Pay Off Read Free

a red tie and I'll be sitting at the bar.'
    'I'll be there.'
    Wednesday at one o'clock, I got out of a taxi on the Strand and walked past the Savoy Taylors Guild to the huge canopy that marks the entrance to the Savoy. Across the road stonecleaners were scouring the dirt off the National Westminster Bank, and a thin film of white dust settled on my shoes. Porters in the Savoy's green and yellow livery were loading calfskin suitcases into a blue Daimler, while a suntanned executive sorted through his wallet. All were covered in white flecks of dust.
    The foyer was almost deserted, so at least my friend Box IS6 wouldn't have any trouble recognising me. I dropped the Mirror onto the bar and asked for a Tamdhu as I slipped onto the stool. Caricatures of Liza Minelli, Lauren Bacall, Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire and Greta Garbo, all by Almud Bonhorst, glared down at me from the walls and I raised my glass to them. I was proud to be performing in front of Hollywood's finest.
    I spotted him as soon as he walked into the bar. He was impossible to miss: close cropped hair, a camouflage com- bat jacket and scruffy jeans. The boots were cherry red. He walked with his feet splayed outward, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket as his head jerked left and right like a startled rabbit. Somehow I'd managed to lumber myself with a twenty-four carat headbanger, and if the only thing identifying me had been a copy of The Times I could have got rid of it and played innocent, but I was labelled as clearly as a jar of Nescafe at Sainsburys. Not only was I the only man in the Savoy carrying a copy of the Mirror and wearing a blue suit and red tie, but I was also the only person in the bar. All that was missing was a large neon sign above my head flashing the word 'sucker'. Hell, hell, hell.
    'You the man with the mission?' he asked from six feet away. No, son, I'm the Avon lady. The barman's eyebrows shot up like clay pigeons, his chin dropped and my stomach turned over. Hell, hell, hell, should I bluff or run?
    'Could be,' I said. 'What can I get you?'
    'Guinness, a pint. And a packet of crisps. Salt and vinegar.' The drink he got, the crisps were off. I took him over to a table by the baby grand piano where he could nibble at the stuffed olives and not be within earshot of the barman.
    'So what are you up to?' he asked, a piece of olive stuck firmly in the gap between his front teeth. I leant back in the decidedly uncomfortable chair, crossed my legs and narrowed my eyes. Bluff or run? No question about it. I might as well enjoy myself.
    'First things first,' I said. 'Have you been in action before?' He looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and rubbing his boots together.
    'Not as such, no, but I spent four years with an SAS territorial regiment, trained with them in Wales, live firing, explosives, the works.'
    'Parachuting?'
    'Some.'
    'Freefall?'
    'No, but I made four static line jumps.'
    'That'll be a problem, the job I'm setting up requires a HALO from twenty thousand feet with full kit, at night. And there could be enemy fire.'
    'Jesus, what are you planning?'
    'I'm not planning anything, the planning has already been done. I'm just handling the recruitment. Two hundred men, hand-picked, for the Sultan of a small but very rich country out in the Middle East. Or more accurately the brother of the Sultan who wants to take over. There's a lot of money at stake because the country is swimming in oil. Our team will be freefalling in from a couple of Hercules and splitting into three sections, taking out the palace, the oil fields and the communication systems.
    'The whole mission should take less than twelve hours, and we'll be taking no prisoners, on either side. In fact that's one of the stipulations of the job. A suicide pill will be 19 placed inside a fake tooth. The Sultan's brother can't afford to have anything go wrong with the attack, and if it does he wants to make sure there's nobody around to tell tales. And the sort of