Jack did all the right things to avoid jet lag. His wristwatch was set to London time before boarding. Plenty of water, no alcohol on the flight. He even managed to sleep a few winks before landing. Still, as they settled into their hotel room, he was having a hard time accepting that it was lunchtime Tuesday.
“You have to force yourself to stay awake until bedtime,” said Vince. “Napping is the worst thing you can do on day one.”
Jack was curious: When it came to international travel, was it an advantage to be blind-no disorienting change from night and day? But he didn’t know Vince well enough to ask the kind of questions that sighted people were always embarrassed to ask.
Chuck Mays had put them up at the Tower, a business hotel and convention center north of the Thames and a couple miles south of Somaal Town. They had a junior suite on the eleventh floor with two double beds. The feather pillows looked tempting, but Jack resisted. He went to the window and opened the blinds.
“Wow, check out the view.”
It was his first gaffe, but Andie’s words of worry popped into his head: Vince is blind, and you’re… well, you’re Jack. “Sorry,” he said.
Vince just smiled. “No need to apologize. Tell me what you see.”
Their room faced the Tower of London, and Jack tried not to sound like a tour guide as he described the historic buildings and concentric stone walls on the bank of the river, the oldest of which dated back almost a millennium. But he was suddenly philosophical.
“It’s kind of ironic,” said Jack. “This whole nightmare started when Neil asked me to represent a Gitmo detainee. Now I’m on the other side of the ocean trying to find his killer, just a few blocks away from one of the most notorious torture chambers on earth.”
“I seriously hope you’re not comparing Gitmo to the Tower of London. Because if you are, that makes you the blind guy in the room.”
Jack thought about it. “You’re right. No comparison. The weather is much better in Cuba.”
“That was a joke, right?”
Vince was still learning Jack’s intonations, and Jack was still adjusting to a roommate who couldn’t see his smirks and half smiles. “Yes,” said Jack. “That was a joke.”
Jack unpacked in silence-not because of any tension in the air, but because Vince was orienting himself to the floor plan, silently pacing off steps from the bed to the dresser, from the closet to the bathroom, from the desk to the minibar. Jack pretended not to notice when he banged his leg into the bedpost.
“I bet you’re wondering how I’m supposed to find a killer,” Vince said as he rubbed the pain out of his shin.
It was meant as a joke, but Jack picked up a hint of frustration in his voice. He imagined that if Vince were to roll up his pant leg, there would be plenty of black-and-blue badges of persistence.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Jack. “But on the subject of finding people, I am still curious to know how Chuck was able to track Shada back to London.”
“I guess I can tell you now that you’re on board. It was simple, really, once Chuck knew that she was disguising herself as a Muslim woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t find many women dressed in hijab who travel by themselves. It’s not allowed under Muslim law. Chuck checked the flight manifests to and from Miami, looking for women with Muslim-sounding names who were traveling alone. His supercomputers narrowed things down pretty quickly.”
Vince’s cell phone chimed, and a mechanical voice told him who it was:
“Call from: Chuck… Mays.”
“That’s weird,” said Vince.
Jack wondered how much of a coincidence it was, never underestimating Chuck’s technological ability to know that they were talking about him. He continued to unpack as Vince took the call.
At first, Vince did nothing to prevent Jack from overhearing his end of the conversation, but about three minutes into the call he noticeably lowered his voice. Another minute later he went into the bathroom, taking extra care to maneuver around that dreaded bedpost.
What’s the big secret?
Jack was tucking socks and underwear into the dresser drawer when he heard the toilet flush. If Vince was trying to make him think that he had really needed to use the bathroom, Jack wasn’t buying it. Vince’s cell was clipped to his belt, the phone conversation over, when he returned to the room.
“Chuck wants me to meet someone,” Vince said.
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
“I know, it’s annoying. But Chuck was up all night in some kind of paranoid mood. I had to flush the toilet to convince him that I was in the bathroom, away from where you could overhear. Even then, he wouldn’t tell me who he wants me to meet.”
Jack was skeptical, but he wanted to believe that Vince was being straight with him. “Who do you think it is?”
“Probably a local private detective.”
“When is the meeting?”
“One o’clock.”
“Where?”
“A pub called the Carpenter’s Arms, up on Cheshire Street. Chuck says it’s about a ten-minute cab ride from here.”
Jack checked his watch. “We’d better leave now.”
“Well, like I said: He wants me to meet someone.”
“You’re saying I can’t go?”
“For whatever reason, Chuck doesn’t want you there. Don’t take it personally.”
Jack blew out a mirthless chuckle. “What did I come all the way from Florida for, the beaches?”
“There will be plenty for you to do. Just let me get this first meeting out of the way, and then I’ll straighten things out with Chuck.”
“Call him back and straighten him out now.”
“Jack, come on. You of all people should understand the kind of hoops you have to jump through when your best friend is also a royal pain in the ass.”
Jack wasn’t totally cool with it, but Vince did have a point. Jack already had a half-dozen text messages from Theo listing all the crap he wanted Jack to buy for him in the duty-free shops.
“All right, you go,” said Jack. “But are you able to get there on your own?”
“My cell has GPS navigation. If you can get me down to the taxi stand, I’m good.”
Jack grabbed his coat and followed Vince out of the room. His walking cane and his memory seemed to be all the assistance Vince needed to find the elevator at the end of the hall. The lobby was bustling with conventioneers at check-in, however, which required some assisted maneuvering. With Vince at his side, Jack gained a whole new take on revolving doors. It was almost like something out of the Tower of London, and Vince seemed to be on the same wavelength.
“Is that the wheel of death I hear at the end of the gauntlet?” asked Vince.
A bellboy steered them toward a handicapped exit. Outside in the covered motor court was more chaos, and Jack led the way through a logjam of cars and buses to the taxi stand. Even with space heaters glowing overhead, the damp air was chilly enough for Jack to see his breath as they waited. Finally, a couple of tourists in front of them stopped arguing about whether or not they could walk to the Tower, and it was Vince’s turn. Jack held the door open as Vince climbed in the backseat and told the driver the destination.
“Do you need me to meet you here on the way back?” asked Jack.
“No, I should be able to find my way upstairs.”
Jack wished him luck, closed the door, and watched the black taxi pull away. Immediately, a feeling of complete and utter uselessness fell over him. The next cab pulled up, and the porter opened the rear door. Jack stood there. The driver called to him.
“You want a cab or not?”
Jack was about to step aside, but then he caught a glimpse of Vince’s taxi at the stoplight, less than a half block away. He hadn’t flown across an ocean to hang out in the hotel room. The whole exchange upstairs was gnawing at him, particularly the part that Vince had told him not to take personally: “For whatever reason, Chuck doesn’t want you there.”
To hell with Chuck. Jack hopped into the cab and pulled the door shut.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
It suddenly amused Jack that this was his chance to say something Bond-like to a London cabbie-except that it sounded too goofy to actually say it.
“Do you see the taxi that just pulled out ahead of us?” Jack asked. “The one waiting at the red light?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Well… just do whatever he does.”
The driver glanced over his shoulder and shot him a curious look. “You want me to follow that cab?”
Jack sighed, resigning himself to it. “Fine, if you must: Follow that cab.”