"And I have a reason," the American said. His tone turned ominous. "I got to tell you, pal. I don't like what I am hearing."
The last of the boxes were stacked in the van. Mallory stepped back. The American slammed the first door shut, then the second. As the second door closed, Mallory saw the driver standing there. The woman. She had been standing behind the door.
"I don't like it either," she said. She was wearing fatigues, army surplus stuff. Baggy trousers and high-laced boots. A bulky green jacket. Heavy gloves. Dark glasses.
"Now wait a minute," the American said.
"Give me your cell phone," she said. Holding out her hand for it. Her other hand was behind her back. As if she had a gun.
"Why?"
"Give it to me."
"Why?"
"I want to look at it, that's why."
"There's nothing unusual--"
"Give it to me."
The American pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. Instead of taking it, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward her. The cell phone clattered to the ground. She brought her other hand from around her back and quickly gripped the side of his neck with her gloved hand. She held him with both hands around his neck, as if she were strangling him.
For a moment he was stunned; then he began to struggle. "What the fuck are you doing?" he said. "What are you--hey!" He knocked her hands away and jumped back as if he had been burned. "What was that? What did youdo? "
He touched his neck. A tiny trickle of blood ran down, just a few drops. There was red on his fingertips. Almost nothing.
"What did you do?" he said.
"Nothing." She was stripping off her gloves. Mallory could see she was doing it carefully. As if something were in the glove. Something she did not want to touch.
"Nothing?" the American said. "Nothing?Son of a bitch!" Abruptly, he turned and began to run up the ramp toward the street outside.
Calmly, she watched him go. She bent over, picked up the cell phone, and put it in her pocket. Then she turned to Mallory. "Go back to work."
He hesitated.
"You did a good job. I never saw you. You never saw me. Now go."
Mallory turned and walked to the back-stairs door. Behind him, he heard the woman slam the van door, and when he glanced back, he saw the van racing up the ramp into the glare of the street. The van turned right, and was gone.
Back in his office, his assistant, Elizabeth, came in with a mockup for the new ultralight computer ads for Toshiba. The shoot was tomorrow. These were the finals to go over. He shuffled through the boards quickly; Mallory had trouble concentrating.
Elizabeth said, "You don't like them?"
"No, no, they're fine."
"You look a little pale."
"I just, um...my stomach."
"Ginger tea," she said. "That's best. Shall I make some?"
He nodded, to get her out of the office. He looked out the window. Mallory's office had a spectacular view of the Thames, and the Tower Bridge off to the left. The bridge had been repainted baby blue and white (was that traditional or just a bad idea?), but to see it always made him feel good. Secure somehow.
He walked closer to the window, and stood looking at the bridge. He was thinking that when his best friend had asked if he would lend a hand in a radical environmental cause, it had sounded like something fun. A bit of secrecy, a bit of dash and derring-do. He had been promised that it would not involve anything violent. Mallory had never imagined he would be frightened.
But he was frightened now. His hands were shaking. He stuck them in his pockets as he stared out the window. Five hundred rockets? he thought. Five hundred rockets. What had he gotten himself into? Then, slowly, he realized that he was hearing sirens, and there were red lights flashing on the bridge railings.
There had been an accident on the bridge. And judging from the number of police and rescue vehicles, it was a serious accident.
One in which someone had died.
He couldn't help himself. Feeling a sense of panic, he left the office, went outside to the quay, and with his heart in his throat, hurried toward the bridge.
From the upper level of the red double-decker bus, the tourists were staring down, covering their mouths in horror. Mallory pushed through the crowd clustered near the front of the bus. He got close enough to see a half-dozen paramedics and police crouched around a body lying in the street. Above them stood the burly bus driver, in tears. He was saying that there was nothing he could have done, the man had stepped in front of the bus at the last moment. He must have been drunk, the driver said, because he was wobbling. It was almost as if he fell off the curb.