Free Rembrandt's Ghost by Paul Christopher Page A

shoulder.… He stopped himself; he was on the edge of losing it. Finn squeezed his hand. The train began to slow.
    “We’re not going far,” said Finn.
    “We’re in trouble,” Billy answered, nudging her. There was a crash as the door opened at the far end of the coach. The two Asians, minus their umbrellas, had turned into three. One of them was limping, pushing his way through the crowd of people. He looked extremely angry.
    “Crap,” said Finn. She threw herself forward into the arms of the Nazi sergeant, reaching for his holstered Luger and pushing him out of the way in a single motion. The gun was far too light. It wasn’t the real thing. She waved it in the general direction of their pursuers anyway and instinctively half the people in the car screamed and everyone ducked, including the three Asians. The train pulled into a brightly lit station. The sign said: LEICESTER SQUARE.
    “No, it’s not!” said Billy.
    Finn threw the Luger down the length of the car as the doors slid open. She turned, put both hands on Billy’s back, and pushed him out onto the platform.
    “What the hell!” A man wearing headphones jumped back, barely avoiding being run down. “Who let you on! Wardrobe! Shit! They’ve ruined the shot! Sean! Who the bloody hell… ?”
    Finn still pushing Billy from behind, they skirted the camera setup, jumped over a set of narrow rails waiting for a dolly shot, and battered their way through a regulation swarm of camera people, lighting crew, grips, first, second, and third ADs, sound men, set dec, props, and assorted need-to-bes, want-to-bes, and think-they-already-ares that make up a location shoot for a major motion picture. Predictably someone shouted out the classic angry comment heard by anyone who has ever interfered with the making of a film, even if only for a moment, destroying their expensive and very fragile illusion.
    “Hey! Can’t you see we’re making a movie here?” As though creating cinematic fantasy was more important than any possible reality that might stand in its silly way.
    Billy knocked over a light stand and there was a sharp bang as a hot bulb exploded. Finn caught a glimpse of a placard announcing that they were on the set of the DreamWorks production of Len Deighton’s novel
SSGB
, and then they were gone, sidestepping through a wide-open set of doors leading onto the actual Holborn Station platform and reaching the escalator. They took the moving steps two at a time, pushing past people riding to the surface, and finally found their way up to High Holborn. They were almost back to Tulkinghorn’s and the British Museum. The rain had stopped. There was no sign of the men behind them. Without a pause Billy stepped off the curb and waved. A black cab came to a jarring halt. They climbed in and Finn slammed the door. As the cab moved off into traffic she looked back and saw their limping enemy and his friends come out of the station entrance. A moment longer and it would have been too late.
    “Where we going, if you don’t mind me askin’?” said the cabbie without turning around.
    “Canvey Island,” said Billy, settling back in the wide, comfortable seat.
    “That’s in bleeding Essex, mate!” the driver said, startled.
    “I’ll pay.”
    “Too right you’ll pay,” said the taxi driver. “Quite the distance. At least twenty miles.”
    “More like thirty,” said Billy, sighing. The cabbie shrugged and slid the big car back into the stream of traffic. Ten minutes later they were on their way out of London, heading East along the Thames, making for the Channel.
    “What was that before you started saying dirty things in Latin?”
    “Something rude in Cornish as I recall,” Billy said. “Something to do with goats and his mother’s sexual habits.”
    “What’s on Canvey Island?” Finn asked.
    “Home,” answered Billy. “The
Busted Flush
.”
     
     
     

Chapter

9

     
    Ask the average person in Wichita Falls where Mariveles is, and you’ll