Claridge’s Hotel Mayfair London
6 – 15 p.m.
April 18th
Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair was just what the doctor ordered for Cobb. The contact had dropped Cobb off at the grandiose entrance and had the porter pull a glossy set of luggage from the boot of the Honda. Cobb out of place in his rough looking clothes, carrying the lumpy black bag with weapons in it, drew disparaging looks from the severe receptionist until his reservation under a diplomatic booking, no less than first class and a suite at that, quickly changed her mind.
Cobb’s luggage was carried ahead of him into the lift and onward into the well designed and impressive one bedroom Claridge’s suite.
Cobb tipped the porter, though not too generously and waited for the man to leave. He took a turn around the rooms, found the mini bar and poured some Bourbon into a glass and dropped some ice in. He took a long drawn out swallow from the drink to feel the ice rest against his top lip before it dropped back into the glass.
He smiled almost manically.
The first class treatment suited him well. To the victor the spoils he now knew to be true. He unpacked the black leather cases to find full sets of clothes, which he unpacked and put away. There were two suits, one dinner suit and a black single breasted wool rich suit. He briefly checked the sizes and was impressed at the accuracy. There were clean cotton socks and boxer shorts in plain sober colours and the shirts were well made and comfortable looking. There was a stainless steel Rolex Oyster in its box, white gold cufflinks and Cobb’s favourite after shave, Calvin Klein Contradiction. There was a set of Gillette’s best disposables and every other type of bathroom self grooming product. There was also an envelope with five hundred pounds in notes and change, all used. Finally to his great joy there was a carton of Lucky Strike and a stainless steel Zippo, already primed and fuelled.
Cobb opened the carton slit open a new soft pack, flicked a cigarette out, did a neat trick lighting the Zippo with a finger click, drew in and pushed out the smoke in a heady sigh and went back to the mini bar. After having poured and drunk another glass of Bourbon he began to try and book a table in the restaurant only to find that it had already been done. Having also established that there was a Casino nearby he headed for the bathroom.
It was half an hour later that he emerged and dressed himself in the dinner suit. He checked his reflection. He’d made a few small changes to his appearance, not much, but enough to make the ‘search pictures’ vaguely inaccurate. He checked the time with the speaking clock and set the Rolex, slipping the expanding strap comfortably over his thick wrist.
He sat for a moment with the PSS pistol laying on a hand towel. He took it apart and cleaned it. He had only four rounds left, but he did have the black bag with the sub machine gun under the bed, there were three clips of ammunition too. Cobb put the silent PSS pistol into the waist band at the back of his trousers and turned his reflection in the full length mirror this way and that. Sure that he looked great and that the pistol didn’t show he picked up the cash and his key and walked to the lift.
The Gordon Ramsey restaurant was expensively low key and Cobb was amused that they’d booked him a reservation, that couldn’t have been easy. Cobb knew that the cost of the dinner would go with the room and someone else was picking up the bill. It was all gravy from there and he felt sure he’d make the hit and take the million. With the hardships of the last days in mind, like Mason, he set his heart on some rest and recreation. He settled down in the 1930’s style restaurant, plush red chairs and bright white linen creating a blood stain contrast, the irony of which was not lost on him. When the food was drifted in by waves of waiters it was exquisite, as was the well chosen wine.