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hope that’s all right,” he said. “I thought we might take a nightcap elsewhere, if that’s agreeable? Your hotel is on the way, so you can leave your luggage at the reception.”

      Carpenter told him that sounded fine.

      His luggage safely deposited with the receptionist at the hotel on West Twenty-Third Street, Carpenter followed Willis at a brisk pace down Eighth Avenue and on to Hudson Street. They turned left on Grove Street then right on to Bedford, and came to a halt in front of a plain brown door. Willis rapped on it, and stood back. After several moments a panel slid aside, and a pair of eyes peered out at the two men.

      “Good evening, Jack,” said Willis.

      “Bert,” replied a voice from behind the door. There was a series of creaks and thuds as a number of locks were withdrawn, then the door opened. Smoke, laughter and jazz music spilled out on to the cold street, and Willis led Carpenter inside.

      A girl in a cocktail dress and a feather boa took their coats and led them through a pair of double wooden doors into a large room crammed with tables and booths. A man in a tuxedo was hammering out a jazz standard on a piano in one corner, and waitresses glided between the table, carrying trays of drinks. Smoke hung thickly in the air, and the room was alive with conversation and laughter.

      “What is this place?” asked Carpenter.

      “It’s called Chumley’s,” replied Willis. “It’s a little oasis in the dry desert of temperance. What’ll you have?”

      “I’m happy to be led by you,” Carpenter replied.

      The American led them to the long bar that ran the length of one wall of the speakeasy where they squeezed into a narrow space, Willis’s elbow striking a neat man in a scarf and coat waiting to be served. The man turned at once, and regarded Willis with red, alcohol-soaked eyes.

      “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, his upper-class accent mildly slurred. “Allow me to furnish you and your companion with a libation.”

      “No need, sir, but thank you,” replied Willis.

      “Sadly, I must insist,” said the man. “Will you tell me your preference, or must I guess?”

      “Guesswork won’t be necessary. Two scotches on the rocks will be most appreciated.”

      “Educated palates,” exclaimed the man. “How delightful.”

      The barman, a thick red-faced fellow wearing a white apron and drying his hands on a black towel, appeared in front of the man.

      “Two scotches on the rocks, a gin and bitters and a vodka tonic, if you would be so kind.”

      As the barman set about preparing the drinks, the man turned to Carpenter and Willis. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with his hair neatly parted on the right-hand side and a dark red tie beneath the white scarf he had draped around his shoulders.

      “Scott Fitzgerald,” he said, offering a hand towards them. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

      The two men took his hand in turn, and introduced themselves. The barman delivered their drinks to the wooden counter and Fitzgerald withdrew a small sheaf of bills from a tan leather wallet. As he did so, he looked over at his new acquaintances. “Would you care to join me and my companion at our table?” he asked, depositing a handful of notes on the bar.

      After a moment’s hesitation, in which a glance that was mostly bemusement passed between them, Carpenter and Willis agreed, and followed Fitzgerald towards the corner of the tavern.

      The three men weaved through the thick fog of smoke and men and women in various states of inebriation. In the corner of the speakeasy was a small round table, at which was sat a huge figure. The man was awkwardly perched on a three-legged wooden stool and such was his size that the seat looked as though it had been procured from a doll’s house. He looked up as the three men approached, and grunted.

      “Took your time.”

      “Sorry, Henry,” replied Fitzgerald. “The queue was quite significant. I hope you haven’t become too thirsty in my absence?”

      “Thirsty enough.”

      Fitzgerald laughed, as though this was the most delicious witticism he had ever heard, and turned to Carpenter and Willis, who were standing by the table, looking down at the huge man.

      “Do sit down, gentlemen,” Fitzgerald said. “John Carpenter, Bertrand Willis, this is Henry Victor.”

      “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Victor,” said Willis, extending a hand. It hung pregnantly above the wooden table for a long second, until the giant slowly reached out and took it. Carpenter followed suit, and sat back, his mind racing.

       Can it be him? The file is so vague, but the description is supposedly reliable.

      A chill raced up his spine.

      Henry Victor was dressed in dark clothes, a heavy overcoat with high collars on top of a thick wool jumper with a turtle neck that reached to his jaw, and a flat leather cap that cast a deep shadow over his face. As Carpenter looked closely, he saw two bulges in the thick material at the sides of the man’s neck.

      “Something wrong?” asked Victor.

      “My apologies,” said Carpenter, as smoothly as he was able. “The crossing was tiring, and I must confess I was in a world of my own there for a moment.”

      Henry Victor took a long look at Carpenter, then turned his attention to Fitzgerald, who had enthusiastically engaged Willis in liquor-fuelled conversation.

      “... it went without saying that the reviews would be poor,” he was saying, his face a swollen picture of drunken unhappiness. “If you write a novel about the superficialities of the rich and shallow, then you do not expect them to reward your efforts in the literary supplements. I must confess, I thought some of the notices unnecessarily unkind, but such is the literary game. I met with my editor today, and found the conversation largely fruitless, as he wants what I do not have to offer him; a new novel.”

      He looked around at his companions, suddenly aware that he had become the centre of attention. He beamed an unconvincing smile.

      “But the trip from Wilmington, long though it was, has also brought me to this table, and into the company of you gentlemen. So it cannot be considered anything other than a success. And besides...”

      Fitzgerald reached out and drained his gin and bitters. He lit a highly perfumed cigarette and inhaled deeply.

      “She laughs at nothing,” he said, in a small voice. “My wife. She sits surrounded by giant furniture, and laughs at nothing.”

      He looked up. His eyes were red, and tears stood in their corners.

      “But let’s have no more talk of such gloomy matters,” he said. “Tell us of London, Mr Carpenter. I am almost ashamed to say I have never been there.”

      Carpenter did as he was asked, and the conversation resumed. After a time, Willis fought his way to the long bar and refilled their drinks, and the remainder of the night passed agreeably.

      Chapter 21

      THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS

      From the outside, the vehicle was unassuming; a black Ford Transit identical to the thousands that rolled along Britain’s roads every day. But this particular van was different. The engine that was propelling it at a steady ninety miles an hour had been taken from a prototype Piranha VI, a top-secret Swiss armoured personnel carrier that weighed almost twenty tons, and the reactive armour that lay inconspicuously beneath the metal panelling of the van’s body belonged on a Challenger 2 battle tank. The van had been lowered, its chassis strengthened, its suspension stiffened and fitted with computer-controlled roll bars; a titanium safety cage had been threaded through the vehicle, a thick explosive-proof ceramic plate had been attached to the underside, the wheels had been equipped

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