‘What are you going to do with it?’ she asked suspiciously.
The American took an envelope out of his blazer pocket and handed it to her. She opened it and flicked through the contents. Twenty-five thousand dollars, in one-hundred-dollar bills.
‘You’re not going to, like, eat it, are you?’ she asked.
‘Do I look like a pervert, Madison?’ he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, yeah, a bit. Sorry.’
The American laughed. ‘You’re probably right, honey,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, you’re not my type.’
Madison nodded at the used condom. ‘What do you want it for?’
The American smiled. ‘That, honey, is for me to know. Now, off you go.’
Madison blew him an air-kiss, then climbed out of the limousine and tottered off on her high heels in search of a black cab. Twenty-five thousand dollars from the American, and five thousand from the Saudi. It had been a good night. Apart from the anal.
The Saudi stood in the shower and let the water play over his face. He loved the huge showerheads in the Savoy’s bathrooms. It was like standing in the rain. He rubbed the honey-scented soap over his torso and smiled as he remembered the way the American woman had soaped him in the shower. She had been good, and worth every dollar he’d paid her. She’d gone down on him in the shower, taking him in her mouth as the water cascaded over his chest. He’d screwed her in the sitting room of the suite, on the sofa, across the coffee table, and finally in the king-sized bed. He’d paid a lot more for a lot less.
The Saudi loved screwing American women. They always started off so self-assured, so confident, so full of themselves, as if they were doing him a favour. But when they were on their knees and he was behind them, pounding into them, making them gasp and moan, there was no doubting who was in control. He hadn’t realised Madison was a hooker until she’d asked for money, but it hadn’t been a problem. He was happy to pay for sex and, frankly, where Western women were concerned, he preferred it that way. His smile widened. He doubted that Madison was her real name. Not that he cared. It had been a one-off. He had paid for sexual relief and he had got what he’d paid for.
The doorbell rang. The Saudi rinsed his hair, wrapped himself in the Savoy’s thick towelling robe, then headed for the door. ‘Room service,’ called a waitress.
The Saudi had ordered eggs Benedict, a pot of coffee, and Buck’s fizz, with Pol Roger. A leisurely breakfast, a stroll by the Thames, then off to the airport. The Saudi would miss London, but he would be back, sooner rather than later.
He padded across the thick carpet and opened the door. A matronly waitress, with grey hair tied back in a bun and an ample chest that strained at her white blouse, was standing behind a trolley. She had a nametag over her left breast. Amy.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said brightly. She smiled, showing greying teeth.
The Saudi nodded. He didn’t believe in talking to the hired help. He waved for her to wheel in the trolley.
‘How are you this morning, sir?’ she asked.
The Saudi ignored her and headed back to the bathroom. He heard a rapid footfall but before he could react he felt a thump in the small of his back and slammed into the wall by the bathroom door. The barrel of a gun was forced under his chin. ‘Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off,’ the waitress hissed
There were more footsteps in the corridor outside the suite, then half a dozen men burst in, all armed. Hands grabbed at the Saudi’s arms and forced him around so that his back was to the wall. The grey-haired waitress was grinning as she kept the gun rammed against his neck. The Saudi stared at her, but said nothing.
The Labrador growled softly and dropped the tennis ball at Charlotte Button’s feet. Button ignored her and carried on flicking through the dozen or so personnel files she had scattered across the coffee table. The dog gave a plaintive yelp and Button sighed. ‘What part of working at home don’t you understand, Poppy?’ she said. ‘I’ll take you out at lunchtime.’
The dog was panting and Button patted her. Then she picked up Shepherd’s file and reread Kathy Gift’s most recent assessment. There was no doubt that Shepherd was going to be an asset to SOCA. His Special Forces background combined with his police experience made him the perfect undercover operative. She had been impressed with him when they’d met at the Ritz, and he didn’t appear to be the sort who’d have problems working for a woman. The police was still a very male-dominated organisation, especially when compared with MI5 where more than half of the two thousand or so officers were female and the director general was a woman. But Shepherd didn’t seem bothered by Button’s sex, and she hadn’t once caught him glancing at her breasts or legs. Jimmy Sharpe was a different matter. During his interview he’d made some outrageous observations about the role of women in police work, always followed by a gruff ‘no offence intended’ – although he clearly didn’t care one way or the other whether she was offended or not. Button didn’t plan to hold Sharpe’s sexist views against him. It took all sorts to make up an undercover unit and his assets far outweighed his liabilities.
It had been two days since Shepherd had taken the Christopher Donovan birth certificate and he was due to go in and collect the passport from the Uddin brothers. She picked up her mobile and dialled his number.
‘It’s Charlie,’ she said, when he answered.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I was going to ask you the same.’
‘I’m getting ready to go in,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Sharpe’s riding shotgun.’
‘Great,’ said Button. ‘Bag it as soon as possible. We’ll need to run a full print and DNA analysis.’
‘You know who the contact is?’
‘It’s all wrapped up,’ said Button. Another phone rang. Her landline. ‘Dan, my other line’s going. Call me when you’ve got the passport.’ She stood up and cut the connection. Poppy raced to the door, tail wagging.
‘I’m answering the phone, silly,’ she said. ‘We’ll do the walk thing later.’
At the mention of the word, Poppy’s tail wagged even more enthusiastically. Button shook her head. Poppy had been her husband’s idea. Given the choice, she would have preferred a cat, but as the house had been her call, as had been the car, their daughter’s boarding-school and the cottage in the Lake District, she reckoned he deserved the pet of his choice.
She picked up the phone. It was Patsy Ellis, her former boss at MI5’s International Counter-terrorism Branch. Ellis was also one of MI5’s representatives on the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre and was tipped as a potential director general.
‘How goes SOCA?’ asked Ellis.
Button looked across at the files on the coffee table. ‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to make any mistakes with my team. There’s a lot at stake.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Ellis. ‘You won’t have the Official Secrets Act to hide behind. Everything you do will be followed by every investigative journalist in the country.’
‘This is a pep talk, is it?’ asked Button.
Ellis laughed. ‘You don’t need one from me, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I put you forward for the job, remember?’
‘Only because I was after yours,’ said Button, only half joking.
‘A few years out of the fold will do you the world of good,’ said Ellis. ‘And you’ll be able to take the credit for your successes, which we’re never allowed to do.’
Button knew she was right: SOCA had been a good career move – if she made a success of it.
‘Before you get too settled in, we’ve had a request for your assistance,’ said Ellis.
‘We?’
‘It came from the DG’s office. Not for you personally but the DG decided you were the perfect candidate.’
‘Because?’
‘Your Arab language abilities, as it happens. And your interrogation skills. Oh, and your sex, which makes it even more intriguing.’
‘My what?’
‘They wanted a woman. Ideally a pretty one. I was going to cry sexism when I heard, but there is a method to their madness.’
‘Patsy, you’re talking in riddles. Who’s “they”?’
Poppy nuzzled the back of Button’s legs.