safe.”
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It must look good—a uniformed man in a liveried van, something like a DSL van.”
“It will be done.”
“I want another, larger device in the van. I’ll need separate cell numbers for each.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“We can maximize results with collateral damage.”
“I agree. When?”
“Five days. The parcel will be ready for collection at noon on the day and should be delivered at one P.M. Traffic will be good at the lunch hour.”
“I have the list of cell phone numbers you gave me. Are they still good?”
“Yes.”
“Dispose of the one you answered this morning and go to the second number. I’ll call a day ahead of time to be sure everything is still on.” He took a page from a notebook and slid it across the bench toward her. “This is a list of my cell numbers. The first and second may be used for the first and second devices. Call me only if absolutely necessary. Good luck.” He rose, reached across his cart and took the handle of hers, then he walked back in the direction from which he had come.
Jasmine sat long enough to check the area for anyone following him or watching her. Finally, satisfied that she was unnoticed, she took the handle of the other shopping cart and towed it toward home. She noted that the grocery items she had ordered were the top layer in the cart. What was underneath was heavier.
She walked back to her flat, taking a circuitous route, checking reflections in shop windows and, occasionally, stopping to look at displays. It took her forty minutes to reach home.
She pulled the cart up the steps carefully, one at a time. When she was halfway up, the front door opened and a woman she didn’t know stepped outside.
“That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”
“That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”
“Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible shoes. Jasmine had never seen her in the building, and she was alarmed.
“We’ve just moved into the building,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah.”
“Welcome,” Jasmine said. “You’ll like the building.”
A small car drew up outside. “Oh, there’s my husband. Please excuse me.”
“Thank you for your help,” Jasmine said.
The woman got into the car and it drove away.
Jasmine left the cart in the hallway and ran to the rear of the building, looking out the window halfway up the stairs to the next floor. A woman and a child in the garden, a small dog in the woman’s lap.
Jasmine ran back down the stairs and checked the street. A couple of cars passed without slowing down. A postman walked down the street, carrying his bag.
Jasmine let herself quickly into her flat, then checked all the windows overlooking the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything normal.
She took the cart into the kitchen, unloaded and put away the groceries, then wheeled the cart into the pantry and locked the door.
She checked the windows once more, then took off her dress and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour later, she was sleeping. An hour after that she woke with a sense of panic.
Something was wrong.
Felicity had just returned from her weekly lunch with the head of MI-5, which was responsible for domestic counterintelligence, when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Architect, this is Mason. We may have gotten lucky. A woman who is employed as an agricultural analyst in the Foreign Office may have spotted Jasmine.”
“When and where?”
“A little over an hour ago, in Notting Hill Gate. She and her husband moved into the building last week. She went home for lunch, and as she was going out again, she opened the door for a woman with a shopping cart: five-nine, pretty face, no makeup, wearing a Muslim headdress, unremarkable dress, sensible shoes. She believes the woman
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll need the package delivered. It must look good—a uniformed man in a liveried van, something like a DSL van.”
“It will be done.”
“I want another, larger device in the van. I’ll need separate cell numbers for each.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“We can maximize results with collateral damage.”
“I agree. When?”
“Five days. The parcel will be ready for collection at noon on the day and should be delivered at one P.M. Traffic will be good at the lunch hour.”
“I have the list of cell phone numbers you gave me. Are they still good?”
“Yes.”
“Dispose of the one you answered this morning and go to the second number. I’ll call a day ahead of time to be sure everything is still on.” He took a page from a notebook and slid it across the bench toward her. “This is a list of my cell numbers. The first and second may be used for the first and second devices. Call me only if absolutely necessary. Good luck.” He rose, reached across his cart and took the handle of hers, then he walked back in the direction from which he had come.
Jasmine sat long enough to check the area for anyone following him or watching her. Finally, satisfied that she was unnoticed, she took the handle of the other shopping cart and towed it toward home. She noted that the grocery items she had ordered were the top layer in the cart. What was underneath was heavier.
She walked back to her flat, taking a circuitous route, checking reflections in shop windows and, occasionally, stopping to look at displays. It took her forty minutes to reach home.
She pulled the cart up the steps carefully, one at a time. When she was halfway up, the front door opened and a woman she didn’t know stepped outside.
“That looks heavy,” the woman said. “Let me help.”
“That’s all right,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got it.”
“Let me get the door for you, then.” The woman held it open and watched as she muscled the cart inside. She was English, mid-thirties, mousy hair, a plain coat, sensible shoes. Jasmine had never seen her in the building, and she was alarmed.
“We’ve just moved into the building,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah.”
“Welcome,” Jasmine said. “You’ll like the building.”
A small car drew up outside. “Oh, there’s my husband. Please excuse me.”
“Thank you for your help,” Jasmine said.
The woman got into the car and it drove away.
Jasmine left the cart in the hallway and ran to the rear of the building, looking out the window halfway up the stairs to the next floor. A woman and a child in the garden, a small dog in the woman’s lap.
Jasmine ran back down the stairs and checked the street. A couple of cars passed without slowing down. A postman walked down the street, carrying his bag.
Jasmine let herself quickly into her flat, then checked all the windows overlooking the street. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything normal.
She took the cart into the kitchen, unloaded and put away the groceries, then wheeled the cart into the pantry and locked the door.
She checked the windows once more, then took off her dress and threw herself on the bed. Half an hour later, she was sleeping. An hour after that she woke with a sense of panic.
Something was wrong.
Felicity had just returned from her weekly lunch with the head of MI-5, which was responsible for domestic counterintelligence, when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Architect, this is Mason. We may have gotten lucky. A woman who is employed as an agricultural analyst in the Foreign Office may have spotted Jasmine.”
“When and where?”
“A little over an hour ago, in Notting Hill Gate. She and her husband moved into the building last week. She went home for lunch, and as she was going out again, she opened the door for a woman with a shopping cart: five-nine, pretty face, no makeup, wearing a Muslim headdress, unremarkable dress, sensible shoes. She believes the woman
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