Something in the Water(91)

I’m going to end this situation. I’m going to end it for both of us, Mark and me. We can’t hide from what’s coming. Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing. We can’t just squirrel the USB away in chocolate boxes and hope for the best. We need to finish what we have started and properly, because now I’m absolutely certain that they won’t stop until they have the USB. We’ve turned the phone on two times now; they must know we’re in London. Now it’s just a question of when and where we meet. And on whose terms.

I think of the Sharpes: of their fate. Those last desperate gasping breaths of seawater, and then—nothing. But the difference between the Sharpes and me is that the Sharpes weren’t expecting what happened to them, they weren’t prepared, they panicked. They didn’t stand a chance. But I do.

I head to St. Pancras Station and in the crowd below the giant clock I turn on the phone. Passengers spill from the Eurostar through the glass in front of me. I tap on messages, tap on the text box of the most recent message, and write:


I HAVE FLASH DRIVE.


HAPPY TO EXCHANGE.


MEETING INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.

I tap send, turn off the phone, and slip it into my coat pocket. Now I just need somewhere to meet.



* * *



—

At home I spend the night trawling YouTube videos to prepare. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s doing my research, and it never ceases to amaze me what you can learn off the Internet. I watch videos on handgun assembly, specifically Glock 22 assembly and disassembly.

Simon dropped off a Glock 22 with two boxes of bullets two hours ago; I made him a cup of tea, and he left with the cup.

I’ve been watching the videos ever since: Glock cleaning, how to handle a handgun, Glock safety features, how to shoot a handgun, how to make your handgun safe pre-and post-usage. And two hours in, I’m happy to say that it is about as hard to take apart a handgun and reassemble it as it is to change a Brita water filter. If you’re interested.

Apparently WD-40 is an acceptable substitute for gun oil as long as you intend to re-lube and clean after a three-to four-day period. My gun only needs to work for one day and I’m hoping that it doesn’t actually need to work at all. I can’t risk going into a Holland & Holland in Piccadilly tomorrow morning and buying gun oil. Just in case. Just in case SO15 is watching. Or Patrick. Or someone else entirely.

I miss another call from Phil. He’s already rung twice today to argue with me about why I’m dropping the Holli stuff. He’s been fuming since I told him and I’ve got the voicemails to prove it. I still haven’t called him back. He can wait. Everyone can wait.

Glock 22s are absurdly easy to use. Not many buttons. Not much you can fuck up. The thing about a Glock is it doesn’t have a safety catch. You know that bit in films when the heroine finally needs to use her gun and she raises it to the looming bad guy, squeezes the trigger, and click…nothing? The safety’s on. Well, that won’t happen with a Glock. With a Glock, his head explodes. If the magazine is in and it’s cocked, that’s it. Point and shoot. And it’ll only fire if a finger pulls the trigger. You can drop it, or snag the trigger, or shove it in your waistband, whatever, it won’t go off. The double-trigger system means your finger has to go into the trigger bed and pull all the way back. That’s the only way a Glock fires. But if you grab the gun out of that waistband and accidentally touch that trigger bed on the way, you’ll almost certainly never have kids. No safety means no safety.

My mobile bursts to life again. This time it’s Nancy, Fred’s wife. Goddamn it. I forgot to thank her for watching the house for us while we were on honeymoon, and for the food she left us. I haven’t got back to Fred either about the footage. They’re probably worried. Mark is right: I am forgetful. I let it go to voicemail.

If you ever find a Glock, you’ll know it’s a Glock because of the logo on the bottom right of the handgrip. A big “G,” little “lock” written inside it. If you find one, then here’s what you do: First, keeping your hand away from the trigger, pick up the gun. There should be a small button right by your thumb on the grip. That’s the magazine release. Place your other hand under the butt and push the thumb button. The magazine will pop out of the butt and into your hand. If the magazine is full, you’ll see a bullet at the top of the magazine. Now pop that magazine down somewhere safe. Next you need to check/empty the chamber. In other words, see if there’s a bullet in there and if there is, eject it. You do this by pulling the top section of the barrel backward away from the tip of the gun. The little window should open up on the top of the gun as you cock back. If there’s a bullet, it should pop safely up and out of the top as you cock. Cock back again to double-check the chamber is clear. Now your gun is safe. Then, to load it, pop that bullet into the top of the magazine you set aside. Slide the whole magazine back into the butt of the gun until it clicks, cock it again, point, and shoot. Practice that routine about twenty times and you’ll be as convincing as any actor in Full Metal Jacket. Besides, it keeps your thoughts from buzzing around the reasons you may need the gun in the first place.

Mark calls before bed to check on me. It’s the one call I do take.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just watching stuff on the computer.” Technically true.

“How are you feeling?” he probes. He doesn’t want to push it but he’s still uneasy, I can tell.