It was the second dummy he’d thrown the guy in no time at all, but it still worked well enough. Within seconds JJ was sitting in the passenger seat with the gun pressed into the guy’s ribs, the barrel tugging at the white cotton of his shirt, the guy shocked and reacting like most people did to the bruising up-close presence of a gun, holding his breath, like he wanted nothing to move, like stillness was his only hope.
He was young, probably even younger than Tom, which explained why he was on a detail like that, sitting in some quiet London street taking pictures of people coming and going at a particular house.
“Okay,” said JJ, once he was happy the situation was stable. “I have a question for you. Which state does Tom Furst come from?” The guy turned his head slightly, still tense, like he had an injured neck. He looked puzzled. “Just answer the question.”
He still looked uneasy, like it was a trick question, answering slowly, “I believe, sir, that Tom Furst comes from New Hampshire.” His own accent was southern, the Carolinas or somewhere like that.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s my colleague,” he said, and like he suddenly understood what JJ was doing added, “At the embassy.”
“Good. As long as you don’t try anything stupid, those answers just saved your life.” With his free hand JJ leaned over and picked up the camera, checking the number of shots taken. He put the camera back in his lap then and said, “Very carefully, and I mean very carefully, wind off the film and hand it to me.” The guy did as he said, his hands steady, no sign of the way he had to be feeling.
JJ slipped the film into his pocket.
“Now give me the roll you completed before this, just that roll; you can keep the others.” The American moved his hand slowly to the door compartment and lifted out a small black film container, holding it between his thumb and finger like it was something dangerous that had to be handled with care. JJ took it and asked, “Where’s your gun?” The guy gestured toward the glove compartment. JJ opened it and took out the gun, still in its shoulder holster. “Mobile?” The guy reached again into the door compartment, handing the phone over with the same precision movements. “And keys?” The guy allowed himself a little smile this time as he handed over the keys, perhaps again because he understood what JJ was doing or because he realized no one was ever that cautious with an imminent corpse.
The operation complete, JJ relaxed a little, even easing the pressure of the silencer against the guy’s body. “What’s your name?”
“Randal, sir,” he answered automatically, adding a little hesitantly, “Lucas Randal.”
JJ nodded.
“Well, Lucas, my name’s William Hoffman. People call me JJ. And at the moment people are trying to kill me, but if I survive, as I intend to, then consider me as owing you a favor.” Randal looked at him, that puzzled expression back on his face. JJ smiled and said, “I appreciate this leaves you with some explaining to do, so maybe one day I’ll make it up to you. Ask Tom: he’ll explain how useful my favors can be.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll do that.”
JJ smiled again, amused and impressed by Randal’s southern manners, thanking the man who’d just robbed him at gunpoint. He opened the door, easing himself carefully from the car, keeping the gun on Randal, holding the three items against his stomach with the other hand.
“I’ll leave these on the street corner. Don’t get out of the car until I’m out of sight.” Randal nodded in response. “Oh, when you call in, you might earn some brownie points if you tell them the two people in the house are dead.”
“Should I mention your name?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. Probably better for you if you don’t. Except to Tom of course.” He closed the door and walked away, leaving the gun, mobile phone, and keys on the street corner, walking further before hailing a cab on a busier street.
With the afternoon passing but still warm, he left the films to develop at an express photo shop and crossed the street to a coffee bar, sitting in the window with a cup of lemon and ginger, watching the mix of tourists and businesspeople moving along at conflicting speeds.
He’d been tempted to go back to the hotel for an hour but had decided against the sleeping draft of a comfortable room, silence, a bed. He still felt okay, but he knew the need for sleep had to be building up inside him, ready to catch him off guard if he gave it a chance, and he couldn’t afford to do that, couldn’t afford to let the momentum go.
As it was, they were as much in the dark about him as he was about them. Perhaps his speed and the steady attrition would begin to get to them, draw Berg into mistakes, even out in the open.