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“We keep running.”
SEVENTEEN
St. Ermin’s Hotel in the London neighborhood of Westminster was built in 1889 on the site of St. Ermin’s chapel, a fifteenth-century house of worship. During the Second World War, it was used by the Special Operations Executive, the precursor to today’s Special Air Service, as well as MI6, British foreign intelligence.
A tree-lined cobblestoned drive leads to the portico and the front door, and Zack Hightower walked up it at eight a.m., flanked by a pair of Brits who’d picked him up at London City Airport upon his landing after a nine-and-a-half-hour flight from San Antonio. The two Brits were polite but intense; they carried themselves with an obvious military bearing, as did the driver of the Rolls-Royce that ferried them from the airport, and Zack took them all to be Anton Hinton’s bodyguards.
As he entered the lobby of the hotel, he saw white-columned balconies undulating above, a marble floor, and a pair of massive half-turn staircases that blended into one before emptying into the center of the lobby.
The guards led him to the bottom of the stairs, and then Gareth Wren appeared above and rushed down to meet him.
With a booming voice that turned heads in the lobby, the Englishman said, “There he is! Bloody good to see you, mate.”
The two shook hands warmly, hinting to anyone looking on at the history between them.
Wren said, “Sorry I couldn’t make it out to London City for a proper greeting, but Anton has me running around like a bloody madman today trying to figure out where we’re off to next.”
“No worries,” Zack said. “Your men took good care of me.”
“Good, because they’re your men now, at least as long as we’re here in London.” Wren assessed the American, looking him up and down. “You look good. I’d wondered if you’d let yourself go. Clearly you haven’t been slacking off on your PT. Good job, you.”
Zack gave Wren a look, as well. He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Hard as woodpecker lips. Just like the old days.”
“Let’s grab a seat down here. I’ll tell you about the lay of the land, and when I can get Anton’s attention later today, I’ll introduce you.”
They sat and exchanged pleasantries for no more than a few seconds, and then Wren waved a hand around. “You know anything about this hotel?”
Zack seemed to notice his surroundings for the first time. “Only that it’s not a La Quinta.”
Wren’s eyes furrowed in confusion a moment, and then they brightened. “The St. Ermin’s enjoys quite a rich history in the world of espionage. During the war, MI6 was based here.”
“Cool,” Zack said, and then a waitress stepped up to the two men.
With a toothy smile to the attractive young woman, Wren said, “Lady Grey tea for me and coffee for my friend here.”
As soon as the server had moved on, Zack noticed a small crowd of paparazzi positioned near the staircase, and perhaps a dozen or so more people gathered tightly behind them.
“What’s that all about? A celebrity?”
Wren followed Zack’s gaze, then chuckled. “They’re here for Anton.”
Zack groaned inwardly. “Really? He draws a crowd?”
“This hotel shoos them out with regularity, which is why we stay here when we’re in London. Usually there are more people than this. The attack yesterday would have brought out five times the parasites as usual, but we adopted security measures intended to keep his stay here pretty close to the vest.” Wren looked back over his shoulder at the crowd. “And yet clearly not as close as I would have liked.”
“I’ve never done celebrity EP.”
“Well, you won’t be able to say that after today. Celebrity executive protection is your new bag, yeah?”
“Who’s watching the principal now?”
“I’ve got five guys upstairs. All locals. We sent the Chileans home when their agent in charge got clipped yesterday.”
“Plus the three who brought me,” Zack said.
“Martin and Ian are security. Liam is the driver, but he’s a former Royal Marine. A tough bloke himself.”
“And two more running covert down here in the lobby?”
