banded together in ten thick bundles. He held the money to his nose, absently breathing in the dusty paper scent, and then stacked them back in the bag again.
There was a pouch at the front of the satchel. Milton opened it and took out the GPS tracker. He was annoyed afresh. It was a consumer model, a Garmin, not even one that the techs in the basement laboratory next to the Thames had worked on. It was about the diameter of a ten pence piece, and as thick as three of them. The functionality was simple enough: there was a rubber on-off button, a small LED status light and a mini-USB port for charging. It was the smallest tracker available to the public, but it was still ten times larger than the miniaturised models that he had used before. He had seen one that was so thin that it would have been possible to hide it inside a bundle of notes, to remain invisible until the notes were counted individually.
That would have been safe.
This? Not so much. There was no way that it would go unnoticed if the bag was searched.
He put the guns and the tracker into the bag, zipped it up, opened the door and stepped outside.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILTON RETURNED to his hotel suite. The hair that he had stuck to the jamb and the panel of the door was still in place and, inside, the spread of talcum powder had not been disturbed. Nevertheless, he quickly inspected the rooms, one by one, only relaxing when he was as confident as he could be that no one had been inside while he had been away.
He opened the safe and deposited the pistol, ammunition and the shoulder holster inside. The MP5 was too large to fit, and so he hauled up the mattress and hid the gun on the slats of the bed’s frame, dropping the mattress back over the top of it.
He undressed and took a cold shower, standing under the jet until his skin was tingling. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to the bedroom. He removed fresh underwear and a white t-shirt from his case and dressed.
He opened the pouch on the front of the satchel and removed the tracker. He held it in his palm. It was large.
He was going to have to be creative.
MILTON rode back to the docks, left his bike and walked to the bar. It was late, ten o’clock, and, although the jetties and wharves were still busy, the darkness filled the avenues between the storage containers, a deep gloom within which it would be a simple thing to hide. As assassin, waiting for him to come back? He wouldn’t need a high powered rifle. He could sit in a darkened spot with a pistol and there would be nothing that Milton could do about it. He felt the roil of apprehension in his stomach, a prickle between his shoulder blades, but he kept going.
The restaurant was busy again, rowdy with drunken banter. Ernesto Gorgi Di Mauro seemed surprised to see him, as if he had secretly suspected that Milton had spun him a line earlier in order to get out of the bar in one piece.
“Signor Smith. You have returned.”
“Of course.”
“I will be honest, I did not think we would see you again.”
“I told you I was serious, Ernesto. I don’t play games. I mean what I say.”
“How serious are you?”
Milton lifted the bag and deposited it on the table in front of him.
Ernesto displayed no concern about being seen with so much money in a public place. He opened the satchel, brazenly, and tipped the banknotes onto the table.
He nodded appreciatively.
“Where do you find this much money in such a hurry?”
“I went to the bank,” Milton replied, smiling a little, enough to make them wonder whether he might even be telling the truth.
“The bank? It must have impressive service, Signor Smith, to be able to find this much money so quickly.”
“My organisation is a very good customer. They try especially hard to please us.”
“I can see that.” He waved his hand across the scattered bundles of notes. “It is all here? All five hundred thousand?”
“Count it if you don’t trust me.”
Ernesto looked at
There was a pouch at the front of the satchel. Milton opened it and took out the GPS tracker. He was annoyed afresh. It was a consumer model, a Garmin, not even one that the techs in the basement laboratory next to the Thames had worked on. It was about the diameter of a ten pence piece, and as thick as three of them. The functionality was simple enough: there was a rubber on-off button, a small LED status light and a mini-USB port for charging. It was the smallest tracker available to the public, but it was still ten times larger than the miniaturised models that he had used before. He had seen one that was so thin that it would have been possible to hide it inside a bundle of notes, to remain invisible until the notes were counted individually.
That would have been safe.
This? Not so much. There was no way that it would go unnoticed if the bag was searched.
He put the guns and the tracker into the bag, zipped it up, opened the door and stepped outside.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILTON RETURNED to his hotel suite. The hair that he had stuck to the jamb and the panel of the door was still in place and, inside, the spread of talcum powder had not been disturbed. Nevertheless, he quickly inspected the rooms, one by one, only relaxing when he was as confident as he could be that no one had been inside while he had been away.
He opened the safe and deposited the pistol, ammunition and the shoulder holster inside. The MP5 was too large to fit, and so he hauled up the mattress and hid the gun on the slats of the bed’s frame, dropping the mattress back over the top of it.
He undressed and took a cold shower, standing under the jet until his skin was tingling. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to the bedroom. He removed fresh underwear and a white t-shirt from his case and dressed.
He opened the pouch on the front of the satchel and removed the tracker. He held it in his palm. It was large.
He was going to have to be creative.
MILTON rode back to the docks, left his bike and walked to the bar. It was late, ten o’clock, and, although the jetties and wharves were still busy, the darkness filled the avenues between the storage containers, a deep gloom within which it would be a simple thing to hide. As assassin, waiting for him to come back? He wouldn’t need a high powered rifle. He could sit in a darkened spot with a pistol and there would be nothing that Milton could do about it. He felt the roil of apprehension in his stomach, a prickle between his shoulder blades, but he kept going.
The restaurant was busy again, rowdy with drunken banter. Ernesto Gorgi Di Mauro seemed surprised to see him, as if he had secretly suspected that Milton had spun him a line earlier in order to get out of the bar in one piece.
“Signor Smith. You have returned.”
“Of course.”
“I will be honest, I did not think we would see you again.”
“I told you I was serious, Ernesto. I don’t play games. I mean what I say.”
“How serious are you?”
Milton lifted the bag and deposited it on the table in front of him.
Ernesto displayed no concern about being seen with so much money in a public place. He opened the satchel, brazenly, and tipped the banknotes onto the table.
He nodded appreciatively.
“Where do you find this much money in such a hurry?”
“I went to the bank,” Milton replied, smiling a little, enough to make them wonder whether he might even be telling the truth.
“The bank? It must have impressive service, Signor Smith, to be able to find this much money so quickly.”
“My organisation is a very good customer. They try especially hard to please us.”
“I can see that.” He waved his hand across the scattered bundles of notes. “It is all here? All five hundred thousand?”
“Count it if you don’t trust me.”
Ernesto looked at
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