he’d once told Danny. Which of course is part of the buzz, I admit. But meanwhile, right, I might as well just live life to the full. Eat, drink, gamble and screw myself senseless. Because none of us know when this ride’s going to stop.
‘You know, nine times out of ten,’ he told Danny now, ‘I reckon I’d choose a good doughnut over a good woman.’
Danny couldn’t help smiling. ‘And that’s a dilemma you find yourself faced with on a regular basis, I suppose?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing, mate.’ The Kid took another ruminative mouthful. ‘But maybe that just means I’m hanging out at the wrong sort of clubs.’
‘I can’t even remember the last time I went to a nightclub,’ Danny said.
It was true. Ever since he’d quit drinking, clubs had made less and less sense.
‘Yeah, well, when this gig’s over, maybe I should take you out for a proper session,’ said the Kid. ‘Show you the real London, eh?’
‘Maybe.’
The Kid’s offer was well meant, of course, but Danny doubted anything would come of it. He didn’t even know where the Kid lived. The same as the Kid knew nothing about Danny’s homes, or Anna-Maria, or even the fact that Danny had once been a married father. The work itself was to blame, Danny reckoned. The fact that it was messy. Most people he knew kept their private lives quarantined from it, uncontaminated, clean.
The Kid lowered his rectangular black reading glasses from where they’d been perched on top of his unruly mop of dreadlocked hair. His fingers absent-mindedly stroked the keyboard on his lap, like it was some kind of exotic pet, as his eyes flickered briefly across the row of monitors opposite.
‘So who’s the job?’ he then said, killing the screens. He looked Danny dead in the eyes.
Who . Whoever it was Danny had travelled here to London to protect. Or get back. Because it was pretty much always one of the two.
‘They haven’t yet said.’
‘Who’s they?’
They . The client. The individual or organization who’d be paying for Danny’s services, along with those of whatever team he saw fit to employ.
‘I’m still waiting for confirmation on that too.’
The Kid grimaced, surprised. On account of the fact that he already knew that the client had first requested Danny’s services five days ago. Because that was when Danny had contacted him here in London and put him on standby.
That the client still hadn’t identified themselves, or briefed Danny any further as to the nature of the job, was unusual, to say the least. Danny would normally have been knee-deep in dossiers by now. Ensuring he could best engineer whatever outcome it was that the client required.
‘What about Crane?’ the Kid said.
Crane was Danny’s ops provider. In the old days, he’d have been referred to as his handler, but the phrase had long since gone out of vogue. Crane was the guy who got Danny his assignments. And as per normal, the request for Danny’s services on this particular job had come through him.
‘All he knows is that the client’s been forwarded to him from a US government source.’
The Kid openly sneered. Even before the Wikileaks fallout, he’d dipped into enough highly classified data files over the years to have developed a healthy cynicism towards governments of any sort.
‘That’s no guarantee of anything,’ he said.
‘Crane says it’s someone he trusts.’
The Kid didn’t answer, but it was clear from his expression that he didn’t appreciate the lack of information any more than Danny did.
‘I’m hooking up with him in a minute,’ Danny said, checking his watch. ‘To see if he’s managed to dig up any more intel before I go in.’
In … into the meeting. The one Danny had asked the Kid to provide him with surveillance backup for. The one he was due to attend in just over thirty minutes. In Room112 of the Ritz Hotel.
‘I’m going for a smoke,’ the Kid said, buttoning up his VT overalls to cover up the Aphex
‘You know, nine times out of ten,’ he told Danny now, ‘I reckon I’d choose a good doughnut over a good woman.’
Danny couldn’t help smiling. ‘And that’s a dilemma you find yourself faced with on a regular basis, I suppose?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing, mate.’ The Kid took another ruminative mouthful. ‘But maybe that just means I’m hanging out at the wrong sort of clubs.’
‘I can’t even remember the last time I went to a nightclub,’ Danny said.
It was true. Ever since he’d quit drinking, clubs had made less and less sense.
‘Yeah, well, when this gig’s over, maybe I should take you out for a proper session,’ said the Kid. ‘Show you the real London, eh?’
‘Maybe.’
The Kid’s offer was well meant, of course, but Danny doubted anything would come of it. He didn’t even know where the Kid lived. The same as the Kid knew nothing about Danny’s homes, or Anna-Maria, or even the fact that Danny had once been a married father. The work itself was to blame, Danny reckoned. The fact that it was messy. Most people he knew kept their private lives quarantined from it, uncontaminated, clean.
The Kid lowered his rectangular black reading glasses from where they’d been perched on top of his unruly mop of dreadlocked hair. His fingers absent-mindedly stroked the keyboard on his lap, like it was some kind of exotic pet, as his eyes flickered briefly across the row of monitors opposite.
‘So who’s the job?’ he then said, killing the screens. He looked Danny dead in the eyes.
Who . Whoever it was Danny had travelled here to London to protect. Or get back. Because it was pretty much always one of the two.
‘They haven’t yet said.’
‘Who’s they?’
They . The client. The individual or organization who’d be paying for Danny’s services, along with those of whatever team he saw fit to employ.
‘I’m still waiting for confirmation on that too.’
The Kid grimaced, surprised. On account of the fact that he already knew that the client had first requested Danny’s services five days ago. Because that was when Danny had contacted him here in London and put him on standby.
That the client still hadn’t identified themselves, or briefed Danny any further as to the nature of the job, was unusual, to say the least. Danny would normally have been knee-deep in dossiers by now. Ensuring he could best engineer whatever outcome it was that the client required.
‘What about Crane?’ the Kid said.
Crane was Danny’s ops provider. In the old days, he’d have been referred to as his handler, but the phrase had long since gone out of vogue. Crane was the guy who got Danny his assignments. And as per normal, the request for Danny’s services on this particular job had come through him.
‘All he knows is that the client’s been forwarded to him from a US government source.’
The Kid openly sneered. Even before the Wikileaks fallout, he’d dipped into enough highly classified data files over the years to have developed a healthy cynicism towards governments of any sort.
‘That’s no guarantee of anything,’ he said.
‘Crane says it’s someone he trusts.’
The Kid didn’t answer, but it was clear from his expression that he didn’t appreciate the lack of information any more than Danny did.
‘I’m hooking up with him in a minute,’ Danny said, checking his watch. ‘To see if he’s managed to dig up any more intel before I go in.’
In … into the meeting. The one Danny had asked the Kid to provide him with surveillance backup for. The one he was due to attend in just over thirty minutes. In Room112 of the Ritz Hotel.
‘I’m going for a smoke,’ the Kid said, buttoning up his VT overalls to cover up the Aphex
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