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“Hey,” I say to Felicity, “can you print out a photo of Rashad before we get there?”
“Of course,” Felicity says, “but first can I give you a bit of advice?”
“Please,” I say, as a white tractor trailer cuts me off and my right foot flails for a second, seeking out the brake pedal.
“In the States, where you drive on the wrong side of the road, it’s easy to visualize your left tire being aligned with the center line because the steering wheel is on the left,” she explains. “Here, just flip it: visualize your right tire hugging the center line, and—Jesus Christ, look out for the lorry!”
More horns, another tap of the brakes from me, and then Felicity shouts, “We’re coming up to the roundabout! Take the second exit, to Great West Road!”
In addition to the horns, there’s an awful screech of metal as a black taxicab sideswipes us, but I don’t brake.
This section of Uxbridge Road has two- and three-story brick buildings.
“Here, here,” Felicity says. “Right there, the place with the sign hanging down over that picture window.”
I slam on the brakes but don’t see any parking spots, so I make do by driving up on the sidewalk. And then I’m out and running.
I burst through the swinging glass doors, into a foyer with a coatroom, and beyond is a short hallway that takes me to a large banquet hall. There’s the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke, and two young women are on stepladders, taking down UK flag bunting. Even as waiters fold up tables and chairs, four older men in formal evening wear with miniature medals over their left breasts linger in the far corner with their drinks.
I thrust the freshly printed-out photo of Rashad toward them. “This man,” I say. “He was here tonight.”
The tallest man among them takes the photo and says, “Oh, yes, of course, that’s Randy.”
“Randy?”
He nods, hands the photo back to me. “Yes. Randy Hussain. A great train enthusiast, supporter of the Society, and friend to Perkins.”
“Who is Perkins?” I ask.
“Perky was in the war, a true hero,” he says. “He was in the SOE.”
It comes to methen.
“Special Operations Executive,” I say. “Behind-the-lines spies and commandos.”
A man with a white, walrus-style mustache speaks up. “Perky was probably the best saboteur Churchill ever had. Killed hundreds of Krauts.”
The taller one corrects him. “Not hundreds,” he says. “Thousands.”
Chapter68
WINNIE HALTSthe police cruiser just beside their van, turning on the blue flashers, and he gets out and Jeremy is right next to him just as Amy Cornwall runs out of the building.
“Hey!” she says. “Good to see you’ve caught up with us. I’ve got a good lead on Rashad.”
Jeremy says, “Good God, woman, do you have any idea what—”
“Perkins Gloucester,” she says, breathing hard. “Lives in a nursing home about five klicks away. Best friend of Rashad’s while he’s been in London. Now. We can get a good lead on what the hell that bastard’s up to.”
While Winnie is speeding their van along, Amy says, “Hey, Felicity, if you can, dig further into those tracking sightings of Rashad in Paris. See if he was anywhere near something of interest. I’m sure you’ll know it when you see it.”
Jeremy waits for Felicity to seek permission from him to proceed, but the clicking of keyboard keys tells him she’s following Amy’s orders.
Winnie calls out, “Got it!” and halts the van outside a one-story brick building with white pillars, a wide entrance, and a sign readingNORTH ACTON CARE HOME.
Jeremy flashes a Metropolitan Police warrant card to the chubby receptionist, and within a few minutes he and Amy are led into the room of Perkins Gloucester, former Second Lieutenant of the Royal Engineers, detached to the SOE from 1942 to 1945.
There are two chairs and Perkins is sitting in one of them, a checked blanket over his lap. With his wrinkled face, pale eyes, and thin brown hair barely covering a freckled scalp, he looks like a shrunken gnome.
