Free Shredder by Niall Leonard

abandoned the city to escape the muggy polluted air, so the traffic was light, and before long we were heading over Westminster Bridge, past the golden gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, and on up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. When the Jag pulled up on the southeast corner we all clambered out, and it drove on up St. Martin’s Lane.
    —
    I hadn’t walked through Trafalgar Square since I was a kid. Like most Londoners I took it for granted, and left gawking to the tourists, but today it felt as if I’d never seen it before. Its broad paved plain was ringed with granite bollards and overlooked by stately buildings of gray and golden stone; to the east and west, lines of plane trees sagged, unbothered by any breeze. For about a hundred years fat, flea-bitten pigeons had crowded this square, pecking at litter and crapping on everything and everyone, but now the stalls that had sold bags of bread crumbs had been banished, and with them had gone most of the pigeons. Instead of feeding the flying rats, the throngs of sightseers contented themselves with staring at the sculptures, taking grinning selfies on their smartphones, or merely lolling on the steps that led up to the National Gallery on the northern side of the square.
    The sun was beating down on all our heads like a hammer, and I could feel the heat of the granite paving slabs through the soles of my shoes. The tourists didn’t seem to mind the heat; kids were clambering up onto the bronze lions at the foot of Nelson’s Column, and a good-looking couple in their twenties were splashing about fully dressedin one of the fountains to our right, hooting at each other in Italian. Two shirtsleeved cops were heading in their direction, determined to get them out of the water before everyone else decided to follow their example. Unlike the police I’d seen at King’s Cross, these two were unarmed, and that was probably a good thing—when the Guvnor made his move they wouldn’t be tempted to wade in spraying bullets everywhere like action heroes.
    McGovern looked every inch a tourist himself, strolling along in his shades and his Panama hat and his lightweight summer blazer. At his elbow Gary was already starting to perspire. Mirror shades concealed his eyes, and he wore a leather bomber jacket, far too hot for this weather. He wasn’t going to take it off, I guessed, because it concealed a gun. I found myself irritated by how tense and conspicuous he appeared, and realized with some surprise that for my part I was totally calm. Maybe my mind had gone numb with fear, but somehow I found it no effort to relax and glance around, as if I was just another stupid tourist with nowhere specific to be and nothing specific to do. In fact, I was scanning the crowd for the rest of the Guvnor’s crew, but I couldn’t see any of them. Was that good or bad?
    At the center of the square, in the narrow shade of Nelson’s Column, a temporary pavement café was doing a brisk trade. It was operating out of a classy dark-red pavilion, surrounded by heavy mosaic-topped tables and light aluminum chairs, the whole thing enclosed by the black railings that ringed the foot of the column. It was a very European scene somehow; all it lacked was umbrellas, which seemed a daft oversight in this heat, but maybe the café management wanted the customers to keep moving rather than hang around sipping coffee all day.
    Ignoring the waiting queue, the Guvnor sauntered over to a table in the corner and plonked himself down, taking a seat that faced north across the fountains towards the National Gallery. A waitress glanced our way and frowned, pondering whether to tell us off for not waiting to be seated, but then seemed to change her mind. Maybe she was intimidated by the Guvnor’s presence, or maybe all of this had been arranged—the table, the seating and the view of the square. I sat myself down at McGovern’s left hand, and Gary took the chair to his right. Gary watched the bustling