82
LONDON’S ADRENALINE BAR OCCUPIED an old power station on the border between Hoxton and Shoreditch; it was all open space and brick walls and a gorgeous, long steel bar, much bigger than its brothers, the Rode Prins and Taverne Chevalier, and the bartenders were serving actual cocktails, precise with the measurements, using fresh ingredients. I saw a proper martini being mixed (shaken is still the fastest way to chill, and bruising the liquor is a myth), a bull and bear made with genuine Kentucky bourbon, an excellent bottle of French Bordeaux being opened. The barkeeps had been well trained. My kind of bar. The tables were low and long and rustic, more French farmhouse than elegant, but cool looking. I had thought given its name that it would be a frenetic dance club; rather, Adrenaline seemed an ironic name, a place where cool control would win the day more than frantic action.
We walked through it, keeping hold of Lucy by the arm. It was easy for a moment to think about the loveliness of a proper bar, rather than to think about my traitorous wife.
I liked the open space, which somehow seemed warm and inviting. Bright, forceful modern art and bold photographs hung on the walls, all done, Mila said, by local artists, many of whom patronized the bar.
“You’ll see movie stars here as well,” she said. “I have to do my damnedest to keep us out of the guidebooks so we don’t go touristy.” I knew artists had reclaimed once-blighted Hoxton for their own, and the developers followed the artists, quickly pricing most of them out of the territory they’d staked. A large outdoor patio held sculptures and large blow-ups of photographs; it held a circular stage for live music, currently empty as it was midmorning.
A thin, well-dressed man approached us. He was handsome, in his early thirties, wore a perfectly tailored suit, and spoke with a West African accent. “Mila, hello. How nice to see you.”
“This is Kenneth,” Mila said.
“Kenneth, help me,” Lucy said. “They’re holding me prisoner.”
He ignored her. Mila introduced me, just as Sam, and he shook my hand.
“Give Sam whatever he needs,” Mila said.
He nodded and regarded Lucy.
She said, “I’ll scream.”
Kenneth said, “I believe you have no interest in speaking to the British police, do you?”
Lucy shut up.
Upstairs was a much bigger office than the bars in Amsterdam or Brussels; it housed an array of computer screens. Mila locked the door behind us and sat at a keyboard, began to type. The back of her computer monitor faced us. I pushed Lucy into an office chair, handcuffed her to it and sat across from her.
“You want us to take down Edward to help keep you safe? Then you talk to me.”
“Go to their house. Zaid’s house. That’s where they’ll go.” She turned to Mila. “Since the bar’s open, I’d like a Scotch.”
Mila ignored her. I went around and looked at what she was doing. She turned off the computer.
“Your wife is correct,” she said. “We have to go to Zaid’s house.”
“Why?”
She looked at Lucy. “Come with me to get your wife’s Scotch.” She leaned down close to Lucy and wheeled her chair into a small, empty, windowless room. She slammed the door and locked it.
“What’s going on?”
“My employers insist I go to Zaid’s country house and make sure there is no evidence of his connection to us.”
“What do you mean? Wipe out his computer?”
“Yes.”
“He was just murdered in full sight in a train station. The police will be swarming over his residences.”
“That is why we must hurry. Remember Zaid telling us that his estate was equipped with bunkers for the government in case Britain was invaded during the war? I think if he has kept secrets from us on what he has given Edward, those secrets will be there. It is his best hiding place.”
“But why would they go there?”
“It is hiding in plain sight. Zaid covered for Yasmin while she was a so-called kidnapping victim. He told us, remember, that no one knew she was missing, not even her mother. So now she cannot be missing. Whatever they are up to, she must be in sight now or she would be suspected.”
I ran a hand through my hair.
“You’re right. That underground complex would be the perfect hiding place. Do we know who’s living there?”
“A small staff, I would suspect. He keeps a sizeable stable of horses.”
“I love horses,” I said.