I lay for a moment on the cold grass, my ears completely numb, my face stinging, my legs hurting like mad, as I gulped in air; and as I gulped in air, I got mad, and as I got mad, I gulped in more air still, and as I gulped in more air still, I got even madder, and I reached for the inside of my jacket, only to discover I no longer had either a coat or a jacket, but I did still have my holster with a Beretta inside it. I pulled out the Beretta, and snapped off the safety catch. I checked the selector was on single fire. I was going to get that Arab; I was going to get that sodding bastard. I climbed over the rails, gingerly, for everything hurt. There was complete silence. The whole of Piccadilly had come to a halt. I pinched my nostrils with my fingers and blew hard until my ears popped; but still there was silence – silence except for the ticking of car engines. Somewhere in the distance I heard the blast of a horn. The cab burned fiercely, crackling viciously. The paintwork of a Ford Granada parked on a meter next to it was blistering and bubbling. The newspaper vendor was wide-eyed and blinking.

I stared up and down for the Arab. He was nowhere in sight. I looked at doorways, inside cars, up and down the street, but I didn’t move. I waited. I looked for that one movement, somewhere – but there was none. A pretty girl in a Metro was staring at me; her face was frozen in a mixture of horror, pity and puzzlement. I couldn’t blame her; standing there dressed in nothing but black calf-length boots, blue Marks and Sparks Y-fronts, half a gingham-check blue and white shirt, and a hefty great 9mm Beretta 93R, I couldn’t have looked the world’s prettiest sight.

I tried to conceal the gun, by sticking it inside my shirt, and I became conscious of the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to stand here much longer without attracting a crowd of several thousand. A front-page news story and my mug plastered over every newspaper would not greatly enhance my career prospects. I needed to move away from here, fast. I began walking; somehow, I just didn’t fancy a taxi.

Chapter 13

13

Happy fucking birthday. The note was written on my hall mirror in lipstick, in big scrawling letters. Her car was gone and so was she, and I could hardly blame her for going. I had promised, faithfully, that I would be home by seven; it was now eleven hours later. Being a spy isn’t a good career for steady relationships; it’s even worse for rocky relationships, and ours would have been described, in nautical terms, as a ‘force 10 gale on the nose’.