I looked at the boards outside Old Street Station, noting the severe delays on the Northern Line, and decided to Hell with it. I would've had to change to the Victoria line anyway. (Pimlico for dinner, Marcus? Really? Fuck you.) But I didn't want to be late, since briefing the team on the little I did know about his intentions post return had taken longer than I'd anticipated. Pete hadn't caused any problems, and the Boy Wonder Harrison seemed to have adopted nodding furiously as a new communication strategy. Don and Jeanie, however, were like an ersatz pair of Columbos.
"I don't get it," said Don. He looked different without his glasses. Older, somehow. "Marcus didn't say anything about jumping ship or moving operations overseas."
"It's not definite," I explained, wary of Jeanie's intense scrutiny, "Just something he's apparently toying with as a possibility for future operations."
She chose that moment to pounce.
"Well, it's good to know that a future - any future - figures in his plans." Jeanie leaned back and took a suck on her E-cigarette. "But Marcus must realize how things have been in his absence, right? UK clients, because that's where we - and by that I mean you - have been focusing. A London base was never an accident and, God knows, we could probably hightail it to Leeds and no one would be any the wiser, but everything we've done has had that implied payload - a capital connection. You can't just rip that out of the mix without..."
"Repercussions," interjected Pete, giving his Spider-Man bobblehead a tap for added significance.
"Look," I said, trying not to glance at my wristwatch, and failing, "I'm having dinner with him in less than an hour. Whatever his grand scheme is, I doubt he'll be able to keep quiet about it. As soon as I know, you'll know. Keep your 'phones on tonight, and I'll try and get an update to you ASAP."
The taxi driver, bless him, knew all about D'Ara's.
"They've had a film crew in there all week. I think it's Channel 4, but don't hold me to that. Lot of pisshead camera crew and sound guys pack their shit up in the vans, and head off straight to Soho," he laughed, "I'll never watch it, but my missus loves all that reality bollocks. She's got reminders on her 'phone and everything."
I nodded, keeping an eye on our route.
"I'm not sure I'm up to telling professional chefs how I want my Boeuf Bourguignon cooked," I joked. The taxi driver seemed to be studying me in his rear-view mirror.
"That's really not it, you know," he said. "You need to order something off-menu, and wait for the commotion. Whatever you really want, and however you want it, it's up to you. Don't let 'em piss you about, mate."
"I'll take that on board, thank you." Naoimi's words floated back to me through the ether. Prunes and paprika. Maybe she hadn't been taking the piss.
"Here you go, mate," said the taxi driver, glancing at his meter. "I'll tell you what, let's call it a fiver. I've got a feeling you're gonna need all the help you can get in there."
To be continued...
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