The Omega Sanction by Tomas Black

Author:Tomas Black [Black, Tomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Teardrop Media Ltd
Published: 2018-10-27T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Anna

Drum woke early and mentally prepared himself for a busy Monday morning. He stood beneath the shower and let the hot water hammer his body. He felt clear-headed for the first time in days. Perhaps Vlad was right: Englishmen do have thick skulls.

He padded into the main living area of the apartment and stood in front of a full-length mirror. He examined his body, still lean and battered. He touched the scar across his chest that Stevie had found so fascinating. If she’d taken a little more time, she’d have seen plenty more. He pulled at his damp hair. Phyllis was right. It was far too long. He needed to get it cut.

He put on a suit and and shirt. He polished his brogues and went downstairs. Stevie was snoring quietly on his couch. He left the office and made his way to Tower Bridge. He took the steps up to street level and joined the morning commuters walking into the City.

He spotted him at the base of the steps. The tramp from the cathedral. Experience told him that running into this character twice might be a coincidence, but three times probably meant he was an observer. He looked behind him, and sure enough, he saw two marks, tailing him at a discreet distance.

Once across the bridge, he took a shortcut past the Tower of London, along the river, until he came to a large art deco building belonging to an Insurance Brokers. From there he made his way to Leadenhall Market. It was still only 7.00 am. He pulled out his phone and hit redial and waited.

“Alex Fern.”

“If you’re in the neighbourhood of Leadenhall Market, I thought we could have breakfast at Ives. He’s cooking your favourite.”

There was silence on the end of the phone. “Can you give me forty-five minutes. I’ll meet you there.” The phone went dead.

Drum smiled and phoned Brock to let him know they were coming. Brock sounded pleased. He casually looked around and spotted one of his tails: a young woman in a salmon-pink sweater pretending to window shop. Drum placed another: a man in a dark suit reading the newspaper, leaning against one of the columns in the market. He couldn’t see the third, which bothered him.

He walked past Ives and to a small barber shop tucked away in the corner of the market. He’d been going to the place for years. A bell jangled as he pushed open the heavy glass door and walked back in time into Henry’s Shaving Emporium. The air was thick with steam from dozens of hot white towels and redolent with the scent of sandalwood that Henry always used as an aftershave.

“Morning, Henry. Can you squeeze me in?”

Henry Morgan was the epitome of a well-groomed Victorian gentleman, transported into the twenty-first century. He sported an immaculate waxed moustache that Hercule Poirot would have been proud of and had shiny black hair, parted with military precision and slicked down with a liberal application of macassar oil.

“Good Lord. Is that you Drum?”

“The very same.

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