least, that’s what he says his name is. We met him at Stratford nick a couple of days ago. I reckon he could be quite useful to us.”
Bronson didn’t respond, and nor did Eaton’s two companions, who simply stared at him in a faintly hostile manner, looking him up and down.
The man on his left glanced round the bar and finallyspoke. “John tells me you’ve been doing a bit of damage at the Olympic sites.”
Bronson nodded and took another sip of his beer.
“Don’t talk a lot, do you?”
“No.”
“So what’s your real name?”
“Alex Cross’ll do for now.”
“There some reason why you won’t tell us?”
Bronson nodded again. “Yes.”
Eaton grinned. “I told you, Mike. Man of very few words, is Alex here.”
The man he’d addressed as “Mike” glanced at Eaton, then back at Bronson.
“Thing is,” he said, “we’re just a small group of people trying to make a difference, and that means we have to trust each other. And if we’re going to trust each other, we have to know who we are. And we definitely have to know about anybody who wants to join us.”
Bronson shook his head. “I don’t want to join you.” He gestured toward Eaton. “John here thought I might be able to tag along on one of your jobs, but I’m not bothered. You want a CV from me, forget it. Go and find someone else.”
The three men stared at him, then Eaton gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“Jesus, Alex, we don’t want your life story. We just want to find out a bit more about you.”
It was, Bronson thought, almost like the start of a sexual relationship, each party probing the other, showing interest but not wanting to appear too eager, and he remembered an old quote about courtship he’d heardsomewhere: how a woman always begins by resisting a man’s advances, and ends up by blocking his retreat. This situation was different, obviously, but the principle was the same, though he had no intention of allowing his retreat to be cut off. As soon as he’d found out enough about the group for “Shit Rises” and the team back at the Forest Gate prison to pick them up, Bronson intended to return to the relative sanity of Tunbridge Wells.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve done a lot of stuff in the past, been in plenty of different jobs. The longest was in the army. Right now, I’m just a pissed-off citizen, pissed off for a bunch of different reasons, in fact. I’m fed up with the money this city is throwing at these bloody Games, and I’m trying to do something about it. That’s all you need to know.”
“What did you do in the army?” Mike asked. “Ever use explosives, anything like that?”
Bronson shook his head. “I was infantry, not a sapper. I know about weapons and grenades, and I did some work with explosives for a while. Give me some plastic and a detonator and I can blow a hole in something, but I’m not a fully qualified demolition specialist.”
“Pity.”
“Why?” Bronson asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a stash of C4 or Semtex?”
He watched the faces of the other men closely. If this group had access to plastic explosives, that made them infinitely more dangerous than Davidson and Curtis had expected. The detective sergeant had told Bronson that the activities of the group were a nuisance, and that the death of the nightwatchman was more likely to have been manslaughterrather than deliberate murder. But if they possessed high-grade military explosives like C4—Composition Four—then he knew they were looking at serious terrorists. Perhaps that was what Curtis had been hinting at when he’d said there were fears that the group posed a more serious threat than simple vandalism. Suddenly, Bronson was even more thankful that he had bought the little Llama pistol from Dickie Weeks.
Mike took his time before he replied.
“Might have,” he said finally. “We’ve got contacts, people who can get us what we need. And we’ve only just started.”
Those words sent a chill through
Bronson didn’t respond, and nor did Eaton’s two companions, who simply stared at him in a faintly hostile manner, looking him up and down.
The man on his left glanced round the bar and finallyspoke. “John tells me you’ve been doing a bit of damage at the Olympic sites.”
Bronson nodded and took another sip of his beer.
“Don’t talk a lot, do you?”
“No.”
“So what’s your real name?”
“Alex Cross’ll do for now.”
“There some reason why you won’t tell us?”
Bronson nodded again. “Yes.”
Eaton grinned. “I told you, Mike. Man of very few words, is Alex here.”
The man he’d addressed as “Mike” glanced at Eaton, then back at Bronson.
“Thing is,” he said, “we’re just a small group of people trying to make a difference, and that means we have to trust each other. And if we’re going to trust each other, we have to know who we are. And we definitely have to know about anybody who wants to join us.”
Bronson shook his head. “I don’t want to join you.” He gestured toward Eaton. “John here thought I might be able to tag along on one of your jobs, but I’m not bothered. You want a CV from me, forget it. Go and find someone else.”
The three men stared at him, then Eaton gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“Jesus, Alex, we don’t want your life story. We just want to find out a bit more about you.”
It was, Bronson thought, almost like the start of a sexual relationship, each party probing the other, showing interest but not wanting to appear too eager, and he remembered an old quote about courtship he’d heardsomewhere: how a woman always begins by resisting a man’s advances, and ends up by blocking his retreat. This situation was different, obviously, but the principle was the same, though he had no intention of allowing his retreat to be cut off. As soon as he’d found out enough about the group for “Shit Rises” and the team back at the Forest Gate prison to pick them up, Bronson intended to return to the relative sanity of Tunbridge Wells.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve done a lot of stuff in the past, been in plenty of different jobs. The longest was in the army. Right now, I’m just a pissed-off citizen, pissed off for a bunch of different reasons, in fact. I’m fed up with the money this city is throwing at these bloody Games, and I’m trying to do something about it. That’s all you need to know.”
“What did you do in the army?” Mike asked. “Ever use explosives, anything like that?”
Bronson shook his head. “I was infantry, not a sapper. I know about weapons and grenades, and I did some work with explosives for a while. Give me some plastic and a detonator and I can blow a hole in something, but I’m not a fully qualified demolition specialist.”
“Pity.”
“Why?” Bronson asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a stash of C4 or Semtex?”
He watched the faces of the other men closely. If this group had access to plastic explosives, that made them infinitely more dangerous than Davidson and Curtis had expected. The detective sergeant had told Bronson that the activities of the group were a nuisance, and that the death of the nightwatchman was more likely to have been manslaughterrather than deliberate murder. But if they possessed high-grade military explosives like C4—Composition Four—then he knew they were looking at serious terrorists. Perhaps that was what Curtis had been hinting at when he’d said there were fears that the group posed a more serious threat than simple vandalism. Suddenly, Bronson was even more thankful that he had bought the little Llama pistol from Dickie Weeks.
Mike took his time before he replied.
“Might have,” he said finally. “We’ve got contacts, people who can get us what we need. And we’ve only just started.”
Those words sent a chill through
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