Reaching the city center, the lead cab turned north, passing through Soho, before pulling into the entrance of the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital. Summer helped Dahlgren hobble into the lobby and check in. A nurse arrived with a wheelchair and carted him off for a battery of tests and X-rays ahead of his scheduled surgery the next morning.
Summer waved to him. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow night for dancing at the Savoy.”
“I hope they’ll permit a peg leg in to mar the ballroom floor,” Dahlgren said.
Dirk and Summer returned to their waiting cab, whi
ch backtracked south and west through London. The panel van took up a tailing position this time, maneuvering aggressively through the city’s heavy traffic to remain on the cab’s rear bumper. They entered Kensington, and the cab pulled into the entrance of The Gore, a four-star hotel just off Hyde Park.
The panel van drove past the hotel and pulled to the curb a half block later. Mansfield looked to his driver, a cool, serious woman named Martina who wore her dark hair cut short. “Do you have system access to The Gore?”
Martina retrieved a small electronic tablet hidden beneath the seat and consulted a long list of London hotels. She found a mark highlighted next to The Gore’s name and nodded. Never known for their high degree of security, the reservation systems of most hotels in major cities were long ago hacked by foreign intelligence agencies in order to track people of interest.
“We’ll have their room number the instant they check in,” she said. “Ivan in the taxi will keep watch in the lobby until my surveillance team can be put in place.”
“How long will that take?”
“Less than an hour.”
Mansfield looked across the street at a small hotel called the Queen’s Gate.
“I’ll take a room there and wait for your surveillance data. Perhaps we can have a drink together afterward?” he said with a charming raise of the brow.
Martina gave him a glacial stare. “The data will be delivered once it is acquired.”
Mansfield chortled and exited the car.
Inside The Gore, Dirk and Summer checked in at the front desk, where a message was handed to them.
“It’s from St. Julien,” Summer said. “He’ll be by in an hour to take us to dinner.”
“Knowing Julien, we better dress for fine dining.”
They settled into adjacent rooms on the third floor and returned to the lobby an hour later. Summer was dressed in a soft, beige cashmere sweater and boot-length skirt, while Dirk wore a dark blue sport coat and gray slacks.
Standing behind a porter’s cart and pretending to study a tourist map, the agent named Ivan discreetly watched their movements.
They made their way out to the portico, where right on time an elegant Rolls-Royce Phantom III Town Car pulled to the entrance. Dirk recognized it as a 1937 Sedanca de Ville.
The driver, a man of Pakistani descent in a chauffeur’s uniform, hopped out and opened the rear door. “Ms. Pitt? Mr. Pitt?” He waved a gloved hand toward the interior.
Summer climbed in first and found a massively rotund man occupying the bulk of the rear seat. He patted the Connolly leather beside him. “Plenty of room here, my dear. We’ll give Dirk the jump seat.”
Summer gave him a hug and squeezed in beside him.
Dirk wriggled in and parked himself on a fold-down seat, then reached across and shook the big man’s hand. “Traveling in style, I see.”
“Coachwork by Barker,” Perlmutter said, stroking his long, full beard. “A bit roomier, you know. I will say that it does earn high marks for styling.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Summer said, “especially for an eighty-year-old car.”
Perlmutter reached forward and wrapped a knuckle against the window to the driver’s compartment, then lowered the glass an inch. “To Le Gavroche, James.”
The chauffeur nodded, dropped the car into gear, and silently pulled forward as Perlmutter rolled the window back up.
“A chauffeur named James?” Summer asked.
Perlmutter shrugged. “I believe his name is actually Ravi, but he kindly answers to James.”