The First Novels: Pay Off, the Fireman Read Free

if they were interested. I stuck the envelopes down, put on first-class stamps and walked down the two flights of stairs to the street and put them in the nearest post box. The first call came two weeks later from mercenary number one, the SAS expert.
            ‘You the man with an interesting proposition?’ asked a rough Liverpool accent. ‘This is Box 156.’
            ‘You’ve got the right number,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
            ‘First things first. What’s the job, where is it and how much are you paying?’
            ‘I’d rather meet you first, then we can go over the details.’
            ‘When and where?’
            ‘The American Bar at the Savoy Hotel, Wednesday lunchtime, say half past one. How will I recognize you?’
            ‘You won’t. I’ll find you. Carry a copy of The Times .’
            ‘I imagine most of the people in the Savoy would be reading The Times . Make it the Mirror . I’ll be wearing a dark blue suit and 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 156 wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing 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 combat 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 Nescafé 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