*

Michael scrolled through his recent calls and found Dempsey’s number. With his hands shaking from a mixture of cold and adrenaline, he pressed the connect icon and lifted the handset to his ear.

‘The cell phone you are trying to reach is no longer in service.’

‘Shit.’ Michael did not even intend to speak aloud, but still the words came out. ‘Shit.’

He stuffed the phone into his pocket. As he did, he chanced a look behind.

There was no sign of the man in the overcoat.

Shit. Where the hell has he gone?

Michael almost stopped walking. Almost turned. He caught himself just in time. No matter how natural the reaction, he could not risk that. The man could be anywhere. He could be watching. Michael could not give him any cause to think he had been spotted.

He forced himself onwards. Towards the station. Whenever he could, he looked for the man who’d been following him, using the succession of shop windows he was passing.

He didn’t spot him once.

Could I have been wrong? he began to ask himself. Could it have been paranoia after all?

He did not think it was. Not really. And yet there was no sign of the man. Of him or of anyone else who looked out of place. What did that mean? The further Michael walked the more he was forced to question his instincts.

Right up until those instincts were proved correct.

Michael spotted Romeo Meyer from forty yards. Perhaps more. It was impossible not to, even for Michael, who had never seen the Secret Service agent with his own eyes.

Bruce Bull had described Romeo to Will Duffy, and Will Duffy had passed that same description to Michael. At the time it sounded ridiculous. An exaggeration that no doubt grew more fantastical with each telling. But as Michael now approached a figure who could only be one man, he saw how accurate Bull had actually been.

At around six feet six inches, Romeo was almost a full half foot taller than Michael, his shoulders twice the width. He was, Michael could tell as he came closer, as powerful and athletic as any of the giants who now dominated heavyweight boxing, but with none of the flab that some carried in the midriff.

If anything, he made those guys look a little out of shape.

Michael had no doubt. This man could be no one else; he matched the unusual description too perfectly. And that, in turn, could mean only one thing.

Dempsey was right. I am on their radar.

And this is it.

SIXTY-TWO

Michael went through the station’s ticket barriers, keeping his eyes resolutely forward. He was determined to give no indication that he knew something was wrong. Given even a moment to consider what he was doing, he would have realised that the ruse was pointless.

But he had no such moment. And right now he could think of nothing else.

It at least gave him the comfort of having some form of plan.