“Did my alias stay in the Davies Suite?”

“No.”

“My alias is used to luxury.”

“Finished?”

“Just about. So Fat Gandhi thinks I’m at Claridge’s?”

“Yes. You’ll go in through the side employee entrance. My man will give you back your phone. He will also place two listening devices on your person.”

“Two?”

“Depending on where you go, they may search you again. They probably won’t find both.”

Myron understood. When Win put tracking devices on cars, he always put one under the bumper—where it could easily be found—and one in a more difficult space to find.

“Use the same safe word,” Win said.

“Articulate.”

“Yes, very nice that you remember.” Win turned and looked at Myron full on. “Use it even if you do not believe it will do any good.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve spent the evening with eyes on the arcade,” Win said. “Your chum Fat Gandhi has not left. No one matching either Patrick’s or Rhys’s description has entered.”

“Theories?”

“He may be holding them in the arcade. We’ve seen signs of”—Win paused, tapped his lip with his finger—“signs of life coming from the basement.”

“Like there’s someone down there?”

“Like there’s more than one someone down there.”

“You using a thermal scanner?”

“We are, but the basement walls are thick. Still . . .”

“What?”

Win shook it off. The car stopped.

“My man is directly inside on the left. Go in, get your phone, get wired up, catch a taxi to that address on Fulham Palace Road.”

Myron did as Win asked. He had brief flashbacks to his last time in the hotel, to the death and destruction and mayhem that followed, but he pushed them away. Myron didn’t recognize the man who helped him. The man went about his tasks in silence. First, he put a listening device on Myron’s chest under his shirt.

“Yikes, that’s cold,” Myron said.

Nothing.

The man put the second device inside Myron’s shoe. Myron headed out the front door. A uniformed doorman complete with top hat said, “May I help you, sir?”

Gripping the money bag a touch too tightly, Myron did his subtle scan, searching for someone suspicious who might be watching him. There was no one out on the streets yet—no guy leaning against a wall pretending to read a paper or stopping to tie his shoelaces or anything like that.

The only thing maybe worth noting: a gray car with tinted windows down the block on his left.

“Taxi, please.”

The doorman blew a whistle, even though a black Hackney carriage was a car’s length from where Myron stood. He made a big production of opening the door for Myron. Myron fumbled for some change, didn’t have any, gave the doorman a hopeless shrug. The doorman seemed unimpressed. Myron slid into the back, digging the legroom, and gave the driver the bank’s address on Fulham Palace Road.

After three blocks it was clear to Myron that the gray car was following him. Myron knew the line was open between him and Win so that Win could hear everything. But there was no reason to play games with that yet. Myron picked up the phone and put it to his ear.