Dark Market

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Five

Echo stepped onto the escalator, tried not to look too conspicuous. She had problems with that.

As her escalator moved down, each man on the other escalator, moved up, checked out Natasja, just five bodies ahead of Echo. Most of them couldn't believe their eyes.

A woman like that on their tube.

Each one wished they'd shaved closer that morning, made an effort with their hair and given her a nonchalant smile rather than their usual all-purpose commuter scowl.

They tried to adjust their attitudes. And then their eyes found Echo – the knee knocker with attitude.

But each lusty glance away from Natasja drew attention to Echo. When the PA finally stepped off the escalator she couldn't help but look back.

Echo had prepared.

Like many modern women, the handbag she carried had more space than a squaddie's rucksack. But mysteriously, no matter what was placed inside, its contents always became a trashy magazine, emergency make up, purse, bottle of water, smokes, a small armoire filled with Sauvignon Blanc, and a chain mail pashmina for those spontaneous nights out.

She pulled the trashy magazine in front of her face. Long enough for Natasja to get sucked along with the wave of people from adjoining escalators and corridors.

Echo stalked the PA along the platform, Natasja's legs and behind appeared perfect in a tulip shaped pencil skirt. Office sexy. White shirt, two buttons open, pointed collars, dark skin beneath, and jacket over her shoulder.

Nice look, Echo thought.

Echo wore a tailored trouser suit with a black shirt in the same configuration. They could have been shopping buddies. Echo's looks were becoming a problem.

Savage had told her about going grey. But she doubted he'd ever had to deal with men's lust.

Change your look often he'd said. Small things, subtle things. If they've never been trained to spot a tail it's unlikely they'll connect the long haired woman in the t-shirt with the one in the tracksuit top and baseball cap or the French braid and business shirt, even when it's the same person.

Echo packed her magazine away and took out her sunglasses. With a graded tint and silver frames they were designed for indoor chic and could pass for glasses at a glance. She joined a queue to get on the train one door up from her subject.

Natasja studiously ignored those around her.

Echo tried to do the same, then, when the train finally arrived, Echo pushed her way to the front of the queue, to the grumbling dissatisfaction of those around her. The doors closed behind her and sealed her in.

At London Bridge she popped out from the grip of commuter armpits and stewed misery and followed at a distance. Out in the open Natasja re-arranged her long luscious locks into a perfect pony tail.

Echo did the same, grabbed a free paper and took her jacket off. Not the most foolproof disguise, but who takes more than a glance anyway?

She followed Natasja out into the sun, along the South Bank of the Thames, through Borough Market and into one of the many wine bars and old-world pubs scattered along the lanes to the river.

Natasja took a table in the courtyard, called over a waiter and ordered a bottle of wine. It was a locals' bar rather than tourist, and, as she was already outside, she took out a pack of Marlboro Lights and lit up.

A few moments later the wine appeared in an ice bucket with two glasses. An older woman, mid-thirties or thereabouts, arrived. The women embraced. Echo recognised the older woman. She was refined, elegant and even from where Echo watched, a force to be reckoned with. Her clear focused eyes gave all their attention to the fiery glare of the PAs.