“Uh, yeah, should be fine, sweetheart. Anyone near you? Watching you? Street cameras?”
I scan the tops of lampposts along the residential street, my breath catching in my throat. I chose this road because it’s the emptiest road near us, hardly any passersby, but now I start to wonder: do all London streets have CCTV in some form? But the angled cameras or small circular pods I’m searching for are nowhere to be seen here.
I think we’re safe. “No people, no cameras,” I say into the receiver.
“Then it’s fine.” I hear a smile in his voice. I’ve caught his interest.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, it’s just I’ve got a slight, well—a situation. Um, do you know anything about file encryption, Eddie? Do you know anyone I could talk to about it? It’s important.” I need to mask the urgency in my voice. I don’t want to scare him off. I don’t want to seem overly familiar either. At the end of the day, I’m asking for another favor and this time I really have nothing to give in exchange for it.
“Computer stuff, right? Yeah, we’ve got a guy. Here, look, tell me the gist and I’ll give my guy a ring and we’ll go from there. You like those flowers, by the way, sweetheart? I asked ’em for something nice and tasteful but you never know with those places, do you?” Eddie’s a very sweet man. I think of my monstrous bouquet back in the hall. Under different circumstances I think Eddie and I would have really gotten along.
“Sorry, Eddie. Yes, yes, I did. They were gorgeous, very tasteful, thank you so much. I’m just glad I could help out.”
“You did, sweetheart, you did. My daughter means the world to me. Now, what’s the problem then?”
“Okay, so, I’ve got an encrypted USB. In a nutshell, I’m not really sure what I’m dealing with here. I need to know what’s on that stick.” I lay it out for him. A problem shared…
Eddie clears his throat.
“Where did you get it?” His tone has turned serious.
“I can’t say. I’m not sure who exactly I’m dealing with. I need to know what’s on the USB in order to know what I need to do now.”
“Listen, Erin, I’m going to stop you there, sweetheart. You don’t need to know anything. So, do everyone a favor and drop that idea. If that thing belongs to someone else and they’ve gone to all the trouble of encrypting it, you don’t need to know what’s on it. Because it’s bad, it’s bad stuff they don’t want people reading.” Did Mark read it? I wonder. I think of the pages and pages of scrambled text. Could Mark have figured out what they meant? Does he already know too much?
Eddie continues: “My gut says you copy what you’ve got. I’m guessing you’ll be handing the original on? Exchanging?”
“Umm…yes. Yes, I will.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. For a second, I feel so much relief I’m dizzy. Calling Eddie was the right thing to do. He knows how to deal with these kind of people.
“Right, well…You exchange one-on-one. You take backup in case they don’t want to play nice. You do exactly what they say. And don’t hand anything over until you’ve got the money. You made that mistake the other day with Simon; I heard all about it. It’s very endearing, sweetheart, but it’s not the way things get done. You exchange after the money’s gone into your account, not before. You understand?” The question hangs on the line between us.
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Eddie,” I say. It feels weird being this honest with a criminal. I can tell him more than I’d ever tell Mark. I know he’s right. I should just take the offer. Make sure I cover all my bases and go for it. It’s what Eddie would do.
“Do you need anyone to help you with the handover? I could get Simon round to help out?” he asks, his voice soft now. I feel like this is personal. Eddie’s worried about me.
“Um, I think I’ve got it covered, Eddie. But can I let you know?” I’m aware I sound fragile. A damsel in distress. I’d like to say it’s a deliberate manipulative move to garner assistance, but it’s not. As I’ve said, I’m just way out of my depth. But I can’t let Simon and Eddie help me. I can’t take on more than one front at a time. I don’t know if I can trust Eddie and his gang with this. He’s a criminal, at the end of the day. I understand the irony of that statement, but you know what I mean. I need to figure this out myself first, alone.
“Okay, sweetheart. Well, you know where I am if you need me.”
“Oh, Eddie, do you know where I could get, um, you know, er, protection?” That’s probably the least persuasive request for a firearm ever uttered, but I think I might definitely need it now.
He’s silent for a second.
“You know how to use one?” he asks, businesslike.
“Yes,” I lie. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, well, I said you were full of surprises. Not a problem, sweetheart. Simon will drop what you need round tonight. Look after yourself, sweetheart. Stay safe. You need to talk again, next time you call use a different box, different area. No more Lordship Road. Mix it up.”
How does he know where I’m calling from? For an instant, I feel sick. “I will. Thanks, Eddie. Really appreciate it.”
“All right, love. Ta-ta.” The line goes dead.
I’m going to end this situation. I’m going to end it for both of us, Mark and me. We can’t hide from what’s coming. Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing. We can’t just squirrel the USB away in chocolate boxes and hope for the best. We need to finish what we have started and properly, because now I’m absolutely certain that they won’t stop until they have the USB. We’ve turned the phone on two times now; they must know we’re in London. Now it’s just a question of when and where we meet. And on whose terms.
I think of the Sharpes: of their fate. Those last desperate gasping breaths of seawater, and then—nothing. But the difference between the Sharpes and me is that the Sharpes weren’t expecting what happened to them, they weren’t prepared, they panicked. They didn’t stand a chance. But I do.
I head to St. Pancras Station and in the crowd below the giant clock I turn on the phone. Passengers spill from the Eurostar through the glass in front of me. I tap on messages, tap on the text box of the most recent message, and write:
I HAVE FLASH DRIVE.
HAPPY TO EXCHANGE.
MEETING INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
I tap send, turn off the phone, and slip it into my coat pocket. Now I just need somewhere to meet.
* * *
—
At home I spend the night trawling YouTube videos to prepare. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s doing my research, and it never ceases to amaze me what you can learn off the Internet. I watch videos on handgun assembly, specifically Glock 22 assembly and disassembly.
Simon dropped off a Glock 22 with two boxes of bullets two hours ago; I made him a cup of tea, and he left with the cup.
I’ve been watching the videos ever since: Glock cleaning, how to handle a handgun, Glock safety features, how to shoot a handgun, how to make your handgun safe pre-and post-usage. And two hours in, I’m happy to say that it is about as hard to take apart a handgun and reassemble it as it is to change a Brita water filter. If you’re interested.
Apparently WD-40 is an acceptable substitute for gun oil as long as you intend to re-lube and clean after a three-to four-day period. My gun only needs to work for one day and I’m hoping that it doesn’t actually need to work at all. I can’t risk going into a Holland & Holland in Piccadilly tomorrow morning and buying gun oil. Just in case. Just in case SO15 is watching. Or Patrick. Or someone else entirely.