A pleasing thrill of adrenalin infused him as started towards The Ritz, the haze of drowsiness evaporating with each step. Pedestrians stepped out of his way, as though sensing his presence if not his purpose, and he had to concentrate on relaxing his muscles into a neutral expression, so that the terrible eagerness would not show on his face.

One last block to go.

An expensively dressed woman with olive skin and long dark hair met his eye as they passed each other, but she was lucky – had they met a hundred yards further along, it might have been her. Naysmith smiled at her good fortune and walked on, his gaze drawn to a double-decker bus that had drawn up ahead of him, indistinct faces staring out from the upstairs windows. He dropped his gaze to the paving slabs in front of him, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone else until he was in the proper place.

The traffic noise grew louder, and a slight breeze of fumes touched his cheek as he finally stepped out of the side street and, turning right, raised his eyes to look out on Piccadilly.

Game on.

Ahead of him, a young couple were walking arm in arm, threading their way between the oncoming pedestrians. Naysmith kept his distance, staying a little behind them, allowing his gaze to flit across the faces of the people coming in the other direction.

Two suited men in their forties, ties loosened for the evening, passed by without looking up. An Arab woman with a broad, beautiful face and an exotically hooked nose approached with a graceful stride, but her large eyes were turned towards the trees of Green Park, lost in thought. Naysmith slowed as she passed, turning to watch her receding figure with a thoughtful smile, then moved on.

He watched diners, oblivious to his presence, talking to each other across small tables in restaurant windows, and caught glimpses of his own reflection keeping pace with him in the polished dark marble of the Piccadilly facades.

The young couple turned right into Half Moon Street and he walked on alone, the road sloping gently downwards. The traffic still rolled along beside him, but there were fewer people here. A huddled male figure sat with his head down in a darkened doorway and, moments later, a cadaverous-looking tramp stumbled along with unseeing eyes staring straight ahead.

He was approaching Hyde Park Corner now, and still nobody had made eye contact. Surely he would find someone before he got back to his hotel. Perhaps the usual crowd of tourists that milled around outside the Hard Rock Café? He didn’t want to end the evening with nothing.

Frowning, he walked on towards the grand old hotels that lined the end of the street. A short, middle-aged man stood between a pair of empty tables in a roped-off section at the front of one of them. The red ember of a small cigar glowed in one hand, and his head was bowed as he studied a phone held in the other. The man smiled to himself and straightened, raising the cigar towards his bearded mouth. Inclining his head slightly, he peered over the top of his glasses, his gaze resting on Naysmith for just a second before looking back to the phone.

He would be the one.

Naysmith allowed his pace to slow very slightly as he focused on the figure, just a few feet away from him now, taking in each detail. Late forties or early fifties. Five foot ten, average build, with wispy brown hair swept back from his face, and a bushy, salt-and-pepper goatee beard. Small eyes peered down through delicate, thin-framed spectacles perched on a pointed nose.

He had on a beautifully tailored jacket and expensive-looking shoes, but wore a dark woollen sweater vest over his shirt. A smart leather shoulder bag lay on the table at his side.

And then Naysmith was past him. Closing his eyes, he committed the man to memory – the shape of his ears, the slight double chin. Picking up his pace again, he walked on, casually glancing at his watch to make certain of the time. Exactly 8.16 p.m. He smiled to himself as he followed the pavement back round towards his own hotel.

34

Wednesday, 29 August

Naysmith walked across the old entrance lobby and passed through double doors into the beautiful art deco hall of the lounge. Beneath the high, arched ceiling, a central aisle of chequered marble stretched out from the street entrance to the sweeping curve of the bar at the far end of the room, where steps led up to the hotel reception area beyond. Comfortable sofas and padded wicker chairs surrounded the low, linen-shrouded tables, while Japanese murals filled the spaces between the columns on the walls and cream-shaded lamps nestled on tables beneath the large potted palms.

He took a table off to one side of the bar, his seat facing into the room so that he had a good view of the doors. The hushed murmur of conversation wafted across the room as he sank back into what was an extraordinarily comfortable chair. A raised eyebrow summoned the waiter, who approached with a measured step and nodded politely.

‘Sir?’

‘I’d like a gin and tonic, please.’

‘Certainly,’ the waiter nodded. ‘We have Caorunn, Plymouth, Bombay Sapphire, or London Number One.’

‘Excellent,’ Naysmith smiled, relishing the choice. ‘Caorunn, I think.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Naysmith watched him walk over to the bar, then relaxed back into the soft upholstery of his seat, gazing up to admire the beautiful stained-glass ceiling and noting the apparent absence of security cameras. There were worse places to wait for someone.

The bar filled up steadily as the evening progressed, the volume of conversation and laughter rising to overcome the meandering jazz that drifted down from somewhere overhead. At first, Naysmith read a newspaper to pass the time. Later, he amused himself by exchanging glances with an elegant brunette in her forties on the other side of the room. Toying with her drink, she artfully smiled at him while her husband stared at the waitresses, and offered a tiny, apologetic shrug when he finally led her away. Naysmith acknowledged her with a mischievous wink, then returned his attention to the doors.

It was a little after nine thirty when his target appeared.

At the far end of the room, the double doors swung open and two figures walked in, deep in conversation. Naysmith gazed across at them, his expression rigidly neutral but his eyes alert. Small glasses, goatee beard, and that curious sweater vest visible under the jacket. Definitely the same man.

As the pair approached, Naysmith calmly folded away his newspaper and placed a twenty-pound note under his half-empty glass. Easing back his chair, he stood up and yawned, allowing the two men time to make their way across the room. As they drew level with him, he took one last glance at the paper, then abandoned it and turned slowly towards the stairs, falling in just behind the two men as they passed.

‘. . . but you know what? Their stock’s gonna take a big hit if they don’t get out of that market soon.’ The target had a West Coast accent.

‘And did you tell him that?’ The other man was younger, taller, with short, dark hair. He spoke with a slight Scottish accent, and held the door open for Naysmith as they passed through into the brightly lit reception area and walked over to the lifts.

‘I called him like three times but he just wouldn’t accept it,’ the bearded man shrugged, pressing the button to go up. ‘It’s actually a shame because they had some stellar growth in the last few years.’

The three men waited as the doors slid open, then stepped into the lift. Naysmith went last, his eyes casually registering the single CCTV camera above his head. The younger man pressed the 5 button for himself before turning to the target.

‘It’s four, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Thanks,’ the bearded man nodded.