from up here.”
Jax was thrown, and not just by Lucky’s American twang, tight, like a crab was pinching his lips. “No w-way can you see it,” Jax spluttered, realising too late that contradicting this guy was not smart, even if he knew for a fact that MI6 was behind several bends as the river threaded west, so you couldn’t possibly see it from up here, not at night, not even in daylight.
“Sure you can,” said Diana abruptly, any pretence of her own fake English accent discarded. “I’ll show you.” She twisted Jax’s arm with a grip Lucky would be proud of. “What a view,” she said, manoeuvring Jax over the floor lip onto the windy terrace. “Best view in London,” she added, but oddly she seemed to be looking down the Thames in the opposite direction.
“Who are you g-guys?” Jax flared, trying to twist out of Diana’s grip.
She maintained her grasp and smiled.
“Wh-who are you, d-dammit?” If only he could get Diana to release her hold he could get the hell away from them.
Diana edged him closer to the railing. “We’re y-your f-friends,” she smirked.
To Jax, Diana suddenly appeared like a swooping hawk to a chicken the moment before the talons crush its neck. His heart was pumping faster than the supercomputers he’d done most of his simulation work on. With his free hand he took out of his pocket the remote control the nightwatchman had given him and pressed it so all the lights on the floor came blaring on full, including the bright spots above their heads on the deck, and he prayed someone in one of the other buildings would notice.
“Gimme that,” screeched Diana who snatched the remote away from him. After checking her fingerpads were still fastened, she pointed it in various directions but it made no difference. She hadn’t seen the switch on the back that Jax had flicked to the lock position. “Fix this, you Aussie fuck,” she said, shoving it back at him. “We haven’t got all night.” To make her point, she kneed him in his groin.
Hunched over, Jax slid the switch to unlock and flicked all the lights off at once but, while Diana and Lucky’s eyes were adjusting to the instant blackout, he tossed the remote over the railing and made a dash for the fire stairs.
It would have been easy for Jax to hop over the half-inch drainage lip at the terrace doors even in the dark, if only he had remembered it was there, but he tripped over his shoelace and sprawled out face-down onto the cold concrete floor inside. While he was scrabbling to his feet, Lucky picked him up by his belt and hoisted him back outside, with Jax kicking and punching the air. Then, in one long parabolic sweep, he hurled Jax over the railing.
“Let ’er rip,” was all Jax could hear in the hot wind-rush.
Diana and Lucky peered over… two hundred feet straight down.