The street outside the café was becoming busier, too, and when Gibson finally did walk past, Finn didn’t spot him until it was almost too late. Gibson glanced in at the window of the café, staring directly at where Finn was sitting, though he showed no sign of having actually seen him.
Finn had probably walked past him many times before, but had never taken much notice. Now he took in everything: the young, featureless face, though he imagined Gibson was in his thirties; the prematurely balding hair masked by the fact that it was almost shaved; not particularly tall, a sinewy build as befitting someone who was a keen cyclist.
Having never paid attention to him before, Finn was surprised at himself, because Gibson had the perfect blend of lean anonymity that should have aroused his suspicions. The only thing Finn had in his defense was that the world seemed to be full of nobodies nowadays—they couldn’t all be mounting surveillance operations.
He put his money on the counter, folded his paper and left that, too, then got up and sauntered out. Once on the street, he picked up his pace a little until he could see the back of Gibson’s neatly cropped head bobbing among the pedestrians in front.
Finn kept a decent distance behind him, knowing the few turns Gibson would have to make in advance of him reaching them. Only as they got closer to the apartment building, and there were fewer people on the street, did he close in. Usually that would be the time to drop back, but Gibson had no idea he was being followed, and Finn wanted to reach the door with him.
Gibson was wearing a suit, an open raincoat over the top of it, a scarf—that much Finn had seen when he’d looked into the café window—and he was carrying a laptop case. Was he armed? It was impossible to tell from behind, maybe not at all with the loose-fitting beige raincoat.
Finn saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a bunch of keys, sorting through them as he neared the door of the building. It was probably a new apartment for him, so he no doubt had to remind himself each time which key was for which door—the mental effort required provided perfect cover for Finn now that they were essentially alone, the one other man on the street walking away from them on the other side.
Gibson reached the door, put in the key. Finn picked up his pace, breaking into a run as he pulled his gun. He almost barreled into Gibson, pushing him through the door, and Gibson responded at first as if ready to defend against an assault or deal with an accidental collision.
He didn’t drop the laptop case, but stumbled and turned and said something, then froze in two stages, the first as he recognized Finn, the second as he saw the gun.
“Keep your hands visible and move backward to the elevator.”
“What do you want?” He was a Scot—Ethan had told him that, but the delicate and slightly high-pitched voice came as something of a surprise.
Finn didn’t answer and Gibson got the message, moving carefully toward the elevator, reaching up and pressing the button. Finn stepped in behind him, pushed the gun into his back and turned him around. He gave a little shove with the gun then, and Gibson reached up and pressed for the fourth floor.
As the doors closed and the elevator moved, Finn said, “I’ve only killed two people in my life, and one of them was an accident, so when we get to your floor don’t do anything to make me add to that tally. You understand?” Gibson nodded. “If there’s anyone about, don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you and I’ll kill them, and I don’t want to kill anyone. Understand?”
Gibson nodded again and said, “We can sort this out—”
Another increase of pressure, the metal of the gun pushing up against his spine, was enough to reduce him to silence. And the precautionary talk proved unnecessary, because the corridor was empty and they moved quickly into his apartment, even with Gibson fumbling in his nervousness and his unfamiliarity with the keys.
Once inside, Finn reached and turned on the light. It was a large, open-plan apartment, modern but well decorated. Unlike the shell of a place he’d left behind, the walls here had a handful of generic modern art canvases, as if the place had been put together by a designer rather than someone exploring his or her own taste.
“Put the case on the floor.” Gibson crouched and put the case down. “Now drop the raincoat off your shoulders and onto the floor, then step forward.” Again, he followed the instructions carefully. “Arms out wide and turn slowly.”
Gibson turned, then let his arms drop and said, “If you told me what it is that you want . . .”
“Strip.”
Gibson looked at him in consternation.
“What?”
“To your underwear. Strip.” Finn gave the gun a little shake in his hand, reminding Gibson that he was hardly in a position to negotiate.